by Nicole Fox
I tell the nurse I’m fine to walk, but she shakes her head and points to the wheelchair. Usually, I’d insist, but I must be even more tired than I thought because I drop down in the chair without further complaint and let her wheel me back to the waiting room.
My mother is still there, alone.
“Any news?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The nurse leaves, and I turn to my mother, trying to read her expression to see if she knows anything. I never realized exactly how much she and Mikhail looked alike. I suppose that means she and I look alike, too, but I didn’t spend my entire life staring at my own face. I saw Mikhail’s, and right now, I see his face in hers, too.
She has the same oval-face and high cheekbones, and her nose is thin and pointed up at the end. And right now, her forehead is wrinkled with one vertical line running between her brows, letting me know she is worried.
“Have you heard about father?” I ask.
Part of me hopes Boris was lying, and my father isn’t really dead, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, her eyes fall to the floor. She nods slowly.
“When I learned something was going on, I called the estate over and over again, but no one was answering,” she says. “Finally, I drove there myself. I found him.”
She leans forward, shoulders shaking, and I reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder.
“I searched for you, too,” she says. “And Boris. I knew if Vlad was dead that you would be close by, but then I couldn’t find anyone. The only reason I’m here now is because the hospital called me.”
“I’m sorry. I should have called you.”
She waves away my apology. “Maybe another day I’ll be mad about that, but right now, I’m just glad you are alive.”
I explain the events of the last few days and Boris’ betrayal. I tell her about the fight in the field and how Zoya risked her own life to save mine. I tell her how we escaped, how I killed Boris before fleeing in the Hummer, and she listens with wide eyes, tearing up when I tell her I thought Zoya was dead.
“You really love her, don’t you?” she asks, reaching out to grab my hand.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t seem fair to talk about that right now. Not when so many people have died.”
“That is exactly the time to talk about love,” she argues. Then, she pauses, looking up towards the ceiling. “You know your father came to see me after Mikhail died?”
I do a double-take, surprised. “No, I didn’t know that.”
My parents rarely saw one another face to face. Throughout my entire life, they had lived separately, and as far as I knew, didn’t even talk. I constantly wondered why they didn’t just divorce.
She nods. “He came to see me because he was worried about you.”
That really captures my attention. I turn to her, wincing as my injured leg shifts into the new position. “Why was he worried about me?”
“Really, he was worried about the two of you. Your relationship,” she says. “I know you think your father loved Mikhail more, but as a parent, that isn’t possible. You always love your children equally.”
She can see I’m not convinced, and she sighs and then snaps her fingers, an idea forming. “Think of it like caring for plants.”
“I’ve never cared for a plant,” I say, smiling a bit when she narrows her eyes at me.
“But you can imagine it, I’m sure. Some plants are more trouble than others. They need specific amounts of light and water and pruning. They are constantly on the verge of catastrophe if someone isn’t tending to them at all times. That was Mikhail.”
I bob my head back and forth. It is a rather apt description.
“Whereas you,” she says, running a hand across my cheek. I pull away from her, wrinkling my nose, and she smiles. “You are a hearty plant. You grow where you are planted regardless of the conditions, and you don’t require much maintenance. Your father and I knew that from a very early age. But your father didn’t realize until Mikhail was gone, exactly how much energy he had devoted to one of his sons and not the other. So, he came to me to talk about how to be better. To figure out how to be a father to you in the way you needed.”
I’m a grown man, long past the age of needing parenting, but tears burn the corners of my eyes. I have to blink hard to keep them at bay.
My mother pats my knee and sits back in her chair. “He was trying, Aleksandr. I just want you to know that. Lord knows he was not a perfect husband or father, but when he died, he was trying to make things better.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, only the steady ticking of the clock on the wall above us filling the room.
Until, finally, my mom rubs me on the back. “Don’t let death and grief stop your life. Your father was moving through his grief, using his love for you as a guidepost, and he would want you to find the same strength. He would want you to find happiness.”
I know she is talking about Zoya, but I can’t bring myself to picture her face or remember her warmth. I can’t bring myself to daydream about something that might only be a daydream. For all I know, Zoya is dying on the operating table. I might never see her smile again, and if I anchor my future on her, I’ll fall apart.
In a moment of unprecedented candor, I say as much to my mother.
“The fact that you can feel that way after everything you’ve been through means everything,” she says. “Finding a place in your heart and mind for even a scrap of love after all off the pain and violence you have suffered—that you both have suffered—is enough to move forward on. Cling to the feeling, to the way she made you feel, and no matter what happens here tonight, I know you’ll be okay.”
I give her a sad smile, hoping I can one day have the clarity she does. Then, I frown. “Are you talking about what Boris did to Zoya? Is that the violence you are talking about?”
The line appears between her brows again, and she bites her lips. “I think that is something I should let Zoya share with you.”
I want to argue and force the information out of her, but before I can, two of my father’s brigadiers walk through the waiting room doors.
