CHAPTER 16
Vaughn
I pay our bill quickly and rush outside, hailing a cab to the Gare du Nord .
No doubt Sasha is taking the Chunnel train back to London. If I can make it in time to the station and find her on the train, we’ll be trapped together for another two or three hours. I can try harder. I can ask her about her life. I can listen thoughtfully as she tells me about her injury and recovery. I can show her that I care. I can—
No.
I can’t.
We’re not even halfway to the station when I tell the driver to drop me off near the Place de Concorde instead.
To ambush her on the train would be to subjugate her will for mine, confirming everything she believes about my self-centeredness. I’d be forcing her to spend more time with me when she was clear about her feelings and wishes.
I have no place in my life for what you’ve become.
Don’t ever contact me again.
I wince at the thought of those words. They are exactly what I hoped not to hear when I planned this date, even though I deserve them.
Unmoored and confused by my sudden change in circumstances five years ago, I sacrificed her. I was careless with her heart. I was cruel to her. And in the ensuing years, I have become— she’s right —entitled, selfish, exploitative, and purposeless.
I didn’t ask her about her life or her family, and I had no idea about her injury. I do nothing to make the world a better place or use my ample resources for good. I swan about from Stepanov mansion to flat to villa, shopping, eating, drinking, and making merry, with little thought of or compassion for others.
The person I have become would look down on the person I used to be.
Poor, lanky, ugly, shaggy-haired, snaggle-toothed, uncultured, uneducated, unloved Vaughn.
I probably wouldn’t even notice someone like him anymore. If I did, I might have a passing pang of pity for someone so poor, unattractive and alone, but I’d quickly move on to more pleasing thoughts, more pleasing activities. I wouldn’t waste time thinking about Vaughn, let alone helping him, which is shameful because I spent more of my life in his shoes than in the ones I wear now.
How quickly I changed from someone who was Vaughn, to someone who despised him.
For the first time in five years, I wonder if I need to spend a bit more time reconciling those identities instead of polarizing them.
I pay the taxi driver and exit the cab onto the gray and chilly streets of Paris, walking briskly from the Place de Concorde to the Seine. The wind whips my face with painful lashes as I review Sasha’s words.
… seeing you makes me miss Vaughn Cigno.
I’m hoping that Vaughn is still in there somewhere.
He didn’t know everything about where he came from or who he was. But he was kind. And he was real. He was the realest person I ever knew.
You bought that book for me when you had nothing, and I suspect it was the very best you could do, the most you could give. I bet bus fares were exchanged for the price of that little book. You walked so I could read.
Vaughn would’ve asked how I’d been! Vaughn would’ve cared!
Oh my god, once upon a time, you were the coolest and most beautiful.
If I distill each of her comments into a single word, I come up with,
Real. Kind. Thoughtful. Caring. Cool. Beautiful.
I roll these words around in my head as a light rain begins to fall.
Without the benefit of a raincoat or umbrella, my hair and overcoat are gently covered with a chilly mist as I lean my elbows on a metal railing and look out at the Seine. The Place de Concorde is behind me and the Tuileries Garden is to my left.
Such beautiful places I wanted Sasha to see.
“But she’d choose a battered book of poetry from Vaughn Cigno over a day in Paris with me,” I mutter to myself, staring at the water.
Real. Kind. Thoughtful. Caring. Cool. Beautiful.
Real? Ha. For most of my life, now included, I haven’t felt like a “real boy,” I think, remembering the words from the fairytale, Pinocchio . For most of my life, I felt like I couldn’t be real until I knew where I came from. Now that I know, it feels like I can’t be real until I figure out where I’m going…and to my shame, especially with all of the resources at my disposal now, I have no idea.
Kind? Aside from saying “thank you” to house staff and waiters, I’m not very kind to anyone. I’m totally insulated by wealth. I do nothing to help my fellow man. Before my mother showed up five years ago, I was planning to go to school and earn a degree in social work, but that plan was quickly forgotten when I moved to Moscow. I got swept up in the glamour of the Stepanovs, and a life of altruism was sacrificed along with Sasha.
Thoughtful and caring? I’m the furthest thing from it. Sasha’s right. All day we talked about me. My life. My history. My trauma. My struggle. I never once asked about her beloved family or her career or her life back in New York. I tried to impress her with all the luxuries my money could buy. But she wasn’t impressed. If anything, she was disgusted, because my elaborate displays weren’t caring, they were bragging. I can see that now.
I can’t even bear to consider what “cool” or “beautiful” mean in Sasha’s world because by all units of measurement known to man, I am a million times cooler and more beautiful now, and yet…she finds me repulsive.
