by Kelli Stuart
Annie takes a bite of her sandwich, then sets it down on the table next to the couch and opens the album. She stares at the pictures, trying to will some emotion to the surface. She feels nothing as she looks at the photos—no joy, no sadness. She feels only a numb sense of loss, as though somehow she once had all those things and they’re now forever gone.
She runs her thumb over the picture of her and her mother sitting in front of a waterfall, the mist rising around them, fogging the photo so that it appears they’re sitting in a haze. Her mom’s arm is clasped tight around her shoulder, and Annie is leaned into her. It looks comfortable and safe.
This was the last photo taken right before Mama told her that Babushka would be moving in. Annie and Nina had walked along the path and come upon the waterfall, the sound of the water rushing down around them in thunderous plumes.
“Let’s take a picture right here!” Nina had said with a laugh. Little droplets of water had settled in their hair like dew drops on a misty morning. Annie sat on the rock, goose bumps rising on her arms and legs, while her mom set up the timer on the camera.
“Ready?” Nina called out, and Annie nodded her head. She remembers smiling, and she thinks she felt happy. She might have even laughed.
Nina pushed the button and turned, slipping over the rocks and falling into Annie. Throwing her head back, she’d let out a hearty laugh and put her arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “Smile, my darling,” she’d said, her mouth close to Annie’s ear. “This is a moment worth remembering.”
With a sigh, Annie turns the page and looks at the next set of pictures. They were from her twelfth birthday. The photo shows Annie sitting at the table, two other girls sitting awkwardly next to her. Sarah and Isabelle, two girls who had been her friends for about ten minutes in grade school but who spent the whole of middle school ridiculing her mercilessly. Before her stands a large cake iced in bright turquoise icing, and standing behind her, hands gripping the back of the chair, is Babushka. Annie’s smile in the photo is stiff and forced, as are the smiles of her guests. Those girls didn’t want to be at Annie’s party any more than she wanted them there. They rode the bus with her to school every day, both of them living in the same townhouse complex. Nina had insisted on inviting them to celebrate Annie’s birthday.
“You only turn twelve once, darling! This is a big deal. Soon you’ll be a teenager and you will be too cool for parties. Let’s make this one fun!”
Her mother hadn’t understood that Annie didn’t like those girls. They were into makeup and boys. They loved listening to music over reading books, whereas Annie would be content to never have human interaction outside of the beloved characters in her favorite novels.
Sarah and Isabelle stayed long enough to eat a piece of cake that day, and they barely spoke a word to Annie. They gave her a joint gift; a tube of lip-gloss and a Christina Aguilera CD that Annie threw away the minute they were gone. The entire hour was uncomfortable and awkward, and as soon as they left Annie retreated to her room and opened up her tattered copy of Harry Potter and let herself get lost in Hogwarts. She read until her stomach started grumbling and she got up off the couch and headed down the stairs toward the kitchen. That’s when she heard her mother and grandmother talking, their voices raising above one another as the thick syllables of Russian bounced off the walls of the house.
Though Annie pretended not to understand her mother’s native language, the truth was she understood everything. Her mother had insisted on speaking to her only in Russian for the first eleven years of her life until Annie refused to respond. She wasn’t so quick to forget the melodic harmonies of the language that defined her family background.
“You are losing that girl,” her grandmother said. Her voice had floated up the stairs and into Annie’s consciousness, and Annie immediately understood that they were talking about her. She sank onto the stairs and listened in.
“Mama, she’s twelve years old. This is a confusing time of life. I’m not losing her.” Nina’s voice sounded weary...doubtful.
“Oh, Ninochka, surely you are smarter than that. Can’t you see anything? Your daughter has no friends. She is quiet and sullen, and she stays locked up in her room most of the time. Those girls didn’t want to be here today, and Annie was miserable.”
Annie remembers the way her eyes filled with tears at her grandmother’s assessment of her, and how in that moment she realized that the grandmother she didn’t really understand or care to know seemed to understand her better than her own mother.
