by Zhanna Slor
My breath escapes in a sudden gasp, my hands letting go of the flyer. The paper falls to the ground, and Liam picks it up. “So it is you,” he says. “I thought you just had a doppelganger out there robbing people.”
I stand up, wobbly legs be damned, and take a very long breath. I don’t have time to relax at a party. I need to make myself scarce. “I really gotta go Liam. Thanks for the booze. And the cigarette.”
“Wait,” he says, standing up too, and grabbing a hold of me. “Why don’t you stay? Just for the night.”
“I’m really not in the mood for a party.”
“We can go hang out in my room if you want,” he says. “Come on, it’s getting late. And you seem really fucked up. Let me be there for you.”
I look at him, weighing my options carefully. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life than what I know in that moment: I need to get the hell out of Milwaukee. And in order to do that, I would need to make some sacrifices. Starting with Zoya’s money, which I no longer have access to. I don’t have a clue where Tristan has been keeping it, and my backpack is gone. And who knows if he was even able to make it out of there in one piece, with that dog on his leg. When he does, I doubt the first thing on his mind would be to find me. He’ll need to find a doctor. It gives me the perfect window to go without having to also break up with him. But it also leaves me broke. “Do you have a computer?” I ask Liam.
“What am I, Amish?” Liam asks, laughing. “Of course I fucking have a computer.”
“Okay. I just need to stop at home for second to grab a few things.”
ANNA
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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tristan isn’t back at the apartment, which doesn’t surprise me. As much as I don’t want to see him, I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me. First, he had put me in real danger. Then he threw his sobriety out the window like it was nothing. And to top it off, he stole my bag. I have a lot of things I need in that bag. My sketch pad, an extra set of clothes and underwear, an iPod with headphones, the expensive winter coat I took from the party, and my beloved (if not very in need of repair) Converse. Now I’d be stuck in my shitty winter boots for who knows how long.
Admittedly, I have bigger problems than a few missing items. I keep my wallet in my coat, so I still have ID and about fifty dollars cash, but without Tristan, that would be all the money I have to my name. Plus, my face is all over the walls of the Milwaukee Police Department. If that isn’t a sign to get the hell out of Dodge, I don’t know what would be. I don’t even bother to look for our money because I know there’s none in the apartment. I simply grab an empty garbage bag from the kitchen and start filling it up with everything I need. I would not be coming back ever again.
It doesn’t take long; I left most of my things at my parents’ house. Not ten minutes later, I’m back on my bicycle heading west to Valhalla. I go straight to Liam’s room to find him totally passed out in his bed. I’m half annoyed and half relieved. I think about leaving, but then I see his computer is on and I sit down for a minute to write Zoya. I don’t even open the two new emails I received from her, because I already know what they’re going to say and I’ve had enough of people threatening me and trying to use my good nature as a weapon. It’s time I start taking care of myself.
Dear Zoya,
Go ahead, tell the whole world what my dad did. I am no longer taking responsibility for his actions. It’s time I start making my own decisions, poor or otherwise.
P.S. My dad would probably rather deplete his entire life savings on lawyers than pay you a dime, so really, good luck in court.
Anastasia
I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that is no longer on my plate. I tell myself I won’t give it another thought. Now, I really have no one stopping me from doing anything I want. And, unlike before, I know exactly what that is. It’s definitely not going to Ukraine; I’ve flirted quite enough with danger, I don’t need to risk more. And it’s not going back to school. It’s something else altogether. I pick up Liam’s cell phone from the floor and call a number I have used so many times that I have it memorized.
“Hey,” I say into the speaker. “Where are you right now?”
FEBRUARY 2008
MASHA
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The following morning, I wake up yet again to a very loud banging on the door.
“Masha!”