It takes me a moment to realize that the warmer raindrops sliding down my cheeks aren’t from the sky, but from my eyes. I’m crying, and I have no idea for how long. But I’m grateful for the rain and grayness of the late afternoon. I pull my phone from my back pocket and check the time. It’s almost five o’clock.
“Who are you?” I whisper, still staring at the black water of the Seine. “And, more importantly…who do you want to be?”
My “identity,” as both a reality and a concept, has been confusing and painful for me for as long as I can remember.
As a small child, you identify yourself by those who surround you, often within a family unit. I’m mummy’s son. I’m Daddy’s youngest child . I’m Mikhail’s little brother. You don’t necessarily create an identity of your own. You accept where you are as the truth.
But as you grow into an adolescent and teenager, you start to create a personal identity, making choices about who you want to be. You try on different personality traits to see how they fit you. If you see someone acting kind, you might choose to emulate them, to see how it feels to be kind, and how the world responds to your kindness. If you like what you experience, you may choose to keep that character trait as a part of you. Conversely, if you are treated cruelly or abused, you must decide if you’re going to perpetuate that cruelty in your own life. Will you bully children younger than yourself? Or will you defend them as you wish you’d been protected? You choose to be kind or cruel. You have agency over who you are and who you want to be.
As you develop into an adult, the qualities you choose for yourself become your personality and your character. Who you are and what you stand for comes into focus, and you become the person you want to be.
Losing my initial identity because I was kidnapped didn’t necessarily change this journey for me. Like every other human being on earth, I grew from a child to an adolescent to a teenager to an adult. As Vaughn, I chose Russian poetry and hard work. I chose a simple life with people who made me feel safe. I chose a job at a beautiful place where I met a beautiful person, and I loved her more than I ever thought one person could love another.
Sasha would say that, for the most part, I chose well.
But then, suddenly, without warning, out of nowhere, the fundamentals of my identity changed. I wasn’t unwanted. I wasn’t an orphan. I wasn’t a poor janitor anymore.
I was whisked away to a place where servants picked up and washed my clothes, where I was wanted and loved, where I had more money than Midas. It turned my head. It made me forget myself.
And seeing Sasha again has helped me remember.
There is a reason I left Mikhail’s apartment two weeks ago and haven’t returned since. It’s the same reason I’ve imposed a recent code of celibacy on myself. The behavior I chose to indulge in as Ivan Stepanov isn’t who I am. And it isn’t representative of the person I want to be.
Since the moment I saw Sasha again, I haven’t been able to pretend that Vaughn Cigno never existed; and more and more, I wonder if I was wrong to have despised him so entirely.
From age five to age twenty-five, my identity developed, regardless of my kidnapping and terrible time in foster care. I made choices that culminated in the person known as Vaughn Cigno. And now I see, in the strangest twist of fate that ever was, I am still Vaughn Cigno, walking around in Ivan Stepanov’s clothing.
I hate the way my half-siblings treat other people.
I’m embarrassed by the way they spend money.
Though I care for them, they feel soulless and ungrounded to me, like paper dolls on kite strings.
I could continue to pretend that these things don’t bother me, or I could be honest and admit that they do. Our paths diverged so wildly when we were children. I didn’t grow up with them, and as a result, I will never fit in seamlessly with them. The way my mother and siblings live their lives will never be a comfortable way for me to live mine.
I tried it and found out that I want something different.
Real. Kind. Thoughtful. Caring. Cool. Beautiful.
These are the qualities Sasha Collins wants in a man. If I want to be that man, I need to find these qualities inside of myself once again.
I take my phone out again and pull up the number of the helicopter pilot.
Returning to the heliport now , I type. One passenger to London.
I don’t know what all of these revelations tonight will mean for my life or my future. I don’t want to be Vaughn Cigno, but I can’t go back to the way I was living my life as Ivan Stepanov either. There must be someone in between the two—someone who is part Vaughn and part Ivan—and only by being that person will I finally find out who I really am.
The greatest tragedy of this journey, of course, is that I lost Sasha along the way. And yes, I know her final request of me was that I leave her alone…but I can’t. Not yet. I need to tell her one last thing.
When I asked her tonight, Isn’t there more to say? she answered, I don’t think so.
But she was wrong. I have something else to say to her, and it’s this.
You said you hoped that Vaughn was still inside of me somewhere.
And the answer is…
He is.
