Tonic

by Staci Hart

  “Annika! I didn’t think you’d make it tonight,” she said in Russian, opening her arms to greet me.

  I slipped into her arms, and they folded around me, bringing me into her soft body that smelled of rose water. I sighed, smiling. “Hi, Mama. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  She made a dismissive noise and pulled me inside before closing the door. “Don’t be silly. We know you’re busy. Come in, come in.”

  Papa stood from his recliner and made his way to us, smiling broadly, arms open. His beard was thick, grey and white just like his hair, which was combed with a slight wave to it. His belly was large — when I was little, I thought it was why his laugh was so big, like the sound originated from a cavern somewhere in there and echoed out joyfully.

  “Ah, my little Annika. Come and give Papa a squeeze.”

  I slipped into his arms. “Hello, Papa.”

  He kissed me on the cheek, though he didn’t let me go. “I missed you. I always miss you when you’re gone, my star.”

  “I miss you too.”

  He held me by the shoulders and leaned back. “You look hungry. Mama made supper — come fix yourself a plate.”

  My stomach rumbled in response, and I breathed in the comforting smell of pastries and meat with a hint of cabbage, which was in nearly every Russian dish. He cupped my shoulder and guided me toward the kitchen, not requiring an affirmation.

  “Anni!” a little voice crowed, followed by a thumping of feet as my cousin’s daughter Kira bounded out of the kitchen and flew toward me.

  I scooped her up when she reached me. “Hello, Bunny,” I said, still speaking Russian. Roxy wanted her to learn, and I didn’t have a single qualm about that.

  “Zdravstvuyte, tetushka,” she answered carefully, enunciating very slowly.

  I laughed, the first truly happy sound to leave my lips all day. “Well done.”

  Roxy appeared in the doorframe of the kitchen, smiling. “Hey. Long day?”

  I sighed, not wanting to talk about work. Not now that I was home. All I wanted was to enjoy my family. “As usual.” I moved toward the kitchen, kissing Roxy’s cheek as I passed. “Do I smell pelmeni?” I asked, looking for the dumplings in the dishes on the table.

  Mama chuckled. “Yes, and pirog.”

  I spotted the meat and vegetable pie on the table, salivating as my eyes caught on the thick, fluffy crust. I set Kira down, my eyes glued to the food as I gravitated over. “Oh, thank God. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  Mama tsked.

  “What? I’ve been so busy with work.”

  Everyone took seats to keep me company while I ate, since they’d already finished.

  “Your new show starts soon?” Papa asked, slipping back into Russian again.

  “Hopefully next week. The crew is on standby — we just have to get the cast contracts signed and the shop modified,” I answered as I loaded my plate, only satisfied when every inch of it was covered with food. “How did it go getting the papers I needed?”

  Papa nodded. “Mama has them for you, everything we have for our business.”

  “Let me get them for you,” she said and pushed away from the table.

  I took a bite, nodding back. “I’m so glad you finally decided to retire.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, well, I might have stayed there forever, if that was what fate had in store for me. But I’ll be happy to rest my bones all the same.”

  I smiled, shaking my head as I took another bite of the pirog — the crust melted in my mouth, and I did my best not to moan. “You deserve retirement, as hard as you’ve worked, as much as you’ve been through in your life.”

  “It is not our way,” he said with a shrug. “We do what we must and accept what we’re given. We make the best of what we have without asking for more. I would have worked until I could no longer do my job if you hadn’t insisted we discuss selling the shop.”

  My cheeks flushed, and an exasperated sigh slipped out of me. It was always the same argument, one we’d had a thousand times. “Papa, you can make your own fate. That’s what I’ve done. If you can sell the shop and make enough, along with the money you’ve been saving for years? Why not enjoy the rest of your days in leisure?”

  But he only smiled. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he was patronizing me. “Of course, little star. You want to take care of us, help us, and we appreciate all you’ve done to do so. I haven’t even complained, have I?” he asked, teasing.

