Chapter 2
Mishka
Icarefully wiped a few crumbs off the edge of a tray after setting it inside the glass display case. I leaned back, surveying my handiwork. Then I heard a sound that made me frown.
Shuffling footsteps from the back of the shop. I tried not to wince when I turned to see my father standing there. He looked so frail.
“Papa, you need to rest.”
He waved me off, but one hand was pressed against the edge of the counter that ran along the back wall near where the register was. He was gripping onto the worn marble countertop for dear life.
“You need to practice! I can mind the shop.”
“You can barely stand. And you haven’t taken your medicine yet,” I added fretfully. He was beyond medicine, as we both knew, though getting him to a doctor had been impossible. I had finally gotten him to see his doctor, though the appointments took forever to get, with very little hope of ever seeing a specialist.
The doctor had told us what we already suspected. What we had known, deep down. He was dying.
Neither of us had needed a doctor to tell us that. If he had seen someone months ago, perhaps he would have survived. In another country, he would have stood a chance. Maybe even a good chance. But it was next to impossible to see a regular doctor in Moscow these days, let alone a specialist or oncologist without unlimited funds and connections.
I was pretty sure he had known he was sick for quite some time. Pure stubbornness had kept him from seeking help. But I had no doubt that same stubborness was also keeping him alive.
But I was his daughter. I was stubborn, too. I had spent all of my free time researching treatments, calling doctors, and trying to get him appointments.
It might be too late, and it most likely was, but that did not mean I was not going to try.
“Papa, we should just go. There is a doctor in Switzerland I read about…” I started again, but he waved me off.
“Too much money.”
“We could sell the shop.”
“What will I leave behind for you but the shop?”
“I want you healthy, not this place,” I argued, gesturing to the beautiful little shop. I did love it, and the modest apartment we shared upstairs, but not more than my father. Not more than his life.
“Well, it is yours whether you want it or not.”
“Then my violin. I don’t need to play.”
“Bite your tongue,” my father said, giving me a lethal glare. I knew he took pride in my playing, though he never said as much. He had always pushed me to practice and celebrated my accomplishments. But my playing did not mean more than his life.
“I can find a cheaper one.”
“Again, that is not an option.”
“Why not, papa? If I am hired by the symphony next year then they will give me an instrument.”
“If you audition with an inferior instrument, your abilities might not be apparent.”
I sighed deeply. There was no arguing with him. My kindly father would have been better suited to the law, or teaching philosophy than to running a candy shop. He was a sweet, gentle man, but his grasp of language was intimidating.
He was very, very smart.
Why he hadn’t tried for more was beyond me. I suspected it had much to do with my mother, and later, with me. My mother’s family had owned this shop. When they married, he had wanted to take her far away. But her own parents’ had been elderly and infirm, living upstairs in what later became my parents bedroom. By the time they were gone, she was with child.
After that, I don’t think he could bear to leave what memories of her that he had left. My parents love story was epic. He had loved her from the moment he saw her. My father remained devoted, loving, and faithful to the woman he adored, even in death.
It kind of made the foolish boys and men who asked me out seem like children. So far, I had yet to say yes to any of them. I was not easily impressed.
Not with such a tragic and romantic example of what love could be.
Besides, with schoolwork, chores, and practice, who had time? I may have graduated from school recently but the list of daily, weekly, and monthly chores were growing. Not to mention preparing for my upcoming audition. As my father did less, I did more and more to pick up the slack.
All without letting him know I was doing it.
I felt my father stiffen before he spoke, his voice a rough and urgent whisper.
“Get in the back. Now.”
“What? Why, papa?”
“They’re here.”
He did not need to say who. I knew. I hurried to the back, passing just behind the swinging doors, still swaying behind me. I clapped my hand over my mouth as softly spoken words were exchanged. Then I pressed my ear against the door to listen.
And tumbled straight onto a pair of shiny black loafers.