“Dmitry, Fedor.” I nod to each of them. “Is something wrong?”
“Aside from the obvious?” Dmitry asks with a wry smile. “No, everything is fine. Boris’s men seem to have fled for the time being, so we are just focusing on cleaning up and rebuilding.”
“But we do need to talk with you,” Fedor says.
“About?”
“Taking the oath,” he says. “I know it isn’t the best time, but now more than ever, we need to put forward a clear leader. And now that your father is gone, you are the boss.”
The day has been so full of chaos and near-death experiences that I haven’t given myself a moment to consider my own future in the family. When Mikhail died, I knew I would be next in line, but I failed to realize my father’s death this morning made me the new boss. If I wanted the position, that is.
“We are ready to perform everything now,” Dmitry says. “It would only take half an hour.”
My mother leans forward, her hand resting between my shoulder blades. “You do have a choice, Aleksandr. Your father always wanted one of his boys to take over after him, but it is your life, and your decision.”
I’d been content my entire life to let my brother take control even though I knew he wasn’t suitable. Even my father was not the ideal leader. I’d watched mistakes be made and then do my best to clean them up, always working behind the scenes to keep things together. Now, however, I was being given the opportunity to be at the forefront. To take control and lead the Levushka family into the unknown future. And rather than dreading the position, I found myself looking forward to it.
I could run things the way I wanted, and more than anything, I’d be able to protect Zoya. She would have the entire Levushka family watching out for her.
So, holding my leg out to the side at a strange angle, I lift myself up
to standing using the wooden arms of the chair, and nod to Dmitry and Fedor. “Lead the way, men. I’m ready to take the oath.”
The ceremony is short and simply, and although I trust the men are loyal to me and my family, I can see they aren’t excited about handing over the leadership position. And I can’t blame them. My father has only been dead a few hours.
As soon as it is finished, I rush back to the hospital and find my mother sitting in the waiting room. She shakes her head as I approach, letting me know the doctors haven’t come in yet, but before I can even sit down, the double doors leading back to the operating room open, and a doctor in blue scrubs and a face mask walks out.
“Aleksandr Levushka?”
I hobble forward on my bad leg. “Is she okay? Can I see her?”
He pulls back his mask, revealing a soft jaw covered in dark stubble, and plants his hands on his hips. “She came through surgery just fine.”
The weight that has been pressing down on my chest the last several hours lifts slightly, allowing me to take a deep breath. “She is alive.”
“Yes, she is alive,” he says.
“And the baby?”
His brows lower, shading his eyes, and he folds his hands in front of him. “As of now, the baby appears healthy.”
“Appears healthy?” I ask. “What does that mean?”
“It means that she is still early in her pregnancy, and we can’t be certain how this event will affect the remainder of her pregnancy.”
“But the baby is healthy right now? It has a heartbeat?”
“Yes. As of now, she and the baby are both alive and well.”
Once I’m certain Zoya is actually alive, I’m able to let the doctor explain what they were doing in surgery for so many hours. All of the information, however, flies right over my head. As he discusses the damage caused by the bullet and how close she was to death, all I can do is stare over his shoulder at the double doors, wondering when I’ll be able to walk through them.
I just want to see her.
“She is a very lucky woman,” he says. “A few more minutes, even, and she might not have made it.”
“Can I see her?” I ask, taking a step towards the door in anticipation. “I need to see her.”
“She is still under heavy anesthesia,” he says before stepping aside and waving an arm towards the doors. “But you are welcome to wait in her room for her to wake up.”
Walking down the hallway feels like moving through a dream.
I know there are other people around me. Other sounds and smells and rooms. But they all blur into the background. There is only one clear spot in my vision, and it is the step directly in front of me.
“Room 318,” the doctor says, pointing to a room on the left. Once he sees I understand, he cuts away towards the nurse’s station, leaving me alone.
I walk toward the door slowly.
The doctor told me Zoya is alive and well, but I can’t get the image of her inside the car, pale and covered in blood, out of my head.
I can’t stop seeing her slumped in the passenger seat, limp and lifeless.
I’ve dealt with a lot of painful things in the last few weeks, and a lot of blood and violence before that, but Zoya is different. I can’t bear seeing Zoya like that again. I can’t bear seeing her hurt.
The door is cracked partially open, and it seems to take me hours to lift my hand and push it inward. But when I do, the room inside is dark.
I walk through the narrow entryway and peek around the corner.
The electrical glow of the machines around her bed are the only source of light, but they are enough for me to navigate to her bedside. They are enough for me to see that her bloody clothes are gone and the color has returned to her cheeks.
The dim light is enough for me to see that she is warm and breathing and…
Alive.
I pull the upholstered chair from the corner closer to the bed and drop down into it. There is an IV taped to the back of her hand, so I carefully grab her fingers and lay them across my palm. I massage my thumbs across her knuckles, study her heart-shaped face.
And then I wait.
Chapter 22
Zoya
I feel my fingers first.
