by Kelli Stuart
Andrew pulled away and handed Nina the bag. The smell made her stomach rumble, and Andrew grinned. “Eat,” he urged. Nina opened the bag and looked inside. There was a bag of what looked to be long, yellow sticks, and something wrapped in foil. Andrew reached over and shoved his hand in the bag, grabbing a few of the sticks and putting them in his mouth. She watched him chew for a moment then glanced back in the bag.
“What it is?” she asked. Andrew grinned again, completely enamored by her innocence and beauty. She was like a lost little doe in the middle of the city.
“It’s a hamburger and French fries. An American staple,” he said. Nina had nodded even though she had no idea what he’d just said.
She tentatively reached into the bag and grabbed one of the yellow sticks. It was hot and greasy. She placed it at her lips then took a small nibble. She chewed for a moment, trying to process this new and strange food. It tasted a bit like the potatoes her mother use to fry in oil.
“It is potatoes?” she finally asked, and Andrew had thrown his head back in laughter. He nodded as she took another bite.
“Do you like them?” he asked, reaching into the bag and taking another handful. He put them all in his mouth at once as Nina watched carefully. She nodded, finishing her French fry and swallowing. She found she genuinely did like the taste, though the texture of this hand-held potato left her a little wary.
She pulled out the foil package and slowly unwrapped it. Inside lay what looked to be meat in between two pieces of the whitest bread she had ever seen. At home, her mother only served black bread. White bread was a delicacy that Nina had only enjoyed once before, thanks to the attention of a boy in her class when she was in the 8th form. But his white bread, a pale brick called kirpich, had been stiff and stale, not soft like this. She picked up the meat and bread and held it gingerly between her delicate fingers.
“This is hamburger?” she asked Andrew. He glanced at her with a glimmer in his eye and nodded. Very tentatively, she took a small bite, chewing the strange food carefully.
“Well,” Andrew asked after she swallowed. “What do you think?”
Nina sat still for a moment letting the lingering taste register. She turned toward him shyly. “I don’t know,” she answered. He returned her smile.
“You need to try a bigger bite,” he urged. Nina took a larger bite this time, and immediately she felt a tightening in the back of her jaw as the unfamiliar flavor assaulted her. She looked at the hamburger and saw a red paste dripping out the side. She swallowed hard and examined the burger closely.
“What it is?” she asked, pointing to the paste oozing from the bread. “This red?”
“That’s ketchup,” he replied. “It’s a tomato sauce.”
Nina stared at the ketchup quizzically. It looked very different from the tomato sauce at home, brighter and thinner. And it tasted different, too. It was tangy, sharp against her tongue. Nina took another tentative bite and chewed for a moment, then swallowed quickly.
“Do you like it?” Andrew asked, his face eager. Nina forced her mouth to turn up into as sincere a smile as she could and nodded unconvincingly.
“Yes,” she lied. But she knew she could not take another bite of this hamburger for fear she might get sick. Andrew chuckled beside her, and she hesitated to look his way. She did not want to insult the man who had done so much to bring her to this country, and she feared she had already blown her chance to make it work in the first hour.
“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” he said. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I won’t take it personally.”
Nina smiled at him gratefully and placed the hamburger in his outstretched hand. He took a large bite as she watched with great interest. Seeing her large, inquisitive eyes looking at him brought a smile to his face once again, and this time she genuinely smiled back. He dropped the burger back into the bag on her lap and reached over, brushing his thumb along the corner of her eye.
“Your skin crinkles when you smile,” he said. Nina blushed at this intimate touch. “I like it,” he’d continued, his voice a little softer this time.
Nina pulls herself back into the present and glances into the mirror, taking in her reflection once more. Would Andrew still like what he saw if they had somehow made it work? If the glaring differences between their cultures and backgrounds hadn’t split wide a chasm between them, would they have somehow been able to remain a family? The newness of it all had worn off so quickly. Within a year, the flirtatious smiles and stolen public kisses waned, leaving nothing but strained conversation. There was often a tired silence between them, and it had terrified Nina. She couldn’t handle the uncertainty of it all, which coupled with an intense sense of failure. Her mother had been right after all. The relationship would never last.