***
Sasha
I shed a few more tears on the train, but they’ve dried up long before the ride is over. I grieved the loss of Vaughn Cigno years ago, and though today led me to a better understanding of everything that happened between us, nothing he said or showed me makes me want to rekindle a relationship with him. We are on profoundly different paths now. And that’s okay. Vaughn never promised me forever.
And maybe, now that all of my questions are answered, I can move on with my own life in a more mindful and purposeful way.
If I’m unable to return to the stage after the new year, I’ll need to figure out a new direction for myself, a new chapter.
Either way, I’d like to meet a good man, who is loving and honest and kind. I’d like to build something strong with him that leads to children and home and family. Bubbie once told me that, “Boyfriends don’t fly through the window, sweet Sasha. If you want to meet someone, you need to put yourself out there!”
I grin at my reflection in the dark window, recalling her words. But my grin quickly fades as I consider what it means.
Tinder and Bumble make me cringe. I’m not interested in “hookup” apps. More than half the guys I meet at work are gay, and the other half are so focused and competitive, it doesn’t equate to a very healthy relationship. I found that out when I dated the dancer from Argentina.
A friend in New York tried speed dating and said it was a waste of time.
But another friend tried eHarmony and met someone nice. Maybe it’s time for me to try one of those dating sites.
Feeling overwhelmed by my thoughts, I take my phone from my purse, hoping to text with my family, but during my travels today, I’ve allowed the battery to die. I find a cable in the bottom of my bag and plug it in, waiting for it to reboot.
In the meantime, I make my way to the snack car to stand on a long line for a cappuccino and a chocolate chip cookie, which I take back to my seat. As I sit down, I realize we’re back in the UK, above-ground. It’s dark outside, but I can see the lights of homes and businesses. I dip my cookie into my coffee and enjoy the view for a moment before picking up my phone and flipping it over.
Four missed calls.
And two dozen unread messages.
I swallow down the bite of cookie in my mouth, my blood running cold.
Something bad has happened.
The thought slides through my head before I can even press on the green Messages icon. When I do, I find that all messages are concentrated in the text chat called FAMILY. It includes my parents, brothers, and sisters-in-law.
MOM:
Hey, guys. I’m at Johns Hopkins Medical Center. Bubbie had a heart attack after lunch today. We thought it was indigestion, but then she started clutching her chest and collapsed. An ambulance came. She’s with the MDs now. We should know more soon.
GREG:
Mom, should I come to the hospital?
SAYAKA:
Oh, no! How can we help?
DAD:
Your Mom’s with Bubbie. She’s about to go into surgery.
JUNE:
I am so sorry! I just called Danny. He was working late. He’s on his way to the hospital now.
MOM:
Bubbie’s in surgery. If they can’t fix this with stents, she’ll need bypass surgery. Pray, kids. Please pray she pulls through.
GREG:
On my way to JHMC. Has anyone called Sasha?
I skim through the rest of the messages, which consist of my mom and dad still waiting for information, June agreeing to take Kenny tomorrow while Sayaka teaches, and my brothers arriving at the hospital and looking for my parents.
It’s almost midnight at home, which means my Bubbie’s been in surgery for a while. I check the voice mails, listening to quick messages from Greg, Danny, and my dad with updates that are duplicated over text, and finally, a longer message from my mother, left about twenty minutes ago.
“Hi, sweetheart. It’s Mom,” she starts, with tears heavy in her voice. Hearing them floods my eyes and makes me start to cry. There’s nothing scarier or sadder than hearing your mother trying to be brave. “Um…I’m so sorry to leave this message…but…”
She’s dead. My Bubbie’s dead.
I hold my breath.
“Bubbie’s in a medically induced coma.”
I let my breath go on a whimper.
“She had a…a…went into, um, cardiac arrest after the heart attack, and um, apparently, the doctors do this, um, coma, to try to preserve brain function.” She takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly. “Um, anyway, she’ll be here for a week, at least. She said she felt nauseous…I didn’t—didn’t think she was having a…” She sobs softly, weeping for a few seconds, and no doubt remembering the trauma of her mother on the kitchen floor while my father did CPR. “Um…she may have some difficulties when she wakes up. Speech imp-pairment or…or… um, m-memory loss…”
At this point, she’s crying too hard, I can barely understand her words. My father takes the phone from her, and I hear his voice next.
“Hey, Sash. Tough, uh, ahem, tough night here.” He coughs, which he often does to mask tears. “The good news is, your Bubbie pulled through the bypass surgery, and she’s comfortable now. Bad news is, she’s going to be in a coma for a few days, and we won’t know the extent of the damage, um, until she, uh, wakes up.” My dad covers the mouthpiece of the phone, but I can hear him mumble something to my mother. “We know you’re, um, working over there in London, but uh, if you could get a few days off, it might be good for your mom if you could, uh, come home. You know…if you can.”
