Ring of Truth

by Ciji Ware

  She glanced at his left hand to see if it sported a telltale gold band and was pleased to note it did not. Still, that didn’t prove anything. She tried to sound only casually interested. “Do you have family here in Moscow with you?”

  “No. My parents, cousins, everybody are all back in Chicago.”

  Right answer. “Yes, I remember now, Masha did mention Chicago.” She hesitated. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you? I’m wondering if we were at the orphanage at the same time.”

  “Wouldn’t that be incredible? But I doubt it. I’m older than you. Thirty-six.”

  “Yes, you are older than me.” She said nothing more.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him glance her way and chuckle. She kept her gaze straight ahead and smiled. She hadn’t flirted with a man in a long time. And with a man like Nicholas—never.

  Veronica looked down at the ring, wondering if it had an opinion of her traveling companion. She found herself caring quite a bit what it thought. Happily, not only was the emerald gemstone back to being a milky cream color, now it even glowed in the dark as if going opalescent weren’t endorsement enough. Then again, Veronica was about to complete the journey on which the ring had helped dispatch her, so she would expect it to be satisfied.

  It was more than a little nerve-wracking when Nicholas exited the highway for the town where her birth mother lived. “This is bigger than I thought it would be,” she told him, peering through the black night at the numerous high-rise apartment blocks that rose from the wintry landscape. Thousands of windows, it seemed, shone with the glow of lamplight. “It’s really a city, not a town.”

  “I bet there are a hundred thousand people living here.” Nicholas drove the Renault over a river lined with trees on both banks. “And more in the summer when people come to their dachas to escape Moscow.”

  Veronica knew about those second homes, required by law to be small, owned by ordinary city dwellers as well as the wealthy and powerful. Back when Russians were severely restricted in owning property, the tradition of the dacha allowed them to call a plot of land their very own.

  Old and new were cheek by jowl here: a glass office building next to a Russian Orthodox church built of white stone, with multiple spires and an onion dome painted a brilliant gold. They also came upon a low-slung mint-green train station that had the look of having stood in that exact spot for a century.

  “This must be a stop on the Trans-Siberian railroad,” Nicholas said. “Hold on a minute. I have to check the directions.”

  The Renault rolled to a stop on the side of the road. Veronica remained fascinated with the scenery even though it had stopped changing. “Isn’t this place big enough to have an orphanage? Why did my mother take me to Moscow?”

  Nicholas looked up from his cell phone, glowing in the dark. “I can think of any number of reasons. Maybe she thought she’d go back and get you the next day if she left you at an orphanage nearby. Maybe she was embarrassed to leave you where she lived, where she knew people. Or maybe she thought you had a better chance of being adopted if she took you to Moscow.” He turned his dark eyes to hers. “That’s one thing you could ask her,” he added gently.

  It struck Veronica then. My birth mother must be as nervous as I am. Maybe even more so. She might think her daughter was angry with her for giving her up.

  There certainly had been times when it pained Veronica that she was the baby her birth mother had relinquished. Why her and not another? What was wrong with her? But eventually she came to think of her birth mother as a tragic figure who was forced to make an impossible choice, a sort of Russian Fantine who had to allow another to raise her beloved Cosette, never a day passing that she didn’t wish life had dealt her a different hand.

  Veronica shut her eyes. I can tell her I know she loved me. I can tell her I’m not angry and never really was. Now, at the end of her birth mother’s life, all that mattered was giving her the peace that would come from seeing the child she had been forced to abandon. By coming all this way, Veronica could help heal the last open wound of her birth mother’s life.

  Nicholas broke into her thoughts. “It’s not far from here. Shall I keep going?”

  “I wish I’d brought something. I didn’t think to bring something.”

  Nicholas smiled. “You’re bringing all you need, Veronica.”

  She nodded, hoping he was right, and motioned for him to drive on. He made a turn and rolled the Renault up a commercial strip, identical concrete apartment towers rising above small storefronts, banks, and restaurants. Leafless trees lined both sides of the street, along with cars that had seen better days. Scattered neon signs made a feeble attempt to light the glacial night. A few pedestrians hastened along the sidewalks, so bundled against the cold that Veronica could see almost nothing of their features.

  Then Nicholas stopped at an intersection, and Veronica found herself staring at a young woman who couldn’t seem to decide whether to cross the street. She hesitated at the corner and gazed beyond the Renault at something well behind it. Unlike everyone else, this woman’s head was bare. She had long straight hair, dyed so platinum blond it was nearly white, and her eyes were heavily made up with liner and mascara. She’d gone overboard with the makeup, but she was dressed all in black and stylish in her own way. Now Veronica saw she held a cell phone to her ear. She might have been standing at Union Square in San Francisco.

  That might have been me if I’d grown up here. Veronica would be living one life instead of another. No one could know if it would be better or worse. But she would have grown into that confident young woman only if she’d found a way to triumph over her birth mother’s poverty. That would have been no mean trick in any country, let alone this one.

  And you would never have known your parents. You would never have become an opera singer.