“No, Mama, you’re the one who doesn’t understand. Annie is just going through changes. She’s hormonal, and this is all natural. She’ll come out of this, trust me.”
“And tell me, please, how it is you know so much about raising a child when you’ve never done it before?” Babushka had responded, her voice softer now, and laced with accusation. “I’m the only one in this room who has actually raised a child before. Surely that means my opinion counts for something.”
“Mama,” Nina responded, her voice thick with a barely constrained anger. “You didn’t raise me. I raised myself, remember? I celebrated my own birthdays, I dropped myself off at school, and I made my way home each day alone. I spent those long summer days alone while all of my friends were at their dachas in the country. I laid under the table in your research lab, and I read the same books over and over because they were the only two you gave me to read. I taught myself about boys, about love, and about heartache. I grew up in silence not because I wanted it, but because it was all I had. So please, Mama,” Nina’s voice had been laced with pain, “please don’t tell me that I don’t know anything about raising a teenage girl. I raised me.”
Annie sighs and leans her head back against the pillow behind her. She wonders how her life would have turned out if her father had lived. She knows very little about him, her mother always tight-lipped and secretive. When Annie asked, her mother gave vague, pat answers.
“He was a good man. He would have loved you. He was quiet and thoughtful.” She would offer these lame details, then quickly change the subject. And after Babushka came to stay with them, her mother made it clear she did not want to discuss Annie’s father at all. There was a history there that Annie didn’t understand, and the holes in her past left her tired and confused.
Her eyes drift back to the album and settle on a photo taken a few months later, right after Babushka came to stay. They had gone out for ice cream, but Babushka hadn’t wanted any. Annie sits awkwardly next to her grandmother, squinting up at the camera, the ice cream cone in her hand melting and dripping down her wrist. Her grandmother had fussed over her that day, mortified at the mess she was making, imploring her to eat quickly so that she didn’t ruin her shirt. It had been so stressful that Annie couldn’t finish her ice cream cone, and when she threw it away her grandmother tutted over her wastefulness. Annie sets the book down and grabs the container with her half-eaten sandwich. She stands to walk back to the kitchen and freezes when a knock on the front door breaks through the silence.
Wincing, she glances at her grandmother’s door, hoping that the sharp-eared woman doesn’t come bursting out demanding to know what was causing such a commotion. Annie walks quickly to the door and pulls it open. She stops short when she sees James.
“I...what are you doing here?” she asks. She steps outside and pulls the door closed behind her.
“You haven’t been in school for a couple of days, so I decided to come check on you,” he replies. He holds out a half-empty box of Kleenex. “I thought you might be sick, so I brought these as a sort of get well gift.” He takes in the sight of the bandage over her bruised eye, and the gauze wrapped around her arm and his eyes fill with concern. “But you’re not sick, are you?” he asks. He drops his arm, the box of Kleenex hitting his side. “Are you alright?” he asks, his brow furrowed.
“I’m...yes, I’m okay,” Annie answers. “We were in a car accident. Toby and I were—the other day. It’s okay, though. We�
�re both okay.”
Annie thinks of Toby and wonders if he really is all right. She still hadn’t spoken to him since the accident, though the hospital told her that he had been discharged yesterday.
“How did you know where I lived?” she asks looking up at James.
James shrugs. “There’s this nifty little thing called the internet,” he answers. “I just did a couple of quick searches and this address popped up. Oddly enough, there are not many Anastasia Abrams in east Tennessee.”
Annie offers a weak smile, then the two stand in awkward silence. James clears his throat.
“So,” he says. “Are you really doing okay?”
Annie shrugs. Not knowing quite how to answer, she nods her head slowly. “Yeah,” she says. “Just a little sore.”
James nods. “I’m so sorry,” he says and they stare at each other. “So that guy who picked you up the other day...that was Toby?”
Annie’s heart skips a beat. She nods.
“Is he...I mean, are you guys together?”