Suddenly, he’s cut off.
“Honey, it’s Mom.” My mother sounds stronger now. “You don’t have to come home! You’re in—for heaven’s sake!—you’re in London. You just…you’ve had a tough enough year. You stay there and you dance, and Bubbie will be fine. Just…just fine. I know it. But maybe call us when you can. We…we all love you, Sasha. Bye, honey.”
I hit the red End button on my phone and write back to the FAMILY text chat.
SASHA:
I’m so sorry, everyone! I was in Paris for the day and missed all of these messages! I’m so sorry. I read and listened to everything. I am looking at flights now and should be home tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest. I’ll update as soon as I know more. I love you all so much. Kiss Bubbie for me.
I’ve still got about half an hour left on this train, and I’ll go crazy if I don’t do something productive, so I open an internet search for flights leaving from London for Washington or Baltimore. Bingo! If I leave tomorrow morning and fly through Reykjavik, I’ll get to Baltimore tomorrow by five thirty, and the round-trip fare is an unbeatable five hundred and sixty dollars. I pay for the ticket on my Amex and text my family, asking if someone can pick me up at the airport tomorrow evening.
My father says he’ll be there waiting for me at arrivals, and though my mother tries to protest again, she ends up telling me how much it means to her that I’m coming home. I send an email to my supervisor at the RAB and explain the situation, explaining that I’ll be away for at least a week. Though she is known as a brutal taskmaster, she tells me to have a safe journey and to let her know if I’ll be returning to finish my consulting gig. I promise her that I’ll be in touch.
Then I count down the minutes until I reach St. Pancras Station in London, making a mental list of what I need to do tonight—pack a suitcase and carry-on, clean out the refrigerator, notify my landlord that I’ll be away for a week, and arrange for an Uber to take me to the airport in the morning.
My head starts to ache, but I don’t want to close my eyes and rest. If I do, terrible thoughts of Bubbie dying before I can say goodbye will rush into my head, and if I never have the chance to speak to her again, I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself.
“Next stop is St. Pancras! St. Pancras next. End of the line!”
Three hours later, my fridge is cleaned out, my landlord knows I’m leaving, my bags are packed, and an Uber will come for me at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.
I change into my pajamas.
I slip into bed.
And cry myself to sleep.
***
I sleep fitfully, my dreams full of Bubbie.
A younger version of Bubbie teaching me how to cook.
An older version of Bubbie clapping for me as I bow at the end of a recital.
Bubbie and Gramps leaping to their feet, front row and center, in the audience of the Kennedy Center.
Bubbie on the porch of our rented beach house, visiting with Vaughn.
Bubbie at Gramps’s funeral.
Bubbie at Newark Airport, waving goodbye as I left for London.
When I finally wake up for the day at six-thirty, I’m exhausted, and my heart is heavy. It’s going to be a long day.
I glance around the apartment, my eyes landing on the few things I haven’t packed, to which I plan to return. My heart speeds up. I blink at them each in turn. Then, I whip the covers off and collect them all—books, framed photos, a throw pillow, a stuffed Angelina Ballerina doll. I unzip my suitcase and shove everything I own inside.
“I’m not coming back,” I murmur to the furnished room.
I have loved London, the RAB, and the friends I’ve met here. Truly, I have. But this could be Bubbie’s final Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I won’t miss them. I’m going home. Home to Maryland, not New York. I’m going home. To stay.
I shower using products I’ll leave behind and dress in the outfit I laid out for myself—black leggings, a flowy black top, a long cardigan sweater, socks and sneakers. I have an hour until my car arrives, so I make myself a cup of coffee, sitting by the window and watching as Monmouth Street slowly wakes up.
“I’ll miss you,” I say softly.
But I am resolute that I have to go. There is nothing in London more important to me than my family at home. Home is the only place I need to be.
What a strange few weeks, I muse, thinking about my job and my apartment, about the students from the RAB, Igor, Natalia, and Marshall. I hope that Natalia and Marshall work out. I hope that Igor finds someone terrific.
I grind my teeth and lift my chin when I think of Ivan Stepanov, who colored my experience in London more than anyone or anything else. One day, I think I will be glad that I ran into him again—glad that I was able to find out what happened between us. Someday, knowing what an asshole he’s become will give me some measure of peace about losing him. I hope so, anyway.