  It was her destiny to have parents who could make her dreams come true. Yes, they’d had to scrabble hard. It had been a never-ending struggle to afford singing lessons, piano, all the training required to hone the gift of their daughter’s voice. But Veronica knew they believed it had been worth it, as did she. Veronica wouldn’t be who she was if she couldn’t sing. She would be a pale shadow of herself.

  Nicholas continued through the intersection and made a few more turns. Then he slid the car into a parking space and cut the engine. He gestured to the concrete apartment tower across the street.

  “Is that it? We should go in,” she added, stating the obvious. Still, something kept her from exiting the car. “Did you ever try to find your birth mother?”

  “I never did.”

  “Did you think about it?”

  He seemed to weigh his words. “I considered it. But when it came down to it, I just didn’t care to unwrap the past.”

  His words hung in the air.

  “I know I may be disappointed,” Veronica said into the silence. “I have a mental image of my birth mother, and I know it may turn out not to be true.”

  Nicholas said nothing.

  She went on. “My parents would be crushed if they knew I was doing this. They’ve been so wonderful to me all my life. All they’ve ever done is love me.” She had to stop speaking.

  Nicholas leaned closer. “Veronica, you’re not doing anything wrong by trying to meet your—”

  “That’s another thing. My parents named me Veronica.” A rogue tear escaped. “They had another name picked out, but in the end they kept the name my birth mother gave me. Veronika. Do you know how much that means to me?” Now she was on the verge of sobbing.

  “Tell me.” He handed her a fresh handkerchief. Apparently he had quite the supply on hand.

  “It’s a sign of respect, to my birth mother and to where I come from.” She blew her nose and wiped her face. She must look such a fright, and just when she wanted to look her best. “They didn’t try to rub out my past. They embraced it.”

  “That was a very generous thing for them to do.”

  “It was.”
/>   “It’s also a beautiful name, Veronica. It suits you.”

  She was not so distraught that she missed the compliment. She glanced at Nicholas, who—she didn’t think she imagined it—was eyeing her with some appreciation. She swiped at her nose one more time. “How did your parents come to name you Nicholas?”

  “Well, they didn’t keep the name my birth mother gave me, which was Oleg.”

  She smiled. “You don’t seem like an Oleg.”

  “The name means holy, which actually suits my parents pretty well.”

  “They’re religious?”

  “They’re both ardent Catholics. But once they knew they were adopting from Russia, they went into a major Nicholas and Alexandra phase. Nothing could keep them from naming me Nicholas.”

  Not even that the last czar came to a pretty nasty end. “What do your parents do?” She found herself wanting to prolong the conversation, even though they were sitting in a cold car in the dark, even though the birth mother she’d long dreamed of meeting was awaiting her.

  “My dad’s a doctor. My mom’s a potter. She makes gorgeous pieces. She’s extremely talented.”

  Veronica remembered her mother telling her years before that you could learn a great deal about a man from the way he treated his mother. Now, watching Nicholas’s eyes shine with admiration for his mother’s achievements, Veronica had the idea he treated her very well indeed.

  “She did have one big disappointment in life, though,” he went on.

  “Surely not you.” She hoped Nicholas would catch that now she was complimenting him.

  “No. But she was never able to conceive. My parents took that as a sign from above, but I know it hurt them.”

  “My mother conceived a few times, but she was never able to bring a baby to term.” That was an intimate revelation, but somehow in this place she’d never been, with this man she barely knew, Veronica felt comfortable making it. “But I tell you, when I was with those children today—”

  “I know what you’re going to say. Sometimes I think I’d feel guilty fathering a child of my own. When there are so many children out there who need homes.”

  “You could always do both. Have a child and adopt a child.”

  “Yes—”

  “Or have a child and adopt two children.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “That would be perfect.”

  Yes. Veronica had long thought that would be perfect, too.

  She and Nicholas stared at each other across the small expanse of his car. Outside a pedestrian hurried past, reminding Veronica of the rush she should be in. She forced herself to look away from Nicholas’s dark eyes. “I think I’m ready now.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She loosed a nervous chuckle. “I’m such a diva. I’ve been worried my birth mother would disappoint me. Now I’m worried I’ll disappoint her.”

  Very gently, Nicholas turned her chin toward him. “There’s no chance of that, Veronica.”

  Chapter Six

  If Veronica had grown up in this building, she would have lived on the eleventh floor. She took that as a good sign. Eleven was her lucky number. She was eleven when she started voice lessons and that was also the year that her father brought home her beloved orange tabby cat Pumpkin.

  Good omens were what she focused on as she and Nicholas pulled open the heavy metal door of her birth mother’s apartment building, a relic of the Soviet era. As they made their way through the dimly lit ground level, Veronica knew she had entered a tenement by another name. It was dank, rundown, and oppressive—the smell of urine hung in the air; a sullen huddle of men smoked cigarettes in a corner, pausing to regard her and Nicholas with suspicious eyes; yellow and rust-colored paint peeled off walls pockmarked by graffiti.

  The Cold War-era elevator began grudgingly to lift her and Nicholas to their destination, protesting every foot of the climb. Nicholas spoke into the silence. “Just so you know, this building is typical. It’s not unusually bad.”

  “They’re all like this?”

