Chapter 5Ana
Ana
Watching Vasily Baranov , my husband, peel an orange, puts me in the oddest crisis.
I have no idea if I like oranges.
Also, my husband is an extremely handsome man.
It didn’t click immediately, not when, in a sea of scary-looking men, he was the scariest. Not when I was so desperate to match his face to a memory and so disheartened when the memories weren’t there.
But watching him in the soft lighting as he performs the simple task of peeling that orange, observing his own kitchen as though hunting for something while he prepares food in the most banal way possible, it hits me that on my wedding day, I must have thought I was the luckiest woman in the world to have gotten such a handsome husband .
He hardly looks at me, so I don’t think he feels that way about me now, but it’s possible that yesterday or a week ago or whenever I saw him last, I didn’t feel that way either.
And the way he looked at me once he realized I was watching him?
I think perhaps he did think he was the luckiest man in the world on his wedding day to have gotten such a pretty wife.
God, I hope he loves me. I hope I love him. I hope whatever the disconnect is between us is just a temporary thing and I’m reading into everything poorly because I’m missing the context.
This orange half in my palm could be Vasily’s love language.
I don’t think he’s a sentimental man. I suspect I’m a sentimental woman, but I’m careful with it. That’s why the condo is so stark but there are beautiful flowers. That’s why Vasily did know why I reached for my neck and immediately vowed to get my cross back.
I don’t think he’s a religious man, but I’m a religious woman.
I wonder what day of the week it is, if I should ask Vasily if he’d be willing to take me to church. I bet he doesn’t like going but he’ll go for me.
But I hear the front door open and close and realize I’ve lost my chance to ask him, at least for now.
I give myself a moment to stand and breathe and just focus myself before I walk into the closet.
My first glance of it gave me this feeling of everything being staged, and my second impression is no different.
In my mind, a closet is supposed to be cluttered, with everything mismatched on the hangers and a pile of shoes on the floor and random boxes and blankets stacked to the ceiling.
There should be an odor to it, not unpleasant, but that smell of clutter , of detergent and leather and wood pulp and just a hint of mustiness and whatever the shoes tracked in. An undercurrent of existence .
This closet smells like a clothing boutique but sanitized.
All the shirts are on one side, all the bottoms on the opposite side, all the dresses and outerwear along the back.
Everything is organized by style and then by color, tiny rainbows iterated with each cut.
There are at least thirty pairs of leggings and yoga pants in three lengths, half of them black, but still with the rainbows.
There are tee shirts, tank tops, long-sleeved shirts. Blouses.
No jeans, which seems weird. And at first, I think I must favor business attire, but despite all the blouses, there are no fitted slacks. None of the dresses are snug. There are some lovely dresses, both casual and formal, but they all have a relaxed fit to them.
I don’t know who I am, and it’s yet another punch that these clothes aren’t what I thought of for myself either.
And once I start digging through the rack, struggling to find anything that has some familiarity or draw to me, I notice that none of it even looks worn.
It’s all been washed, nothing has tags on it, but it all looks like I bought it yesterday.
Same with the rack of shoes that circles the baseboards. And the coats. Not a single one of the jackets look like they’ve seen a decade of winters with me.
But then, we’re in Los Angeles. Maybe they are all ancient but only get a single vacation to a ski resort every year.
So far, my existence has been Orlando and Los Angeles, but I have this feeling like it’s winter.
I wonder if I proposed a ski trip to Vasily, would he take me?
Would he look at me like I’ve lost my mind or be relieved I’ve remembered some passion of mine?
If I put skis on my feet, would my body instinctively know what to do once I pushed myself off the top of a hill?
The thought is a balm as I select a set of pajamas and head into the bathroom.
The towels all smell the same as my clothes, and the hair products are all from a matching line, displayed like I’m in a salon.
The bottles all feel full. It gives me the same unsettling sensation as the closet, but then I breathe in the scent of the body wash, the citrus and the spice, the underlying sweetness, it smells right.
