CHAPTER 7
Vaughn
A day turns into one, then two, and before I know it, Sasha’s been in New York City for a full week. I miss her fiercely, of course, but the day after she left, I upgraded my phone, and texting each other has become an around-the-clock obsession that we seem to share. Add to this, she gave me a key to her place so I could stop by and water her plants, and I savor those moments in her space, surrounded by her things.
She shared pictures of her room at the Fordham University dormitories, and we often FaceTime as she walks to and from the theater or during her meal breaks. I like knowing where she is and how she’s doing. It eases my anxiety while she’s away from me.
But at the same time, I’m undergoing a metamorphosis, too. Knowing that a woman as amazing as Sasha cares for me and believes in me, has given me a lift in confidence and self-worth.
During her absence, I’ve spent some time online looking at community colleges, and discovered that the Northern Virginia Community College campus isn’t far from where I live. Even more promising, they offer an associate’s degree in social sciences, which would be a good place to start if I ever want to pursue a career in child welfare. I’m a long way off from making that dream a reality, of course, but every journey starts with a single step, and I like where I’m headed.
I’m planning to register for some courses when I get to Dom and Lottie’s after work on Sunday evening. I climb the stairs to their living room, where they have a computer terminal that I’m welcome to use. I try not to use the one on my phone, so I don’t run out of minutes – I’d rather use them to talk and text with Sasha.
When I open the door, Dom calls to me from the kitchen.
“Vonnie? Is that-a you?”
“Yeah, Dom!” I say, walking through the living and dining rooms and standing in the doorway of the kitchen. “Okay if I use the computer for a few minutes?”
Dom and Lottie are sitting at a round table, steam rising from their coffee cups and a plate of pignoli cookies on a saucer between them. Dom looks up at me, trying to smile, then looking away. Lottie’s eyes are heavy, like she’s been crying. A chill runs down my spine. I pull out the chair across from them and sit down.
“Is everything okay? You guys look—”
“Vonnie, what do you remember about your mama? Your real mama?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Lottie leans forward. “What about your first foster mama?”
“Her name was Chelsea,” I say. “I think. I don’t remember her very well. I don’t think I was with her for very long.”
Dom’s eyes widen when I mention Chelsea’s name. He clears his throat. “Vonnie, we have some bad news. A nurse from a hospice center in Maryland contacted us today.”
My skin prickles. “Uh. Okay.”
“A patient there. Named Chelsea Warren…she is dying.”
The wind is knocked out of me. I feel dizzy. I can barely murmur, “Oh.”
“Vonnie,” says Lottie gently, reaching for my hand across the table, “she has cancer. But she has been looking for you. She want to see you.”
“Ch-Chelsea.”
Dom’s face is severe when he nods. “Yes. Chelsea Warren. She says that she adopted you, but she had to give you up.”
Lottie’s fingers squeeze mine. “You don’t have to see her, Vonnie.”
“I…but, I—I probably should.” I gulp, feeling chilly and hot at the same time and a little sick. Oh, shit. I think I might throw up.
I run from the table to the nearest bathroom, a half-bath in the hallway that leads to Dom and Lottie’s bedroom. I make it to the toilet in time to toss my cookies. When my stomach is purged, I flush the toilet and splash cold water on my face, staring at myself in the mirror.
God only knows where he came from… I didn’t agree to this! He’s creepy as fuck… It’s either him or me…
That whispered conversation from long ago slides through my consciousness.
I zero in on the phrase, “God only knows where he came from…” and let it roll around in my mind. I was only four at the time. How did they—Chris and Chelsea—not know where I came from? (Where the hell did I come from?) A few years ago, I had this vague, rogue memory that they mentioned an adoption agency in Georgetown, but when I called around looking for a couple named Chris and Chelsea who adopted a four-year old eighteen to twenty years ago, no one could help me.
This—this dying woman who left me in a hospital emergency room after being given an ultimatum—may be my only way to actually find out who I am.
I slurp some cold water into my mouth, gargle, and spit.
When I return to the kitchen table, Dom and Lottie look distraught.
“I’m okay,” I reassure them.
“What do you think?” asks Dom.
“Can you give me the nurse’s number? I need to meet her.”
