by Kelli Stuart
Nina nods. “I wish I could say the same. My mother hardly spoke to me while I was growing up, and I have no idea who my father was, so I can’t say if I’m like him or not. So I didn’t have anyone to help me grasp whether what I was saying was true or not. Mama asked me how my studies were, and chided me when I received poor marks in class. But she never explained anything to me in depth. It was like living in a walled off cave with her...” her voice trails off into an awkward silence as Viktor digests her divulgence of such personal detail. Nina clears her throat before continuing.
“My mama fell on the opposite end of the spectrum from your father,” she said with a grim smile. “Elizaveta Mishurova made it very clear that to choose anything above State was a grave mistake in judgement.” Nina takes a sip of her water and pauses, contemplating her next thought before speaking it out loud.
“I suppose that’s why my choosing to leave the USSR and become an American citizen was so terrible for her. She swears she became an old woman the second I left home.” Nina’s eyes glaze over as she remembers her skepticism as a young girl. It all seemed so muddled and confusing. They were told that love was an emotion of the addled, a Western mentality that weakened the senses and made a person useless. And yet, as the group leaders and teachers spoke, Nina often found herself staring across the room at Evgeniy, the boy who had made her feel weak-kneed since she was barely old enough to write, and she couldn’t reconcile the power of her emotion with the practicality of her training.
It wasn’t until she was twelve, when her mother took her to see Tchaikovsky’s famous opera based on Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin live on stage at the famed Bolshoi Opera Theater, that Nina really began to question the indoctrination of her youth. How could such a beautiful story come from a place of cold impartiality? She remembered how mesmerized she was as she watched Galina Vishnevskaya bring the heroine, Tatyana, to life, her voice soaring above the audience and filling the room with hope, a feeling not common among her people in those days. And as the final strains of music began to die down, Nina had glanced at her mother and seen her swipe the tears from her eyes, and she knew, somehow, that everything her mother had been telling her up to that point had been a lie. Because to live without love was impossible. How could anyone listen to music, or read poetry, and not believe that love played a role in the makeup of mankind?
Nina suddenly becomes aware that she’s drifted away from the conversation, and she clears her throat as she meets Viktor’s eyes. She realizes that leaving behind her mother and daughter is an impossible notion, and she suddenly feels very tired. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I fear I am not good company tonight.”
Viktor shrugs. “It’s no problem. You looked lost in thought.”
“Yes,” she says. “I was just...remembering.”
“Ah,” Viktor says. He grabs a piece of bread from the basket that the waitress sets down in between them and tears off a small piece. “Memory can be a powerful tool,” he says before taking a bite.
“Yes, well, my mother says remembering is dangerous,” Nina replies. She draws in a deep breath, no longer wanting to discuss her mother or her daughter with Viktor. Shaking her head, she offers him an apologetic smile.
Viktor tilts his head to the side, studying her closely. “You know,” he says, “you really have a lovely smile. You should use it more often.”
Nina looks back at him thoughtfully. “Thank you,” she answers. “I find that sometimes smiling is a little difficult. It feels like work. But...” she hesitates, afraid to offer too much of herself to this man. He waits for her to continue. “Well...nothing.” She coughs as the waitress approaches their table.
Careful, she warns herself. This life is already complicated enough. No need to drag him into the mess.
The food arrives, and with a sigh of relief, Nina digs into her salad. They pass the rest of the meal exchanging safe, surface conversation, Nina careful to guard her answers and Viktor studying her closely, keeping his questions at a distance.
Annie
Annie fidgets nervously as she sits at the table. She’s pulled her coat tightly around her shoulders, the brisk night air tucking itself neatly into her frayed nerves, leaving her quaking with tremors.
Toby looks uncomfortably around the room, then makes eye contact with her. His face is bruised, his arm bandaged and held to his chest by a sling. His eyes dart left and right, as if he’s looking for the quickest escape route. A weathered baseball cap is pulled low over his eyes.
“So...” he mumbles. Annie clears her throat.
