by Olga Werby
“I’m fine. I feel guilty I can’t help.”
“You get to supervise,” Mom offered. The phone in the office rang and she stepped out to get it. I was alone again.
“No, she can’t come to the phone,” I heard Mom whisper from across the hall. From her tone, I knew immediately it was Sam. “Samantha Shu, you have to stop calling here. Please. And you can’t email her. And definitely don’t come by! Please, Sam. It’s for the best.” There was a short pause. “I know. She’ll come around. Goodbye, Sam. Say hello to your mom and dad for me.”
The breakup between Sam and me was bigger than just the two of us. Our parents had come to know each other well over our ten years of friendship, and they’d developed their own relationship. It would be awkward for them. And Peter was good friends with Sam’s little brother, Jonathan. They weren’t going to stop seeing each other just because Sam and I stopped being friends. And then there were our other friends. At school, there were bound to be Sam’s supporters, and hopefully I had my own as well—mutual friends who had made their choice of whom to support in this whole sordid business. It was all a big mess. It was all completely my fault. And frankly, I didn’t even remember how I’d ended up in Derek’s face in the first place. I didn’t even see what Sam saw in him.
God, I was glad I didn’t have to face school until after the winter holidays. But when I returned in three weeks, it was going to be brutal.
Babushka Bo brought a tray of food: my favorite sweet and sour soup and cold spicy sesame noodles with chopped cucumber. She was trying to make me feel good. She placed the tray on the chair by my bed and watched me eat in silence. I loved how she made me feel calm and relaxed without saying a word. When I was done, she kissed me on the head and took the tray away.
Several times now, I had thought about asking Babushka Bo about my hallucination on the cliff. I knew she wasn’t really there watching over me, but the memory was so vivid. Until now, I had never really understood how people could mistake fantasy for reality. But now I understood why no one talked about it much. I didn’t mention my delusions to anyone.
Dad dragged an old computer monitor into my room. I got excited thinking that I was going to get my computer access back, but then he started attaching a TiVo and a cable box. At least I’ll get to watch Syfy all night, I thought.
“Try to get some sleep, Jo. You don’t have to watch it.” Dad handed me the remote controls.
“I won’t if I don’t need to,” I answered. But I knew I would. It was dangerous to let my mind wander in the quiet hours of the night.
Suddenly Paris: 4. Sunday to Monday
I got another painkiller before bed. They were definitely having an effect—I felt an edge of hysteria as I listened to the footsteps of my family getting ready for bed upstairs.
My new bedroom was unfamiliar. I hadn’t had time to memorize the patterns that the cracks and shadows made in this room. I knew them so well in the room I had shared with Babushka Bo; each was a friend in the darkness. And instead of Babushka’s steady breathing, there was the distant hum of computer servers from my parents’ office across the hall. It was going to take time for this room to turn into my room.
Where we lived, Clement Street stayed busy until at least eleven, but it was active even later than that a few blocks farther down—next to the bars—and sometimes people walked past my window and spoke loudly. I listened to bits of these strangers’ conversations in the dark. Little snippets of other people’s lives. They seemed so commonplace, so normal. My life, on the other hand, had taken a melodramatic turn. I felt the hysteria swell a bit. I decided it was time for TV therapy.
Peter had obviously been given the job of selecting my electronic entertainment, as the new TiVo was helpfully loaded with all the TV shows he liked. But I could also get regular cable, so I was back on Syfy—the safe choice for the emotionally crippled.
By two o’clock in the morning, I’d already seen three episodes of the original Star Trek and a few random showings of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Here was a girl I could relate to—in love with a good vampire, doomed to a failed relationship. It was fun to watch though, other than my getting weepy at every kissy scene. So much for sci-fi keeping me safe.
There was a soft knock on my door. Was the TV too loud? Was I?
“Come in,” I whispered.
“Hi,” Angie whispered back as she slipped through the door. She was dressed in Hello Kitty flannel pajamas and matching pink fuzzy slippers. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
I tried to surreptitiously wipe my face with the blanket to hide any wayward tears. With luck, the evidence would go unnoticed in the dark. “I’m awake.”
“I thought so.” She climbed into the loveseat in the corner and tucked herself completely in. She looked like a toy.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” I asked.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind some company. And I don’t sleep much anyway.” In the dark, she looked a lot like her little sister, but with pink hair. “Which Buffy are we watching?”
