by Sophia Henry
“Which one am I?”
“Attractive. Inside and out.” I couldn’t lie to him.
“Whoa!” Aleksandr sat up straight on his swing. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
“Yeah, but I still have to figure out how to get back at you,” I teased.
“Wasn’t wearing that black dress punishment enough? I need to keep my pants on when you’re around.”
Just to make sure I hadn’t missed something, I dropped my eyes to his legs, which were covered in a pair of gray fleece warm-up pants.
“My hockey pants, I meant. I’m not usually excited by things in the locker room, you know? And my hockey pants keep, uh, things hidden.” He must’ve noticed my eyes widen after his unconventional compliment, because he kept talking. “Did you ever audition with that band?”
A flustered subject change from the cocky jock. Any other time, I’d take that as a win, but knowing I’d gotten him hot and bothered in the locker room was having a similar effect on me right now.
“I did. And I made it.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Thanks.” I took a deep breath and caught his eyes. It was my turn to apologize. “I’m sorry I made fun of your sweatshirt. I didn’t know about your dad.”
“No worries, Audushka. How could you know?” He smiled, but his eyes lost their shine. “What about you? What happened to your parents?”
“What about them?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Talking to guys about my parents was unchartered territory. I’d never felt comfortable enough with anyone I’d dated to tell them that my grandparents raised me. Hell, I’d never dated anyone long enough for that conversation to come up.
“You live with your grandparents and you said something earlier about having an old shirt of your mom’s. ‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in their own way.’ ”
“Could you be any more stereotypically Russian? Quoting Tolstoy, drinking vodka, playing hockey.”
He laughed. “Don’t be jealous because Americans can’t quote great literature like Russians can.”
“My dad ditched me before I was born and my mom was killed in a robbery when I was six,” I blurted. Dropping the traumatic bomb of my childhood would push him off his high horse and get him off my tail. Except, I wasn’t sure that’s what I wanted.
“Shit! I’m sorry, Audushka.” Aleksandr’s expression softened.
I was used to the look his face held: a crease between his eyebrows, droopy puppy-dog eyes, lips in a solemn line. I hated pity.
“Don’t worry about it.” I shrugged. “It’s been a long time.”
“Did they find the person who killed her?” Aleksandr asked.
I locked eyes with Aleksandr. You’d think the question would be routine, but it wasn’t. Most of my friends would shut up and change the subject when I talked about my mom’s death. After years of fielding the “Why do you live with your grandparents?” question, I usually felt so desensitized when I told the story that most conversations sounded as if I was reciting a rehearsed script.
“I don’t think so. I doubt anyone is even working on it anymore.” Murders were a dime a dozen in Detroit. My mom’s was a freezing cold case by now.
“Never having any justice, any closure, has to be frustrating for you.”
“I used to believe that the police would find her killer and my life would go back to normal, but that’s not how it works. The damage has been done.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. “I have to live with a bad decision someone else made and hope karma really does exist.” An empty, bitter, and completely inappropriate laugh escaped my lips.
“My parents were killed,” Aleksandr murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of my eyes and tuck it behind my ear. “I wish I could believe some force in the world will provide justice.”
“They were?” I bolted upright, backing out of his reach. “I’m, geez, I’m so sorry.”
“It was a car accident,” he clarified. “The traffic in Moscow is bad, um, heavy, yes? They were taking back roads trying to get somewhere faster. A bus turned onto the side street they’d taken and hit them head-on. They had no chance.”
I didn’t know what to say, since I’d never been around another person who’d lost both of their parents in such a tragic way. So I followed his lead. “You didn’t get closure either. You never got to say goodbye.”
“No.”
“Are you okay?” I leaned toward his swing. My fingers were stiff and alert in case I had to brush away tears.
“I am Russian. Cool head, blazing heart,” he responded, tapping his temple, then his chest. He shook his head and gazed into the distance.
Forcing myself to focus on deep breathing, so as not to ruin the tranquility of the moment, I folded my hands in my lap. Silence meant I wasn’t telling him something foolish that I would regret later. It was comfortable to sit there with him.
There was a faded yellow stain a few inches below the frayed crew neck of his sweatshirt. I imagined a young Aleksandr and his parents eating lunch at a picnic table in a park, with the magnificent onion domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral looming in the backdrop. The Varenkovs are feasting on hot dogs and potato chips. His father raises his hot dog to his mouth, and a dollop of mustard falls onto his favorite sweatshirt. Aleksandr and his dad laugh as his mother tries to blot it away, warning her husband that the stain will be there forever. Mr. Varenkov just smiles and says it will be a constant memory of the wonderful day he’s had with his family.
“Do you think about your mom a lot?” Aleksandr asked, interrupting the fake memory I’d conjured of his family. A memory that highlighted how American I was, even in fictional day dreams, since I doubted that Russians sat in Moscow’s city center eating hot dogs and potato chips.
“Probably more than I should,” I admitted, which was true. I was a pro at constructing grandiose memories about other people’s families because of how often I did it for myself. I’d imagined myself and my awesome mom on countless fictitious adventures over the years.