***
I find out that Chelsea Warren doesn’t have much time left, and if I want to have a cogent conversation with her, I’d better come sooner than later. Her nurse suggests I come “after lunch” around two o’clock. Since that’s right in the middle of my workday, I do something I’ve never done before. I call in sick at the Kennedy Center.
Once that’s taken care of, I take the metro to Union Station and the train to Baltimore. From the train station, it’s a quick bus ride to the Johns Hopkins Medical Center—Chelsea Warren’s hospice is located nearby.
I give my name at the information desk, and I’m told to take a seat while they track down Dina Farrini, the nurse I spoke to last night. She walks through a door, into the waiting room, about ten minutes later. She wears green scrub pants and a pink and green plaid scrub top, covered by a pink cardigan. All things considered, she looks cheerful for someone who works at a place where people die. Maybe that’s the point.
“Vaughn Cigno?” she asks.
I stand up. “That’s me.”
“I’m Nurse Dina. I’ve been looking after Chelsea Warren for two weeks, now. She’s been asking for you. Took a while to track you down.”
“I appreciate it that you did.”
“She’s in and out on consciousness. Stage five glioblastoma.”
“You said that’s brain cancer, right?”
She nods, her face grim. “It is.”
We stare at each other for a moment, before she asks, “You ready?”
No. No, I’m not. I wish Sasha was here next to me, holding my hand, giving me courage.
I haven’t talked to her since last night. She has no idea that any of this is going on. When we traded texts this morning, I chose not to share it with her. I have no idea what to expect, and I don’t know if I’ll want to talk about it afterward…even with her.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
She leads me from the waiting room, down a carpeted corridor, stopping at a room halfway down the hallway. Before she opens the door, she looks up at me.
“She doesn’t look good. No hair. Pallor. She’s lost control of motor functions. She’s very weak.”
“I got it.”
She winces slightly. “I don’t know what happened between you and Ms. Warren, but she’s going to die soon. Whatever peace you can give her…” Her voice trails off. “Okay. Let’s go.”
We step inside an antiseptic-scented room with a faux wood floor and cheerful, bright yellow walls. Sunshine pours in through two windows, and while the bed and a visitor’s chair are hospital grade, someone’s tried to make the rest of the room feel homey.
In the center of the bed, covered with a sheet and blanket, and about as large as a ten-year-old girl, lies a woman, her skin gray, her head covered in a flowered scarf, and her eyes closed.
Nurse Dina nudges Chelsea’s shoulder gently. “Miz Warren? Miz Warren? I have Vaughn Cigno here for you.”
Chelsea’s eyes open, deep blue and confused. They dart around the room, finally resting on Nurse Dina’s face. Her muscles ease. She blinks and nods weakly.
“Nurse…” Her voice is soft and breathy.
“I’ve got the boy here for you. Vaughn Cigno. You asked for him.”
“Vaughn,” she whispers, her face contorting into a grimace. “Where’s…Vaughn?”
I step forward, standing next to Nurse Dina, and watch as Chelsea Warren’s eyes widen, examining my face as best she can from where she lies. I step closer to give her a better look, and she gasps, then coughs pitifully.
“You want some water, Miz Warren?” asks Nurse Dina, raising a straw to her patient’s lips.
Chelsea’s eyes remain fixed on mine as she sips.
“Th-those eyes,” she whispers. “Like a summer storm.”
Nurse Dina puts the cup of water back on the bedside table and pulls over a chair so I can sit beside my one-time foster mother. Pressing a button, she raises Chelsea’s bed a bit so she’s sitting up a little.
“You two visit,” she says. “I’ll give you some privacy and be back in a bit.”
I sit down in the chair, and Chelsea turns her head to face me, the movement laborious.
“I’m…so s-sorry, Vaughn. That’s f-first,” she says, every word an effort for her. “Do you…know me?”
I stare back at her, wishing that she looked familiar, but she doesn’t. Not even a little bit.
I shake my head no.
“Not a b-big talker,” she says softly, more to herself than me. “That hasn’t…changed.”
“Were you my adoptive mother or foster mother?” I ask her.
She clears her throat, and it’s a gruesome sound of grinding and phlegm. As soon as I get a few answers, I’m getting out of here.
Her eyes scan my face, and she winces. “We…we wanted a—a baby.”
“I wasn’t a baby.”
“No,” she says. “You were…Three? F-Four?”
