CHAPTER 8
Vaughn
Sasha drives me to the bus terminal after dinner, and we make out in the back seat of her father’s car for a few minutes before my bus arrives. I choose a window seat and wave to her until the bus pulls out of the parking lot and into the night. Then I sit back with a sigh. I’ve got a lot to process.
It wasn’t enough time.
I didn’t want to leave her.
And I hate to think of us being apart again.
The news about her moving to New York feels like a double-edged sword. Obviously, I don’t love it that she’s moving away from D.C., where I’ve lived my whole life. But on the flip side, the fact that she invited me to join her? It means everything. It means that our relationship is moving in a more serious direction, and there are few things in life I want more than that.
In fact, the only thing more important than a future with Sasha, is puzzling together the scant details I possess about my childhood. Only when I understand my past—who I am and where I came from—will I be in a position to figure out my future, one that I desperately hope will include her.
They’re totally intertwined. I don’t feel like I can have one without the other.
Which is why my visit with Chelsea Warren and everything I’ve learned about the kidnapping of Ivan Stepanov and the Stepanov family is so important to me.
I’ve spent hours every day reading everything I can find online about the Stepanov family.
Sergei Stepanov, a one-time KGB agent, politician, and extremely successful businessman, was married to a Tatiana Petrova for six years, during which time they had three children—a son, Mikhail, and twin daughters, Galina and Nina.
Sergei and Tatiana met prima ballerina Irina Danielova at a meet and greet event after watching her perform Juliet in Romeo and Juliet with the Bolshoi. Sergei fell desperately in love with Irina, divorced Tatiana and married Irina the day after his divorce was finalized. They had two children: a daughter, Sofia, and a son, Ivan.
By all accounts, Sergei, and the much younger Irina, were happy together.
But the kidnapping of Ivan wreaked havoc on their family. Despite having billions of dollars to spend on detectives and rewards, there were no good leads for the D.C. police to follow. Ivan, last seen sitting on a bench at the National Zoo, had vanished into thin air. Sergei returned to Moscow with his four remaining children, but Irina stayed in Washington, returning every three months in an effort to find Ivan. After four years, and with the development of Sergei’s diminishing health, she stopped traveling back and forth and remained in Russia.
In the winter of 2010, Sergei Stepanov died of heart failure, leaving his fortune to his wife and four remaining children, with Irina as conservator until each child reached the age of thirty, at which point they were entitled to their full share of their father’s remaining estate.
From everything I’ve read, this transition did not go smoothly.
The descriptions I’ve read of Mikhail Stepanov online go from bad to worse as the years rolled forward. There are tons of pictures of him in nightclubs, on yachts, racing cars and with supermodels and heiresses from all over the world. Tabloids in London call him “Manic Mikey,” and share news of his failed restaurants with glee. Now thirty-two years old, he’s embroiled in legal battles with his stepmother, Irina, who refuses to give him his inheritance.
There is much less information about Galina and Nina, though Nina was married about three years ago to Mishka Tarasov, the son of another Russian oligarch, and the wedding was estimated at a cost of $420 million dollars.
Irina and Sofia, who is twenty-eight years old, are inseparable, according to internet sources. They live together, do charity work together, travel together, and vacation together. They spend most of their time at a villa in the South of France, though they also have an apartment in London, and an estate “fit for tsars” in Rublyovka, a tony, wooded neighborhood across the river from Moscow.
If it turns out that I actually am Ivan Stepanov, I would have lived a very different life than the one I’m living now.
You’re not Ivan Stepanov , I tell myself, as I’ve done a million times since meeting Chelsea Warren.
You’re not the son of a late Russian billionaire and his ballerina wife.
I’m someone who nobody wanted, not even his own mother.
You’re not the beloved, kidnapped child of visiting oligarchs.
I’m the foster son of an Italian American couple who’ve been kind to me.
You’re not a swan’s egg that accidentally rolled into a duck’s nest.
I’m just me, Vaughn No-Name, who was abandoned, came from nowhere, and deserves nothing.
Except…by some miracle of fate…
Sasha Collins wants to be with me.
She got a job in New York and invited me to go with her. And what did I do? Because of all this Ivan Stepanov nonsense, I hesitated. I made her feel bad. I hurt her, even if just for a moment.
God! Why are you so stupid?
Of course I will go to New York with her.
I will look for an apartment while she’s working, find a job to help support us, and figure out a way to take classes when she’s dancing.
I text her quickly, asking if we can hang out when she gets back to the city, and she encourages me to come over on Tuesday night after work.