  “No, you haven’t.” Which was true. They’d let me put their savings into high-yield accounts and IRAs, plus I’d set up a 401K for them. And they’d given me permission to help them sort out their books to determine whether or not they could sell, and if so, how much they could make. Their expenses were low — no car, their house paid off, and they were legitimate citizens, granted by the government when they immigrated, which gave them access to Medicare. It wouldn’t take much to sustain them, and I was sure I could find a way. They’d earned it.

  His smile widened, his eyes full of adoration. I melted like a snow cone in August.

  Mama reappeared in the entryway with a bankers box, setting it on the table next to me. “Here you are.”

  I set down my fork and wiped my lips before removing the lid, unsure what I’d find, not entirely terrified once I saw the contents.

  Folder upon folder of receipts and ledgers lay inside, a massive stack of paper and numbers that nearly made my head spin. I let out an involuntary breath, my eyes combing over the pile, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.

  “Okay,” I finally said with an air of determination. The only way out was through. One bite at a time. All that jazz.

  Mama twisted her hands before slipping them into her apron pockets to keep them busy, I suspected. “Are you sure you want to do this, Annika? You are so busy already. I don’t want to burden you.”

  I smiled at her and cupped her soft elbow. “It’s no burden, Mama.”

  “I can help, too, Dina,” Roxy said.

  “Me too!” Kira chimed.

  I laughed. “See? We’ll get it sorted.”

  She relaxed, smiling. “All right.”

  I put the lid on the box and set it on the ground next to me before tucking into my dinner, listening to the easy chatter of my family. That was the best thing about being with them — it was always easy, where everything else in my life was a battle, uphill, in the snow and sleet and rain. The Industry was a place of lies and illusions, a city built on shifting sands, and the only way to survive was to know your enemy. And everyone was your enemy.

  VODKA DRAWERS

  Annika

  I DREW IN A SLEEPY breath when my alarm chimed. It was already light out, thanks to the long summer days, and my eyelids resisted subjecting me to the sunshine. I reached blindly for my phone, sighing once I unlocked it and the alarm stopped.

  It had been late when I finally fell asleep — I’d spent hours staring at my ceiling, thinking about how I’d failed my first interaction with Hairy, considering plans to course-correct. I didn’t have a lot of options, but they included:

  1) Apologizing and pretending we were friends, which made my stomach turn.

  2) Telling him straight up how I felt and calling for a truce, of sorts.

  I imagined meeting him again, thought through all the potential conversations we’d have, including a few possibilities that ended with a hot and heavy make-out session and some ripped clothing. I don’t know why the thought occurred to me, exactly — he was the polar opposite of any man I’d ever dated. I had requirements, such as: clean cut, ambitious, professional, refined. A man who was my equal, a match wherein we had the same goals, the same perspective, the same foundation. Guys like Hairy were the kind you met at a bar or a concert and let ravage you, do all those things you wouldn’t expect from a respectable guy. Let him own you, for a moment, at least. But they’re not the kind you keep around.

  And that was all there was to it. He was a fantasy, not a real prospect. So of course the ide
a of him was enticing. It was enticing because it was imagined.

  I sighed, having convinced myself I was right, and flipped off my covers before padding into the bathroom. I stopped at the sink, pausing in front of the mirror. I looked a little wild, for me — blond waves loose and framing my face, just brushing the tops of my shoulders, my eyes wide and blue, cheeks rosy, like they’d been pinched, white cotton sleep shorts and top, almost transparent.

  Sometimes I didn’t even recognize myself. It was like looking into a mirror at my past to find the old version of myself. The quiet girl who walked wide-eyed into the television industry, naively thinking it was pure and good. But it wasn’t. At the time, I’d been assigned to Laney as her PA. She was my friend and my enemy, teaching me what it took to navigate our careers through tough love and hard choices, putting me on the spot whenever she could to keep me on my toes. She was just a producer then, and we struck a quick friendship, one that evolved into a mentorship, and slowly, I’d turned into a version of her — a cold-blooded shark with a lying smile full of teeth. It was how we produced. It was how we survived. And that was how the dichotomy of my life was born.

