by Zhanna Slor
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money. I need to get a job or something.
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support.
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better off. Money is just paper.
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would say.
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were like twenty dollars.
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haha.
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father of your baby?
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daughter, I guess.
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is dead.
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REPUBLICAN.
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There are only communists and traitors.
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me. I don’t mean to make things hard for you.
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making him out to be.
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pleasure of meeting. I’d like to remedy this, but he doesn’t.
Did you get the DNA kit, by the way?
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would be easier if we lived in the same place.
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would know right away.
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money. You said you’ve always wanted to visit here, maybe
now is the best time.
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don’t want me anywhere near Ukraine.
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intend to repeat it.
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a little bit longer.
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**YOU’VE BEEN SMOOCHED!**
ZOYA HAS LEFT THE CONVERSATION.
ANNA
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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tristan is gone in the morning. I’m not surprised, but I do spend ten minutes making sure he didn’t steal anything before I go to the kitchen to have breakfast. As far as I can tell, everything is in place. Still, I text him to see what his plans are for the day. I remember him saying something about extending his trip to Milwaukee a few more days for me, and I’m curious if that was alcohol talking or if he really meant it. I grab my backpack and am leaving the house for my least-favorite class of all time, Astronomy 101—who knew it wouldn’t be about horoscopes?—when I see my dad’s car parked in the driveway, sitting in a cloud of fumes. Still high from my unexpected romantic encounter and so tired from a lack of sleep that my brain is fuzzy, I don’t assume it’s terrible right away. But when he gets out, slamming the door furiously and dressed up like he’s come straight from work, or right before work, I guess, my heart plummets.
My dad heads straight for me with an envelope in his hand. He doesn’t stop till his head is practically touching mine. I can smell his cologne, the nicotine gum in his mouth. “What did you do?” he asks.
I back up, onto the sidewalk. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this!” Here, he dumps out the contents of the thick manila envelope in my face. Inside, there appears to be some kind of scientific kit. And a letter, printed out in Russian.
A lump forms in my throat. This must be the anvil I’ve been waiting for. “What is that?”
My dad hands it over and I read—well, skim, it’s a lot of tiny text—what’s written on the page. It seems to be a list of directions. Directions how to take a DNA test properly and where to mail it when it’s ready. On the sides there are some images accompanying the directions, in case you’re like me and zone out anytime you see a list of anything.
“Oh. Wow,” I tell him, my heart racing. I hand it back over. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Why are you so surprised?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where did she get my address, if not from you? Aren’t you the one talking to her?”
“I didn’t give her your address! I told her not to send it to you, in fact. She just…” I don’t finish the rest of the sentence, which is that she asked me about his address, and I confirmed it was correct. Because, oops? Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. But then why had she kept asking me if the kit had arrived? Wouldn’t that imply it was en route to my house, not my dad’s? Or did she mean my dad’s house all along? If she sent a DNA test to my dad, who ignored all her emails, why would she expect him not to ignore that too?
“I knew you were still talking to her,” he says. My dad, who is now bright red in the face, begins pacing back and forth like a lunatic. I quickly glance around to make sure no one is watching us; what if Tristan chooses this moment to return? Or, worse: what if he doesn’t return? But there is no one outside so early in the morning. Only mountains and mountains of snow surround us, and cars trapped underneath them. A few people far in the distance are out there with shovels, but most, because it’s the east side and full of college students, are still asleep. It is mornings like this I am relieved not to own any vehicle besides a bicycle.
“This is insane, Anastasia. What am I supposed to do?” My dad is still pacing, his pants getting wet around the ankles due to the fact that my landlord hasn’t been by to shovel yet. The pacing is making my own anxiety spike. I sit down on the cold concrete steps by our door, to allow more space between us. The smell of cigarettes is so strong I worry he is smelling it on me. It certainly couldn’t be coming from him. He’d quit years ago, when my mother had gone through a little health scare. “Can you imagine what would have happened if your mom got home before me and saw this?”
“I only talked to her like one more time,” I explain
to my dad as patiently as I can. Or three more times. Maybe five? “I definitely didn’t tell her to send you a DNA test.”