No more of this Chelsea Warren, Stepanov nonsense , I tell myself. Instead, I will thank God, every morning and every night, that I found my own fairytale. That somehow—against all odds—I was found worthy, by someone wonderful, of love.
***
On Tuesday night, I’m itching to finish my shift so I can head over to Sasha’s place.
She’s packing up everything for her move to New York, and I’m eager to tell her that I’ve decided to join her there. Even though it’s going to hurt Dom and Lottie, I need to tell them that I’m leaving soon. I’m going to give my notice at work, stay on for two weeks until they can find my replacement, pack up everything I own, and follow Sasha north to the Big Apple.
At eight-forty, during Act Two of Coppelia , I take a break on the set loading dock. Since Sasha and I started dating, I don’t smoke anymore, but I still like to stand out there at night, when it’s quiet and still. Sometimes I can even see the stars.
I’m stargazing when Dom comes looking for me.
“Eh, Vonnie,” he says, peeking outside. “There you are. You a-taking a break?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. Act Two started a few minutes ago.”
“Uh…”
I didn’t notice before, but Dom seems nervous. He steps outside to join me, one hand still holding the door cracked open. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, then glances back at the door like he’s worried about something…or someone.
“You need me to come back inside?” I ask. “Are we being monitored tonight?”
From time to time, the Kennedy Center brings in cleaning experts to observe our work and make suggestions for better efficiency.
“No. Uh, but yeah. Come inside, yeah?”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Is fine,” says a female voice from behind him. “I will come out.”
Through the door and onto the concrete loading dock, walks a woman dressed like a very rich opera patron. I’ve seen them a million times in their designer jeans, silk tops, and expensive jackets. Her hair is in a French twist, and her wrists and fingers are covered in jewelry. She’s not quite my height, but her high-heeled shoes make her eyes just about level with mine.
“You are Ivan?” she asks.
“Vaughn,” I say.
She scans my face carefully, as though looking for something particular. She inhales sharply. Her eyebrows knit together. Her lips purse, then smile. A tear rolls down her cheek. She whimpers, then sighs.
“Vaughn,” she breathes, lifting her chin. “ Ivan .”
I slide my eyes to Dom, who is wringing his hands by the stage door. “Dom? What’s—I mean…what’s going on? Who is she?”
“She came to the house first, and, um, Lottie send her over here. She says…she is…your…um, your mother.” Dom pats my arm before slipping back inside. “I give you some privacy, yes?”
“My…” For just a moment, my heart stops as I stare at the woman before me. The gray-blue eyes. The high cheekbones . “Who are you? What’s your name?”
“I am Irina Danielova Stepanova,” she says in accented English. “I think you are my son.”
Looking at her face, which, I’m realizing, bears a certain resemblance to mine, I’m so dumbfounded, I can’t speak.
She leans closer. “Can I…um, may I see the—your neck, please?”
“My neck?”
She gestures behind her own ear. “Your neck. Is there a mark? Here?”
And in that instant, I know it’s true. I am Ivan Stepanov.
I tilt my head to the side, and as she looks, she cries out, her sobs deep and real. She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me to her, until my forehead rests against her shoulder.
“ Мой сын. Мой сын. Мой малыш .” Moy sin. Moy sin.
“I don’t speak Russian,” I mumble, my arms hanging awkwardly by my sides. “What are you saying?”
“ Мой сын. My s-son,” she sobs, her body shaking with the force of her tears. “My b-baby b-boy.”
I close my eyes and inhale, hoping that the smell of her skin or perfume will prompt a memory, but it doesn’t. I open them again and try to take a step away. She loosens her arms from around me, reaching into her purse for a tissue and wiping her eyes.
“I never give up,” she tells me. “I look for you. I hope. Always.” She reaches into her bag again and pulls out the letter I wrote to her several weeks ago, care of her non-profit organization. “But you find me instead.”
The letter. I’d all but forgotten it.
I’d written it the day after meeting Chelsea Warren, knowing full well that it would probably never get to Irina Stepanova, whom I assumed was more of a figurehead than hands-on leader. Turns out I was wrong. The person who opened it in Moscow must have sensed it could be important to her.
“This letter go to Moscow, then France, then London, then back to Moscow.” She shrugs. “I travel lot. It keep missing me.”
“It found you at the house in Rublyovka?”
“ Da. My primary residence.” Her red lips tilt up. “You know where I live?”
“I’ve done some research.”
“Smart. Always smart little boy.” She reaches up to cup my cheek. “The most beautiful little boy.”
