At the End of the World, Turn Left

by Zhanna Slor

  “I’m still on it. I’m only here to get my stuff,” he says, smiling at Box, who beams back.

  “Well, damn. Margot was right.” I finish the rest of the cider and crumple up the can, leaving it in a pile of snow. “Where are you going?”

  “New York, for now. Box’s sister lives there,” August says. He puts his bag back on and starts digging around in his pockets.

  “Oh. Awesome. I love New York.” I take out my keys, as they’re always attached to my jeans with a carabiner, and unlock the door for them. “What’s your real name, Box?”

  “Oh, we don’t talk about that,” August says. An awkward smile passes over his face. He looks down at the crumpled Strongbow can, then back at me. “Anna? Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Just having a weird day.” I turn back towards the door, opening it.

  We walk inside the house. “How are you moving your stuff?” I ask.

  August and Box drop their things on the floor of the kitchen with clear relief. “My friend is coming by with his truck. How about you? Where are you going to go?”

  This is, indeed, a good question. Without an apartment, or money coming in from my dad, I have no idea where I am going to go. I try to think back to how much I have saved in my checking account. A few hundred dollars maybe? How long could I live off a few hundred dollars? What could I sell? But of course, I have nothing of value at all. Some portraits that no one will ever buy, because people only buy paintings of themselves or their kids, and who could blame them? The most success I’d had, besides commission work, was with tiny paintings of dogs I’d sold at a show titled Mini Art, where all work had to be under a hundred dollars, and you could take it home right off the wall. But I don’t have even one painting to sell this year, because all I’ve been doing is homework for classes I couldn’t care less about. And drinking. I can’t remember the last time I painted. Although, if I can finish my former guidance counselor’s commission in the next four days and also get him to drive down here to pay me for it, that’s another five hundred dollars. That could hold me over for a little while, if I’m not paying rent.

  Or I could work with Tristan, I think for a moment, before shaking this thought away. No. I can’t steal from people. That would be wrong. Plus who knows if I’ll ever see him again.

  What’s the point of any of it, if my dad really won’t pay for next semester? Would I be going to college at all, let alone living in Milwaukee, if he isn’t? I had never considered any other options, because my parents were so insistent on my going to college nearby that I had no space to wonder what I would want to do if it were up to me. The only place I would have wanted to go, had I had the time to consider it, was the Art Institute of Chicago, where a few people I’d been in shows with ended up, every day posting pictures of new elaborate projects while I burned away my time clicking. So my dad wants to cut me off. So what, then? No more college? Is it so horrible that I won’t be forced to spend all my time using Adobe InDesign anymore?

  No. No it would not be so horrible. Actually it would be kind of great. Right then and there, standing in my kitchen like some kind of deranged lunatic, I feel a spark of hope for the first time in a while. I think of the photos I’ve seen of skyscrapers of New York, the cozy patios of Austin, Portland’s bridges and coffee shops. I imagine showing up to each place with nothing but a backpack of clothing and art supplies. Getting a job waitressing in some small desert town, like Liz Parker. Living, without the heavy weight of expectations, whatever combination of survivor’s guilt and tremendous fear of the unknown my parents have insistently forced me to carry. Just being and painting, all the time, like I’ve always wanted but couldn’t admit to myself. Or hell. Maybe I’ll just go straight to Chernovtsy.

  I don’t even notice how long I stand there staring blankly until August comes by and waves a hand in front of my face.

  “Hey. Hello? Talk to me,” August says. Part of me forgot he was in the room, but no, there he is in front of me, lighting a rolled cigarette and then handing it to me. I suddenly feel dizzy, and like I need to sit down. “You okay? What boy drama did I miss while I was gone?”

  “No boy drama,” I say. I take the cigarette, but I’m not quite ready to speak more. My brain won’t stop turning. Should I even bother finishing the semester?

  “What’s going on?” he asks me.

  “I’m fine,” I tell August. I take in a deep breath and turn. “Sorry, I just have to do something quick.” I walk past him and into my room, which is uncharacteristically messy, so I hope August doesn’t follow. The bed isn’t made, my blue and green striped comforter drooping to the floor haphazardly, next to a pile of laundry. The ashtray is full and surrounded by old coffee mugs. I ignore it all and press the power button on my computer, and while I wait for it to load, I change my mind and carry a few of these mugs out to the kitchen sink. It’s extra slow today, so I have time to dump out the ashtray and make my bed all before the computer is awake and logged in. I open my MySpace account, and click on the messenger function.

  “Hello? Anna?” August is asking, trailing behind me. It occurs to me that he has been talking this whole time and I didn’t hear him. “Are you listening?”

  “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “Come with us to New York,” August suggests.

  “You mean... train-hop with you?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yeah,” August says. “I think you’ll like it.”