My dad stops and leans against his car. He looks to the sky, as if he will find an answer in the gray clouds. “You must really hate me,” he spits out finally, in Russian.
“I don’t hate you,” I mumble
“Then why would you believe a stranger over your own father?”
“Who said I believe her?” I look him straight in the eye. “Do you believe her?”
My dad turns away. “I told you,” he says with an annoyed sigh. “She’s blackmailer. Apple fall far from tree.” He lowers his head back down and starts shaking it in frustration. I start to feel like he is really overreacting. How is any of this my fault? She found him. She found his address. I did nothing but try to help them and fail. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done by talking to her?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I am sorry, but I also feel defensive. “But why would she target you? And why would she ask for a DNA test, not money?” I ask. Mulling it over, I guess I really didn’t believe her. And yet, now, I am questioning the entire idea. If she was a stranger to him, then why would he be panicking so much?
No answer from my dad.
“You really didn’t date her mom?” I probe.
He gives me a piercing look, as if to tell me, See? I knew you talked to her. “I fired her. She was mad. She started trying to blackmail me.”
“Blackmail you for what?”
“You know this, Anastasia, we did all sorts of crazy things in the USSR. I had to bribe everyone from the brick layer to the manufacturer just to get anything done. She wasn’t the only one to try to get us all in trouble.”
“Why would she blackmail you though? What did she want in return?”
My dad shakes his head. He returns to English now, having calmed down a little. “It was crazy place,” he repeats. “People did stupid things. Forget it.”
“And you really didn’t date her? Not even a little?” I pry. “Mom told me once you used to be quite the ladies’ man when she met you.”
A long pause ensues, at the end of which my dad seems to deflate. “I did not date her. But…” He pauses again, his expression now less defiant and tense.
“But what?”
“I did not date her,” he continues, deflating more; looking relieved even. “We had…relations, after a work party. There was a lot of vodka involved.”
I want to laugh when he says this. I’ve never been in shock before, but maybe that is what shock feels like—an unbearable urge to say that’s so ludicrous it’s funny. Preposterous. For a moment I can’t catch my breath. I realize then that I never really believed Zoya. My faith in my dad’s honesty trumped anything she could ever say to me. Now I have no idea what to think.
“Oh my god!” I say finally. My dad looks back towards the house anxiously. This has all been a story to me, an investigation; play acting, almost. I haven’t considered him at all, not really, not what this would mean for him if Zoya is correct and she is, in fact, his daughter unknown to him for most of her life.
He might actually have another daughter.
I might have another sister.
My grandparents might have another grandchild! And what about my mom? What would she now have?
“I told you to stay out of it, Anastasia. But you never listen. This all your fault.”
My heart starts pounding all the way into my ears. I feel myself start to get angry. All I ever do is listen. “Dad—” I stop, lowering my voice. “All I did was answer a message.”
“No. You gave this woman hope.”
“But if she’s really not yours, as you claim, then why are you so worried? Just take the test!”
My dad dumps the contents of the envelope, which he’s been gripping tight this entire time, onto the ground. “I know it’s my fault you have lived a very sheltered life, but please, don’t be so naïve.”
My legs begin to feel rubbery, and I am suddenly glad to be sitting down. “What do you mean?”
“You understand that if I do this, she’ll never stop coming after me? First, it’s a test. Then it’s $500. Then it’s $5,000, then it’s everything I have.” He puts his hands on his hips. “This is how it works in Soviet Union.”
“It’s not the Soviet Union, anymore, Dad,” I protest, meekly.
“You think because it’s called something else now it’s a brand-new place?” he says.
“No, but…”
“You can’t wash dirty dishes with dirty water, Anastasia,” he says in Russian. “That level of corruption doesn’t go away because rubles are now hryvna.”
“I don’t know about all that…. But if you would’ve just taken the test, this could all have blown over by now,” I start. “If you’re really her father, a test is nothing! Even if she asks for money later, don’t you owe it to her, if you’re really her father?”
My dad looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world. And maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean she’s not his. Does it? “Anastasia, trust me. I’m not.”
“But you don’t know,” I say. This conversation has made me feel physically ill. At the very least he cheated on my mom. At the worst, he is an absentee father and a liar. How can he stand there judging me? How can he ever judge me again? “She’s pregnant, did you know that?”
