Chapter Four
In which Alexsey understands despair.
Alexsey…
"Because of the damage done to the radius and scaphoid bones, I was not able to stabilize your wrist. The trapezoid and hamate bones are the funnel for the key nerves leading to your hand. They were both essentially crushed into powder."
I'm staring out the window of the finest medical suite in Mother's private clinic. It's a beautiful day, with a searingly blue sky rarely seen over smoggy Manhattan. Offensively beautiful, because this would be the kind of day where I'd drop out of Bratva life and spend the afternoon sketching.
"Because of the damage, I was not able to save your hand," Dr. Peterson says.
His voice is steady, almost impersonal, but I hear it: no false sympathy.
He respects me enough - or perhaps respects my mother enough - to skip the soft approach.
"The good news is this," he continues on, "I was able to save the nerves that radiate from these three fingers…
" He shows me the X-rays on his iPad as I stare blankly at what remains of my left arm.
My shoulder is there, and the elbow, my forearm…
and then it ends. I tore off the bandages that first night when I regained consciousness after surgery.
I know what it looks like, a ragged mess of flesh and shattered bone.
It's wrapped up neatly now, hiding behind a tidy bandage as if my hand never existed.
"The reason this is important, Alexsey," Dr. Peterson patiently continues, "with the new technology in neurostimulation, we can retrofit some of the original nerve bundle with the prosthetic. There's been some very exciting developments with brain stimulation that can activate the prosthetic –"
"Why don't you just give me a fucking hook and let's get this over with?" I interrupt, shifting in my seat, ignoring the bolt of agony that shoots up my left arm.
No more fucking pain meds. I'd told my mother that and she ignored me until I finally ripped out my IV and threatened to walk out of the clinic.
Dr. Peterson leans back with a sigh, taking off his glasses and cleaning them.
"Of course, you're furious. You have every reason to be.
" His voice is calm, and he's watching me steadily.
"I've worked with your mother for nearly three decades on some extremely complex cases, I know what your Bratva does.
I know what you did to save your family.
Sacrificing your hand meant losing your gift as an artist."
"You can spare me the armchair psychoanalysis, Doc." I look out the window again. "I know what I have left and it's shit. I can't fire a gun, or use a knife. I can't…" My throat closes up and I despise myself for my weakness. "I can't paint."
The man is smart, he doesn't try to argue with me.
"I'm going to leave this here with you." He lays the iPad on the table in front of me gently.
"It contains your chart, your prognosis, and the research on the neurostimulator.
You'll read it when you're ready. In the meantime," he smiles wryly, "please avoid making my job harder by letting your arm get infected. "
Putting his hands in the pockets of his white coat, he leaves the room. Mother is hovering outside, Ava's with her. Both of them are wide-eyed and hopeful until they see my expression. As the door closes, their faces fall.
***
Four days later…
I'm finally allowed to return back home with an entourage of assholes.
Dmitri and Roman insist on accompanying me, like I'm fucking helpless and can't manage to get into my own place.
Unlike the rest of my family, with their high-rise penthouses and expansive brownstones, I have a loft down in Hudson Heights, an old remodeled warehouse with enormous iron-paned windows, and exposed brick walls.
I bought the loft for the spectacular light that bounces off the Hudson River and shines through the windows. The best light in New York City.
"I had my chef make a week's worth of meals," Roman says, opening my fridge and checking to make sure they've been delivered.
"Though it's unlikely that you're going to eat any of them.
Between our parents, Violet, and Ava, they'll be holding you down and force-feeding you.
They're going to smother you with love and cling to you with their terrifying optimism and –"
"Will you shut the fuck up?" Dmitri snaps. "Jesus Christ, Roman, do you think this is funny?"
A harsh chuckle bursts from me and they both turn, a little startled.
"Well, I can't speak for you," I drawl. "But I think this is fucking hilarious.
I'm officially the most useless member of the Morozov family.
Hell, Dmitri, your kid can probably shoot better than me at this point and he's eighteen months old. "
Roman scratches the stubble on his jaw. I know he spent almost the entire week at the clinic, dragged home once or twice by Violet to take a shower and get some sleep. "Yeah," he acknowledges. "Right now, you kind of suck."
Dmitri's going after him with his fist raised and I shout, "No one's getting punched here! We're still brothers, and Roman has chosen not to baby me. I'm not a fragile little bitch. So, why don't you do the same?"
Putting his hands on his hips, Dmitri paces back-and-forth in front of my windows, trying to calm down.
"Okay." He takes a deep breath and faces me. "What do you need from us right now?"
What do I need? I need my hand back. I need my life back.
Dmitri is looking at me with a poisonous, crippling guilt because saving the lives of my family - including his - cost me my hand. And there's no question that I would do it all over again even if I knew this would happen. But it's going to eat away at him.
"Right now?" I say, rotating my shoulder gingerly.
"Nothing. I spent eight days in that clinic and I wasn't left alone for longer than five fucking minutes.