I sit up, hitting my head on a hanging plant. “Ow,” I say aloud as I walk to the door, rubbing my head with a palm. Who would be knocking like that so early in the morning? Who even knows I’m here? It certainly doesn’t sound like Rose. She has a spare key hidden somewhere, and, as always, she doesn’t seem to enjoy being home. Spending so much time in her apartment without her there reminds me why I moved out so quickly after she’d replaced June; Rose was practically never there. And Emily, she’d disappeared almost entirely, too, after June had died. I couldn’t blame her now, though I did, then. We should have both moved out right away, instead of trying to live there like nothing had ever happened. Because everywhere we looked, we saw June’s dead body; I saw it every time I passed the door of her old room, I remembered it when I used her dishes, I dreamt of it, so cold and blue, my sleep. She may not literally have been haunting us, but in a way, her presence did plague us. And because I never addressed it, it only grew from there. Soon she began haunting Center Street, and Riverwest, and the entire city of Milwaukee, until I had to get as far away as I could.
I’m not sure why I no longer feel her here—maybe time really does heal—but now, I am starting to remember what I used to like about Riverwest, not only the bad stuff. How every other block, you run into people you know, or at least look familiar. How cyclists speed by you no matter what the weather; it could be blizzarding out and a guy in all black would still ride past you through the snow, covered in winter gear. Most importantly, it’s so small; you could walk from any bar or cafe in Riverwest all the way home in less than fifteen minutes. And this, the fact that people will show up at your door with no warning and knock on it. It’s like we’re living in the eighties.
“Who is it?” I ask. I turn to check the clock on the microwave and am surprised to learn it’s eight in the morning. I’m so tired I thought it could still be the middle of the night. Or, maybe I’m hungover. Yes, that’s it. I’m hungover for the first time in years.
“It’s your dad,” the voice answers. Either I am still half asleep or unusually bewildered, but I can’t figure out why my dad would be here. So I open the door partway, trying to blink the sleep away from my eyes.
“You’re not answering your phone,” Papa says in Russian. “I’ve been worried.”
I open the door further to let him inside. The blanket I am wearing around my body falls to the floor, and a shiver passes through me momentarily before I can get it back on. “Papa, I told you I wouldn’t be able to call you or drive back. It’s Shabbat. No phones, no cars.”
He lets out a breath of air, as if he’s been holding it since we last saw each other. “I didn’t know that. Sorry.”
“I told you that like three times!” I complain. Is fifty-five is too young to have Alzheimer’s? Or is it just the constant lack of sleep eating away at his memory skills?
Papa doesn’t move from the doorway. “Maybe you did. I can’t remember.”
If he didn’t look so worried, I might be annoyed at him, possibly angry, too. But he’s too pathetic-looking to be angry with. This stuff with Anna is clearly getting to him. I’m sure it doesn’t help that Mama is gone. My dad was never good at being alone; he went straight from his parents’ house to living with my mom and her parents. Then we came along, and it had been a full house ever since. The quiet, vast emptiness is likely starting to get to him.
“Come inside,” I tell him now, gesturing towards the very messy living room.
“This is okay. I came to take you to
your grandparents,” he says. “They calling me nonstop.”
“Oh,” I say, grabbing my coat and bag. “Okay.”
“How did you even know where I was?” I ask Papa, sitting down across from him in the car.
“I remember house,” he explains.
“Did you talk to Zoya?”
“No,” he says. “I didn’t.”
“Papa! I’m doing everything I can out here and—”
“I tried. I couldn’t get. Odnoklassniki where we talked. The account is deleted. Emails got returned.”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” I say, looking out the window as we zoom past Gordon Park and over the Locust Street bridge. “I’m tired.”
“What about you?” he asks. He moves away from me, a funny look on his face. “Other than getting drunk, did you find something?”
“Maria?” my dad asks again.
“Sorry. I did make some progress. I got some phone numbers from a friend of mine,” I say. “Got” is probably a nice way of putting it; I had forced Liam to write down the numbers for me before I would get out of his shitty van. “For her old roommates.”