  “The Soviets provided housing for their citizens, but they made a point of making all the buildings alike. So life would be the same on every block, in every city, all across the country.”

  Veronica supposed that was the revolutionary way. “They’re all in bad shape like this?”

  “They’re poorly maintained as a rule.”

  “It doesn’t seem like the fall of communism has helped people much.”

  “It’s been very uneven. Some people it’s helped a lot.”

  Veronica knew about the oligarchs who’d pocketed outrageous sums when Russia privatized its state-owned businesses. But it was clear her birth mother and many others like her had been left out in the cold.

  The eleventh floor lacked the smell of urine but was otherwise morosely similar to the ground level. The heels of Veronica’s boots echoed on the concrete floor as they walked past one metal door after the next.

  She halted abruptly. “I just thought of something. I could have brothers and sisters waiting for me, too. I know they exist. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

  It was another astounding possibility.

  Veronica continued on, finally locating her birth mother’s unit. She paused before knocking, Nicholas a reassuring bulwark behind her. It was amazing to know that from this moment on, she would know her birth mother. She would understand what kind of people she came from. She would become like everybody else who could recite those basic facts from their life story and take them entirely for granted.

  She steeled herself for whatever might follow and rapped on the door.

  It was pulled open by a woman of Masha’s age, with curly hair, dyed copper red, and small dark eyes. She was plump and wore a no-nonsense gray skirt and sweater. She looked Veronica over with frank curiosity then gave a small smile and ushered the arrivals inside.

  Veronica understood this woman was not her birth mother. As hushed words passed between the woman and Nicholas, Veronica took in the apartment. This is where my mother has lived her life. This is where I would have grown up.

  It was clean but—she had to admit—bleak. The floor was brown linoleum; the walls were covered with faded floral wallpaper. At least it was intact. Yellow draperies hung at the windows, which were cheery, and area rugs did add warmth, as did a quietly whistling radiator. The furnishings were basic and the worse for wear. Veronica told herself it was madness to be disappointed that she saw nothing in her favorite color of blue.

  Beyond, in a room she couldn’t quite see, she heard a cough. Her heart skipped a beat or two. That must be my mother.

  Nicholas spoke in her ear. “This is your mother’s friend Fedosia.”

  “Is anyone else here?”

  “I don’t think so. Fedosia wants to make tea.”

  “That’s fine. But I want to meet my mother.”

  Fedosia might not speak English, but she understood that. She gestured to Veronica to move deeper into the apartment. Her heart now galloping a crazy rhythm, Veronica led the way into one of the two main rooms. And there, beneath a thin blanket on a pull-out bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, lay her mother.

  Tears filled Veronica’s eyes. She scuttled forward, dropping her handbag en route, and clasped her mother’s hands in her own. She stared into the older woman’s eyes—a greenish blue, like her own—and struggled with what to say in this moment. Somehow she couldn’t find it within herself to say “mother” so she choked out an almost unintelligible SDRAS-vui-tye—a rather formal way to say “hello” in Russian.

  Her mother smiled, nodded, and said hello more informally, then patted the blanket by her side to signal Veronica to sit. Veronica threw off her coat and obliged, twisting her body so again she could hold her mother’s hands in her own.

  “Veronika,” her mother said, pronouncing the name in the Russian style.

  “Yes. It’s really me.” And this is really her. This is really her.

  Her mother squeezed Veronica’s hand
s. She remained dry-eyed, but again she smiled.

  They stared into each other’s eyes, Veronica blinking back tears and succeeding only to a point. Of course Nicholas stepped forward to produce a handkerchief. Her mother glanced at him and said something, to which Nicholas replied. Veronica looked at him with a question in her eyes.

  “She wants to thank me for bringing you here,” he explained.

  Veronica nodded mutely. No language contained the words to thank Nicholas sufficiently for that. She studied her mother’s face. “I do see myself in you.” That was a phrase she’d never before been able to say, and never would again until she had a child of her own. “Especially,” she added, “in your eyes.” Their shape was the same, as was their distinctive aqua hue.

  Sitting on a folding chair that Fedosia brought into the room, Nicholas translated. Her mother nodded, smiled. Fedosia piped up with something. “Fedosia says the shape of your faces is the same as well,” Nicholas said, “and that it’s clear you’re mother and daughter.”

  Again her mother squeezed her hands. Veronica could only shake her head in wonderment. She had never before seen her features mirrored in another human being. It was surreal to know that this woman’s blood flowed in her veins; this woman’s DNA was a match with her own.

  She did note, with dismay, that her mother looked shockingly older than would a 60-year-old American woman, and not just because she was ill. That was the unfortunate byproduct of a hard life in a harsh location.

  Still, gray-haired and lined as she was, and even as again she turned her head away to cough, Veronica’s mother did not look to be on her deathbed. Her frame was far from skeletal and her skin, while pale, was healthy in tone.

  Veronica kept her voice gentle. “How are you feeling?”

  Her mother shook her head as if that were a topic she didn’t care to delve into. And indeed Nicholas translated that she did not feel well but did not want to discuss it. “She says there will be time to talk about that later,” Nicholas finished.