“So...”
They sit in awkward silence for several moments before Toby stands back up. “I’m gonna get a drink. Want anything?”
“Hot tea would be nice,” Annie replies. She smiles gratefully. “Herbal, please.”
He nods his head uncomfortably. “Be right back.”
A few minutes later, they stare at one another over heated mugs. Annie wraps her hands around her cup letting the warmth steady her racing heart.
“So,” Toby begins again. “What’s up?”
Annie stares at him for a moment, trying to formulate a response to his callous question. Toby shifts his eyes downward and stares at the black coffee in his mug.
“Well, first I wanted to see if you were okay,” she finally answers.
Toby shrugs.
“That’s not much of an answer, Toby,” Annie says.
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t feel like talking about it, okay?” he snaps.
“About what?” Annie asks.
Toby sighs. “I lost my job,” he mumbles. “I can’t be much of a mechanic with no car to get me to work and my arm in a sling.”
“I’m sorry,” Annie murmurs. She reaches across the table to put her hand on his, but he yanks it away, crossing it over his casted arm and staring at her with dark, brooding eyes.
“I also had to move back home. My car is totaled, which means the only way I can get anywhere is to borrow my dad’s car. And the only way I can do that is if I live under his roof again. So I’m back under his thumb, thanks to...” he stops abruptly and looks away.
“What, Toby?” Annie asks, her eyes flashing. “Thanks to me? So it’s my fault then? All of it is my fault.” She bites her lip to keep it from quivering.
Toby sighs and runs his hand over his eyes. “That’s not what I meant,” he says. “This all just got kind of...messed up.”
Annie sits back in her chair and drops her hands to her lap. “Yeah,” she whispers. They sit in silence for a long time, their drinks cooling in front of them. Slowly the coffee shop begins to empty.
“Ten minutes to closing, you guys,” the barista says from behind the counter, breaking Annie’s trance and yanking her back into the moment.
“So,” Toby says quietly. “Now what?”
Annie takes a deep breath. “Now I think that you and I go our different ways,” she says, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “I mean this isn’t going to work, Toby. Not like this.” She gestures at her stomach, hidden beneath the table and her coat. “This is too much.”
“And what about that?” he asks, pointing across the table. “What are you gonna do about it? Did you decide to end it?”
“No!” Annie wraps her arms around her waist protectively. “Why does everyone keep asking if I’m going to abort?!” she says, her words coming out louder than she meant. She ducks her head and glances at the barista.
“Sorry, Annie,” Toby says. The frustration has returned to his voice. “I can’t read your mind, you know.” He leans forward and lowers his voice.
“You’re pregnant with my kid,” he says. “I just want to know what you’re gonna do, and what you want from me.”
Annie looks at him, and her eyes fill with tears. “I’m going to put the baby up for adoption,” she whispers. “And I want to move on and pretend this never happened.”
Toby leans back. He turns and stares out the window into the dark night. They’re silent for a long time as each o
ne lets the next steps settle.
“Okay,” Toby finally says, his voice resigned.
“Okay, what?” Annie asks.
“Okay, I’ll sign whatever papers I need to sign, and then you and I can move on and try to pretend this never happened.”
He stands up and puts his good arm into the sleeve of his coat, tossing the other sleeve over his hurt arm. Reaching in his back pocket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, fumbling a bit to pull one out one handed. Finally, he sticks a cigarette in his mouth, letting it dangle from his lips. He looks down at Annie.
“C’mon,” he says, his voice a little quieter, the edges in his tone smoothed out and weary. “I’ll take you back home.”
He turns and walks quickly out. Annie looks around, realizing she’s the only one left in the coffee shop. The barista catches her eye, offering an embarrassed smile. She blushes and stands up quickly, grabbing her coat and rushing out of the building. She slides into the passenger seat of the car Toby is driving, and the two of them drive in silence. He pulls to a stop at the bottom of her driveway. Annie reaches for the handle, then pauses, turning to face Toby as he stares ahead, his face illuminated by the soft lights on the dashboard. She opens her mouth to speak, but finds there are no words left to say.