Is she asking me? Anger rises up inside of me. How the fuck am I supposed to know how old I was? I look down at my lap, so she won’t see the sudden flare of rage in my eyes.
“You’d b-been through… something,” she says. “You…you p-peed the b-bed…every night. You cried. You were…d-difficult.”
You need answers, Vaughn. Save your anger for later.
“Did you sing a song to me?” I ask her. “With the words ‘doo-sha, ma-ya’ in it?”
She gasps again, and this time, huge tears brighten her eyes. “ Doo-sha, ma-ya. Doo-sha, ma-ya . Those w-words have…haun-ted my whole l-life. You s-said them over and—and…over again.”
“But I didn’t learn them from you?”
“N-No,” she says, as tears rivulet down her cheeks. “They c-came…w-with you.”
I pull a tissue from the box on her bedside table and try to hand it to her, but her hands are under the blanket, and I don’t think she can move them. I reach forward and gently wipe the tears away, wondering if she ever did the same for me.
“We b-bought you,” she whispers when our faces are close. Hers contorts in agony. I freeze, except for my eyes, which search hers. “We b-bought you from…from a—a sh-shady couple in…B-Brent-wood.”
More tears sluice down her cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. I fall back into my chair, staring at her in shock. No wonder I was never able to find out any information about my adoption. There was none. I was sold like an animal.
“How much did I cost?” I ask her.
“T-Twenty-thousand…d-dollars.”
Twenty-thousand dollars.
“Where did they get me? The couple?”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head, but the movement is weak. She’s getting tired.
“They d-didn’t tell us and—and…we d-didn’t ask.” She opens her eyes, but she’s struggling to keep them open. “We g-gave them… an envelope of…m-money…p-put you in the car… and went home.”
Oh my god.
It was so transactional. So cold.
“A few weeks later, you left me at a hospital,” I mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “You abandoned me there.”
“Y-yes,” she sobs. “I’m s-so s-sorry, V-Vaughn. B-But…But, we had ad-d-dopted… you ille-gally. We d-didn’t… We c-couldn’t…”
She’s crying so hard now, I’m afraid she’s going to pass out, and I won’t find out anything else.
“It’s okay,” I say, reaching up to pat her hand over the blanket. It’s not okay. It’s not remotely okay. But I need more. I need so much more. “Stop crying, Miz Warren. It’s okay.”
She sobs a few times, then closes her eyes again. I slide my hand off the blanket. I don’t know if she’s passed out or sleeping, but I let her rest for a few minutes before trying to find out a little bit more.
“Chelsea,” I whisper, leaning close to her ear, the smell of piss and shit and death wafting up from beneath the covers. “Where did I come from?”
“The…l-little b-boy,” she murmurs. “The Russian…b-boy. From…the zoo…”
“The little Russian boy from the zoo?” I ask her. “What is that? What do you mean?” I lean back and pat her hand repeatedly. “Chelsea? Who are you talking about? Who’s the little Russian boy from the zoo?” No response. Her eyes don’t even flutter. “Chelsea! Please! Who was the little Russian boy from the zoo?”
The door to Chelsea’s room opens, and Nurse Dina steps inside. She comes over to the bed, standing beside me.
“Oh, yeah. She’s out now.”
“Out?”
“She’ll sleep for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, too. Poor thing. She doesn’t have long.”
I spring up from my chair, running my hands through my hair.
“That’s it?”
Nurse Dina gives me a somber look. “Mighta killed her giving you that, son.”
Good , I think. Good. I hope she’s dead.
But even as the words pass through my mind, huge tears blur my vision. I reach down and place my hand over hers again, the blanket between us nubby under my palm.
“I for-forgive you,” I say softly, the words coming hard and hurting bad. “Thank you for finding me.”
“I’ll tell her you said that.” Nurse Dina puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a good boy, Vaughn Cigno.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, stepping away from the bed, and leaving the room.
***
Once outside, I breathe in the fresh air, taking mouthfuls and gulps of it, and swiping at my eyes as I walk aimlessly down the street. I don’t know Baltimore. I don’t know where I’m going. I only know I need to walk for a while. I’ve learned more about my history in the past fifteen minutes than I’ve known my entire life. It’s dizzying, and I need to process it.
I wasn’t adopted or even fostered to the Warrens.