  I think about this for a second. Should I go? I’d been asked plenty of times before—before August left he’d asked, in fact—but I never really considered it till now. I try to remember all the times I had secretly fantasized about going on such an adventure, how I’d never let myself get very far in this illusion because I knew I could not go, not with my parents around, checking up on me regularly, pulling the purse strings. It does seem fun. Whoever has real adventures anymore? Everything is on Google. Everybody is on MySpace, telling you where they are and with whom. All the crevices of the world have been explored and excavated and monetized, even your deepest insecurities. August and his friends are the only people I know who don’t play into it. They go where the train takes them, sometimes without any destination. They don’t have plans and to-do lists and transcripts of vaguely useless skills. They don’t check a map four times before stepping foot outside. They just go.

  My eyes finally focusing again, I look at August, in his all-black clothes and greasy hair, dirt-streaked cheeks. This lifestyle really suits him; he looks great. He comes off more weathered, more mature. Happier, too. I let out a breath so long it’s like I’ve been holding it all morning. “When are you leaving?” I ask.

  “So you’ll come?” he asks, excited.

  “I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” I say.

  “What about your dad?” August is asking. He begins stretching his arms over his head, then bends over to touch his toes. “He won’t freak out?”

  “He’s not going to be a problem for a while.”

  I turn to the computer and start writing out a message to Zoya: Hey! Why on earth did you send my father the DNA test instead of me?

  “Why not?” he asks, curious. “Did you finally stand up to him?” August raises his hand for a high five but I don’t meet it. I’m not exactly happy about our current state of affairs.

  “No,” I say, blushing. I click refresh on my internet browser. Zoya is online, which means she might answer me soon. August is now sitting on the floor and stretching his arms over each leg, one at a time. “How long till you leave again?”

  August pops up straight to answer me. “A day or two. You can meet us there if you’re not ready by then.”

  I shake my head, the fantasy bursting like a bubble. I feel silly for even considering it. I can’t even imagine getting on a train all alone. How would I do it? Why? And is now really the best time to go somewhere? “I don’t know, August. I don’t think I have the uniform for it,” I joke, half-seriously, half about t
o cry.

  He stands and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think you have the uniform for this either,” he says, waving a hand in the direction of the room, the house, Milwaukee.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t it feel like you’re always one floor removed from everybody else?” he asks.

  “No. It’s more like we’re all on the same floor, but I’m in a different building,” I explain.

  August laughs. “I’d say a bit of both.” I turn back to the screen, to see if Zoya has responded, but she hasn’t. August returns to the floor to stretch. He is mid-bridge pose when the door opens, and Box walks in nervously, looking years younger now that she’s clean, a towel wrapped around her wet hair. She can’t even be eighteen, I realize.

  “Thank you so much for letting me use your shower,” Box says. She bends over and ruffles August’s hair, and before I know it, August has jumped out of the bridge pose and is on his feet again. He gives Box a tight squeeze.

  “Hey, kid. You need help packing?” Box asks him. The two of them are cute together. They look happy, or at least more content than anyone else I know. It makes me wonder if maybe they understand something about life that I don’t; something like you can’t be satisfied with everything until you can live with nothing.

  Maybe this endless want of distraction is what the absence of beauty in your surroundings replaces. My parents should have been happy enough with getting us here, but no; then it became a series of newly desired accomplishments. European cruises and expensive clothes, new floors, healthy savings accounts. Honor roll and college degrees and clean-cut Jewish life partners for their children; money, money, money. It would never end. It would never be enough. Like when you’ve missed eating all day and then try to eat, but no matter how much you consume, it’s too late, you don’t ever feel full.

  “That shower was perfection, darling,” Box says, taking the towel off her head and hanging it on my doorknob to dry. “I feel so fancy.” She runs her fingers through her short hair and doesn’t ask for a comb. I notice that she’s still in the same ratty clothes she came here in, a band t-shirt worn so thin I can’t make out the band name, and black jeans at least one an inch too large, torn in the knees. I feel suddenly very much like giving all my things away so I can be free too. It’ll be less stuff to move, at least.

  “Anna might come with us,” August says, grinning at Box. Her eyes go wide with surprise.

  “Really?” she asks. “Have you gone before? That’s exciting.”

  “It sounds fun, but I’m not so sure I can actually hop a train,” I tell them. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “Nah,” she shrugs. “It’s fun.”

  Maybe they’re not entirely crazy, these train hoppers, to remove the shackles of daily existence in order to be free. Who wouldn’t benefit from a little freedom? We live in buildings we can’t see the bottom of and use machines we don’t know the first thing about recreating. It’s progress, and so much of it is necessary, but it separates you from your natural state. It’s like there is no natural state anymore.

  I start looking through my drawers for clothes I’ve been meaning to take to Goodwill that I can instead donate to Box when August grabs me by the shoulder.

  “Hey—who’s that guy downstairs?” August asks. “He’s huge!”

  I look out the window, at where he’s pointing, to see a young man is standing there, blue hair streaming out of a thick gray hat. In his hands, he has two large Fuel coffee cups. He rings the doorbell.

  I smile, without meaning to. My stomach fills with butterflies again. “Oh, that’s Tristan,” I say. Part of me had thought I’d never see him again. But the other part... No, I knew all along he’d be back, that something had started between us last night, because maybe I was wrong to trust Zoya, but I’ve yet to be wrong about a guy being attracted to me. Some things you can’t hide. Or maybe I just know how to look. Certainly if I met Zoya in person, I would have a better idea what her intentions are. But online? It’s impossible to gauge tone from some text.