Annie steps out of the car and watches as Toby pulls slowly away, and for the first time in months, she feels relief.
Elizaveta
One never forgets the feeling of starvation.
It trails behind you, always unwelcome,
always whispering the memory.
I stand and hobble across the room, my slippers whispering across the wooden floors. My gaze falls on the front door, hoping that it will open and Nina will come back home. The silence of this empty house suffocates me. I long for the noise of the outside world to drown out the memories.
The front hallway remains quiet, so I turn and pad back to my chair in the corner. I lower down slowly, wincing at the ache in my knees and stiffness in my shoulders. Leaning my head back, I think on my conversation with Nina from the hospital.
“Mama, who is Dima?”
Her question reverberates through my head as I sit in the lonely silence. It’s not the first time she has probed me for answers. I remember when she was a teenager, trapped in the throes of self-discovery and determined to get answers to all of life’s unanswerable questions.
“Mama, why have you never told me about your childhood?” she asked me once, her eyes searching mine, demanding a real answer.
I hadn’t been able to speak right away, so stunned by the boldness in her question. It was almost as though she already knew the answer, but was afraid to hear it confirmed.
“Psh,” I’d finally replied, waving a shaking hand in the air to dismiss the question. “There is so little to tell—I’ve given you what you need to know.”
“No, Mama, you really didn’t,” she’d replied, her youthful eyes flashing. “You never told me much of anything. I don’t know your parents’ names or where you grew up. I’ve never heard a single story about your childhood. You’ve only told me that you came from an intelligent family and your parents died in the Revolution.” Nina had looked steadily at me that day, something new in her eyes.
My throat tightens as I think about all that I cannot share—the shame I’ve buried for so long. And now, alone in the quiet of a still house I repeat the answer I gave to Nina all those years ago.
“I am Elizaveta Andreyevna Mishurova,” I whisper, my rote answer almost robotic. I feel all at once exhausted, as though the weight of my lies has suddenly become too hard to bear.
I lean my head back and think about the woman I raised. I can still see glimpses of the girl Nina had been, all bubbly and bouncy and full of questions. Somehow that spirit had been buried through the years. I blamed it on the influence of capitalism, the American way having seeped into my daughter’s consciousness when she was so young and impressionable. But these days, as I watch Nina’s slumped, defeated shoulders I feel a growing sense of dread that somehow I may be the one responsible for the dimming light in her eyes.
More and more, I want to share something of my past with Nina that may help repair some of the damage done, but I can never seem to formulate the words, and so they remain unsaid, stuffed and hidden away. I close my eyes, a heaviness pushing me into fitful sleep as sadness washes over me. There were so many opportunities to make things right. I missed them all.
Annie
Annie opens the door quietly and hangs her coat on the rack by the door. She turns and sees her grandmother’s door open. She cringes, hoping the old woman won’t appear in the doorway demanding explanations for where she had been. She blinks hard and takes in a long, deep breath. When she hears no sounds, she tiptoes to her grandmother’s room and peeks inside. Babushka is sleeping in her chair, her mouth hanging open to reveal a line of yellowed teeth. Her silver hair hangs down around her shoulders. She looks frail, and for a fleeting moment Annie feels regret at the lost years. She wishes she knew her grandmother better—wishes they could have connected. She’s always had the sense that somehow Babushka knows more about her than she lets on, but her tough exterior made it unbearably difficult to decipher anything akin to genuine love.
Annie walks softly across the room and pulls a plush chenille blanket off the end of the bed. Holding her breath, she carefully lays it over Babushka’s legs. She straightens up, then gasps as her grandmother’s eyes pop open.
“Tanya?” Babushka whispers. She licks her lips and narrows her eyes. Annie stammers, trying to find the right, reassuring words.
“Nyet, Baba,” she says. Russian always tastes funny on her tongue—like a sweet treat that has soured. “Eta ya, Annie...uh, Nastia.”