I was purchased from a “shady” couple for twenty thousand dollars.
I peed the bed every night because I’d been “through something.”
Whatever “ doo-sha ma-ya ” was, I had learned it before arriving at the Warren’s house.
And the most cryptic thing of all… The little boy. The Russian boy. From the zoo.
I pause at a crosswalk and realize that I’m across the street from a public library. Without thinking, I beeline for it, running across four lanes of busy traffic.
Once inside, I ask where I can log into the internet, and run up the stairs two at a time to the third floor, where I find a bank of terminals. I sit down at one, out of breath, my adrenaline pumping.
I open a browser to Google, and type in the words: Russian Boy. National Zoo.
It’s good I’m sitting. I’d surely faint if I was still standing.
The first search result reads:
archive 2005/03/15
Russian boy, IVAN STEPANOV, 4, missing since April…
I click on the link, my blood running cold as I read the article, the gist of which is that Russian billionaire, Sergei Stepanov and his wife, Irina Stepanova, visited Washington, D.C. twenty years ago. During that visit, their youngest son, Ivan, was kidnapped from the National Zoo. He was never found, never reunited with his family, who offered a million-dollar reward for information that led to his safe return.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
Am I him? Am I Ivan Stepanov?
Ivan , which, in Russian would be pronounced, “Ee-VAUGHN.”
Vaughn.
I gasp with the shock of it.
Maybe a little kid, trying to pronounce his name to strangers, could have made it sound more like “Vaughn” than “Ivan.”
I spend the next hour reading everything I can find about the 2005 kidnapping of Ivan Stepanov. The same black-and-white picture of four-year-old Ivan comes up again and again, and though it isn’t a dead ringer for me, it’s possible we’re the same person. It’s hard to find a man’s face in that of a toddler.
I decide to concentrate on the details of the kidnapping instead.
Apparently, Ivan’s parents, an influential businessman and retired ballerina, had visited Washington D.C. for two weeks in the spring of 2005 with their five children and two nannies. The disappearance of Ivan at the National Zoo was a big story at the time—there are dozens of articles featuring the details of the incident, that one nanny was sick with a stomach virus and the other tried to take all five rambunctious kids to the zoo, losing one of them along the way.
Irina Stepanova remained in Washington for an additional two and a half months, until her visa ran out, spending a small fortune to find their son. But she eventually returned to Moscow broken-hearted.
I’m just pulling up an article about Irina Stepanov’s non-profit organization in Russia when a librarian taps me on the shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, “but it’s five o’clock p.m. and the library’s closing.”
I ask her for a pen and write down the name of Irina Stepanov’s charity organization and its address in Moscow.
Then, with a pounding headache, earned with everything I’ve learned today, I leave the library and make my way home.
***
Sasha
I missed him.
I missed him so much—despite the glamour of the Manhattan Ballet Theater and in-your-face energy of the Big Apple—I was counting down the days until I could see him again. And yes, texting helped. And yes, I loved our FaceTime chats. But neither texting nor chatting was a decent substitute for holding his hand, for feeling his arm around my shoulders, for closing my eyes as his lips landed passionately on mine.
I’m smitten.
(I may even be more than smitten.)
On Friday, after the two-hour all Stravinsky program at the Met, I raced to Penn Station with my packed bags and jumped on a train to Wilmington. My father was waiting to pick me up when the train pulled in at ten-thirty, and we arrived in the driveway of our rented beach house right before one. My mom was waiting up for us, but Bubbie, Gramps, Danny, June, and Greg were all fast asleep in their respective bedrooms.
Saturday was just for family—a day of sleeping in, beach time, a birthday BBQ, and wine on the deck. But today, Sunday, is all about friends coming to join in the fun.
I glance over at my older brother, Greg, and grin at him. He’s driving us to the bus station at Dewey Beach to pick up Sayaka and Vaughn. They left D.C. at eight a.m. and should be arriving in about ten minutes. We’ll have the whole day together.
“So…this guy,” says Greg. “You must really like him.”
My feet, in sandals, which I almost never wear, are resting on the glove compartment. I wiggle my toes with glee.
“I do like him,” I say. “A lot. So be nice.”
“We’ll see…” he teases.
“No, Greg,” I say. “We won’t see. If you like Sayaka half as much as I think you do, you won’t give Vaughn a hard time.”
