Chapter Thirteen
Stella
My hands are shaking.
The world beyond my car’s windshield is blurred through tears I’ve been holding back since the morning I left Gianni’s apartment. It’s been over two days, yet here I am again, crying over the future I’d lost.
A sob rips through my chest, raw and primal. My body’s having an emotional release, so I let it.
“You’re better off without him,” Boyana whispers in my mind.
I know she’s right, but the comfort feels hollow as memories assault me — Gianni’s bare chest on the balcony, waving to that woman like it was routine. Like I never even existed. Like I never mattered.
My fist connects with the dashboard. Pain shoots through my knuckles, grounding me for a moment before fresh tears come.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
Then there’s the mysterious stranger. His touch still ghosts across my skin, making everything more confusing. One night of reckless abandon with a nameless man — what does that make me? The same as Gianni?
“No,” I press my forehead against the steering wheel. “Different. He betrayed trust. I was…” Free? Broken? Taking control?
I pull in a deep breath, trying to use logic to settle my frayed feelings. “It’s just an emotional response triggering my amygdala,” I tell myself. “Stress hormones flooding neural pathways. It’s not actual pain, Stella.”
Understanding the science doesn’t make it hurt less. Another sob escapes as memories flood back. Talking about kids, sharing dreams.
“None of it was real anyway, Stella.” It’s Boyana again.
“I know, dammit!” I choke out. “He was lying about all of it!” I dash away angry tears and straighten my shoulders, turning the key in the ignition and reverse out of my apartment’s parking bay.
Focusing on driving settles me a bit, until the neon sign of a McDonald’s beckons like a lighthouse through my tears.
I pull into the drive-through, ordering enough for three people.
“Really? Emotional eating again?” Boyana’s voice carries that familiar mix of judgment and concern.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, grabbing the warm paper bag. The smell of fries and grilled onions fills the car.
“You’ll regret it tomorrow at yoga.”
I stuff a handful of fries into my mouth, salt and grease coating my tongue. “Sounds like tomorrow’s problem.”
The burger wrapper crinkles as I unwrap it one-handed, steering with my knee. Each bite fills the hollow space in my chest, if only temporarily.
“This isn’t healthy coping, Stella.”
“Neither is talking to my imaginary sister, yet here we are.” Sauce drips onto my blouse. Perfect.
“At least I don’t add calories.”
I snort, nearly choking on a bite of burger. Trust Boyana to make me laugh even now.
The streets become more familiar as I drive, houses I’ve known since my teens appearing through the windshield. Mrs. Peterson’s rose garden still blooms on the corner. The Meyer kids’ basketball hoop still hangs crooked over their driveway.
The animal shelter where I volunteered every summer comes into view. I remember walking dogs down these sidewalks, feeling so proud when the difficult ones finally trusted me.
“You were always good at healing broken things,” Boyana says softly.
“Except myself, apparently.” But the old memories soften something in my chest. The food settles warm in my stomach as I turn into my parents’ gated estate.
The familiar streets bring back memories of those first awkward months after we fled Russia.
Dad trying so hard to perfect his American accent, practicing “hello” and “how are you” in front of the bathroom mirror each morning.
Mom stubbornly refusing to give up her traditional cooking despite the strange looks from neighbors when our house smelled of pickled herring and borscht.
“Remember when Dad bought that ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron?” I whisper to myself, smiling at the memory. He’d worn it proudly while attempting to grill hamburgers, determined to master this quintessentially American skill. The burgers always came out charred on the outside, raw in the middle.
Mom’s attempts at PTA meetings still make me cringe — showing up with platters of pelmeni instead of chocolate chip cookies, her thick accent drawing stares as she tried to discuss bake sale logistics.
“They tried so hard to fit in,” Boyana’s voice whispers.
“Yeah.” I wipe away a fresh tear, but this one feels different. Softer. “I can still see Mom’s face when she finally mastered ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers’.”
She’d practiced for weeks, determined to help me lose my accent faster than she could lose hers. Every night before bed, tongue-twisters and pronunciation exercises-
Red and blue lights are flashing up ahead, cutting through my memories like a knife. Sirens wail behind me, growing louder. My brow furrows as I pull over to let emergency vehicles pass.
What the hell is going on?
I slow down, cruising cautiously along the road to where there appears to be a cluster of police cars… in front of my parents’ house!
My breath catches and my heart lurches.
Mom… Dad!
