16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Sergei
“What’s on the agenda today?” I ask Aurora, declining an incoming call and slipping my phone back into the pocket of my gray suit jacket.
Filled with the need to spend more time with Misha, I’ve been rescheduling meetings, rushing home for bedtime routines, and pushing back morning inspections just to be here for breakfast.
“I’m thinking we could go to Ronnie’s House of Rabbits,” Aurora replies, taking a bite of her blueberry muffin.
“Rabbit! Go see rabbit!” Misha exclaims, triumphantly spearing a strawberry with his fork.
Misha’s language skills have been improving, subtle but noticeable changes, a positive sign of Aurora’s influence.
She keeps me updated on their city adventures: trips to the children’s museum, outings to various parks, and indulgences in countless sweets that will cost me a fortune in future dental bills.
But in every photo she sends of Misha, he’s smiling, his laughter almost palpable through the screen. And that’s all that matters.
“Would you like to join us?” Aurora asks.
I nearly stagger backward, momentarily losing balance from a simple string of words. I can’t remember the last time Alessia included me in anything she did with Misha.
As much as I want to join them, I’m not sure if it’s the smartest idea.
Aurora has been increasingly present in my thoughts over the past couple of weeks.
Each instance has been like turbulence, unexpected and threatening to throw everything off balance.
I need to make sure to keep my distance from her.
And despite that, I hear myself ask, “You want me to join you?”
“Of course. I usually assume you’re busy or have already left for the day by the time we’re ready in the morning. But yes, I think Misha would love it. Right, Mish? Would you like Papa to join us today?”
“Da!” Misha shouts again, taking another bite of his strawberry.
His response is a jet stream lifting me. I realize the prospect of spending more time with him and being near Aurora is a rush—one I’m eager to chase, even if I’m not sure I’ll be able to land safely.
When we arrive at the farm, the earthy scent of hay mingled with the faint musk of livestock instantly transports me back to my childhood visits to my grandparents’ dacha in Eastern Ukraine.
I picture the single-story wooden house with its sloped roof designed to catch rainwater, which pooled in large, rusty bins we used to water the farm animals.
Out front, the small veranda held two rocking chairs, one decorated with faded flowers my dedyshka painted for their thirtieth anniversary.
I remember the joy of picking raspberries and the effort it took to dig up onions and potatoes with a shovel taller than me.
“Are you all right?” Aurora asks.
I wonder whether she’s being a polite American or whether she truly wants to know.
One day after my parents and I immigrated to the States, my mother took me to a grocery store.
It was the most magical place I had ever visited, far better than any amusement park I had imagined.
The lights, the smells, the endless options overwhelmed me.
I remember how tired she was when an older woman in a pink dress passed us and asked, “How are you?” It was a simple question, but my mother took it to heart.
I’m not sure if her exhaustion clouded her judgment or if she genuinely missed the woman’s disinterested tone.
Instead of replying with the usual “good,” “fine,” or even “and you?” and moving on, my mother launched into a ten-minute monologue in a heavy Russian accent and partially broken English, detailing how she was—how she really was.
By the end of her response, the woman looked utterly stunned, eager to escape the awkward situation.
“It smells like my grandparents’ dacha,” I tell Aurora, offering an honest response. “The scent of home.”
I used to want to share these memories with Alessia during our drives past the farms on the way to our house at Mount Charleston.
I’d think about telling her how the scent of the land and animals reminded me of my childhood and simpler times.
But she’d always wrinkle her nose and complain about the stench of cows along the highway.
Eventually, I decided to keep those memories to myself, not wanting to risk tainting them.
I turn to Aurora and catch her eyes, patiently waiting for me to continue. Something in her expression tells me she’ll understand and appreciate what I have to share, so I begin to tell her.
“Whenever I visited my grandparents in the summer, my babushka always shared stories from her childhood.” I notice the mud on my Timberlands and smile softly.
“She used to run barefoot to school, always outgrowing the shoes. Her mother couldn’t afford to replace them.
” I scrape my soles against one of the boulders lining the path.
“Babushka lost her father in World War II.” Bending down, I join Misha in petting the baby rabbits.