He gives me a look then chuckles softly. “Okay, okay. But you’d better intercept Danny when we get home. He wanted to do a whole Spanish Inquisition-style Q&A with your new boyfriend.”
“He’s not my…” I let my voice trail off. Is Vaughn my boyfriend? Hmm. We established that we were more than friends before I left, and we stayed in close touch while I was gone, but we haven’t defined our relationship further than that. “You better not.”
“Fine. I’ll be nice.”
“Speaking of nice,” I say, grinning at my brother, “you like Sayaka a lot, don’t you? Mom said you took her out to dinner twice in D.C. while I was gone, and you hate going into the city.”
He winks at me. “City’s not that bad with the right company, little sister.”
I giggle. I like Sayaka a lot. I approve of her as potential brother’s-girlfriend material.
“Don’t be all weird, though. I’m trying to be cool.”
“Even though you’re head over heels?”
He shakes his head as we pull into the bus station. “Quit it, Sasha. I mean it.”
Our timing is perfect. Just behind us, the bus from D.C. pulls into the terminal, parking at the arrivals platform. I unclick my seat belt and bolt from the car, racing to the greeting area, desperate for a glimpse of Vaughn.
When he steps off the bus, dressed in new khaki pants and a navy-blue polo shirt, I jump him. (I can’t help it. I’ve missed him too damn much!) He holds me tight as I lock my ankles around his back and kiss him like I’ve been dying to for three long weeks. When I finally draw back, his gray-blue eyes are dreamy and dark.
“Hi,” I say.
“I missed you,” he tells me, kissing me again.
An index finger is boring painfully into my back. “Ahem.”
Vaughn’s and my lips unlock, and I look over my shoulder to find Greg standing next to Sayaka with a shocked expression on his face. I unlock my ankles and slide down Vaughn’s body, mouthing “my big brother.”
Swiping quickly at my mouth, I make introductions.
“Vaughn, this is my brother, Greg. Greg, this is Vaughn.”
Vaughn puts out his hand, but Greg hesitates for a second before taking it. He’s not pleased by Vaughn’s and my passionate reunion, and I’m sure my whole family’s going to hear about it.
“Good to meet you,” says Vaughn.
“Good to see you without my sister wrapped around your waist,” says Greg, dropping his hand.
Vaughn cringes, but I roll my eyes to tell him Greg’s just giving him a hard time. Turning to Sayaka, I grab her for a hug.
“Welcome to Delaware!”
“Sasha is back!” she says. “It was, um, lonely without you.”
She pronounces “lonely” like “ronery,” and suddenly, I realize how much I missed her, too.
“I missed you,” I say, “but not the gruesome twosome.”
“The…grue…?”
“Ming and Maria-Elena,” I clarify. “I did not miss them.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, giggling softly. “I understand.”
Greg takes Sayaka’s bag and leads her toward the car as Vaughn takes my hand to follow them.
“I missed you,” he tells me again, his voice low and serious. “I have so much to tell you, Sasha.”
I raise his hand to my lips and kiss it, sliding into the back seat beside him, so that Sayaka can sit next to my brother. I put my head on Vaughn’s shoulder, and he instantly puts his arm around me, gathering me close.
Sasha is back! Sasha is back!
Sayaka’s words have hit an unintentional nerve.
I have some news to share with Sayaka, Vaughn, and the rest of my family.
Sasha won’t be back for long.
***
“Sayaka!” cries my mother, pulling my fellow dancer into a Collins-style bear hug.
My father, grandparents, Danny, and June all follow suit, offering Sayaka a hug or their hands in greeting. Seemingly from out of nowhere, she presents my mother with a mesh bag of Meyer lemons and another of key limes.
“Thank you, Yulya-san…for welcome me…to your beach,” she says, clasping her fingers together and bowing at my mother. My mother awkwardly tries to bow back with two mesh bags hanging from her hands.
“Come see it!” says Greg, dropping Sayaka’s bag in the middle of the living room and pulling my friend back down the stairs and out the door to the beach.
All eyes turn to Vaughn.
Bubbie. Gramps. Mom. Dad. Danny and June.
“Everyone,” I say, standing proudly beside him, “this is Vaughn Cigno.”
“Cigno,” says my mother. “Doesn’t that mean ‘swan’ in Italian?”
