by Kelli Stuart
Nina walks to her own room and changes quickly out of her work clothes, hanging up her skirt and jacket carefully. She loves her job in the medical clinic. Though she’s a disappointment to her mother, her work as a Physician Assistant is fulfilling, and it gives her the flexibility she needs to raise Annie.
“You said you were going to America to become a doctor,” her mother had complained when she found out what her daughter did for a living.
“Well, Mama, that was the plan. But plans change. Besides, working as a doctor would have taken me away from Annie, and I didn’t want to leave her alone.”
“Like I left you alone,” Elizaveta had replied.
Nina pads back down the stairs to the kitchen and unloads her groceries. She sets to work cutting vegetables and marinating meat, trying to escape the nagging feeling that something is off in the house. While communication has never been strong between herself and her mother and daughter, lately it’s felt even more strained.
“Do you need help?”
Nina looks up to see her mother stepping into the kitchen, back hunched as her feet whisper across the wooden floors. Her grey hair has been smoothed back into a tight bun, and her eyes squint in the bright, overhead lights.
“No, but you can keep me company,” Nina answers with a smile. Elizaveta sits in one of the chairs at the counter and looks hard at her daughter. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it quickly.
Nina puts the vegetables in the skillet and smiles as they sizzle in the oil. “I always loved that sound,” she says, glancing at Elizaveta. “I remember listening to you cook when I was little. Something about the sound of vegetables cooking has always made me feel excited.” She pinches off a stalk of fresh dill and tosses it into the skillet, inhaling deeply as the comforting aroma fills the room.
Elizaveta’s face softens. She remembers those days, too. She can still hear Nina’s squeaky voice asking if dinner was almost ready. “It will be ready faster if you help me,” Elizaveta would reply, and Nina danced into the kitchen, her blonde curls bouncing with delight. Those were the happier memories, the ones Elizaveta didn’t mind falling into. She only wished there were more of them.
“I remember,” Elizaveta says. She glances around the kitchen. “Where is Nastia? She should be here helping you.”
“It’s Annie, Mama,” Nina replies with a sigh. She waves her hand. “She’s resting in her room. I’m fine down here.” But inwardly, Nina knows her mother is right. Annie should be helping. She should be doing more around the house. She should be more present.
“What do you mean, “resting”?” Elizaveta clucks her tongue. “What does that child need to rest from? From thinking? You rest from thinking and you die. No, she should be here in the kitchen helping you.”
Nina drops a small pile of chopped carrots and onions into the simmering dish, hoping that if she doesn’t respond her mother will grow tired of talking and stop.
Unfazed, Elizaveta shakes her head. “Americans,” she mutters. “They want everything easy and fast. Just think of the food they buy! Drive up to a window in your car and someone throws a sandwich at you as you drive by. I don’t even think it’s real food. It’s plastic made to look like food because you don’t want to take the time to prepare food the right way—food that was grown in the ground, not made in some laboratory.”
“Hey, Mama?” Nina interrupts. “Would you cut up these potatoes for me?” She shoves a pile of potatoes toward her mom and hands her a knife. Elizaveta stops talking and sets to work cutting. Nina pours herself a large glass of Pinot Grigio and bites her lip, not knowing whether to laugh or cry at her mother’s rant against the fast food industry. She thinks back to the horrified look on her mother’s face the first time she drove her through a McDonald’s and has to stifle a chuckle.
“They wrapped this meat in bread and put it in paper, and they want me to eat it?” Elizaveta had asked. “How do you know this is real meat? Really, Nina. I raised you to be a smart girl. How can you trust anyone who instantly hands you food through a window? Especially someone who smiles like that? Why was she smiling at me? Why do people smile so often in this country? How can you know what they’re thinking when they constantly smile?”
Glancing at Elizaveta as she cuts the vegetables, Nina shakes her head. As much as her mother rails against American customs, she has a feeling that inwardly Elizaveta is really impressed with it all. Because despite all her complaints, in the eleven years since she moved to the U.S., she’s never once asked to go back home.
Elizaveta
I am the child of a kulak. I am a kulak. No one can ever know.
“You mustn’t make a sound,” Mama crooned in our ears. “Think of something warm, and you will be warm.”
The problem was that we were so young, my little sister and I. We whimpered in the corner of the frigid barracks, the wind howling through the open slats. We didn’t even know what warmth was, so we had nothing of which to think. But my older brother remembered warmth, and he would whisper the warm things into the air, then I would try to grab them, hoping they could offer me some comfort.
“Borsch, fire, a summer day in the garden.” On and on he’d offer his list, and I would lay my head on Mama’s breast and listen to her heart, wondering if life was always this painful.
My papa had gone ahead of us to Siberia, disappearing in the night before I could ever have the chance to memorize his face. They told us to leave all our possessions behind. We were to be relocated along with the other ‘kulaks’ of the land. I didn’t know what it was to be a ‘kulak’ back then. I just knew it made my father bad—it made me bad.
