11. Tara
11
TARA
It’s been two weeks since I had the procedure.
It still seems a little surreal.
I had another woman’s fertilized egg implanted in my uterus.
I go from feeling what the fuck have I done?
panic to anxious and what if this doesn’t take?
I find myself staring at my stomach—a lot!
Like I’m going to be able to see the egg.
I’ve been reading up about pregnancy and what to expect, and I haven’t had the courage to watch a woman giving birth.
I saw that once at school and I can remember thinking, I’m fucking having a cesarean birth.
My eyes fall on my desk, littered with printouts of research into Lidiya Zorin and Anya Novikov or Anya Morozov.
The research has hit a wall.
Again.
I toss the latest stack of printouts onto the pile and lean back in my chair with my arms crossed, eyes burning from too many hours staring at screens.
The name “Lidiya Zorin” might as well be a ghost.
There are small breadcrumbs of information.
But nothing solid.
And unless I have definitive proof, there is no way I’m getting a full birth certificate from the Russian department of births and deaths.
I even tried the Russian Embassy in Los Angeles, but they were no help either.
There are also no ties between Lidiya Zorin and Anya Novikov.
Just that damn puzzle box and the swirling uncertainty it’s dredged up inside me.
Gavriil’s tried every contact he has in Russia, but nothing has turned up.
I’ve even tried every genealogy site I can find—nothing.
Frustration itches at the base of my spine.
“Aghh.” I rest my head on my arms, perched on my desk.
“There has to be some clue somewhere.”
“Still nothing?” Irina walks in, and I can hear the paper bag in her hand.
Candy!
is the first thought to hit my brain as I look up to see a brown paper bag in her hand.
She pulls out a box, but it’s not candy.
“I think it’s time,” she says softly, shaking the pregnancy test.
My brow furrows.
“Already?”
“It’s been two weeks,” Irina reminds me.
She drops the bag on the counter and hands me the pregnancy tests.
“Is there candy in the bag as well?” I look at her hopefully.
“After you’ve done the test,” Irina says.
“Then we’ll talk candy.”
I stare at the box.
My throat tightens.
“I know it’s early,” Irina says, her voice gentle, “but I thought maybe…”
She doesn’t need to finish.
I take the box and go.
The bathroom is warm, with soft light filtering through the frosted window.
I sit, pee on the stick.
Put it on the counter as I wash my hands and set the timer.
Then I wait.
My heart drums against my ribs like a warning bell.
Then I stand.
And I stand.
Suddenly, three minutes starts to seem like an hour.
Finally, the timer dings.
I’m too scared to look.
I don’t even know what I want the result to be.
If I’m not pregnant, will I feel relieved or disappointed?
The truth is, I’m terrified of being pregnant.
But I also want this.
I want to do this for Irina and Gavriil.
And then the doubt hits, sharp and sudden, and I realize maybe I didn’t think this through at all.
There are so many unknowns swirling in my head, it’s like I’m not just standing in the middle of an impossible equation—I am the unsolvable problem.
Just look at the fucking stick Tara and stop freaking out.
I do and then wish I hadn’t.
Two pink lines bloom.
Shit.
Fuck.
Shit.
I stare at them for what feels like forever.
By the time I step out, Irina is waiting anxiously, pacing outside the door.
I hold up the stick.
“Two pink lines.”
Her face lights up when she sees them and squeals like a little girl who just got a pony for Christmas.
“I’ll book the blood test,” she says, hugging me tight.
“Really?” I shudder.
“Can’t we just trust the stick?”
“No.” Irina rolls her eyes.
“Come on.”
That afternoon, I’m dragged back to the same doctor who knows me better on the inside than anyone else after having had a good look up there a few weeks ago.
I still feel violated by it.
This time.
He sticks a needle in my arm and draws out a syringe full of blood.
“You should have the results by tomorrow,” the doctor tells Irina, like she’s the one that he just pulled a huge syringe of blood from, and I’m not even in the room.
“Thank you, doctor,” Irina says excitedly, then turns to me.
“Why don’t we stop at the frozen yogurt shop on the way home?”
“Are you bribing me?” I look at her suspiciously.
“I’m trying to say thank you and sorry for having to go through this,” Irina tells me.
“In that case,” I say, grinning.
“I want the real deal. I want ice cream.”
“Are you sure?” Irina says.
“It’s sugar and…”
“I want some!” I look at her with raised eyebrows.
And then push on the band-aid on my arm where the needle had gone in.
“Fine!” Irina gives in.
“You are such a drama queen.”
“I’m allowed to be,” I tell her.
“I’m pregnant. There is this little bean inside me starting to sprout into a whole little person inside me.”
“This is going to be a long nine months.” Irina sighs.
The next morning, Gavriil is on the phone trying to find out where we could get information on Anya Novikov, and all we get is a bio of her from her fan club manager.
“We’re never going to find out anything,” I moan.
“I keep telling the two of you, you need to go to Russia,” Irina says.
“Irina’s right,” Gavriil says, agreeing with her.
We’re interrupted by the sound of Irina’s phone ringing—it’s the doctor.
Gavriil and I sit, holding our breath, while she takes the call.
A beat later, she hangs up and beams.
“We’re pregnant!”
She pulls us into a group hug, and I suddenly want to cry.
But I chug from my water bottle instead, swallowing the lump of emotion down with it.
I don’t gush.
I don’t even smile.
I’m not sure if I’m happy, scared, or just stunned.
While Irina and Gavriil chatter excitedly beside me, I spiral into a full-blown existential crisis.
My head is screaming with questions I’m not ready to answer.
Then Gavriil’s phone rings, and for the briefest second, I actually hope it’s the doctor calling back to say, Oops—false alarm.
Stop it, Tara!
I admonish myself.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
You agreed to do this and were even happy to.
“Tara!” Gavriil’s voice snaps me back into the present.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, just tired,” I lie.
“What were you saying?”
“That was the contact from the hospital administration,” Gavriil tells me.
“He says he can get us into the records room at the hospital Lidiya Zorin was born in, to get her original hospital file.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.” Gavriil nods, smiling.
“Seems like it's a day of good news.”
“Then you and Gavriil should go to Moscow, together,” Irina suggests. “You’ll feel safer with Gavriil there,” she tells me. “And the Mirochin mansion in Moscow is fully staffed. You’ll be comfortable.”
Comfortable isn’t the word I’d use for flying halfway across the world, but if it gets me answers, I’ll do it. Admittedly, I’m really excited to see Moscow.
The next morning, we land in Moscow.
Snow dusts the city like powdered sugar. The air tastes colder, sharper, more dangerous. Gavriil’s town car pulls into the hospital's back lot. We enter through the service hallway to avoid prying eyes. Gavriil leads me through a narrow corridor until we reach the records department.
The door is locked. No one is there.
A shiver snakes down my spine.
“Something’s wrong,” I whisper.
Then we’re surrounded.
Russian Special Forces, full tactical gear, weapons holstered, but hands twitchy.
“Well this is just fucking great!” I whisper to Gavriil.
“We’re about to get arrested.”