Nina sighs and grabs her handbag off the end of the bed. The irony of it all is that she’s never had a conversation with her mother about the circumstances surrounding her divorce. She never gave her mom any information on how her first marriage fizzled and faded, like the end of a movie reel that went from grey to black when the show was over. And though it was no secret that she had remarried and had her child with another man, she and Elizaveta never went in to the details of those missing years between leaving Moscow and Elizaveta moving to the States. Nina couldn’t figure out how to bring up the brief and sad love story she shared with Richard Abrams, a man she married shortly after her divorce to Andrew was finalized.
Richard was the real love, different from that which she’d felt for Andrew. But cancer is a wretched beast. Cancer doesn’t care if you’re newly married or if you’re pregnant. Cancer will sneak in and steal the man you adore right out from under your nose leaving you alone to raise a daughter in a foreign land. Cancer will render you a divorcee and a widow in one fell swoop, and somehow prove that your mother was right after all.
Nina couldn’t handle the aftermath of telling her mother the whole story, so they simply never discussed it. When Elizaveta tried probing Nina for details of Annie’s father, Nina brushed past her with simple platitudes. She told her that Annie’s father was a good man who died too young, and made it clear the subject was closed for discussion. Elizaveta finally quit asking, though on occasion she made sure to mention what a pity it was that Annie had no father in her life, a comment so laced with irony that Nina couldn’t help but stare incredulously at her mother when she brought it up. She, Elizaveta Mishurova, had never spoken of a man, and Nina had no male influence her entire childhood, so her mother’s overly righteous insistence that Annie should have a male role model was laughable at best.
Moving out of the shadows of her memory, Nina heads downstairs to find her mother and daughter sitting at the breakfast table—the very table she’d sat at the day Richard told her he was terminally ill, and she’d broken down as she told him she was expecting a child. The cancer took him quickly, never affording him the opportunity to see his daughter. And the pain of it all had caused him to shut her out in his last few months of life. He’d pushed her away, and she’d watched it all happen from the sidelines as his mother nursed him out of this life. When it was all done, she’d left Nina alone, never attempting to meet her only granddaughter.
Nina looks between her mother and her daughter, and shakes her head at the uncomfortable silence between them. Annie’s shoulders are hunched over her cereal bowl. With one hand she raises the spoon to her mouth, and in the other she holds the box of cereal up, reading the back for the umpteenth time. Elizaveta sits across from her, hunched over her cup of chai. She stirs it slowly, her spoon clinking against the side of the cup to a beat. Nina smiles as she remembers a platitude she heard frequently as a youth.
“Russians make the loudest sound with a spoon while stirring their tea.”
Elizaveta’s eyes bore into the cereal box that blocks her from seeing her granddaughter’s face. The two mirror one another in every way, and Nina nearly laughs at loud.
“Good morning,” she says, f
orcing a smile. She bustles past them and grabs a coffee mug from the counter. Pouring herself a cup, she turns and faces the two, who look up at her warily.
“Annie, I need to head into the office early this morning. Why don’t I drop you off on my way so you don’t have to take the bus.”
Annie shrugs, and Nina isn’t sure if it’s a ‘that’s okay’ or ‘don’t bother’ shoulder shrug. She doesn’t feel like deciphering it, so she moves on.
“Mama,” she begins, switching from English to Russian. “I’ve left you a buterbrod, and some vinigret in the refrigerator. Remember I’m coming home at eleven today to pick you up so we can go back to Vik—Dr. Shevchenko’s office this afternoon.” Nina brushes past her mother, ignoring the narrowed eyes that work to discern why she nearly called the doctor by his first name. She grabs her keys and gulps her coffee down quickly.