Annie takes in a deep breath. “We have been together, but I don’t really know what we are at this point.”
James’ mouth turns up slightly, a look of relief passing through his eyes. Annie looks away, unable to elaborate any further.
“So I finished Of Mice and Men this morning,” she says, quickly changing the subject. James raises his eyebrows. He steps forward and leans his shoulder against the doorjamb. Annie turns to face him, her back now to the sun.
“What’d you think?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Annie replies. She reaches up and runs her hand through her hair, suddenly self-conscious about how she must look after a morning spent in bed. “I wish that Lennie didn’t have to die, that George didn’t pull the trigger,” she says finally. “But I don’t know if there could have been another outcome. It had to be that way. It makes me sad.” She turns toward him and blinks back tears. “I’m just really, really sad.” She blinks hard against the tears and lets out a short, embarrassed laugh as James reaches over and plucks a tissue from the box and hands it to her. “Thanks,” she says, dabbing at her eyes.
James pushes himself away from the wall and pulls Annie into his arms. It’s impulsive, and for a moment she tries to pull away before relaxing into him. She puts her head on his shoulder and blinks back tears, both comforted and horrified by this tender moment. She squeezes her eyes shut, then pushes away. She swipes the tears off her lashes and shakes her head.
“I’m sorry,” she says again with a slight laugh. “This is so silly. It’s just a story. It isn’t real.”
James cocks his head to the side. “I don’t know,” he answers. “Maybe it’s fiction, but don’t you think that the emotion you feel over the story only goes to show that you’re human? And haven’t we all had to make horrible decisions like George? Don’t we all realize that one action sends a ripple effect that can completely and totally alter the future? Maybe the sadness is what makes the story so real. Because any one of us could be George, ya know?” He looks out and squints into the afternoon sun. “At any given moment, we’re all seconds away from a life-altering choice.”
The two stand in silence for a long moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Annie is so wrapped up in the moment that she doesn’t hear her mother’s car turn into the driveway. It’s only when the garage door hums behind her that she whips around.
Nina turns off the car and stares out the window at her daughter and the strange boy standing on her front step. A flash of anger consumes her, and she throws open the door.
“Who are you?” she demands, slamming the car door behind her. Her sharp steps click indignantly on the concrete as she walks firmly toward the couple. Annie’s eyes flash at her mother.
“Mom, this is a friend. He’s in a couple of my classes at school, and he noticed I was absent, so he came to check on me.”
Nina doesn’t look at Annie, but instead keeps her eyes trained on James’ face. “So, is it you?” she asks. “Are you Toby?”
“Mom!” Annie steps forward, horrified.
James looks quizzically from Nina to Annie. Nina steps a little closer. “Is it you that did this to my daughter?” she asks, her teeth clenched.
“I...I’m sorry,” James replies taking a step backward.
“It’s nothing, James,” Annie says. She steps between him and her mother. “My mom is a little confused right now.” She stares hard into Nina’s eyes. “Mom,” she says quietly, “please. This is my friend James. This is not Toby.”
Nina shakes her head. “My seventeen year old daughter turns up pregnant, and I come home to find her with a strange boy. I am not permitted to be suspicious?”
Annie drops her head, her cheeks turning a deep crimson. She turns slowly and raises her eyes to James who stands rooted in place, eyes wide.
“I should go,” James murmurs. He walks slowly down the steps, passing by Annie and Nina without looking at either of them. Annie watches him get in his car and pull quickly out of the driveway, his red taillights disappearing over the crest of the hill.
She turns to her mother, eyes bright with tears of humiliation. “I hate you,” she whispers. Nina steps back, stunned by the heat in her daughter’s words.
“Annie,” she says, but Annie turns and storms into the house slamming the door behind her. Nina sits down slowly, her head sinking into her hands. She’s there for what seems like an eternity when she hears the door open behind her.
“Annie?” she asks, spinning around and jumping to her feet. “Oh. Hi, Mama,” she says. Her voice is flat, numb. Elizaveta stares back at her daughter.
