19 #2
Vega looks at the floor, from emotion or embarrassment—who knows. I try to smile, but my mouth falls apart. Look, I am not built for family drama.
"I'm so sorry," she says, low—confessional but elegant. A perfect mix of "good for a hundred traumas" and "if I hug you I might cry and gunk up my designer coat." No one breathes. The kind of awkward silence you can only spackle with crackers and hummus, and there is no way I can get any down.
"Sorry for what?" Vega asks, with that tiny voice she gets when we're in Broken Girl Begging For Answers mode.
"Everything. Not finding you sooner. Not knowing. Not being…"
And she launches into the story, and I stage the whole fantasy in my head: slow motion, Russian soundtrack, her searching, our father spinning stories, and me walking out of a casting call to play the rebel daughter.
And, wait for it, dramatic twist: Alzheimer’s.
Dad with no memory, clues, mazes… I mean, forget Dark.
I feel something weird in my stomach. Not hunger. Something else. Vega nods; I bite my lip. I don't want to cry anymore. Not in front of her.
"I owe you an apology. I know it doesn't make up for anything, that you've been on your own and that leaves marks.
" She looks at us, and even her eyes go shiny.
I mean, watch it: the boss of bosses, the woman who could slap you fluent in Russian, one hiccup away from crying.
If she crosses that line, we're all going to faint.
"I want to know you. If you let me, I want to take care of you.
Be what I am. Your big sister. And yeah, I'm old enough to be your mother—I’m not pretending otherwise. "
Oh great, here we go: tough, foul-mouthed, jokes-on-tap Alaska melts. I cover my face with my hand—half embarrassment, half fear, half hope. Yes, that's three halves, let me live.
Vega finds my hand, cold sweat, shared tremor, and I think: is this real?
Is this the same woman who's going to wreck me or put me back together?
Hell if I know. I feel tiny and godlike at the same time, a bundle of feral emotions.
I just pray the new family package includes mandatory therapy, a spa now and then, and, if possible, a little affection. It's not that much to ask.
"I was mad at everything," I say, since we're already here.
"At people who actually have families, at long Sundays, at happy-dinner photos on Instagram, at neighbors who ask out of courtesy and then don't even look at you.
And now you show up and bring us this thing I can't tell if it's a gift or a grenade. "
"I'm not going to push," she says. "I'm here. Tomorrow too. And the next day. And if you don't want to see me, I'll send breakfast and flowers, and I'll shut up until you tell me, 'come.'"
I breathe weird, which isn't pretty but it's true. I think of little-me taking a number to sit in a family; I think of Alaska-now looking at Vega, my whole team packed into one chair; and I think of this woman willing to bring order without stomping in. And out comes a sad laugh—that exists too.
After another spell of beating around the bush with harmless chatter and softball questions, Irina stands.
I freeze. I don’t want her to leave… Or I do.
I mean, I don’t know. Right now I’m an anxious chicken watching the blender whirl by.
I’m so wrung out emotionally that if a cat walked in and meowed "sister," I’d probably put him in my will.
"I don't want to overwhelm you," Irina finishes, straightening her coat like the guardian of the Iron Throne gearing up for a storm.
She has that level of calm only achievable if you've done Pilates, goat yoga, and, probably, buried an ex in the backyard.
Serenity with a rap sheet. "I just… wanted to see you. Look at you."
Inside, my throat is a knot. I honestly need to cry or something inside me is going to blow; I fantasize about curling up in her lap and asking her to tuck me in, because yes, I still collect childhood traumas.
She moves toward the door step by step, measuring emotions, and when she opens it, an intense-boss epiphany hits. She turns back, smiling at us.
"I almost forgot," she tosses off, every inch the forgetful diva. "This is Rashel." And cue the fanfare, please, because she points toward the landing with this very basic little finger. "My friend. Though 'friend' sounds small. She's like a sister."
Rashel gives a two-finger wave from the back of the frame, leaning against the wall. She doesn't come closer.
"Nice to meet you," Vega says, way more on top of her manners than I am.
I waggle a hand in a "hi, sorry, my nerves are in my guts and I'm still smiling because I am a mess" kind of way.
"I told her she didn't have to come up," Irina goes on, pointing at Rashel, "but she's into recon.
And now my wife is going to chew me out because I didn't bring her.
She's going to say I get ahead of myself, that I don't know how to share, that I'm a disaster with feelings.
And she's right—what can I say, I was born like this. "
"Don't lie," Rashel cuts in. "Your wife wants me in all your messes. I'm quality control."
"The elevated gossip committee," Irina concludes, putting on a serious face.
We laugh out of nerves, but it’s real laughter. Because if I don’t laugh, I’ll have a meltdown and they’ll have to call a special ambulance for anxious dykes.
"Here’s my personal number." She pulls out a card and jams it into Vega’s hand. "I want to have you over tomorrow. If you’re up for it. You already know Nat, so I’ll send her to pick you up, okay?"
Nat. Bang, right between the eyes. She says her name without looking at her.
I do look, and find her at the back, very still, eyes on me for a second—a micro-collision that heats up my ears.
Rocky music kicks in in my head and my brain cuts two different trailers: in one I give her a classy smack upside the head, and in the other I plant a kiss on her that leaves us both slack-jawed.
In real life I’m stuck with a half smile that doesn’t know where to go and a muted "hi" that won’t leave my throat.
"Tomorrow," I tell the air, because if I talk to her my chest will explode. "All good. Hell of a plan."
Irina says goodbye with that half-attempt that lands somewhere between a hug and a handshake—a beta-version stab at closeness.
And of course I, a sensitive little shit who hides it with bad jokes, picture Irina as a Russian teddy bear, squeezing me tight and saying, "I love you, little Alaska," with violins on the soundtrack and, in the background, snow falling and a baby bear in a scarf cheering me on.
"See you tomorrow, ladies," Irina says, and runs a comb through my soul with that laid-back boss tone that calms me down and winds me up at the same time.
Rashel follows with a midseason runway strut and winks at me as she goes by.
Nat lingers half a beat longer than she should, gives my face a once-over, drops her gaze and BAM, door slam.
Silence. Not even a breeze. Vega and I go still, staring at each other, not sure if we just met royalty, the mob, or the judges on some high-budget talent show.
Something trembles in my core; I don’t know if it’s hunger, hope, fear, or all of it at once, served on a platter of anxiety.
"About tomorrow," Vega whispers, very softly. "We’re going, right?"
"We’re going. If I have an episode, you fan me with Irina’s card and spritz me with facial mist—don’t let me make a fool of myself alone."
"You okay?"
"I’m a disaster and I’m fine," I tell her. "I want to hug Irina, hate Nat, kiss Nat, sleep for three days, make a Spanish omelet, dance, and crawl under the bed. All in the same minute. Can’t get more efficient than that."
We laugh again, because in the end it’s the only thing holding us up. And there I stay, rooted in the hallway, with the word tomorrow stuck to my tongue, sticky and bright, and a whole lot of wanting it to get here and to never get here, all at once, which is kind of my specialty.