Creepy. Freakish. Lurch.
Only to you , I think, staring back at her.
As if she can read these thoughts as they pass through my mind, her breath hitches. “Everything will be different now, Ivan. Everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are my only son. You are my child. You must come home.”
“To Moscow?” I ask, staring at her in shock. I might even laugh a little because it sounds so outlandish.
“Of course.”
“But…I live here.”
“You don’t… belong here,” she says. “You are a Stepanov.”
“I don’t have…a passport, a plane ticket—”
“I have Ivan’s Russian passport. It’s expired, but it’s yours. We will get new one in Moscow.”
“I’ve never been on a plane.”
“I have jet waiting. At National Airport.”
“A jet? A p-private jet?”
“Of course,” she says. “ Это нормально .” It sounds like “normal.”
“It’s not normal to me,” I tell her, trying to process everything going on around me and losing the battle. It’s all too much. “None of this is…normal. I—I have a job.”
“You quit job. Is no good.”
“I can’t just…you’re moving too fast.”
“Ivan,” she says, taking my hands and staring deeply into my eyes. “You need come home. To Moscow. Meet your family. Your sister. Your half-siblings. We need to meet you.”
“For how long?” I ask.
“As long as you like,” she says. “Always.”
Fuck, all I’ve wanted—for as long as I can remember—was to know who I was and where I came from. And now—here and now—my birth mother is standing in front of me, giving me that chance. And yes, it means quitting my job, but Dom will understand. And yes, it means going to Moscow for a week or two, but I can fly back to New York after meeting my family and start my life with Sasha, just like we planned. Maybe this is how everything is supposed to be, meant to be. Maybe, for once, I should leap forward and just trust that everything will work out okay.
“I would need to say goodbye to…to Dom and Lottie.”
“The foster parents? Da . We say goodbye before we go to airport.”
“But there’s also…” Sasha.
Oh my god. Sasha.
How in the hell am I going to explain all of this to her?
“You have someone? In your life? A woman?”
My mother is perceptive. “Yes.”
“ Da .” She nods, taking her phone from her bag and making a call. “I have car come here. We stop at Cigno house first, then we go see the woman.”
It occurs to me that Sasha would probably like to meet Irina Stepanova in person.
“She’s a ballerina,” I tell her. “Like you.”
She lifts her chin, her eyes narrowing just a touch.
“ No one is ballerina like me.”
I lift my own chin and meet her eyes without flinching.
“She. Is.”
Irina surprises me by smiling…like she’s proud, like she’s the luckiest, proudest, happiest swan in the pond. She nods at me, her smile wider and wider until she laughs, shaking her head back and forth like I’m naughty but also extremely clever.
“ Da .” She strokes my cheek as a limousine pulls up alongside us. “There he is. You are my son. My Ivan.”
***
Sasha
Sometimes when I’m doing chores or cleaning, I like to put music on really loud, but since I rent the basement apartment of a young couple with a baby upstairs, I have to wear earbuds. I check my watch. It’s almost nine, which means Act Three of Coppelia is about to begin. Thirty-five minutes later, the ballet will be over, and since Vaughn has to do a quick refresh of the dressing rooms, he should be here by…hmm…if he’s lucky, about ten-thirty.
Plenty of time to blast my favorite Spotify Girl Power playlist which starts off with No Doubt’s Gwen Stefani belting, “I’m Just a Girl.” I don’t go out dancing very often, but I love dancing in my apartment. I love breaking all of the rules I meticulously uphold when I’m at work and moving my body however I want to.
I’ve made good progress with my kitchen today—all of my plates, silverware, glasses and cookware have been wrapped in newspaper and packed in a moving box. Now it’s time to tackle the items in my living room, nicknacks in cabinets and books on shelves.
I’m in the middle of an Alvin Ailey-style lunge to Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” when I look up to see Vaughn standing just inside my front door with an older woman standing behind him.
I scream in surprise, grabbing madly for the ear buds and tugging them from my ears.
“Vaughn! How did you—”
“You didn’t hear the bell.” He holds up my key. “You gave it to me? To water the plants?”
“Right. Right,” I say. Why’s he here so early? I’m sweaty in a sports bra and leggings. I had set the alarm on my phone to go off at ten-fifteen so I could take a quick shower and change before he got here. “You’re early.”
“Yeah. I need, um…I need to talk to you.”
I look over his shoulder at the woman standing behind him. She gave me a once-over when they first arrived, but since then, she’s been on her phone.