“I remember her telling me how she would go to the train station every afternoon, hoping to see her papa on the train that passed through their village.”
I straighten up, taking Misha’s hand as we walk, with Aurora beside us, quietly listening.
“She imagined he was still alive, perhaps having fallen in love with some kind Polish woman.” We approach a groundskeeper who hands Misha a whole carrot, explaining how to feed the rabbits. I step closer to Aurora, allowing Misha to feed the rabbit as he kneels.
“Years later,” I continue, “when she was a university student, she saw a man who looked like the single photo she had. He had grayer hair and far more wrinkles, though. She wanted to ask him if he was her papa,” I explain, my voice threatening to break, “but the fear of his answer terrified her so much that she didn’t.
Babushka always said that hope dies last, and I think…
I think she didn’t want to let her hope die.
She wanted to keep living in a world where he was still alive and happy somewhere, even if not with her. ”
When I turn around, Aurora’s mesmerizing blue eyes are glistening with tears.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets.
“No, I—thank you for sharing this,” she replies, stepping closer to touch my forearm, squeezing it gently. “Your babushka,” she pronounces the word slowly, making sure she gets it right. The small smile on my face reassures her that she has. “She sounds like one hell of a lady.”
I resist the urge to touch her cheek, overwhelmed by her words.
“Aurora, no cry!” Misha tugs on her hand, and she lifts him up, her ponytail swaying with the movement.
He quickly slips his hand inside her shirt, as if he’s tucking it into a protected pouch.
The fact that Aurora doesn’t seem to mind—and is already used to him doing so—sends warmth spreading across my chest. It’s impressive how familiar they’ve become in such a short time.
“I’m okay, little guy.” She kisses his forehead. “I don’t know how she lived with not knowing.”
“I don’t think she had much choice.” A chilling thought strikes me. Is Misha destined to be like my babushka, growing up without a parent, always wondering about his mother’s fate? He’ll know she died, but how, and who, and why… will he ever truly understand?
“Oh my goodness!” exclaims an elderly blonde woman in a wide sun hat and shaded glasses. “You’re the cutest family I’ve ever seen,” she says in a charming Southern accent. “How precious! Your mama is so beautiful!” The lady reaches out to squeeze Misha’s cheek.
“NOT MAMA!” he screams.
Misha’s reaction is so sudden that both Aurora and I are caught off guard. He pushes away from her embrace, and she barely manages to keep him from falling as she sets him down. I intercept him, scooping him up with one arm.
“NOT MAMA!” he yells again, kicking and wriggling to escape.
Lost for words, I glance at Aurora, whose expression reveals both fear and hurt. The old, familiar torment rings in my mind. She’s dead. It’s my fault. I killed her. The dark cloud of guilt looms over me, suffocating.
Despite the dramatic exchange, like most children, Misha forgets the reason for his meltdown by the time we reach the car. However, the impact of his words lingers throughout the rest of the day and well into the night, rumbling in my mind like an airport PA system calling nightmares to check in.
My dress shoes clicked against the tile floor, the sound echoing through the sterile, lifeless basement. The fluorescent light at the end of the hallway flickered on and off before dying out, symbolizing that there would be no light at the end of this path.
Typically, people waited outside the cold room, dreading the moment when the faded beige curtain was drawn back from the double-sided window, revealing the still form of their beloved.
I wasn’t like most people. My status afforded me a multitude of privileges—privileges I wished I didn’t need.
There was no formal requirement for me to be here, as she had already been identified, but it was a personal necessity.
I needed to confirm, to ensure that what I had been told was true.
I needed to see her for myself—one more time.
The smell of formaldehyde hit my senses like a truck, reminding me of my mother’s residency hours back in Ukraine—when I used to play with toy airplanes under her desk while she dissected the heart of some poor cadaver.
The coroner, a diminutive elderly British man, approached one of the bins with his cane, stopping at the far right side.
The sound of the metal door breaking the deafening silence as he rolled the bed out was punctuated by a slight squeak.
The body beneath the thin white sheet appeared small against the large metal frame.
Without checking if I was ready or needed another moment, he unveiled the face like a seasoned magician revealing his grand finale.