But Mama was good—at least that’s what I believed then. Even though Mama was a ‘kulak’ like the rest of us, she had a heart that whispered kindness like a litany of grace. Every night, she read to us softly by the moon’s light. On nights when the winter clouds snuffed out the moon’s light, she simply spoke verses from memory and sang prayers over us all as we shivered beneath her sweet voice. Mama had smuggled one little book out the day we were forced to leave our home and sent to Siberia. It was a forbidden book, this New Testament. It went against everything that Father Lenin had laid out for our country, and Stalin himself would not stand for such rebellious stories. Even at my young age, I understood that mama’s whispered words into the icy nights were dangerous. They were not the teachings of a true Soviet.
Mama read until we fell asleep, our stomachs hollow and noses red with cold. But somehow her reading brought the comfort we needed to rest. I think, perhaps, it was Mama’s only rebellion in life, and it made her independent.
Of course, it was Mama’s hidden book that saved us in the end. It was her book, and it was my skill with a pencil and paper that brought us out of that frozen hell. Mama gave me life twice—first through the natural act of bringing me into this world, and second through her fearlessness in the face of the worst that mankind had to offer. So who is really to blame in the end? Is it Mama, or is it me?
Annie
Annie grabs her notebook and shoves it into her backpack, then pushes out of her seat. She heads out of the freezing room and makes her way to the cafeteria, arms crossed tight over her chest to stave off the frigid blast of the over enthusiastic air conditioning.
“Are they trying to freeze us all out of this God forsaken building?” she mutters as she rushes through the hall, hoping to get her blood circulating enough to feel her feet again.
“Who’re you talking to, Picasso?”
Annie turns in surprise. He smiles and lifts his hand in a brief wave.
“What’s up,” he says with a lopsided grin.
Annie nods slowly. “Um, hi,” she replies. She turns and continues walking down the hall. “Please go away,” she whispers under her breath. He cocks his head to the side and stares at her as he rushes to catch up.
“Well...” Annie gestures in front of her. “I’m headed to lunch, so...”
“Do you remember me?” he asks, falling into
step next to her. Annie sighs.
“Yes. You’re the guy in my first period class. John? Jim? Jason?” She looks at him for some help, but he only stares back in amusement. “Well, I remember you. I just don’t remember your name,” she says, cheeks hot.
“James,” he responds. “I just wanted to see how long you’d keep guessing.”
Annie smiles, despite her annoyance. She shakes her head and tries to toss a glare at James.
“So I guess you probably have a class to go to now, huh?” she asks.
“Oh, no. I’m headed to lunch, too,” he responds. “I figured we could keep each other company since I don’t know anyone at the school yet, and you sit alone.”
“How do you know I sit alone?” Annie asks.
“We have the same lunch period. I just told you that,” James says. His eyes sparkle. “The cafeteria isn’t that big, Picasso.”
“Don’t call me Picasso,” Annie says. The two step into the cafeteria, the din of 300 students reverberating off concrete walls.
“Why not?” James asks. “I can’t get that picture you drew out of my head. It was so lifelike. Where’d you learn to draw like that?”
Annie steps into the line and grabs a tray. She grimaces at the food choices before them: greasy pizza or something resembling chicken and gravy.
“First of all, Picasso was a painter, and I just draw with a pencil. You really can’t compare us to one another.” She reaches in and grabs the pizza, sliding it on her plate and swallowing hard at the bile already gathering in the back of her throat.
“And I didn’t learn to draw like that. I just do it. I always have. And I usually don’t let anyone see what I draw, so maybe we could stop talking about it.”
James lifts his hands in mock surrender. He grabs two slices of pizza, and then slides his grey tray down the line next to Annie’s.
“Sorry, Picasso.”
Annie looks at him in exasperation. He grins. “I really am sorry, but I’ve been thinking of you with that name for a week now and it’s stuck in my head!”
Annie rolls her eyes and walks to the cash register. She grabs a bottle of water and gives the cashier her student ID number. When she and James have both paid, they make their way to a table in the back corner of the cafeteria.
“You don’t have to sit with me, you know,” Annie says. “I don’t mind sitting alone. In fact, I kind of like it,” she says pointedly, eyebrows raised. James smiles again, and Annie notices a small dimple on his right cheek. She flushes and looks down quickly.
“Well, maybe I don’t like sitting alone, Pic...uh, Annie,” he finishes as she tosses him a withering stare. He takes a bite of his pizza, the grease dripping down his fingers. Annie fights a gag and picks up her own piece. It goes limp the second she lifts it off the tray. Her stomach churns and growls at the same time.
“So, Annie isn’t your real name, is it?” James asks, wiping his hands and mouth. Annie takes a tiny bite off the end of her pizza and chews carefully.
“What do you mean?” she asks. “It’s not a fake name.”
“I know,” James smirks. “I mean, I heard the teacher call your full name on the first day. Your name’s Anastasia.”
Annie puts her pizza down and swallows hard. She nods, but doesn’t speak.
“Cool name,” James says. He takes another bite. Annie looks at him curiously as he chews his food.
“I hate it,” she says. She immediately regrets her words because now an explanation will be expected, and she wants to keep her conversation with this boy to a minimum.
“Hate it?” James asks. “Why would you hate it? It’s unique and interesting. It’s the name of a mysteriously vanished Russian princess. Who wouldn’t want a name like that?!”