Give me some time." My brothers look at each other doubtfully and I scoff.
"Are you afraid that I'm going to off myself the minute you leave?
Don't worry, I can't stab myself or cut my wrists. I'm shit with a knife, right-handed."
They don't seem to find my light-hearted banter amusing.
"Give me some time. One night to myself. We can talk tomorrow." It's killing them to leave. I can see it; each footstep they take toward the door is dragging.
"Brother…" Dmitri says, his voice is anguished.
"This isn't your fault, Dmitri," I lean against the kitchen counter, ignoring the scream of agony that runs up my arm from the casual movement. "Don't take this on like it is. Just… give me the night, huh? We can talk tomorrow."
"I don't want to leave you here," he says, running his hands through his hair. "Come stay the night at my place. You know Ava would be thrilled to see you."
"Fuck that," Roman says. "Come over to my place.
The twins are home from school and they'll be all over you.
They'll make the clinic look positively restful.
" The twins are Rose and Iris, his wife Violet's sisters.
Roman's taken over raising them after we killed their parents.
Since their parents were trying to marry them off to a couple of sadistic fucks, everyone was okay with how it all turned out.
"I would never survive a round of being 'taken care of' by the twins." I shudder, thinking about their avid little faces. "At least here at home, I won't get woken up every half hour by the nurses. Go home. Both of you."
After another fifteen minutes of promising that I won't "do anything drastic," my brothers leave and a heavy silence settles over the loft.
It's a big open floor plan; the kitchen flows into the dining room and the main living area and then, into my studio.
Standing by the front door, I can see the canvases, leaning against the wall, several on easels.
The huge wooden chest I brought from St. Petersburg that holds my art supplies and paints stretches across the far wall.
On one of the easels, there's a massive canvas I've been working on for months.
It's the view from our hunting lodge near St. Petersburg, where the tall pines clear enough to see the endless expanse of Lake Ladoga stretching ahead.
There was something about the enormity of the lake and forest surrounding it that needed to be on a large scale.
I'd roughed in most of the forest but the surface of the lake challenged me.
I couldn't quite get what I saw in my memory onto the canvas.
Walking up to it, I examine the brushstrokes creating the waves on the lake. It's not right. Half-finished garbage.
Struggling with my right hand, I pull my left arm out of the sling holding it against my chest. The unforgiving afternoon light brings my bandaged stump into painful detail. I ignore the throbbing misery. It's a constant, sullen stab that mimics my heartbeat.
There's a large container of black paint in the cabinet.
Vanta Black, the blackest black. The pigment absorbs color and light into it like a cosmic sinkhole.
It is also impossible to buy, unless you know the only pigment specialist who can compound it.
Awkwardly bracing the can with my left elbow, I pry the lid off with my right hand.
The movement is enough to make me sweat, surges of pain ripping through what remains of my left arm.
Hefting the can in my right palm, I survey the canvas, head tilted. I turn the easel toward the light streaming through the windows. Then, angle it to the left.
Nope. It's shit in every direction. Countless hours of work and it'll be frozen like this, in its unfinished mediocracy forever.
"I am Bratva." My voice sounds strange, abrupt in the silence. "There's no fucking room for light."
Raising the can of paint, I hurl it at the canvas, which rocks on the easel but doesn't tip over. The Vanta Black paint splashes over the waves and the forest, burying them under a flood of viscous pigment. It drips off onto the old wooden floor I'd had refinished.
"Vysosi ves' svet. Suck out all the light. There's no room for it here."
It's not enough.
Rummaging through my supplies, I find a can of red paint. A brilliant, vicious crimson. "Now here's the truth of Bratva life." I laugh, hefting the paint can. "Krov' i smert'. Blood, and death."
I throw it overhand, like a baseball, shouting in fury, and the can knocks the canvas over this time, slamming onto the floor as the paint spreads over what's left of the green and blue. Like blood. Like the pool of gore they'd pulled me out of after the firefight.
"Fuck!" I roar, pulling out more paint. Charcoal grey spoils a portrait of my parents I'd been working on for their anniversary, obliterating their faces. "V etom mire net nichego khoroshego! Nothing good exists in this world!"
More red and black paint rain down on an abstract of a piano and Starry Night. "Sentimental shit!"
There's a paint scraper with an edge sharp enough to saw through the canvas of Ava, holding baby Lev. The soft pinks and creams of the painting curl and flake as I shred it to pieces.
Something drips on to my boot and I look down to see a splatter of blood. I must have burst some stitches on my stump. My hand hurts like a motherfucker. My missing left hand, like my brain isn't willing to let go of it, either.
My shouting is an inarticulate roar of rage, English and Russian words mixed, louder and louder until the sound of my despair echoes back at me.
Stepping back unsteadily, I eye the carnage of color and broken frames. Slicing them to pieces with a knife would be more effective. I have so many of those, though I don't know how to use them with my right hand. I turn and head up the stairs to my bedroom.
I'll do it tomorrow. Then, maybe create a bonfire to obliterate what's left.