“Da?” Papa looks pleased. He reaches into his cigarette carton and takes one out to light. “That could help.”
“Problem is….”
“Shabbat.” He smiles a little. “See, I do listen.” He looks out the window in thought, then opens it to let out the smoke. The sound of birds twittering enters the room, and for a moment, I feel relaxed. It’s easier now when my dad is relatively calm. When he is nervous, or anxious—which happens often—it’s like there’s so much of it inside him it spills over onto me and I can’t feel anything else. It’s probably why I am so much more relaxed in Israel. “Okay. Well, I can call them after grandparents.”
He turns down Oakland Ave, and becomes quiet for a moment. Then he gazes at me with a strange expression. It’s part wistful, but disappointed or angry too. “Did you know your sister smokes?” he asks.
“What? No.”
“She thought she could hide it from me…” he starts, then shakes his head. “I’m not as stupid as I look.”
“I can’t imagine anyone calling you stupid,” I grimace.
Papa inhales deeply. “No matter what I try to do for you two, you just do the opposite.”
I swallow. “She’s nineteen. I’m sure it’s a phase.”
My dad looks me right in the eye. “Was it a phase for you?”
I turn away. I don’t think he’s talking about smoking anymore. “Give her a break,” I say. “It’s not like it was when you were her age. People don’t have time to ask questions when they’re starving.”
“And this better?” Papa says, gesturing to the ceiling of the car, meaning the entire world of 2008.
“In some ways it’s better. In other ways, it’s worse,” I shrug. “But that happens with every generation, don’t you think?”
Papa sighs, then pulls into a parking spot on Farwell Avenue. He puts his coat back on and opens the door, all in one swift motion. I follow him outside as we walk into the apartment building more familiar to me than any of our previous homes because my grandparents hadn’t lived anywhere else in nearly twenty years.
“Did you look at Anna’s bank accounts at all? Did you find anything?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.” Then he goes into his pocket and reaches for his wallet. “That reminds me.” He shoves a bunch of cash in my face.
“What is this for?” I ask. He’s so close to me now I can smell his generic Dove soap. I back up a little.
“It’s not from me,” he explains. “It’s from your grandpa.”
“Oh. Nazi money?” I ask, taking the pile. It’s probably my portion of all the quarterly reparation money he gets from Germany. There’s like over a thousand dollars in there. I figured once I left he would give my half to Anna, but it doesn’t appear that way now at all. Or maybe he did give money to Anna. Maybe that’s the money she used to leave town. “Wow. That’s a lot of German guilt right there.”
Papa slides his hands into his coat pockets and starts walking up the stairs. “I guess maybe we know where Anna got the money to leave,” he says.
MASHA
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Mashinka!” Dedushka cries out with joy. “Finally! You’re here!” He wraps me in a suffocating hug, before allowing my grandmother to do the same. By the end of which I have to sit down on their itchy couch to catch my breath. This is hard, when it’s probably eighty degrees inside. I wave a hand over my face, hoping they will get the hint. They do not.
“What took you so long?” Dedushka asks me instead.
I turn to my dad in confusion.
“They calling me nonstop since you landed,” he repeats in English. “But you had…enough to deal with.” The way he says it makes me understand: they have no idea that Anna is gone. Maybe they don’t even know my mom is gone.
“Excuse me,” I tell my grandpa, the closest phrasing to ‘I’m sorry’ that Russian has. “I was really busy.”
“Too busy for your grandparents?” Babushka chimes in from the rug-covered couch. It disturbs me slightly that she hasn’t bothered to put on real clothes for our visit. She’s in a long, cotton dressing gown with several large stains on it, and holds a thick blanket over her lap that smells like it didn’t dry well enough before she took it out of the dryer. “Who practically raised you? Oy, such ungrateful girls you have Pavel.”
My dad explains: “Mama. She only arrived yesterday.”