“Yes, Mrs. Collins.” Vaughn nods. “It’s, um, my foster family’s surname.”
“You were in foster care?” asks June, her eyes sympathetic, her palm gently rubbing her pregnant tummy.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Danny,” says my brother, offering Vaughn his hand, “Sasha’s older brother.”
“Good to know you,” says Vaughn.
My mother steps forward and opens her arms but hugs him much more coolly than she did Sayaka. “Hello, Vaughn. Any friend of Sasha’s is welcome.”
My father and grandfather offer their hands to Vaughn before returning to their encampment on the sofa where they’re watching a baseball game. My mother gives me a lukewarm smile, then busies herself in the kitchen.
But my grandmother, my beloved Bubbie, stands across from us with a slight smile, staring deeply into Vaughn’s eyes.
“ Здравствуйте, Иван ,” she says, offering him her hand. Hello, Ivan.
“No, Bubbie,” I tell her, reaching for her hand and squeezing it with affection. “His name is Vaughn, not Ivan.”
“Vaughn is like Ivan,” she says, smiling at him so wide that her three silver teeth in the back glisten.
“Well, I guess it is similar,” I say.
“Are you Russian?” she asks him.
“To be honest, I don’t know, ma’am.” He looks down, then tilts his head to the side and meets her eyes again. “Maybe.”
“You don’t know.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”
“I think maybe you are,” she says. “Sasha says you like Russian poetry and literature.”
“It’s my favorite, ma’am.”
“No more “ma’am,”” she tells him. “You call me Bubbie, like my Sasha.”
“Why don’t I get us some iced tea, and we can visit outside?” I suggest.
“ Da. Good,” says my Bubbie, offering Vaugh her elbow and leading them toward the sliding glass doors.
I head to the kitchen where my mother is chopping celery and onions for a pasta salad.
“Mom!” I whisper. “What do you think?”
“Of your friend?” She smiles, but it’s fake, and I know it. “He’s seems…fine.”
“The foster care thing is making you weird.”
She puts her knife down and faces me. “Well, Sasha, what do you really know about him?”
“Stop it!” I scold her, taking down three glasses and filling them with ice. “He’s the nicest person ever. And super smart. And thoughtful. He’s done the best he can. Shame on you, Mom!”
“What did I do?” she says, acting all innocent and wounded. “He seems nice. I said that.”
I give her a look as I fill the glasses with tea.
“Keep an open mind?” I ask her. “Please? For me?”
“I will,” she promises, adding mayonnaise to her vegetables, a troubled expression creasing her face.
When I step out onto the deck, Bubbie and Vaughn are sitting across from one another, deep in conversation.
“…have heard of them, of course,” says Bubbie. “The Stepanovs…well, Sergei Stepanov is a Russian oligarch. A billionaire, and well, I believe he used to be a politician. Maybe not so much anymore. I don’t know. But yes—to answer your question—I have heard of him.”
“And Irina?” asks Vaughn.
“Wait! Irina…Stepanova?” I ask, setting down the tray of iced tea on a wicker coffee table and sitting next to Vaughn on a loveseat. “Is that who we’re talking about?”
“Have you heard of her?” asks Vaughn.
“Of course!” I say, grinning at him. “Irina Stepanova worked with Peter Martins at the Manhattan Ballet Theater in the early 1990s. She was a principal in Delight of the Muses and Zakouski !” I smile at Bubbie, then turn to Vaughn. “Have you ever seen tape of her? She was marvelous!”
“I have,” he says softly. “And she was.”
“There was a very sad story,” says my Bubbie, “about their youngest son. The youngest Stepanov child. I forget his name. But I believe he was kidnapped.”
I gasp. “Kidnapped?”
“Yes,” says Vaughn. “I read that, too. Ivan, the youngest of the five Stepanov children was kidnapped from the National Zoo while the Stepanovs were visiting the capital in 2005.”
“A terrible thing,” says Bubbie, shielding her eyes as she does when awful things are being discussed. “Poor little one.”
“Did they ever find him?”
“No,” says Vaughn.
“ Nyet ,” says Bubbie. “The poor boy was lost.”
I reach for the iced tea, giving one to my grandmother and another to Vaughn before raising my own.
“To happier times!” I say, pleased as punch that they seem to be getting along so well. “ За счастье !”