Elizaveta’s eyes slowly focus, the room around her coming into view. She looks at the blurry figure before her, slender shoulders hunched in defense as she takes a tentative step backward.
“Nastia,” Elizaveta says with a sigh. Her hands grip the blanket around her legs. “Spaseebo.”
Annie nods, then clears her throat. “Well,” she says, her voice timid. “Sleep good. Um...Spi spokoyna.”
Elizaveta nods, leaning her head back and watching as Annie’s figure retreats. Annie closes the door gently, then looks up in relief as the front door opens and Nina steps inside.
“Oh!” Nina exclaims as she catches Annie with her hand still on her grandmother’s door. “Is everything okay?” Nina hangs up her coat quickly and heads across the room.
“Yeah,” Annie replies. “I was just...um...giving Babushka a blanket.” She coughs nervously. Nina stands still and watches her daughter closely, the way her hands grasp and regrasp at her waist, her eyes downturned, cheeks flushed.
“How did it go with Toby?” Nina asks. She forces her words to come out slow and steady.
Annie shrugs, the lump in her throat making it difficult to formulate words. “Fine, I guess,” she replies.
Nina raises one eyebrow. “Annie,” she says softly. “Look at me.” Annie shifts her eyes up to her mom, trying to compose herself.
“Annie,” Nina prods, her voice gentle. Annie looks up at her mother, and she breaks. With a sob, she rushes to Nina and throws her arms around her, hot tears coursing down her cheeks.
Nina wraps her arms around her trembling daughter and pulls her in tight. Annie presses her face into Nina’s neck, and Nina closes her eyes remembering the way Annie would crawl into her lap as a child and fall asleep in this same position.
Putting her arm around Annie’s shoulders, Nina walks her to the couch and sits down with her. Annie lays her head in her mother’s lap and Nina strokes her hair. “Ssshhh,” she croons. Annie’s shoulders heave as she releases months of pent up emotion and heartache. Nina closes her eyes and rocks gently back and forth as another memory slides over her.
She was eighteen years old and had stayed out all night long with Evgeniy, whom she’d been secretly seeing behind her mother’s back. She hadn’t meant to stay
out all night, but she’d fallen asleep in Evgeniy’s arms and hadn’t woken up until the sun broke over the horizon. She’d rushed home, hoping to get back in before her mother rose and realized she’d been gone, but when she walked through the door, Elizaveta stood there, waiting, her eyes red rimmed and hair askew.
“Where were you?” Elizaveta had asked. Nina can still remember the sound of her voice. It had been laced with terror, the clipped words barely contained.
“Nowhere,” Nina responded. In three swift steps, Elizaveta crossed the room and slapped Nina across the face.
“I have been up all night,” she hissed as Nina glared at her, rubbing her burning cheek. “I have waited for you to return, and while I waited do you know what I thought?”
Nina didn’t respond.
“I thought of every terrible thing that could have happened,” Elizaveta continued. Her voice was slowly beginning to quaver, the anger subsiding and giving way to fatigue. “And do you know how I felt when I considered the worst possible outcomes?” Without waiting for a response, she shifted her eyes so that she was staring directly into Nina’s. “Toska,” she whispered.
Nina continues to stroke Annie’s hair as she lets the memory marinate for a few minutes. Toska. It was an untranslatable word—a word that could hardly be conveyed in the English language. Toska communicated anguish. It was a soul-crushing heartache that couldn’t be quelled. That one word in her native tongue communicated the height of despair. At the time her mother had used it, Nina had neither understood, nor appreciated, the meaning of toska. But that, of course, was before she became a mother.
Annie pushes herself up and wipes her eyes. Nina leans back and watches her daughter carefully. “So,” she begins. “How did it really go?”
“I don’t know how to answer that,” Annie says, blinking back new tears that form in the corner of her eyes. “It was predictable, I guess.” She looks at Nina, her big eyes full of regret. “Mom, I’m sorry,” she whispers.