A soft, pulling pressure. It is warm and nice, and for a minute, I’m still too lost in the fog to realize I don’t know where I am. And I can’t see anything.
Slowly, though, I become aware of my other senses.
I feel the firm mattress beneath me, and I smell the generic lemon scent of clean tile floors. Then, I hear the soft beep of the machine behind me, and I know I’m in a hospital. The thought startles me for a moment, but then I realize the beeping means I’m alive.
And the tug on my fingers means I’m not alone.
I try to remember what happened, how I got here, but escaping the cloud of my thoughts is like untangling myself from a net. I make my way out through slow, torturous effort, freeing myself one thread at a time.
“Zoya?”
The voice is familiar but far away. Like I’m hearing someone’s voice from underwater.
“Zoya, are you awake?”
Warmth wraps around my hand, and I know it is Aleksandr.
I fight against my heavy lids and the aching fatigue in my chest that wants me to give in and go back to sleep. I need to see him.
Then, I do see him.
Only, we aren’t in a hospital room. He is standing in the middle of an open field, men circled around him.
And I see Boris.
Boris, standing in front of me as I rev a car engine.
Then, I see the gun.
The memories of the day—was it today? Or has it been longer? A week? A month?—come back all at once, overwhelming me. I try to sit up, but I can’t lift my head, and I try to swipe away the blankets, but there is something sticking to the back of my hand.
I hear Aleksandr say something else, but the words are lost on me. I hear only the low timbre of his voice, and that is enough. Enough reason for me to keep fighting.
“Don’t fight it, dear,” a female voice says. “You’ll feel like you can’t breathe, but you can. Don’t worry.”
I don’t know what she is talking about, but then there is a strange tugging on my throat, and I realize she is pulling a tube out of my throat.
The moment it leaves my lips, I move to inhale, but instead of sucking in air, my entire body freezes up. In that instant, my lips go dry, and my eyes, previously too heavy to lift, open wide.
The room is dark, but I still squint against the bright light coming from the hallway. Then, there is a figure standing in front of it, and I look up.
And see Aleksandr.
“Try again, honey. Breathe,” the nurse says.
I listen, taking shallow breaths at first that grow deeper and deeper with each inhale.
She lets go of my arm and steps back, allowing Aleksandr to take her place.
He looks like hell. Dark circles under his eyes, a swollen bruise across the right side of his face, and his stubble thicker than I’ve ever seen it.
But he is still gorgeous.
Still square-jawed with blue eyes and full lips.
He is still Aleksandr, and I lift my hand, searching for his fingers. He smiles and wraps his hand around mine.
“Hi.”
I move my lips around the word to respond, but nothing comes out.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, sitting down in the chair next to my bed. I wonder how long he has been sitting there. By the looks of him, a long time. “I’ll be here when you’re ready. I’ll wait.”
We sit in silence for a while.
Eventually, the nurses bring me water, advising me to drink it slowly, and then a red-haired nurse turns on Aleksandr.
“Have your bandages been checked recently?”
“Bandages?” My voice is hoarse and raw, but the nurse and Aleksandr both turn to me as though I just belted out an opera. “Were you hurt?”
“Not badly,” he says.
“He was shot twice,” the nurse says. “He almost wouldn’t let me treat him; he was so worried about you.”
Aleksandr rolls his eyes, but the nurse raises her eyebrows and nods, assuring me it is true.
“Get your bandages checked,” I say, letting go of his hand. I don’t recognize my own voice, but the nurse says it could be a few days before my throat isn’t so raw.
If I wasn’t so weak, Aleksandr might argue, but since I am, he sits down in the chair and allows the nurse to unwrap his leg. He winces as she pulls the final layer away from his skin.
I gasp. His calf is pale white, several shades lighter than the rest of his skin, and there are stitches running down the side.
“I’m fine,” he says, smiling at me, though I see a flicker of pain as the nurse rewraps his wound. “If you are worried about me, you should have seen yourself.”
I look down and realize I don’t even know where I was shot. Or what happened. And as I run my hands down the front of my hospital gown, I pause on my stomach, and my heart lurches.
I don’t know if the machines behind me start going wild or if Aleksandr could just see me beginning to spiral, but he leans over and grabs my hand. “The baby is fine, Zoya. The baby is healthy.”
“They checked the heartbeat?” I ask through a sob.
He nods. “They did.”
I take a shuddery breath in and let it out slowly, trying to calm the wave of panic that rose over me.
A few weeks ago, I may have counted an accident like this a blessing. It would have saved me from being a single mother.
But now, I can’t imagine it.
I want this baby.
Regardless of how it came to be, I want to be a mother. I want to raise this child.
The nurse tells me to hit the button if I need anything and then leaves me and Aleksandr alone for the first time since I’ve woken up. He grabs my hand and brings it to his lips. “Zoya?”
“Yes?”
I regret answering him. I don’t want him to speak. Because if he does, he might expand on what he said to me the last time I saw him.