“Who’s that?” I whisper.
He glances at her, then back at me, and for the first time I realize how tight his expression is, how fraught. He’s here early. There’s a strange woman with him. And he needs to talk to me.
“Is it Dom?” I ask, reaching for his arm. Maybe this woman is a doctor or social worker, and she gave him a ride here? “Or Lottie? Did something happen to one of them?”
“No,” he says. “Nothing like that.”
“Then, who is she?”
“She’s…” He stares at the floor, tongue-tied and frozen.
Okay. Well. If he’s not going to introduce me to the woman behind him, I guess I’ll have to introduce myself.
“Hi,” I say, smoothing my hair back with one hand and offering her the other. “I’m Sasha Collins.”
She looks at me like she’s amused, takes her phone down from her ear and quickly shakes my hand. “ Sasha . Russian name. Not a surprise.”
Obnoxious. I put my hands on my hips. “And you are?”
“Irina Danielova Stepanova,” she tells me, putting her phone back up to her ear.
I blink at her and realize I’m standing face-to-face with one of my childhood heroes, albeit thirty years after her prime. Irina Stepanova, “The Butterfly of the Bolshoi,” is standing in the doorway of my apartment. Oh my god!
I step back from her and look up at Vaughn, barely able to contain my excitement. “That’s Irina Stepanova!”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding at me. “It is.”
“Was she at the show tonight? How did you meet her? Oh my god!” I look back at her, trying to catch her attention, though she stays focused on her phone call. “Did you enjoy the performance, Ms. Stepanova? I think the pas de deux in Act Three is the most beautiful—”
“Nice to meet you, Sasha,” she says. “Ivan, I wait in car.”
“Nice…to meet you,” I say, watching as she climbs the steps back up to the sidewalk, walking through the iron gate and entering a waiting limo.
“Wow!” I say. “She’s super rude, but who cares? Irina Stepanova! How did you get her to come here? Oh my god, Vaughn! Best surprise ever!”
Without sharing my excitement, he closes the front door, takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. “Sit down with me.”
“What’s going on? Why did she say she’d wait for you?”
When he sits down, I scan his face and realize how confused and exhausted he looks. I kneel beside him, facing him, needing to know everything. As I stare at him, a tear rolls down his cheek. He reaches up to swipe it away but another follows.
“Hey,” I say gently, pulling his hand away from his face so I can hold it. “Talk to me.”
He reaches for me, pulling me into his arms as his body shakes with sobs. I don’t know what’s happened or how to help him, so I wrap my arms around him, stroking his back and whispering that everything will be okay.
“Vaughn,” I whisper close to his ear, “please talk to me.”
“Irina…S-Stepanova…is my—my mother,” he chokes out.
I gasp in surprise, holding him tighter. “What do you mean?”
“Remember the, um, the story your Bubbie told? About the little boy? Kidnapped…from the zoo?” he asks through choppy breaths. “That was… me .”
“What?”
He nods. “It’s true.”
“Ivan…Stepanov,” I whisper, remembering the story that Bubbie shared with us over the weekend. “ You’re Ivan Stepanov.”
“I think so,” he says, sniffling. “My birthmark. She knew about it. And we look alike. If you look closely, you’ll see it.” He takes a deep breath, and it’s a little easier for him. “The timeline works out. My first words were in Russian. I’m him, Sasha. I’m Ivan. I know it.”
I lean back to cradle his wet face, kissing his forehead tenderly. “Let me get you a washcloth.”
“Don’t go,” he begs me, pulling me back against his chest and holding me tight.
“Okay. I won’t,” I promise, putting my arms around his neck. “I’m here.”
After a few deep breaths, he says, “She wants me to go to Moscow with her.”
“To Moscow?”
I feel him nod. “Yeah. She has a jet…or something.”
“Wait. What? You mean—you mean tonight?”
I lean back to look into his eyes, and he nods at me.
“Does it have to happen so fast?” I ask.
“Sasha,” he says, “I’ve been waiting my whole life to find out who I am, where I came from, how I got here.” He sighs. “This is my chance to find out.”
“Of course,” I say, nodding at him. “Of course you need to meet your family.”
“She can only keep her plane here for a few hours. It’s still on the tarmac at National.”
“Oh. Her…her plane.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Dom said he’d explain to the head of custodial services that I had a family emergency. He said he thinks they’ll hold my job for me for two weeks. And Lottie helped me pack.”
“You already said goodbye to Dom and Lottie?”
He nods again. “You’re the last stop before I go.”
