48. Tayana
48
TAYANA
T he house is unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that feels heavy, as though it’s holding its breath. I’m curled up on the couch with a book I’m pretending to read, but the words blur together on the page. Something feels off. I tell myself it’s just my imagination, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re alone in a big, empty house.
Then, the shrill ring of the landline shatters the stillness and causes my heart to stutter.
I jerk upright, startled, and stare at the old-fashioned phone on the hall table. It never rings. Ever. We all have cell phones, and no one but my father insists on keeping this relic around. I wait for one of the housekeepers to answer it, but no one comes. The second ring cuts through my hesitation, and with a sigh, I stand and cross the room to pick it up.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause, a faint crackle of static, and then a man’s voice, brusque and impatient. “Mr. Aslanov, please.”
I frown. “Which one? There are two.”
“Anton Aslanov,” the man replies, his tone sharp. “It’s important that I get ahold of him today.”
My frown deepens. “Have you tried his cell phone? I can give it?—”
He cuts me off with an audible sigh, and my grip tightens on the receiver. “He’s not answering. I need to speak to him today.”
“Well, if he’s not answering, there’s probably a reason for that. He’s busy,” I say, my irritation rising.
“How else can I reach him?” the man presses.
“Sorry, but who is this?” I ask, suspicion creeping into my voice.
“Dr. Letvy,” he says. “It’s important?—”
“Dr. Letvy?” I interrupt, the name striking an unfamiliar chord. “Well, you can leave a message with me. I’m his daughter.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then his voice comes back, measured but firm. “Please let him know that the chemotherapy starts tomorrow. He needs to be at the hospital at 8:00 a.m.”
The words hit me with a jolt. I can’t breathe. My fingers tighten around the phone until they ache, and I feel the blood drain from my face.
“Chemotherapy?” The word barely escapes my lips, and it sounds foreign, wrong, as though it belongs to someone else’s nightmare.
“Yes,” Dr. Letvy says, his tone softening slightly as if he senses the impact of his words. “It’s critical he starts the treatment on schedule. Please make sure he knows.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. The world tilts on its axis, and I clutch the edge of the table for balance. When I finally manage to croak out a reply, my voice is hollow. “I’ll… I’ll tell him.”
The doctor says something else, but I don’t hear it. The phone slips from my hand and clatters onto the table.
I stand there, frozen, the word chemotherapy reverberating in my mind like a death knell. Anton… cancer… treatment. It doesn’t make sense. Anton Aslanov is indestructible. He’s the strongest man I’ve ever known, the man who’s always been larger than life. The thought of him being… sick, vulnerable, is incomprehensible.
My legs feel like jelly as I sink into the nearest chair, my head spinning. Memories flood my mind—him teaching me how to shoot, the stern lectures, the rare but precious moments when he’d smile, the way he’d pat my shoulder with a gruff “Well done” that meant the world to me. His acknowledgement. Always seeking his acknowledgement. His approval. I realize that’s all I’ve really ever wanted.
How could he keep this from me? From all of us?
The anger comes next, sharp and hot, cutting through the numbness. How dare he not tell me? How dare he face something like this alone, as if I wouldn’t care, as if I wouldn’t drop everything to be here for him? How long was he planning to keep this from me?
I push myself to my feet, unsteady but resolute, and march toward his study. The door is ajar, and I see him inside, seated at his desk, papers spread out before him. He looks up as I enter, his expression calm but watchful, as though he can sense the storm brewing inside me.
“Tayana,” he says, his voice steady. “What is it?”
The sight of him—so composed, so infuriatingly composed—makes my chest ache. I close the door behind me and take a step closer, my hands trembling at my sides.
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” I whisper.
“Because it never stops ringing, and I need to get some work done. Is everything okay, malysh ?”
I step to the front of the desk, my gaze falling on him. His eyes meet mine, a flicker of recognition passing between us. It's subtle, but I feel it—the weight of something unsaid hanging in the air. For the first time, I take a closer look at him. Anton is a handsome man; this has no doubt aided him in covering up his condition. But now that I stop and look carefully, I see the creases in the folds of skin under his eyes. I notice the pallor of his skin. I see that his smile, no matter how rare, doesn’t actually reach his eyes, and it kills me that this is what he has become.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, my voice breaking.
His brow furrows. “Tell you what?”
“I just got off the phone with your doctor. Chemotherapy, Papa? Cancer? You’ve been keeping this from me?”
His face hardens, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and the silence between us feels like a chasm.
“It’s not your concern,” he says finally, his tone curt.
“Not my concern?” I repeat, my voice incredulous. “How can you say that? Is this why you brought me back here? To torture me with more half-truths?”
“I don’t want you worrying about me,” he says, standing now, his imposing figure casting a long shadow. “This is my battle, Tayana. Not yours.”
Tears blur my vision as I step closer, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and anguish. “You don’t get to decide that! You don’t get to shut me out and pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. You’re sick! You need help. You need…” My voice cracks. “You need me.”
His expression softens, just for a moment, and I see a flicker of something—regret, maybe, or pain. But then he sets his jaw and looks away. “I’ve handled worse,” he says gruffly. “This is no different.”
“No, it is different!” I cry, my voice shattering in the quiet room. “This isn’t a rival to outsmart or a deal to negotiate. This is your life, Papa. And if you think I’m going to just stand by and let you face this alone, then you don’t know me at all.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, with a weary sigh, he stands and walks towards me. He reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re stronger than you know, Tayana,” he says softly.
I shake my head, the tears streaming freely now. “I don’t want to be strong. I just want you to be okay.”
His grip tightens, and for the first time, I see the cracks in his armor, the weight he’s been carrying alone. “I’ll be okay,” he says, but the words feel hollow.
“Is this why Igor was adamant I come back to Russia? Does he know? He knows and didn’t tell me, right?”
“Igor knows,” my father admits. “I fought against it, but he insisted we bring you back home to spend this time with you.”
It hits me then just how serious his condition must be. Igor brought me back to be with them in what little time Anton has left. He brought me back to say goodbye, knowing I’d never forgive him if he didn’t.
Anton watches me, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or pain.
Tears spill over, hot and unstoppable. “You should have told me,” I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of everything unsaid.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I wanted to protect you.”
But it’s too late for that. The cracks in his armor are visible now, and the man I’ve always seen as unshakable is human after all.