  The old version of me disappeared unless I was with my family, and the new version was the dictator of every other aspect of my life. Every man I’d dated as an adult matched that new outlook — I’d adopted it so deeply that I could hardly remember being any other way. And they’d all been perfectly fine. I just didn’t really want fine. On top of that, I was married to my job, and that relationship was demanding, intense, and everything I’d ever wanted.

  By the time I was finished getting ready, I looked more like myself — hair tight and tidy, black cigarette pants and white silk tank, black oxfords, red lipstick. Together. Tailored. Controlled.

  I smiled at my reflection, red lips curling, ready to take over the world. Or the Upper West. Or Hairy. Whatever.

  I made my way into the kitchen, finding Roxy pouring coffee and Kira at the table watching cartoons on her tablet while she ate cereal. Her little feet swung in bobby socks and saddle shoes, plaid uniform skirt fanned out on the seat around her, blond hair neatly braided.

  “Morning,” I said, still smiling.

  Roxy smiled back, looking hideously unfashionable, for a fashion designer. Her bathrobe was pink, furry chenille — a relic of her mother’s — and she wore slippers that were basically stuffed monkeys with holes in their bellies to stuff her feet into. She also had on banana pajama pants and a tank top, her blond hair in a topknot.

  This was not an unusual outfit for her. At that hour, at least.

  “Ugh, not the monkey getup again, Roxy.”

  “And a lovely day to you, too,” she said snidely and reached for another coffee cup. “Don’t dis my thing.”

  I laughed as she poured, stopping next to her, leaning my hip on the counter. “It was a perfectly normal thing when we were twelve.”

  She shrugged and passed my coffee over. “Listen — it’s not my fault that my face happens to contort into a monkey face worthy of stupid human contest blue ribbons. Everyone made it a thing. It was literally all I got for my birthday and Hanukkah for like … well, I still get monkey stuff for my birthday and Hanukkah. Anyway, monkeys are cute.”

  I shook my head and took a sip, glancing over at Kira as I swallowed. “She’s growing up so fast.”

  Roxy sighed and folded her arms across her chest, eyes on her daughter. “I know. She’s so excited about Kindergarten starting that she insists on wearing her new uniform every day. I’ve got her talked down to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so that’s something.”

  “It doesn’t start for months!”

  “I know, which is why I’ve got to put the lid on it now or else they’ll be tatters by the time the first day rolls around.”

  I chuckled. “At least we know someone in the alterations and dry cleaning business.”

  “Very true. I’m dropping her off there in a bit. Thank God Dina and Max don’t mind her there all day.”

  “No way. Papa’s going to be a mopey old grump when she isn’t at the shop with him every day.”

  “Max? A grump?” She laughed. “That’s funny, Annika.”

  “What can I say? I’m a riot.”

  “I’ve always wondered where you got your grump from. It has to be genetic somewhere, but there isn’t a single member of our family who’s as serious as you.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe I’m adopted.”

  “Ha. That’d be a neat trick since we’re very clearly related.” She motioned to our faces, which looked so much alike.

  I sighed, cupping my mug in my hands. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who takes things seriously. But honestly, I don’t mind. I like taking care of all you ragamuffins.”

  She snickered.

  “Honestly, I think I just have Resting Bitch Face.”

  “RBF? Yeah, sorta, but only sometimes.”

  “At work it’s always on. Because bitches get shit done.”

  She held up her hand with a laugh. “Hear, hear.”

  I slapped her palm and took a deep pull of my coffee. “I’ve gotta run. I’m supposed to meet Laney at the apartment we rented for production. Wish me luck.”

  “Psh. What do you need luck for?”

  “Dealing with Hairy.”

  Her face contorted. “What?”

  Instant regret. “That Hairy Fucking Guy that runs the tattoo parlor.”