“Tonight.” A lump is rising up in my throat. It’s big, and it’s getting bigger, and it’s going to hurt.
“That’s the plan,” he says. “But I’ll be back soon. New York can totally still happen—”
“Let me just get you that washcloth!” I say, leaping off his lap before he can stop me.
In the safety of my bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror, watching as huge tears well up in my eyes. My cheeks are red and hot. My bottom lip quivers.
I really, really wanted him to come to New York with me.
I pictured us there in the fall, spending hours at the Strand on my day off. At Christmastime with all of the beautiful lights and decorations. My family could get to know him better over Thanksgiving and Christmas. We’d fall in love in the most romantic city on earth. New York is where we’d start our life together.
And now—suddenly—we’re out of time.
What Vaughn doesn’t know yet, is that families are complicated. And it’s going to take a lot longer than two weeks for him to get to know the Stepanovs. He won’t be back in two weeks. He might not be back for two years.
My disappointment about New York not working out and the hurt I’m going to feel apart from him makes me weep. I run the tap water and cry softly for a couple of minutes, then splash my face and dry it. By the time I return, he’s composed himself. He looks…better than he did. He looks okay. Maybe even a little excited.
My heart swells with love for him, and I walk purposefully over to the couch and straddle his lap, cupping his jaw while I kiss him.
Tears fall as he winds his strong arms around my waist, holding me tight. Our tongues slide against each other in a dance we were just starting to perfect. Our breathing is shallow and fast. Our hearts race against each other. Crying makes kissing messy, and I break it off, dropping my cheek to his shoulder.
“I’ll miss you,” I tell him.
“I won’t be gone forever,” he says. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
I don’t think so.
“I’m glad you’ll have a chance to meet your family, Vaughn. I’m happy for you.”
“I have an older brother,” he says. There’s so much longing in his voice, my heart clenches with hope for him.
Please be everything he deserves. Please be the best big brother any man could ask for.
“Older brothers can be a handful,” I tell him, laughing through my tears.
“And three big sisters, too,” he says. “My mother said we’re flying to Moscow tonight, but she has homes in the C?te d’Azur and London.”
“Wow,” I say softly. “I’ve never even been to Europe.”
“But you will go!” he insists. “Someday! The Paris Opera Ballet. The Royal Ballet, remember?”
He’s telling me my dreams, which should fill my heart with joy and excitement, but my heart feels broken right now. It feels empty, thinking of him so far away. I hate that I wasted three precious weeks in New York when we could’ve been together in D.C. I hate that I didn’t come back to the city with him on Sunday night and have an extra day together.
I wasted time , I think. I thought we’d have more.
“Our timing sucks,” I say.
“It does.”
There’s a knock at the front door and Vaughn lets me go so I can open the door. Irina Stepanov stands in the doorway with a black umbrella open.
“The rain starts,” she says. “The pilot wants to go.”
“He’s such a good person,” I tell her. “Vaughn.”
“ Ivan ,” she corrects me, then adds, “Of course. He is my son.”
“I’ll miss him.”
“ Nyet ,” she tells me. “You are dancer. Go dance. That is best for you.” She calls to Vaughn over my shoulder. “Five minute. We go.” She glances at me before turning back to her car. “ Прощай, маленькая Саша .”
Farewell, little Sasha.
“ До свидания , Irina Stepanova,” I say softly to her back.
When I turn around, Vaughn is standing right behind me.
“We can text,” he says, “just like we did when you were in New York.”
“Sure, we can.”
But I know from trips Bubbie and Gramps have taken to Russia that Moscow is eight hours ahead of New York. It will be difficult to find convenient times to chat, but I bite my tongue. I don’t share that with him.
“Don’t worry! I’ll be back soon,” he says. “I’ll come and find you in New York. In two weeks. Three tops.”
That lump in my throat is agony. “Mm-hm.”
He pulls me into his arms, his lips close to my ear. My tears start to fall again, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
“You saved my life, Sasha Collins,” he whispers. “I’ll love you until the end of time.”
I sob at the earnestness of these precious words. I tuck them away in my heart. No matter what else may or may not happen in my journey with Vaughn Cigno, in this instant, for this moment, I have his love, and though I haven’t told him, he has mine, too.
“B-Be safe,” I tell him through tears. “Th-thank you f-for this w-wonderful summer. R-remember how much you…you m-mean to me.”
He leans back to cup my face with his hands.
His eyes scan mine, as though memorizing them.
His lips touch down on mine for a brief, perfect second.
And then he is gone.