“I’m here now,” I say, trying to relax them. “Isn’t that good enough?” As I begin to peel off my coat, which is now stuck to me with a layer of sweat, I take the moment to look around the apartment. Was I expecting it to be different? If so, I would have been disappointed; it is exactly the same. I don’t think even one old framed photo from the long array of our school yearbook pictures has been moved. Like a time capsule from the nineties. No, like a time capsule from the Soviet Union. Because they still have all their old flower-patterned dishes and hand-painted tea sets and beautiful glassware sitting behind a glass case, as if in a museum collection, practically untouched. They never made friends here, not really, and I doubt people come to visit them other than my dad. And sure, most people in the building are old and Russian, some of them even related to them. But they probably have nice china of their own. What reason would my grandparents ever have to take it out? Even on their birthdays, we always went out to eat, or for the major ones, had parties in Russian restaurants.
“You’re getting old. Why don’t you give me any grandchildren?” my grandma starts. “You know I don’t have much time left.” I don’t bother responding to this age-old request. I’m too hot. I fold my coat over my arm and stand up. Then I turn into the kitchen, which is only a foot away from the living room, hoping the air will be cooler here, but it’s not. In the sink, I notice, there are a few nice glasses and plates standing in water. Dirty.
“Babushka, you have grandchildren,” I say. I sit down at the small dining table, which is littered with photos and mail. “I think what you mean is great-grandchildren.”
“Masha, stop being such an elitist. You know what I mean,” my grandma says, nearly making me choke with laughter. She has a point, perhaps.
“Anastasia’s nineteen, and I’m not married or ready for kids in any way,” I explain. I gaze quickly at the clock, a Hebrew one they got on their last visit to Israel with an image of a praying rabbi in the background, says it’s a little past noon. My grandma went nuts buying things with Hebrew writing on them—besides the clock, there is also a mezuzah, several oversized T-shirts and caps, and at least ten different candle holders—all so she could practice reading them upon her return. In another life, she could have been a linguist. In another life I could have, too. “Sorry. You may need to wait a little longer for great-grandkids.”
I start rifling through their
mail so I don’t have to look at them and come off as annoyed. This topic of conversation is always draining for me. I can’t think of a good excuse to leave already, although I would prefer to come back tomorrow or when I have less on my mind. I still have so much to do; I’m not any closer to finding Anna. She could be in danger. She could be in Ukraine! She could be in danger in Ukraine. I’m about to say I have lunch plans, but then I remember my dad knows I ate because we ate together, at Beans and Barley, about ten minutes before we arrived.
“I don’t have time to wait,” Babushka complains. “I’m practically dead already. What about this boyfriend of yours? Is he Jewish?”
“Mama, please,” my dad says.
“Of course he’s Jewish. I live in Israel.”
“You live in Israel? Bozhe moy. How could you do such a thing to your parents?” Babushka asks. Then she stops as if remembering something. “Well at least he’s Jewish. Tell him to marry you already so I can see your children before I die.”
“Babushka, you’ve been telling me you’re dying for about twenty years,” I explain. “I think it’s safe to say you’re not actually dying yet.”
“Nothing safe about being alive, young lady,” she merely replies. “Especially not at eighty.”
“You’re eighty-three,” my dad corrects. He is standing next to the table with his arms crossed, looking more impatient than I am. I look back to the scattered piles of mail. Most of it is junk, but then I notice a handwritten letter sticking out of an open envelope. Who would be writing my grandparents handwritten letters?
“Once you reach a certain age, who cares?” Babushka shrugs. This is true, but my grandparents have never really known their exact ages. My grandma’s mom forgot hers, and my grandpa lied about his to avoid getting conscripted into the Russian army for an extra year or two after the war ended, so he no longer remembers his actual birthday, either. We celebrate it on Yom Kippur. Which, as it turns out, was the day my dad called me to return. In the chaos, I had completely forgotten to wish him a happy birthday.