“What do you mean?” he asked, turning to face me, his head cocked to the side. Strands of hair had fallen out of his ponytail during the game and were now hanging over his eyes. It didn’t mute the intensity of his gaze.
“It’s been fourteen years and I still think about her all the time. I should get over it, but I can’t. I can’t let it go. I can’t stop thinking about how she left me.”
“She didn’t leave you, Audushka. She was taken from you.”
“I was with her in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Kids aren’t allowed, but I wouldn’t leave her, and I made her tell me she wouldn’t leave me. She promised me she wouldn’t leave me.” As I rambled on, tears I never expected to show him—or anyone—gushed over my cheeks. “I know she didn’t leave on purpose, but tell that to a six-year-old. All I’ve ever known, all I can remember, is being left.”
So much for comfortable silence.
Aleksandr jumped up, pulling me off my swing and into his arms. His breath was warm as he whispered “Shh” into my hair. A normal girl would snuggle into his strong, warm arms and let him hold her, but I wasn’t a normal girl. I was completely messed up. So messed up that I spilled my life story to a guy I liked but wouldn’t allow myself to get close to.
“And now I don’t remember her at all, Sasha. I don’t remember her voice or her smell, not even what she looked like. I don’t remember one single moment with her. It’s like my brain has blocked out my entire life with her.” My shoulders shook as the horrible thoughts that plagued me throughout my childhood spewed with no filter.
“It’s okay,” Aleksandr whispered as he rubbed large circles across my back with the palm of his hand.
“Have you ever seen that eighties movie Pretty in Pink?” I asked and lifted my eyes to his. He shook his head. “There’s one character who talks about a friend of hers who didn’t go to prom. She felt like something is missing. She checks her keys, counts h
er kids, then decides nothing is missing and blames it on the fact she didn’t go to prom.” I paused, imagining how stupid this comparison sounded to Aleksandr. “Some days I wake up and think something’s missing. I check my keys. I check my wallet. Nothing is missing. Except my mom. She will always be missing. And no one understands.”
“What about your grandparents?”
“Yeah, right. All I’ve been is a horrible burden to them. They should have been able to enjoy their retirement, but they couldn’t because they had to raise me.”
“Your grandparents knew what they were doing when they took you in.” He squeezed me tighter.
“But should a child have to feel like a burden?” I asked. “To live life believing that nothing is permanent? Believing everyone I love will leave me someday? Is that what my life is supposed to be like?”
I was relieved that my face was buried in his chest, so he couldn’t look at me.
“No, Audushka.” Aleksandr stroked my hair. “No one should ever have to live through what you have. You aren’t alone anymore. I know what you’re going through, what you’re feeling. Talk to me. Lean on me.”
“Oh geez! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking selfish.” I elbowed out of his arms and covered my face with my hands. Aleksandr pulled me back immediately, enveloping me in his safe, strong arms as I shook.
“You’re angry and lonely. It’s okay to show your feelings. It’s okay to be scared and upset. We’ll get through it,” he assured me, rubbing my back.
I willed myself to stay in the safety of his arms, but my confessional outburst and psycho water-works display embarrassed me so much that my body stiffened, and I wriggled myself out again. I stumbled away, covering my face with my hands and wiping away tears and snot. I had only gotten a few feet when I heard his footsteps running to catch up.
“I’ll take you home.” He put a warm, strong arm around my shoulders, giving me a slight squeeze.
I wanted to hug him back, but the tension refused to release its paralysis of my body.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, watching the leaves shrivel under my feet with every step I took.
Our ride was silent, with the exception of the directions I provided between snot sniffs and hiccups. When Aleksandr pulled into the driveway, he shifted the Jeep into park and killed the engine.
“I’m here if you want to talk. You can always call me.” Aleksandr rested his hand on my leg.
My body went rigid, and I grabbed the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”
Just as I was about to escape from an emotionally intimate situation I wasn’t ready for, Aleksandr grabbed my forearm. My head snapped toward his and I met his eyes, but I held my tongue. He moved his hand to my face and stroked my temple with his thumb.
“Whenever I start the car, I see my parents’ accident,” he whispered. “I see it happening to me. Every time I turn the key something bad could happen, but I still drive.” Aleksandr removed his hand from my face and twisted the key in the ignition, revving the Jeep to life. “I can’t change the past. Can’t escape the fear. But I can’t let that fear paralyze me. Sometimes you have to take a chance.”
Chapter 7
After Aleksandr had dropped me off, I thought about the conversation we’d had. He’d seemed surprised that I didn’t know much about my mother’s murder or the investigation that followed. I’d been six years old at the time. How was I supposed to remember what had happened? My family never shared information with me even now, let alone at that age.
My grandparents raised me to accept what I was told and not ask questions. They viewed questions as outright defiance, rather than curiosity. As I got older and well read, accepting their unyielding perspectives proved difficult, resulting in constant head butting during my high school years.
My conversation with Aleksandr sparked a curiosity that I’d never felt before. If I wanted information, I needed to look in the only place where I might find some. Lucky for me, both of my grandparents were gone when I got home. Unaware of how much time I had until they returned, I had to be quick.