“Ready, Annie?” she asks. Annie rolls her eyes and slides out of her chair. She grabs her bag and walks to the door. Nina sighs at her daughter’s retreating figure. She looks back at her mother whose pinched face shakes. It appears her mother is fighting back tears.
“Mama?” Nina asks as she takes a step toward the usually stoic old woman. “Are you okay?”
Elizaveta holds up her hand, waving Nina off as she turns back to her breakfast. “I am fine,” she mutters taking a bite of the thick, black bread slathered in butter. After Elizaveta moved to America to live with her, Nina began buying the black bread again at a local European deli in order to quell her mother’s constant berating of the “useless” white fluff that Americans insisted on wrongly labeling “bread.”
“You look too thin. You should eat something so you don’t die,” Elizaveta says to her daughter without looking up. She takes another bite, then she grabs the other slice of bread from her plate and holds it out. Nina silently takes the bread from her mother. It smells like home, like her past.
It smells like secrets.
Annie
Annie’s hand is moving slowly across the paper. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it, the drawing so ingrained in her that it comes out as an extension of her very breath. Her pencil moves back and forth, lightly here and darker there, shading in the white spaces until they begin to take shape. But she doesn’t see the shape. Her eyes are glazed over, and though one might assume her inexorably zoned out, she is actually quite tuned in as the teacher drones on and on at the front of the classroom. He’s dissecting the different branches of government, offering an explanation for each that Annie quickly digests and tucks away in her subconscious, knowing full well that she will be able to extract it when the next test rolls around. And all the while James watches her carefully, completely enamored by the quiet girl with the ever-moving pencil. He tries to see what she’s drawing, but can’t without leaning across the aisle and giving away his silent observation. So he simply takes in the sight of her, the way her long, blonde hair hangs in soft waves over her shoulders, tucked behind her ears to reveal the milky complexion of her cheeks.
“Mr. Davis, perhaps you’d like to quit studying Miss Abrams long enough to explain to me the difference between the Judicial, Legislative, and Executive branches of our government?”
James snaps to attention, his face immediately growing hot as the class snickers around him. He sees Annie slink down in her seat, and he fights the urge to look at her as he stammers out his best explanation of the differences. Mr. Jacobs sits on the edge of his desk, an amused look worn on his smug face. Annie closes her notebook, hiding the picture she’d begun to draw without even realizing it.
“Good enough,” Mr. Jacobs replies, a smirk stretching his mouth out like the Cheshire Cat. “Keep your eyes forward for a little while, ’kay?” he says. James slides down in his seat and fights the urge to say something smart in reply.
When the bell finally rings, Annie shoves her notebook in her bag and makes a mad dash for the door. James quickly gathers his notebook and books, shoving them into his bag and rushing after her. He winds his way through the bustling crowd of students, looking for Annie. He turns toward his next class and rounds the corner, running hard into her. She’s leaning against the wall, face set in a frustrated scowl, when James nearly trips over her feet.
“Hey,” he says, and he blushes for the second time, still embarrassed by the incident in their shared class. “Sorry about that back there,” he continues.
“Why were you staring at me?” Annie demands. Her voice comes out hard and biting. James blinks.
“Why?” she repeats.
“I don’t know,” James says. “I just saw you drawing, and I was curious what you were creating this time.”
“Well it’s none of your business,” Annie huffs. She shoves away from the wall and walks toward her next class. James hustles to catch up with her.
“Yeah, I know it’s none of my business,” he responds. “But I’m sort of fascinated by your talent, and by the fact that you don’t even seem to know you’re talented. It’s like a subconscious thing. It’s weird...and...kind of cool.”
Annie stops and turns to him. Her eyes are brimming with tears. “You can’t do that,” she whispers.
James takes a step toward her, but she moves away from him, her head shaking side to side. “Annie, what’s wrong?” he asks.
