14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
Sergei
Ipull into the outdoor parking area next to Saint Volodymyr’s Church and check on Misha through the rearview mirror.
His dark blue beanie is pulled so low over his eyes that he has to tilt his head upward to see.
As usual, he’s clutching two dinosaur toys, roaring as he crashes them together.
When he notices me looking, he sticks his tongue out, mouth wide open.
“Close your mouth, or a fly will get in,” I say in Russian, recalling how many times my parents told me the same thing.
Becoming a father was never part of my life plan.
It’s not due to any tragic upbringing or childhood trauma.
My parents were traditional Ukrainian immigrants who worked countless hours every day, always too exhausted to talk to one another.
They were like two fish barely managing to swim upstream, only occasionally crossing paths.
When they realized they wouldn’t be able to provide me with the opportunities they always dreamed of in Ukraine, they decided to move to the United States, even at great personal cost. My father, like many immigrants, couldn’t retain his original profession.
Instead of being a renowned engineer who designed famous bridges in Kyiv, he had to start over, earning an associate degree and working as an engineering technician under much younger, less capable people.
My mom had a similar story—she was a few months away from earning her MD when we left Ukraine.
Without the option to transfer credits, she spent her years working as a dental assistant for a sexist imbecile.
After seeing how little time my parents had for me, and for each other, I was determined not to repeat that cycle.
But then Alessia came into my life and soon became pregnant.
I found myself becoming a father, but never truly a papa.
I had clear responsibilities, financial support, and physical security, fully embodying the traditional Ukrainian father role.
Alessia was fine with this arrangement. Part of me suspected she preferred it, wanting a monopoly over Misha. It was almost comical how much she wanted Misha to love her the most, as if his affection was the air she breathed.
After Alessia’s death, I feared stepping into the role of a solo parent.
But once again, I recognized my financial resources could be useful, hiring what I believed were top-notch nannies to immerse my son in my family’s language, the one thread connecting him to me.
However, the nannies ended up too rigid with their traditional Eastern European disciplinary methods.
Perhaps I had become more Americanized than I realized.
Religion was another contentious topic between Alessia and me.
Whenever I suggested taking Misha to church, it led to full-blown fights, as Alessia vehemently opposed the idea.
She was terrified that introducing some of the church’s charm, resonant bells, and stunning stained-glass windows would somehow enchant Misha and alienate him from her.
Stepping outside, the early morning air hits me through my green suit jacket.
Dasha’s loud laughter catches my attention, and I turn to see her smoking with a group of neatly dressed people at the church’s entrance.
Not wanting the smoke to cling to my jacket, I reopen the car door and take it off.
As I’m about to place it inside, a gust of wind carries the lavender scent that has lingered on it since a few nights ago.
An image of Aurora wearing my jacket flashes in my mind.
I freeze for a moment, caught in the memory, before finding the resolve to leave it in the car.
Zipping up Misha’s coat, I try to adjust his hat so it doesn’t cover his eyes too much. He giggles and pulls it back down again.
“Sergei!” Dasha exclaims as we climb the church’s steps. She holds her cigarette to the side, leans in to air-kiss each of my cheeks, then pats Misha’s head dismissively, as if wary of catching lice from him.
Misha hides behind my leg, distancing himself from her.
Smart kid.
“Dasha.” Despite the cold seeping through my clothes, the scent of cigarette smoke and her strong perfume reassures me that protecting the jacket was the right choice.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. How have you been?” she asks, feigning concern.
“I’m doing fine.”
“Are you sure?” She leans into my personal space. “No new episodes?” Dasha takes a drag from her cigarette and exhales immediately. Her blood-red nails tap twice on the cigarette, sending ash fluttering to the ground.
I think of that Monday afternoon, when I was trying to work from home, but Misha refused to nap.
I was on the brink of another episode, wondering if all those parenting audiobooks lied to me.
Maybe you can love your child with every ounce of your being while also sometimes wanting to rent them out to the circus.
But then Aurora walked into the apartment, effortlessly doing what I couldn’t, giving me a chance to regain control over my emotions.
The illusion that Aurora would help me stay grounded was shattered when I needed her, and she was nowhere to be found, forcing me to miss a meeting with the international investor I’d been courting for months.
Discovering her at that pathetic excuse for a bar, parading around with her legs and cleavage on display, only made things worse.
By the end of the night, my palms bore red crescent cuts from clenching my fists so tightly.
And that goddamn lingerie drawer... Lord, have mercy.
The lacy red, sheer black, satin green, silky blue panties and bras...
The blood drained from my mind, pinning me to the floor and vaporizing any logical thought.
I used the last fragments of my control to move my legs and put distance between us.
Yet physical space did nothing to quell my arousal, as I spent half the night imagining her voluptuous curves in those garments, her ample breasts, my hands on her body.
Those thoughts were enough to damn me to hell, or at least send me to a cold shower.
Then, last night, she was wearing that tight tank top that accentuated her breasts like prime apples ready for picking. When she started coughing, I seized the chance to touch her, like a hungry bear stumbling upon a pot of honey.
But what was she discussing about me with Nadia? When I walked in, I clearly interrupted their conversation about Alessia. Does she think I had something to do with her death? Does she feel unsafe? Will she want to leave?
“Sergei?” Dasha’s voice pulls me from my new daily spiral of torment.
“No more episodes.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Harasho,” she says with a smile, her doubt evident. She stamps out her cigarette with the heel of her black thigh-high boot before striding into the church without another word.
Misha tugs at my sleeve, glancing up at me, and I notice his wide-eyed expression of bewilderment. I raise my shoulders in a questioning gesture, which prompts a giggle from him. The chill that had settled in dissipates, replaced by the warmth of Misha’s laughter.