I abandon my car in the middle of the street, keys still in the ignition. My heels catch on the uneven pavement as I sprint toward the flashing lights, toward the home where I spent my teenage years.
Yellow crime scene tape flutters in the evening breeze. Two police cruisers and an ambulance block the driveway. My legs turn to lead at the sight of the coroner’s van.
The coroner!
“No, no, no…” The word becomes a mantra as I duck under the tape. An officer steps forward to stop me.
“Ma’am, you can’t—”
“This is my parents’ house!” My voice cracks. “Let me through!”
A sight up ahead freezes my blood in my veins. My father’s car is half a block up the road, flipped onto its roof. Shattered glass litters the road like scattered diamonds. There’s a pool of something dark on the asphalt, and little yellow evidence markers.
I’m trying to make sense of it when I see two men in dark uniforms wheeling a stretcher. The body bag on top is zipped closed.
No!
My knees give out. The concrete rushes up to meet me, scraping my palms as I catch myself. Bile rises in my throat.
“Miss, are you family?” A gentle hand touches my shoulder. I look up into the face of a female detective, her expression grave.
“I’m their daughter.” The words come out as a whisper. “What happened? Who…?” I can’t finish the question.
The detective crouches beside me, blocking my view of the stretcher being loaded into the van. “Miss Fermont, I’m Detective Martinez. I need you to come with me. There are some questions…”
But I barely hear her. My eyes are fixed on where the body bag is being lifted into the back of a coroner’s van. The sound of the door slamming shut jolts through me like an electric shock.
Staggering to my feet, I push past the detective, stumbling toward our front door where Mom’s hysterical screams pierce the evening air. Two officers block the entrance, but I shoulder between them.
“That’s my mother in there!”
The foyer spins as I take in the scene — Mom crumpled on the floor, her silk robe torn, mascara streaking down her face as she rocks back and forth. Nick kneels beside her, his eyes vacant and unfocused.
“Mom!” I drop beside her, wrapping my arms around her shaking frame. She clutches at me with desperate fingers, her nails digging into my skin.
“My Tomas, my Tomas…” She keeps repeating the words between gut-wrenching sobs.
Nick’s face is ash-white, his usual cocky demeanor stripped away. “Stels…” His voice cracks. “Dad… it’s Dad…”
My chest constricts, vision narrowing to a pinpoint.
“No.” I shake my head, denial rising like bile. “No, there has to be…”
“He’s gone, Stels.” Nick’s flat tone makes it real. “Dad’s dead.”
Mom wails louder at the words, her whole body convulsing.
I hold her tighter, my own tears finally breaking free for the umpteenth time.
The three of us cling to each other on the marble floor where Dad used to practice his English, where he’d spin Mom around while dancing after too much wine, where he’d helped me with science homework…
My father is dead.
How?
The thought echoes through my mind, each repetition bringing fresh waves of pain. I press my face into Mom’s hair, breathing in her familiar perfume as Nick’s arms encircle us both.
We stay like that, our shared grief binding us together as officers move around us, their radios crackling with static and coded messages that mean nothing compared to the devastating truth: our family will never be whole again.
“Murder,” Mom’s voice is muffled against my shoulder. “They… murdered him!” Her nails dig deeper into my arm as she thrashes against our embrace.
“Mom, what are you talking about?” My voice sounds distant, hollow. Nick’s arms tighten around us both.
“They came…” Mom’s words dissolve into Russian, fragments of prayer and curse mixing together. “Your father knew… he told me they would… one day they would…”
I exchange glances with Nick over her head. His eyes are wide, bloodshot. I look down at my mother again, then stiffen when I see a smear of blood on her cheek. More blood is matted in her hair.
“Mom! You’re hurt!” I say urgently. But she’s not looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on a point beyond my shoulder.
“Mrs. Fermont?” A paramedic kneels beside us, medical bag in hand. “I need to check your vitals. You’re in shock.”
Mom jerks away from his reaching hand. “Don’t touch me!” Her accent thickens with hysteria. “They’ll kill us all!”
“Mom, please.” I try to gentle her, but she’s beyond reason. Her chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths.
“Your father…” She clutches at her throat, gasping. “He knew… the doctor… St. Petersburg…”
The paramedic moves in with practiced efficiency, managing to catch Mom’s wrist despite her resistance. “Her pulse is racing. We need to get her stabilized.”
Nick helps me lift Mom as the paramedic guides her toward the waiting ambulance. Her legs give out halfway there, forcing us to half-carry her.