  She didn’t look any less confused. I sighed.

  “He’s just one of those guys, you know? Like he’s smarmy and hairy and thinks he’s hot shit.”

  One eyebrow rose. “Is he hot shit?”

  My cheeks warmed up. Traitors. “I don’t know, Roxy. He’s big and hairy and maybe has X-ray vision.”

  “As in …”

  “As in, I’m pretty sure he knows what I look like naked without having seen it with his own eyes.”

  She still looked a little confused. “Okay, so he’s a creep?”

  I huffed. “No. Yes. I mean, he is and he isn’t, you know?”

  “No.”

  My eyes rolled far enough into my skull that I could see the clock behind me, and it was time to get the hell out of that kitchen. “Yeah, you do.” I kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you later,” I called as I walked away.

  “This isn’t over.”

  “‘Kay,” I sang cheerily.

  “Bye, Anni!” Kira finally said, tearing her eyes away from the screen.

  “Bye, Bunny.” I kissed her head and grabbed my Tom Ford purse, flying out the door before I could answer any more questions.

  The real question was, why was he even on my mind? Which happened to be the question I definitely didn’t want the answer to.

  The driver — a different one every day — dropped me off outside of Tonic, and I climbed out, coffees in hand. I tried not to stare into the windows of the shop to see if Hairy was there as I walked by — his chair was in front by one of the windows, I knew, but it sat empty. An unfamiliar feeling sank through me and disappeared. Disappointment? I almost laughed at the absurdity.

  I grabbed both cups with one hand like I’d learned waiting tables in college and pulled open the door to the stairwell that would take me to the apartments. We’d rented one to use as our office and control room while filming, a place to store extra gear, with a green screen room to film interviews and catch a little rest.

  At the second floor landing, I passed Joel and Shep’s apartment, where he’d lived since they’d opened the shop in the nineties. It was crazy to think that when I was nine and playing in my parents’ store, he had lost both of his parents and started his own business. He’d even been married then, for God’s sake. The thought unnerved me — I became acutely aware of how very different our lives had been.

  I kept walking, climbing another two flights to get to the control room. The long wall of the living room was set up with a dozen monitors on utility shelving. Two rows of tables faced them, with our whiteboard standi
ng in the back, complete with head shots of our cast, though otherwise they were blank, for now.

  Engineers bustled around, working on connecting playback equipment and testing the cameras. Another group sat at the tables, going over plans for construction, and I walked past, straight to the bedrooms. One room was set up for filming one-on-ones, and the other contained fully decorated room which included a couch and two desks — mine and Laney’s. My own desk. Executive producer of my own show.

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  Laney looked up from the papers on her desk as I approached, setting her coffee down next to her. “Morning.”

  She picked up her drink and took a sip. “You know we have PAs for this, right?”

  I shrugged. “Old habits, I guess.” I took a seat across from her and sat back in my chair with a sigh, panning the room once more.

  “Not too bad, huh?” she asked, looking around with a smile.

  “Not bad at all. I can’t believe they hung paintings and mirrors in here. I mean, there’s a rug. Who got a rug?”

  “It was of my demands — an office where I could spend all day, every day, happily. Relatively, at least.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, well, it’s not like our jobs are very Zen.”

  “Not at all, which is why we deserve a sanctuary. How are your parents?” She folded her arms on the table, and her dark hair swung over her shoulder, framing her face.

  “Good. They gave a giant box of ledgers to go through so I can figure out how they can retire, so that should be fun in all my spare time.”

  “Ha.”

  “Exactly.” I sat up and leaned on my desk. “So, what’s first on the agenda?”

  “Well,” she started, scanning her computer screen, “the first thing I need are those contracts. If we can get construction going tomorrow, we could be ready to roll Sunday for filming.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Why don’t you go down there and grab them?” There was a sly undertone to her words I didn’t trust.

  “Can’t we send a PA?” My eyes narrowed.