“Actually, I was planning on moving to the Discovery Channel, okay?”
“Sure. I love science documentaries. Paris, Dad, and I watch them when we can. They’re funny,” she replied.
Angie had an odd take on science documentaries. I flipped through the channels to find one I wanted.
“There’s one,” offered Angie.
“I’ve seen part of it before. Something about a large explosion in Siberia in the early nineteen hundreds,” I said.
“The Tunguska incident. Good one.” Angie had her knees close to her face and spoke very low. The flickering light from the screen made her skin look slightly greenish, complementing her eyes in a strange way.
“That’s right. I never saw the beginning. My grandma is from somewhere there, you know?” I said.
“She’s Mongolian, right?” Angie asked.
“Yes. Although we don’t know about her eyes.” I was staring at Angie. She seemed disturbed by that. But I might have been imagining it—it was hard to tell in the dark.
“Bo is short for Bolorma?” Angie asked.
“Did she tell you that?” I didn’t think Babushka Bo would answer Angie’s questions about her origins. She never answered mine.
“Mr. Lee talks. Bolorma means crystal mama in Mongolian,” Angie offered.
“Dad told me. His name, Erdene, means treasure. Erdene Vorov—treasure thief.” I smiled. “My dad loves this sort of thing. Julie means down-bearded youth in Latin. When I was little, I used to pretend to shave with him. He thought it was hilarious.”
“What does Peter mean?” Angie asked.
“Stone in Greek. And my mom’s name is Eve which means life in Hebrew.”
“Stone thief and life thief.”
“Do your names have meanings?” It was my turn to ask.
“Angie means messenger in Greek. And my dad is Asa—healer in Hebrew. It’s pretty appropriate.”
“Messenger or healer?” I asked.
“Both.”
“What does Paris stand for?”
“Nice cities in France and Texas. And Paris is also the guy who didn’t get the girl in Romeo and Juliet.”
“No hidden meanings?”
“No, not really.” But there was a short pause before she answered.
“What about your mom? Is it okay to ask?” I was curious, but I didn’t want to offend.
“It’s okay to ask. But I don’t have much to tell.” Angie tightened even further into a ball.
I allowed her to avoid the painful subject. I had no right to be curious. “Oh, bummer,” I said, looking at the TV. “I missed the beginning again. I’ll just have to watch it again.”
“Bummer,” Angie echoed. She sounded relieved.
“So, my dad is half Mongolian and half Jewish,” I said. “Mom is one hundred percent Russian Jew. Do you know much about your ancestry?” I was really pushing now. We didn’t have to discuss Angie’s mom… yet. But I wante
d to find out where those green eyes came from. And why was Mr. Lee so nice to them?
“I heard,” she said, completely ignoring my question. “Do you know much about your grandfather? Bo’s husband?”
“He was sent to Siberia by Joseph Stalin. Jews didn’t fare well in Russia.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He met Bo and fell in love. They had a son right away. My grandfather died shortly after Dad was born,” I continued.
“It must have been very tough for your grandmother. Raising a Jewish kid in Russia all by herself…”
“She managed to get Dad across the country to Leningrad—Saint Petersburg now—and put him through school. I think she’s a very tough lady. She never married again. My Grandfather Ira was her one true love.”
“Ira.” Angie was quiet for a moment. “How did your parents meet?” She was asking more questions than she was answering. But somehow talking about Babushka’s romance and about my parents was making me feel better. True love. Better than watching Buffy.
“They met at school. Dad was teaching one of my mom’s computer classes in college. It was your standard teacher/student romance. Dad says he was a cradle robber.” I couldn’t help but smile at that. They did love each other very much.
“Your dad is much older, isn’t he?” Angie looked at me over her knees. Her eyes seemed to produce their own light. Eerie.
“It doesn’t seem to be a problem for them.” That question rubbed me the wrong way for some reason.
Angie nodded at the TV and abruptly changed the subject. “Well, looks like they still don’t really know what fell there—black hole, asteroid, comet, a UFO. Looks like Tunguska is keeping its secret safe.” She jumped up and quickly walked out. “Goodnight.”
“Night.” That was weird.
It wasn’t going to be a good night regardless of what I did next. In a book I once read, three o’clock in the morning was called the “long dark tea-time of the soul.” Unfortunately, dawn was still hours away. It had been nice having Angie to talk with, even if it had been a bit strange.
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