  Right as I’m about to go over there and open the door, my computer makes a noise: an incoming message from Zoya on MySpace. I slump back into my seat.

  I’m sorry, it says. Can we talk?

  When the doorbell rings again, I turn to Box and August, who are now making out by the window. “Can you let him in?” I ask August. “Please? I just need a second here.”

  “Wow, look at you, juggling more than one dude!” August says, slapping me on the back, assuming I’m flirting with someone on here not demanding answers from a girl who thinks she’s my sister. He and Box exit the room and head down the hall as I write, “My dad was so pissed he threw the test on the ground,” I explain.

  “Anastasia, it was a mistake,” she writes. “I didn’t know till you messaged me.”

  “That wasn’t cool. We had a plan,” I write.

  “Let me explain. The truth is, when we first started talking, I had already sent the DNA kit to Pavel. I didn’t think I would ever hear back from you,” she writes. “So when you told me to send it to your address, I contacted the post office and begged them to change the delivery address. I called so many times, Anastasia. I even called the United States.”

  “How am I supposed to believe you now?”

  “I swear. They told me on the phone the address was changed to yours. I don’t know what happened. Maybe they only said it to get me to stop calling,” Zoya explains. “I’m really sorry.”

  A knock at my door jolts me out of this conversation: it’s Tristan. “Hey,” he says, smiling. “I got coffee.”

  “Hi! And here I thought you’d disappeared on me,” I say, turning my head. I try to swallow my rage, if only for a moment, but my entire body feels like it might burst into a million pieces. It’s just all too much to take.

  “No, I just remember you said you like Fuel coffee,” he says. He hands it over, followed by a cigarette.

  “That’s really sweet,” I say, taking them both. When I look back, Zoya is writing me again:

  “What about the test?” she is saying.

  I drink some coffee and light the cigarette, hoping to feel more relaxed but only feeling less so. Like I’m at the edge of a cliff. “I think it might still be okay, but I need to look at it more.”

  “Do you think you can convince your dad to take it?”

  “What’s that about?” Tristan asks, hovering now behind me. “Is that Russian?”

  “No, I don’t,” I write.

  “Anastasia. I understand if you don’t want to get involved. But can you please take the test instead? I am begging you.”

  My heartbeat starts to race. Should I really get involved more than I already have? I feel transported into an entirely different story than the one I’ve been telling myself. In this one, I’m not so sure I’m the hero. And I’m certainly not capable of making any important decisions. Not before I figure some other things out first. And definitely not before I drink my first cup of coffee.

  “I will think about it,” I write. I log off the computer, as if that will make what she said disappear too, and turn to face Tristan. And then, feeling the overwhelming need to get it off my chest, I tell him everything.

  FEBRUARY 2008

  MASHA

  ________________

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I scroll to the end of Anna’s and Zoya’s conversation, then back up to where I left off, pre-Skype call, and reread the initial conversations. I wish I knew what they spoke about on that call, because everything that follows is so out of context. First Anna sends her address; then Zoya is checking in about something almost daily; then Zoya sends her address in Ukraine for a second time. After that, they never speak again. Not on Facebook anyway. When I check the Skype history, it shows seven calls, two of them missed, and three of them less than two minutes’ long. Two calls, however, were nearly an hour each. They could have talked about an
ything in that amount of time. They could have become friends, or enemies, or both.

  I sit back and think about things for a long time. I have so many questions. Why had Anna engaged with this woman for as long as she did? Did she have information that I don’t? Why didn’t she reach out to me about it? And is Zoya involved in her disappearance? Anna was so excited when Zoya said she could come visit her in Chernovtsy. Combined with the fact that I can’t find her, it makes me wonder if she hadn’t up and gone to Ukraine to meet Zoya and take the DNA test herself. Why else had she sent her address so many times? Maybe that’s why Anna needed money so badly she decided to steal it from people. If I didn’t know from years of unanswered entreaties how much Anna had always needed to see Chernovtsy again, this could be considered a huge leap. But she’d wanted to go back there since the day she learned that it was the place from which we’d come, like a moon forever orbiting a planet that could never really be hers. I tried to tell her to forget about it; I’d been there, I’d lived it, and it wasn’t worth the bother. Why waste so much energy wanting something that never wanted you? But I should have known better; the more you tell someone not to feel a certain way, the more they are going to feel it. The older she became, the more Anna’s nostalgia grew on her like a tumor. There’s a word in German that explains it perfectly: Fernwah, which means homesick for a place you’ve never been. Despite what I imagined when I’d left—that she had replaced her desire for Ukraine with a desire to make art—maybe I was wrong. Maybe I only thought that because it was easier than asking her about it.

  What if she’d actually gotten on a plane, without telling any of us, and gone there? If she had the means now, I doubt anything would stop her. We don’t know anything about this Zoya woman. I definitely don’t trust her to take care of my sister.