My dad rolls his eyes. “Sure.” He crosses his arms over his chest. I start shaking, either from the cold traveling up through my torn jeans, or something else. “Oldest trick in the book. Her mother used the same one on me.”
“But maybe they’re both telling the truth!”
“This is not a mail from truth teller, Anastasia,” he continues. “I’ve been around block few times. Once you live a little longer, you might know some things too.”
Despite this admonition, I cannot help but stand up for Zoya. She may have gone about fixing it the wrong way, but if she’s right, it was her life he’d messed up by leaving. “She’s not the criminal you think she is. She’s nice. She wants to do what’s best for her baby. Don’t you even care that she might be your daughter?” I ask, teeth chattering. “I mean...don’t you want to meet her, if she is?”
“The last thing I need is another daughter,” my dad says, his jaw clenched. He stares at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Like he’s looking at a stranger. A stranger he doesn’t like very much.
I don’t even try to come up with a response to this. He never wanted a daughter to begin with. How he was hoping for a son is practically all I ever hear about when he tells the story of my birth. How he’d asked the doctor over the phone to check again and make sure. He means it as a funny anecdote, but to me, it’s always felt like I was born a disappointment. Where do you even go from there but down? Add to that upending his whole life for his kids, and I may never escape from his swamp of expectations and guilt.
At the same time, could it really get any worse than it is already? Maybe now is the time to make some changes.
“This agreement we have, paying for school, and your rent...it ends today,” my dad says, getting back into the car.
“What?”
“You heard me. You think I can afford it now? If she starts trying to claim I’m her father in court—she could sue me for everything I have!”
“She won’t! How could she?”
“Who knows how much this is all going to cost. Maybe you’ll finally learn what it means to have consequences,” he says.
“Fine!” I say. “I didn’t even want to go to college. You made me go.”
“Great. Then everyone wins.”
Without another word or glance, he gets in his Toyota and drives away. Only once he’s gone do I take the contents of the envelope from the ground and shove them into my pockets. I’m mad at Zoya for sending it to him, but it’s better to keep it in case I need it later. Now that I know she might really be his, anything could happen.
; ANNA
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Needless to say, I miss my astronomy class.
I’m sitting on the porch feeling pretty sorry for myself and smoking what has to be the fourth cigarette in a row when I see August and his new girlfriend walk up, covered in dirt and carrying giant army-green bags on their backs, guitar cases in hand. For a second I’m so happy I forget how mad my dad is at me, how I may have totally messed up his life. And mine, too.
“Hey!” August says, waving at me. He looks pretty chipper for having spent weeks on a moving train. He’s also filthy; even his dimples are covered in dirt. And didn’t someone tell me August was far, far away from here?
“I thought you were in Georgia!” I say, standing up, and stretching out my arms.
He comes in for a hug.
“Jesus.” It’s hard to describe the smell of a train-hopper the moment they’ve gotten off a train, but you can often recognize it from across the room; up close it’s nearly unbearable. It’s not quite homeless person, but it’s far past patchouli-wearing Riverwest hippies. It’s somewhere in between scented oils and lack of bathing, with a tint of bonfire. Not entirely unpleasant, just powerful. No that’s not true. It’s pretty unpleasant.
“I know. I’m heading straight for the shower,” he laughs. He steps back, grinning, and introduces the girl next to him. “This is Box.” I turn to look at her. She’s pretty, despite being dressed in tattered clothing; black jeans, torn beige shirt, multiple facial piercings. A giant mole covers the bottom of her chin, surrounded by smears of black ash. Her eyes are soft and kind, a tint of green in them. They don’t seem to belong with their surroundings. Like a pretty flower that’s been plucked from a garden and planted in a sea of weeds.
“Hi,” she practically whispers.
“Hi.”
August has dropped one of his bags on the ground and is taking two hard ciders out of it. “You want one?” he asks. “We stopped at the Whole Foods dumpster on our way. Got all sorts of goodies.”
I usually avoid drinking when the sun is still out, but today is not one of those days. Today, I chug down half the cider in one instant. “What’s going on?” I ask, momentarily hopeful. “How was your trip? Are you staying?”