She swipes her hand over her eyes and shakes her head. “You can’t get close to me,” she replies. “I can’t handle it. And you really can’t look at my drawings. They’re personal. It’s like reading my diary. You just can’t do that.”
James nods and holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m sorry,” he answers. Annie sniffs and jumps as the bell rings. She looks at him, her eyes red-rimmed and shining. She looks lost.
“See you later,” she murmurs. She turns and rushes down the hallway. James waits for a moment to give her space then follows behind her. The halls are nearly empty now, the echoes of chaotic chatter bouncing off concrete as students disappear into classrooms. James watches as Annie stops before her next class. She yanks a notebook out of her bag and tears a page out of it, crumpling it up roughly before dropping it in the trashcan outside the door. She disappears into the classroom just as the second bell rings.
James watches her go, a knot in the pit of his stomach. He walks to the trashcan and glances inside at the crumpled paper. He reaches in to pull it out, then stops and stands back up, balling his hands into fists. With a sigh, he turns and makes his way down the hall to class.
Nina
Russian women are too strong for tears.
Nina glances at her mother briefly as she guides the car toward Viktor’s office. Elizaveta’s head droops to the side as the hum of the car’s engine overtakes her. Moments later, she falls into a deep and fitful sleep.
Nina swallows hard over the feeling of concern that has formed a knot in her throat. Her mother acted strange today—distant and confused as Nina helped her get from the house to the car. It was as though Elizaveta was trapped between two worlds.
Nina steals another look at her mother. Elizaveta’s eyes, circled by deep wrinkles, twitch and her mouth moves as she sleeps. Nina turns down the radio and listens, trying to discern the whispered dreams of her mother, but she cannot make out any words. She pulls into the parking lot and slows to a stop in front of Viktor’s office. She gently puts the car in park and glances at the clock. They’re a few minutes early, so she pulls out her book and opens it up to read, hoping that this short nap will make her mother more agreeable inside.
“Mama!”
Nina jumps as her mother’s voice comes out in a ragged gasp. She turns to see Elizaveta still sound asleep, eyes squeezed shut but hands gripped together vice-like and white-knuckled.
“Mama, prosti menye.” Forgive me.
Nina gulps as her mother begs forgiveness. Her breathing grows more uneven, small gasps lifting up over cracked, dry lips, inhaling her plea and exhaling panic. Nina feels her heart constrict, the vulnerable words pulling out the oxygen and replacing it with cho
king dread. She reaches over and gently puts a hand on her mother’s shoulder.
Elizaveta’s eyes open wide, and she takes in one long, sharp breath. She looks around wildly, trying to determine her whereabouts, to reconcile the piercing sunlight with the darkness and fear that pervaded her dreams. The warmth of the car stands in stark contrast to the frozen memory of her slumber.
“We’re here,” Nina says. She tries to force a smile into her words, but they come out strained.
Elizaveta’s heartbeat slowly begins to even out as her eyes focus on Nina. “I was sleeping,” she murmurs, and Nina nods.
“Yes,” she replies.
Elizaveta pushes herself up and reaches for the door handle. Her hands shake, and her breathing still sounds uneven.
“We can wait a few minutes, Mama,” Nina says. It happens quickly after that, the next few moments a blur of confusion. Nina finds herself dashing into the building, yelling at the tattooed receptionist who blinks up at her with infuriatingly callous eyes. Moments later, Nina and Viktor are at Elizaveta’s side, attempting to steady her as she screams in the passenger seat of the car, her spotted hands covering her face.
“What happened?” Viktor asks, reaching across Elizaveta to release the seat belt.
“I don’t know,” Nina answers, her voice wavering under the strain of the moment. “She had fallen asleep and was dreaming. She woke up and spoke to me clearly, then I put my hand on her shoulder and she tightened up and started screaming.”
Viktor leans down and speaks soothingly to Elizaveta, his flawless Russian cutting through the terror.