“To your health,” says Vaughn to my grandmother.
“And to yours,” she answers, eyeing him carefully.
We all drink tea.
***
Vaughn rolls up his pants to mid-calf and takes off his shoes so we can walk along the beach. Sayaka’s in a bikini under an umbrella with an adoring Greg beside her. The rest of my family is back at the house, relaxing after lunch.
We hold hands, letting the water splash our toes and ankles and kissing whenever we feel like it. It feels so good to be together again. I hate to wreck the mood with my news, but I’m hoping that we can figure out a way to make our relationship work in spite of what I’m about to share.
“I have to tell you—”
“I wanted to say—”
I look up at him, and we both laugh. I guess we were both waiting for the right moment to share what’s been going on in our lives.
“You go first,” I tell him, squeezing his hand.
“No, you go,” he says, always putting me first.
“Well…” I say, trying to ease into it, “things went really well in New York. Really well.”
“I knew they would.”
“I love the company, and being at Lincoln Center was…” I mime a chef’s kiss. “In the U.S., I think New York is the pinnacle of the ballet world. I loved it.”
“That’s great, Sasha. I’m proud of you.”
“I was offered a corps position!” I blurt out, unable to keep the news to myself any longer. “Corps! Can you believe it?”
We stop walking and face each other.
“You’re moving to New York,” he murmurs, looking dumbstruck.
I nod. “I can’t turn it down.”
“When do you go?”
“I leave in a week to start rehearsals for The Nutcracker .”
“What about D.C. and your job here?”
“I’ve loved it here. But they understand that I can’t choose an apprenticeship in D.C. over a corps position in New York. Stuff like this happens all the time in my world. They’ll be fine with it.” I search his face. “You haven’t said that you’re happy for me.”
“I am. Of course I am,” he says, but he doesn’t smile. “I know this is what you wanted.”
“So, I was thinking…” I take his hands in mine. “Come with me!”
His eyes widen. “What?”
“I know we’ve only been seeing each other for a couple of months, but…” I shrug, as if to say, “What do you have to lose?”
“Like, come to New York with you?”
“You can be a janitor in New York, too.”
“Sure, but I live here,” he says. “I’ve always lived here. And I just signed up for classes—”
“They have great colleges in New York.”
“I just…it’s a lot, Sasha. A lot to think about.”
I drop his hands, my cheeks heating up with embarrassment as I mutter, “You mean, I’m a lot.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he says gently, but he rubs the back of his neck, like he’s uncomfortable.
“Forget it,” I say, turning back toward the house. “Really. Forget I suggested it.”
Before I can get very far, he snatches my hand, tugging me back to him. “Hey. Don’t do that. Give me a second, okay? You’re telling me big news and asking me to make a major life decision without any notice or time to think.”
I’m so disappointed by his reaction, I can’t look at him. I feel like crying. “I was just…excited.” He pulls me into his arms for a hug. “I’m excited for you, and Sasha…it means the world to me that you want me to come with you.”
“I thought we could have an adventure,” I say against his chest, feeling small and young and silly.
“Hey. Maybe we can,” he says, drawing back a little to look down at me. His lips land on mine and linger there for a moment. “Wherever you are, is where I want to be. I’m crazy about you, котик .”
“I’m crazy about you, too,” I tell him, the words coming easily.
“I bet there are loads of community colleges in New York,” he says, a slight smile tilting his lips upward.
I nod. “Tons.”
“And plenty of work.”
“Absolutely!” I chirp, my heart lifting. “So, you’ll think about it?”
“I already am,” he says, taking my hand so we can keep walking down the beach.
“Hey,” I say, nudging him in the ribs after a minute of walking. “What did you want to tell me? Was it about signing up for classes?”
He thinks for a second, then nods. “You guessed it. I’m going to earn my associate’s degree in social sciences and go from there.”
“Vaughn!” I cry, wrapping my arms around his neck and stepping en pointe in bare feet to kiss him. “I’m so proud of you!”
He’s still smiling when I draw away, but there’s something uncertain in his eyes as he scans mine. Is it misgivings about New York? Or…something else?
“Was that it?” I ask. “Was that all you wanted to tell me?”
His eyebrows knit for just a second before he forces his smile wider and nods reassuringly at me. “Tell me more about New York!”