Annie snorts.
“What?” James asks.
“Well, for starters, Anastasia Romanov didn’t mysteriously vanish. There’s actual evidence that she died right there with the rest of her family. I didn’t take you for a Disney guy.”
James grins and shrugs his shoulders.
“And second, the name Anastasia hasn’t made me unique so much as it’s made me confusing to people. So I prefer to go by Annie. Just Annie. Not Picasso.”
“Yeah, well, I got that,” James answers. He starts in on his second piece of pizza. Annie looks at her food longingly, wishing it didn’t look and taste so unappealing. She takes a long drink from her water bottle to try and quell the hunger that’s gnawing at her.
“So what’s the real story behind your name, then?” James asks. “How’d your parents settle on it?”
“Not parents,” Annie answers. “Just mom. My mom happens to be Russian, thus my Russian princess name.” She smiles grimly, her lips spread in a thin, forced line.
“So your dad had no say in the matter?”
“I don’t have a dad,” Annie says. She picks her pizza up again and forces herself to take another small bite.
“No dad?” James’ eyes widen. “So what, were you like miraculously conceived or something?”
Annie rolls her eyes. “My dad died before I was born. It’s been just my mom and me my whole life. Nothing miraculous.”
Annie puts her pizza down and stares at her plate for a minute. She finally looks up at James who is studying her intently. “I don’t usually talk about myself or my family with people,” she mutters.
James wipes his hands on his napkin and leans forward, his elbows pressing into the table so that it tips slightly toward him. “No worries,” he says. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Annie looks at him for a minute, oddly taken with this strange new boy. “So,” she says. “What about you?”
“What about me?” James replies.
“What’s your story?” she asks.
“Well, my story is a sad one—a total conversation killer.” James crumples up his napkin and tosses it on his plate. Annie waits.
“My dad and I moved down here from Milwaukee in July. He got a job transfer, which was fine with me because both of us were ready to leave and start fresh.”
Annie looks at him intently. “Start fresh from what?” she asks.
“My mom and sister were killed in a car accident last December. Christmas Day, actually. Not so merry.” He offers her an apologetic smile. Annie opens her mouth, but can’t think of anything to say so closes it again.
“Yeah, you don’t have to say anything,” James says. He leans in toward her. “I don’t usually talk about my family to people, either,” he confesses, the words settling between them into a heavy silence.
Annie stares at her plate and realizes she can’t eat any more. The bell rings, and the sound of chairs scraping against the tile floor fill the already noisy room. James stands up and grabs his tray, then reaches for Annie’s.
“You done?” he asks. She nods. “Not much of an eater, huh?” he remarks. Annie shrugs.
“The pizza tastes like melted plastic,” she says. James grins.
“Totally,” he says with a laugh.
Annie picks up her backpack and stands up. The room begins to spin, and she grabs the back of the chair to steady herself.
“You okay?” James asks. He puts down the trays and grabs her elbow. Annie shakes her head and pulls away from him.
“Fine,” she says with a thin smile.
“You also get dizzy a lot,” James remarks. He picks the trays back up and walks to the trashcan, tossing the contents in, then setting the trays on top. Annie shrugs.
“I probably just have low blood pressure or something,” she says. She tries to keep her voice light.
“Yeah,” James replies, watching as she moves slowly on her feet. “Probably.”
“Well...”Annie says. She glances at the clock. “Guess we better head to class.” James nods. He adjusts his backpack on his shoulder and gives her a big grin.
“See you tomorrow, Anastasia,” he says with a wink. She opens her mouth to correct him, then closes it again. Somehow, her name coming from his lips
sounds nice—pretty, even.
“Tomorrow,” she replies. James turns and disappears into the throng of students rushing to class. Annie feels her cell phone buzz in her pocket. She reaches back and pulls it out. Glancing down, she sees the text from Toby.
“Pick u up today?” it reads. “Wanna hang?”
Annie slowly puts the phone back into her pocket and turns toward her class. She doesn’t answer the text.
Nina
Autumn buds as
winter shakes off
summer’s heat-soaked
kiss.
Nina leans back in her chair and lets out a long breath, releasing the tension of the morning. Glancing out the window, she takes in the beautiful, late summer day, her mouth turning up in a slight smile. September is looming. After September comes October, and October has been her very favorite time of year since she moved to Tennessee.
Back in Russia, Nina would lament the coming of October because it brought with it the beginnings of blustery winds that led into frigid winters that never seemed to end. But October in Tennessee feels like a gift. The air grows crisp and cool, and the leaves fill in the backdrop making it seem as though the world itself were nothing more than a painting. Nina glances at the wall, at a print that her daughter gave her last year for her birthday.
“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.”
The scrawling letters were painted in vivid hues of red and orange. Nina looks intently at the framed quote, and she feels her happiness melt into an ache. That was the last time it seemed she and her daughter exchanged genuinely caring words with one another.
“It’s a quote from the book we’re reading in literature class,” Annie had said when Nina held up the print and examined it. “We’re reading Anne of Green Gables, and as soon as I read that line I knew you needed to hang it on your wall.”