Placing my mug in the kitchen sink, I stretch like a cat in a shaft of light that beams across my hardwood floor, jumping with surprise when I hear my doorbell ring. I glance at the clock on the stove. It’s eleven minutes after eight, a little too early for my Uber driver.
Pressing on the intercom, I ask, “Is this Uber?”
“No. It’s, uh, it’s Ivan Stepanov.”
My finger jerks away from the intercom as though burned.
I cross my little flat and look out the window, only to find my eyes slamming into his. He stands below on the sidewalk, looking up. He’s wearing jeans and a black wool overcoat and looks so handsome I almost can’t stand it. We stare at each other for a second before I turn away and walk back to the intercom.
“What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I asked you to leave me alone.”
“I know you did.”
“I think you should go.”
“Sasha,” he pleads, sounding so much like Vaughn, it makes my heart flutter, then throb, “give me five minutes? Just five minutes.”
“And then you’ll go?”
“And then I’ll go,” he promises.
“Fine.”
I hit the entry button and unlock my door, opening it just as he reaches the second-floor landing.
“Hi,” he says, approaching me slowly. “Thanks for letting me up.”
“I don’t have much time.”
“That’s why I came so early. You go to work at eight-thirty, right?”
“It’s super weird that you know that,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not going to work today,” I tell him, stepping back inside my apartment. When I turn around, he’s inside with me, closing the door and standing against it. His eyes scan my face, then slide to my luggage, in a neat pile by the door. “I’m going home.”
“You’re leaving London?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“But…But you’re supposed to be here until the new year!”
“Plans change.”
“Why?” he asks, his face twisting. “Because of me?”
“No,” I say. “Personal reasons.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Personal reasons, like a creepy ex-boyfriend who keeps showing up and finally ruined your time in London so badly that you had to—”
“Bubbie’s in the hospital. She had a heart attack, then bypass surgery last night.” I sit on the edge of my bed, rubbing my hands together before looking up at him. “Not everything’s about you, Ivan.”
He rushes across the room, squatting down in front of me. “Sasha! I’m so sorry! Your Bubbie. She’s…she’s—I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“Nothing,” I say simply, hating how thin and emotional my voice sounds. I clear my throat, which doesn’t help. I reach up and rub my eyes. I’m so sad and so tired. How am I going to make it through today? “I’m going home.”
“To visit.”
“To stay.” My eyes burn, and I blink them before rubbing them with my fists again. My knuckles are wet when I lower them. “Everyone I love is there. I—I can’t bear to be here anymore.”
“I understand,” Ivan whispers. “I’m sorry you’re leaving.”
I look up at him, almost unable to bear the compassion and kindness on his face. He looks like Vaughn, and in this moment, I long for a hug from Vaughn Cigno.
“What do you w-want?” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, his stormy gray eyes searching mine. “Getting you home safely is all that matters. I have a plane—”
I shake my head. “I already have a ticket on Icelandair. My car is coming in a few minutes.”
“Got it,” he says.
He stares at me, his expression worried and kind. My hand reaches for his face, my palm cradling his cut-from-marble cheeks.
“I loved you,” I tell him. “I wish I’d told you then.”
He covers my hand with his.
“I loved you, too.”
“It’s not too late to be a better person,” I say, scanning his eyes. “Vaughn is still inside of you somewhere. I know it. I can feel it.”
“I know it, too,” he says, taking my hand from his cheek and kissing the soft inside.
Leaning my head forward, I don’t stop until it rests against his. Forehead to forehead, we are still. And I am strangely and unexpectedly comforted.
Brrrrr-ing. Brrr-ing, brr-ing.
I lean back, opening my eyes, and for a second—for just a second—it’s like the last five years never happened. It’s like we still belong to each other. It’s like the love we had for one another never died.
“Sasha,” he whispers, his eyes seizing mine.
“Vaughn,” I murmur. “It’s you.”
“It is,” he says. “It’s me.”
The bells rings again, more aggressively this time, like someone’s leaning on it. It snaps me out of this dreamlike state and back to reality.
“That’s my Uber,” I say, leaning away. “I have to go.”
He nods, standing up. “Let me help you with your bags.”
Ivan takes the big one, and I take my carry-on and backpack. We make our way down the stairs, and he puts everything in the trunk of the Uber for me. The driver gets back into his seat, and Ivan opens my door for me. Before I sit down, I face him.
“Despite everything,” I say, “I’m glad I found you again. And I’m glad you stopped by this morning. I wish you every good thing, Ivan. I want you to have a happy life. I mean it.”
“I wish the same to you,” he says, his eyes sad.
He leans down to kiss my cheek, and I let him.
Then I slide into the back of the car and leave him behind.