CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DMITRY
It’s been three weeks since we buried Pawel and the winter storm remains just as extreme; it refuses to ease up.
I’m growing increasingly frustrated and I can’t wait any longer as I drive through the snowstorm and high into the hills with Natalia and my grandpa.
The drive is rough with roads full of ice, accidents and roadkill.
I’ve been driving for what feels like forever.
“Pull over carefully on the left. Slowly, Dima,” Grandpa says.
I listen and roll up gently against the curb, shutting off the engine and taking in the morbid but beautiful scenery.
The three of us climb out of the truck and my boots sink into the thick fresh snow. I clutch Natalia’s hand and my grandpa walks beside us. We climb slowly up the snow-covered hill and soon reach the top.
My heart thunders in my chest.
“It’s over there my boy.” Grandpa informs me.
“Are you sure?” I ask, afraid to accept this is my real mother’s final resting place, because accepting it means accepting I’ll never meet her, never get to know her, never have her in my life. That any children I may have with Natalia will never have a grandmother.
“Yes, the first grave under the oak tree. She loved to climb them as a child. She’d take root near the top and sketch beautiful pictures of the landscape that surrounds the farm,” he replies and stares toward the naked branches of the frozen tree as they sway fighting against the bitter wind.
“Do you mind if I do this part alone?” I look at both my grandpa and Natalia.
“Are you sure, Dima?” My sweet girl asks.
I nod and she places a gentle kiss on my cheek, and hands me the single red rose I’d asked her to keep safe for me.
“We’ll wait in the car for you. Don’t be too long, my boy. The weather is biting cold,” Grandpa says. His pale blue eyes are full of care.
I watch as they both make their way back to Grandpa’s truck at the bottom of the hill.
The snow carves into my skin like a blade made from ice.
It stings my cheeks, my lips, and steals the air from my lungs as I drag in each breath.
Moscow is silent under winter’s weight, but inside me there is nothing but noise—screaming, pounding, breaking.
My boots crunch over frozen earth as I force myself down the crooked path lined with rusted iron crosses.
Each one a soldier, each one bent, forgotten by the world, just like her.
My mother.
Anna.
I look up at the old oak tree then back down and see her grave half-buried under ice, a stone so plain it could belong to anyone.
Nothing fancy. Nothing unique. Just a plain black stone with her name carved so shallow that the snow makes it appear invisible.
It’s as if the world marked her as just another body, another victim, another woman lost to the brutality of child rape.
I wonder why my grandpa chose such a simple stone—I’m sure he has his reasons.
I drop to my knees, the snow whirls wild and settles inside the cuffs of my coat, and I rip off a glove. I reach for the stone and my hand blisters with cold, but I don’t stop until I’ve scraped off every inch of snow revealing her name: Anna Karatov.
“Do you hear me, Mama?” I ask, my voice is broken. It’s being torn from my chest by the icy air. “I came to see you, Mama. I found you.”
I press my forehead against the granite. The ice bites at me, but I don’t care. I want to feel close to her. I want to feel something besides this storm stabbing at my flesh. The storm within me is also painful. It’s a never-ending conflict of emotions.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry this is how we have to meet again.” My breath fogs against the stone and vanishes. “He said you were nothing but a whore. That he was one of many. That I was the product of force. I know I was born from darkness, Mama.”
The words choke me. My throat locks, my fists clench until a thorn on the rose cuts into my palm. A drop of blood stains the snow, red as the bloom I carried here.
“But I know the truth,” I say in a low growl. “You were a child. Fifteen. He admitted he forced you. He broke you. And then he left me here, born out of his filth, out of his violence.”
I slam my fist against the cold, hard ground. The crack of bone against frozen dirt disturbs the quiet of the graveyard. Pain shoots up my arm, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
“You died because of me.” My chest caves as the words leave me. “Because of what he did to you. I killed you the moment I drew breath.”
The weight of it is crushing me. I want to press myself to the ground and fall beneath the snow. I want to tear the earth open and bury myself with her. I want to beg her for forgiveness, though I know it can never come.
“Please Mama, please forgive me.” I sob.
My mind is a prison I’ll never escape.
Hope is all I have.
And I know it’s nothing more than a tiny fractured, fragment of hope that once I tell her how hard I tried to make things right she might understand, she might acknowledge me. She might send a whisper in the wind, and free me from this guilt ... if only a little.