Taking two steps at a time, I bounded up the shag-carpeted steps to my grandparents’ attic bedroom. I almost fell as I slid across the slippery wood floors at the top of the staircase. I crossed the room, jumped onto the bed, and rolled to the floor on the opposite side. Very stealthy.
Behind the TV stand, a gray fire-safe cabinet sat up against the far wall of the room, directly under a window. My grandparents kept their important paperwork and valuable jewelry in the cabinet. I knelt in front of it and reached around the back of it, searching for the key. I swiped my hand across the back until I felt the small, magnetic box stuck to it. “Bingo.” I plucked the case off and slid the top open, scooping out a small key hidden inside.
The cabinet stored numerous treasures, tiny boxes and soft, black zippered cases. I knew the bronze satin box held Gram’s engagement ring, since she’d let me see it before. I tried it on, but it wouldn’t fit on any finger except my pinky. Another ring-sized box, this one made of white cardboard, held six silver charms from Western states. I recognized the charms because Gram had shown these to me as well. My mom had bought them for me on a trip we’d taken.
I’d been a year old at the time, so I didn’t remember the trip, but I’d seen pictures of myself in my mom’s arms at a Grand Canyon overlook and standing at the Four Corners, where Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah meet. I peeked into a few more boxes containing random pieces of jewelry belonging to my grandmother, before pushing them aside.
I twisted my arm and reached deeper into the back of the cabinet, where I found three raggedy manila envelopes that I pulled out. The thickest packet contained report cards for as many years as I had lived with my grandparents. I skimmed them with amusement. I had been a talker when I was young, but any low conduct marks were negated by As and Bs down the line after each subject. Oh, except the D in math in fourth grade. Fractions killed me.
I stuffed the report cards back into their longtime home and lifted another envelope. When a rectangular Mass card from my mother’s funeral fell out, I knew I’d hit the jackpot—if I could call articles about a murder a jackpot. Since I was in super-sleuth rather than abandoned-daughter mode, I decided I could. I pored over the words, even though I’d read an identical card hundreds of times. My own copy had been folded into a tiny square and shoved inside a pocket of my soccer uniform shorts, many years ago.
I set the card beside me and upended the envelope, emptying the contents. Various newspaper clippings and folded papers spilled onto my lap. The newspaper clippings from the Detroit Times were about my mother’s murder. One of them even contained a sketch of the might-be murderer. Though it wasn’t very descriptive, looking at it gave me goose bumps. It could have been one of millions of men. The face peering out from the newsprint didn’t look familiar at all.
I scanned the articles but they didn’t mention any names, just a description of the events of that night and a plea to readers to contact Crime Stoppers if anyone had information. I didn’t remember anything about that night, which I should consider a good thing. It was bad enough that I was there to witness it. I don’t think I could handle having the details burned into my memory.
Every article was from an inside section of the newspaper. Why hadn’t my mom’s murder been on the front page? Why hadn’t there been organized manhunts for her killer, like there were for others? What kind of murder was good enough to be the lead story on the eleven-o’clock news?
She was one of many. We didn’t live in small-town USA. Detroit was always in the running for murder capital of the country.
I picked up the Mass card from my mother’s funeral again and reread her name until my vision blurred.
I was so young when my mom died that I don’t remember anything about her. I knew what she looked like only because I’d raided all of my grandparents’ photo albums in search of her. There were no pictures of her displayed in their house. Why have a picture on displa
y when it could increase the likelihood of someone asking about her? Especially if that someone was me, a disregarded daughter desperately craving snippets about what my mother was like when she was alive.
Had she been excited to be pregnant with me? Was she sarcastic and wisecracking like the rest of my family? Would we have fought or been best friends? What would my life have been like if I had been raised by my mom? Was it horrible and ungrateful to think that way when my grandparents had sacrificed the best years of their retirement to take care of me? Would I have loved my mom as much if she were alive as I loved her dead?
But I realized a long time ago that life moves on despite the “I wonders” and “what-ifs.” The only choice I had was to go on, hoping I’d realize that I was strengthened by it all. How long would it take to get there?
How long would it take for me to stop wishing I was the one who had died that night? How many times had I wanted to take her place, instead of being forced to live without her?
Unsure of how long I sat staring at the words printed on the back of the Mass card, I snapped back to reality when I heard a car door slam. I shoved the papers into the raggedy envelope, rammed it back into the metal cabinet, and locked it. Then I slid the key into its plastic box, attached it to the back of the cabinet, and ran around my grandparents’ bed.
As I rushed down the stairs, I smacked right into Grandpa, unable to put on the brakes in time.
“Sorry,” I apologized, taking a step back up the last stair.
“What were you doing?” he asked. He looked past me, as if someone else would appear.
“Trying on Gram’s boots,” I lied. “I wanted to wear them out this weekend.”
Lying came fairly easy for me. I didn’t do it often, but when I did, it was believable. Another defense mechanism I’d built up to hide my feelings and not allow people to get too close.