“It’s noisy out here today,” she says. Her voice is not accusing or angry. It’s gentle. For a moment, Nina wonders if, perhaps, her mother might understand what she’s going through. “What is Nastia upset about now?”
Nina takes a deep breath. “It’s nothing, Mama. She’s still sore from the accident, and I interrupted her talking with a friend from school. She just got frustrated with me. It’s my fault.”
Elizaveta clicks her tongue. “It is always your fault,” she says. “Perhaps the girl could take a bit of the blame for these difficult times.”
Nina opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. She can’t give her mother all the information she needs to understand what’s happening right now. She simply isn’t ready to talk about it.
“Viktor is going to stop by this afternoon to discuss the results of your test, Mama. He’ll be here around 5:00 after he leaves his office. I have to get back to work, but I wanted to let you know so you could be prepared.”
Elizaveta pushes herself up, leaning lightly against the cane in her left hand. She nods her head. “Alright.”
Nina turns and heads toward her car. “I’ll be home around 4:30. I’m going to pick up something for dinner tonight, so don’t worry about pulling any food out of the refrigerator, okay?”
“I assume you will ask Viktor Shevchenko to eat with us as well?” Elizaveta calls out. Nina turns and looks at her mother.
“I...I didn’t plan on it,” she said. “He was just going to stop by to talk with you. I’m sure he will want to leave quickly.”
Elizaveta raises her eyebrows. “Are you really sure of that?” she asks. “Why would the man want to leave quickly? To return to his empty house? Ninochka, please. You must be smarter than this.”
Nina’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Khorosho, Mama,” she sighs. “I’ll ask him to stay for dinner.”
Elizaveta nods her head in approval and turns to go inside. “Good girl,” she says. Nina slides into the front seat of her car and sits in the quiet for a long time. Her knuckles turn white as she grips the steering wheel of the car, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat that threatens to dissolve. Finally, muscles aching and sore, she starts her car and puts it in reverse, slowly backing away as her failures tighten like a vice around her.
Elizaveta
There is no emotion quite so strong<
br />
as that of a mother’s love.
I remember precisely the day I began to love my daughter—the day I actually began to think of her as mine and not as a burden thrust upon me. She was three, and we were in the midst of one of the coldest winters that I had experienced since my childhood in the prison holding camp. I’d taken Nina with me to the store where we waited in the icy cold with the hope of buying some milk and tea leaves. Finally, an older gentleman near the front of the line had offered me his spot because Nina cried so bitterly from the cold.
“You need to get your little one home and warmed up,” he’d said as we ducked into the store. The tea was gone, but I’d managed to find ptichye moloko and a small wedge of cheese. I paid for our items and, tucking the creamy cake and cheese under my arm, I rushed back to our little flat at the edge of Moscow where I’d piled Nina under a blanket and offered her a lump of bread and a slice of the cheese, but she refused. She wouldn’t even take a bite of the cake I tried to give her.
That’s when I noticed how red her cheeks were. She was burning with fever. I pulled off her valenki, the winter boots that she would soon outgrow, and watched as the balled up newspaper that I’d stuff inside to keep her feet warm rolled out. Her feet were icy cold, and I worked quickly to warm them up, rubbing them between my hands and cursing myself for not getting her new valenki earlier.
For a week, I nursed her. I took two days home from work, visiting the children’s policlinic, but the doctor prescribed medicine that I didn’t trust, and he asked too many personal questions, which made me nervous, so I chose to treat her myself.
When I called into work the third day, I was met with sharp reprimand from my supervisor at the research lab, so I bundled Nina up and brought her with me. She wheezed from the fluid in her lungs, and cried on and off throughout the day, causing my co-workers to scoff at me for bringing her along. But I had no one to help me in those days, and the nursery school refused to take her with such a high fever. So for the rest of the week she came to work with me, and I endured the frustrated rants of my colleagues.