Finally.
This is my scent .
The relief brings tears to my eyes, just the same as Vasily’s touch did. I wash and condition my hair, wrap it up in a towel, then run myself a tub, dumping half the bottle of body wash in just so I can feel like me.
Finally.
The sun is pouring in when I wake up, and I finally have a chance to see what lies beyond the windows.
I can’t get over how high up we are. The cars below move around like toys on tracks, some complex machine built to demonstrate traffic patterns.
Those are all people down there just living normal lives, somehow getting through the day without getting kidnapped or sustaining life-altering damage to their brains.
Lucky them.
Down on the sidewalk at the corner, I see four burgundy circles.
Table umbrellas, like there’s a restaurant with outdoor seating there.
I wonder what they serve and if Vasily and I ever go there.
If we ever sit across from each other and enjoy the bustle of people and cars rushing by as we sip our coffees or eat our lunches. I wonder if he’d take me now .
The building across the street isn’t quite as tall, so I can see the roof.
There are all the giant units that keep the building sustaining life, but there’s also a little garden.
I wonder if we have one of those, too, if that’s where some of the fruit in that bowl came from.
Avocados , I think, but I don’t know why.
I just have this feeling I’m used to getting avocados off a tree instead of from a grocery store display.
I thought home would have a yard. After waking in the back of that windowless truck, then being transported through a parking deck into the hospital wing, then finally put in that dormitory with a single small window that didn’t open, I was looking forward to having outdoor space.
I’ve felt caged since I woke up. I’m sure it’s as much my brain as everything else, but unfortunately, my brain is the one thing I can’t control.
I dress for the day in a sports bra that doesn’t do much for my admittedly flat but simultaneously saggy breasts— have I always hated these? Probably— a loose tank top that’s too long on my petite frame, and some pants that are better fitting but have definitely never been worn.
I hate this so much.
There’s a sleeved wrap I throw on, and that feels a bit more comfortable, but I’m just hating my skin. With a huff, I walk out of my room into the empty open space of the condo.
I’m hungry, but curiosity has its claws in me, so I swing the opposite way, looking in every cabinet and behind every door. This is my home. I’m not about to let myself feel like an intruder.
I find a guest room, an office that’s been converted into a fitness room— although everything in it is set for Vasily and not me— a half bath, and several closets. Everything is gray and boring, lacking any sort of personality .
When I find Vasily’s bedroom, it’s hardly any better. Lived-in in a way mine doesn’t feel, with a few personal effects and bathroom products in various states of use, at least, but it still feels like it was arranged by a designer, not Vasily.
But I lie on his bed and breathe, and it smells like him. I lie there for a long time, let myself be filled with his scent just as I was filled with my own last night, and it helps.
In his closet, his clothes are tidily organized, but there’s a tee-shirt with holes in its sleeves.
There are sweatpants that have pilled lightly.
There’s a jacket that doesn’t look like it would fit him, like it’s a hand-me-down from his father or an older brother, something sentimental.
I find a black hoodie that’s soft from wear and threadbare in spots, and I throw it on over my pristine lululemon.
It gives me the strength I need to move to the kitchen to figure food out.
So far, what I have known, all those basic motions I’ve just inherently gone through, have existed outside my conscious thought.
But cooking? I don’t know if it’s something I simply know how to do and can go through the motions or if it’s something I’ll have to teach myself again.
Hell, I don’t know if I can cook. We have a whole beautiful set of pots and pans, and I know their names.
Wok and saucepan, casserole and sauté. But they look no more used than anything in my room.
Their sides are spotless where the grease likes to sneak in around the handle, their bottoms are still shiny.
There’s fresh food in the fridge. Fruits and veggies, a couple nice blocks of cheese and some milk and juice, all the usuals, but there are also several take-out boxes and a stack of food in oven-safe containers, like a service delivered them prepared and ready to go in the oven.
There are no heating instructions on them, and my belly rejects the take-out containers on principle, so I continue poking around.