“I killed him, Mama.” My voice drops to a whisper, a confession.
“Do you hear me? I put him in the ground with my own hands. He paid for what he did to you. For what he did to me. He’ll never hurt anyone again.
He’ll never be able to harm Natalia. He’ll never say a bad word about you again.
He’ll never be my father. I wish I could’ve saved you, Mama.
I’m sorry.” My voice breaks and I can’t stop myself from sobbing.
The silence after is suffocating, only broken by church bells tolling in the distance, low and hollow, and the wind claws through the iron crosses like ghosts carrying a whistle and then it fades.
“I am your son.” My words shudder out of me. “I am everything he hated. I swear to you—I’ll protect her. I’ll protect my Little Sparrow. And if I have children, your grandchildren, I’ll protect them the way you couldn’t protect me.”
I stare at the date carved into the granite stone. The day she died is the day I was born. Her final breath gave me life. That cruel trade has haunted me ever since I discovered the truth. I should never have existed.
My throat burns and I bury my hands beneath the snow wanting to be closer to her.
“You never got to hold me. You never got to be my mother. You never got to see me grow. I wonder what it would’ve been like for us.
Would you have been proud of me Mama? I hope I’m not a disappointment.
I hope you’re not ashamed of me, Mama. I’m sorry.
I’m trying to be a better person. I fight every day to be a better man.
I promise you, Mama. I’m trying.” Tears sting as they hit my cheeks.
I lower my head, snowflakes catching in my hair, melting against the heat of my skin.
My chest is tight, and the words come out as a rasp.
“I wish I could have met you. I wish you knew me. I swear I’m not a monster.
I wasn’t Sylvia’s to destroy. I was yours to love.
Grandpa says you’d have loved me. Would you have loved me, Mama?
Did you love me then when I was a life growing inside of you, or did you see me as a curse?
I’m sorry you died because of me.” I choke and try to fight tears that are now an uncontrollable waterfall.
Silence answers me.
The wind stirs, cold and sharp. Unrelenting as it slices across my face like a knife. It’s almost as though nature is punishing me for my sins. I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.
A mother was all I’ve ever wanted. To feel loved by the woman who birthed me and gave me life.
She didn’t know she was bringing me into such a cruel existence.
A world where everything I did was wrong, even when it wasn’t.
Maybe she made a mistake by not aborting me.
Maybe some monsters should never be born.
A song slips past my lips before I can stop it. A lullaby. One I made for her; the only way I know how to speak to a ghost I never knew but only ever longed for.
My voice cracks, raw and hoarse, but I sing anyway.
“Sleep mama, my star in heaven’s quiet skies,
You’re gone, but I’m a part of you that survives.
I’m your son, lost without you, in a world of endless fight,
In my dreams you call me, ruchenka, and hold me tight.”
My chest caves in as I whisper the chorus, softer, like I’m speaking to her soul.
I know I’m older now than she ever got to be.
“Hush now, Mama, you’re not alone,
Your last gift to me was a life unknown.
Hush now, Mama, can you hear my plea?
I’m chasing echoes where you should be.”
I cry out and hope my words are carried to her by the wind. I fold forward, my forehead pressing against the stone once more. The cold bites through me, as I cling to the icy granite. It’s all I have left of her and all I’ll ever know.
“You should have lived,” I whisper. “You should have been my mother. He took everything from you, and he left me behind as proof.”
The anger inside me surges hot, but grief swallows it whole. More tears slip down my cheeks and freeze almost instantly. My hand brushes across her name like I could etch it into my skin and carry her with me, always.
The final verse trembles out of me.
“Snow is falling softly on the stone,
I kneel here weeping, wishing you were home.
This world is cruel, yet I endure.
Your heart still beats inside my core.”
I break, my voice shatters as I croak the closing words.
“Sleep, my angel. Sleep my star,
Whenever I look up at the night sky, Mama,
I know you’re never too far.”
The wind stills, and as the snow settles, a red breasted robin rests on my mama’s stone. It feels like she’s here, watching, listening. She’s free.
“Is this a sign, Mama?” I ask looking at the tiny bird. “I love you, Mama.”
And for the first time in years, I let myself cry for the child who just wanted to be loved by his mother. Little Dima, little me, all I ever wanted was a mother’s love.