Chapter 27 Polina
Polina
You can ignore a lot of things when your life turns into a hostage situation with nicer wallpaper, but you can’t ignore being six days late.
I try for most of the morning anyway.
I drink tea because coffee turns my stomach. I tell myself stress can wreck a cycle. Fear can wreck a cycle. Sleeping in a compound full of armed men while a war creeps closer by the hour can definitely wreck a cycle.
None of that explains why the smell of eggs sends me bolting from the table.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I start heaving.
When it passes, I kneel on cold tile with one hand braced against the tub and breathe through my nose until my stomach stops trying to climb into my throat. I rinse my mouth at the sink, stare at my face in the mirror, and look away.
“No,” I tell my reflection.
I sound ridiculous. Even I know it.
By noon, I’ve done the math four times. I do it again anyway while I stand in front of the cabinet under the sink, moving aside extra soap, toilet paper, and a half-used bottle of mouthwash until my fingers close around the box I shoved behind everything else a couple of days ago when Dmitri reluctantly let me run into town with an armed escort.
I carry the box to the counter and read the instructions like I’ve never seen words before. Then I read them again because maybe pregnancy tests come with a hidden clause for women whose lives are already falling apart.
They do not.
I pee on the stick, set it on the closed toilet lid, and wash my hands for too long.
Five minutes is a cruel amount of time. It’s long enough to build a whole defense case. It’s long enough to imagine every other explanation. It’s long enough to bargain with a God I haven’t spoken to in years.
When I look down, there are two lines.
I blink. Then I pick it up and hold it closer like that’s going to change the result.
I gasp, and my hand flies to my mouth as I check the box and re-read the insert over and over. Then I check the test again.
Pregnant.
“No,” I whisper with tears burning my eyes.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub and stare at the plastic stick in my hand. For one strange second, my brain gives me something useless. Lev in my apartment months ago, leaning against my kitchen counter with his sleeves pushed up, smirking as he dumps sugar into his tea like it’s not a crime.
I hate that memory most of all.
Because it’s the most human memory I have of him in my entire collection.
Everything will be different now.
I lower myself to the floor and sit with my back against the tub. The test stays in my hand as I pull my knees up to my chest. I don’t cry. I don’t move. I just look at the two pink lines like they belong to someone else.
When my phone vibrates once on the counter, I ignore it. But then a minute later, it buzzes again.
I ignore that too.
When I finally drag my eyes to the screen, twenty minutes have passed.
I laugh once, but it comes out sounding downright hysterical.
“This is a disaster,” I choke out.
That part, at least, feels honest.
War is coming. Everyone in this house acts like it isn’t, but I hear enough through walls, half-open doors, and careless remarks in hallways to know better.
Lev’s place here exists because Dmitri needs what he knows.
That can change. Loyalty has a short shelf life when bodies start dropping.
Mine isn’t much safer. Dmitri brought me here because Lev asked and because I’m useful if things go bad. Useful is not the same thing as secure.
Pregnant is not useful.
Pregnant is a means for leverage. Being pregnant is a weakness. It’s just one more soft spot for enemies to press a knife into.
I close my eyes and try to imagine it. A child.
The word lands harder than pregnant. Pregnancy sounds medical, temporary, and measurable. A child is a crib and tiny socks and a voice calling for me in the middle of the night. A child is a face I haven’t seen and would already kill for.
“Oh God.”
My throat burns. For one crazy second, I think of rushing out of this room and telling Lev, and my body locks up. He would look at me like I handed him the moon. I know he would. And then, he would start planning.
Security. Escape routes. Who needs to know. Who absolutely cannot know. He’d move three steps ahead before I even catch my breath, and I can’t bear that right now. I can’t bear his joy. I can’t bear his fear either.
Mostly, I can’t bear hearing it out loud.
Because I still have no idea if I can ever forgive him for what he did.
So I stand with unsteady knees, wrap the test in toilet paper, and hide it at the bottom of the bathroom trash under tissues and an empty shampoo packet, like a child hiding evidence of some candy they’ve scavenged.
I rinse my face again and leave the bathroom like I haven’t just split my life into before and after.
The rest of the day turns vicious.
Every smell turns my stomach. Beef broth in the kitchen makes me gag. Somebody down the hall burns toast, and I have to duck into an empty office until my belly settles. By late afternoon, nausea sits in me like a threat.
Katya catches me leaning against the counter alone and narrows her eyes. “You look awful.”
“Thank you.”
“You know that’s not an insult.”
“I know. I didn’t sleep.”
“That man is going to ruin your face.”
I almost laugh. That man has done a lot worse than that.
Katya reaches for my wrist. “Do you want tea?”
“No.”
“Soup?”
“Absolutely not.”
She cocks her head to the side. “You’re impossible today.”
“Go bother Sasha,” I reply, jerking my head down the hall.
“She’s less entertaining.”
I manage a dry look. “That’s because Sasha has boundaries.”
Katya grins, then eyes me for another second. “You sure you’re okay?”
No. Not even remotely.
“I’m fine,” I tell her instead.
“Fine. But if you collapse on my floor, I’m going to be very annoyed.”
“Noted.”
When she leaves, I let out a long exhale.
Lying is exhausting when you aren’t used to it.
By evening, I feel like I’ve done surgery for twelve hours with no food, no sleep, and someone shouting in my ear.
I make it back to my room, kick off my shoes, and sit on the edge of the bed with both hands over my face.
And then my phone rings.
Daria.
Of course it’s Daria.
I stare at the screen until it almost stops, then answer because ignoring her again will only make her call ten more times.
“Hi.”
“Why do you sound like death?”
“Hello to you, too.”
“I’m serious. Are you sick?”
“Just tired.”
“You always say that when you’re either hiding from me or actively bleeding.”
“That is an outrageous standard.”
“It’s also accurate.”
Despite everything, my mouth almost curves. Daria has always had the gift of sounding affectionate and accusing at the same time.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Wow. Nice. I called to check on you.”
“Mm.”
She makes a disapproving sound. “Also, Kira had her recital today, and since her own mother is useless with technology, Pyotr had to record it for me.”
I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes. “How was it?”
“She played beautifully.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“You say that like you don’t believe me.”
“She’s seven, and seven-year-olds are not known for musical restraint.”
Daria laughs, and warmth blooms in my chest. There it is. My sister. The version of home I can still reach by phone.
“No,” she says, smiling through the word. “Listen to me. She walked out there in that little navy dress like she owned the piano, bowed to exactly the wrong side of the room, then sat down and played the entire piece without looking at the sheet music once.”
Something inside me folds, and I put my hand over my stomach before I even think about it.
Daria keeps talking. “Then she stood up, bowed again, and whispered way too loudly, ‘I didn’t even mess up the hard part.’ Half the room heard her.”
A laugh slips out of me, and it breaks somewhere in the middle.
Daria goes quiet before she asks, “Polina, what’s wrong?”
Too many answers rush forward at once.
I’m pregnant.
I’m in a compound waiting for men to start killing each other.
I’m in love with someone who belongs to the wrong family and somehow also the only one I want.
I don’t know what kind of world I can offer a child except one built on blood and bargaining.
The words rise all the way to the back of my teeth, but for the life of me, I can’t get them out.
Daria must hear something in silence, because her voice takes on that maternal quality it always does when she’s soothing her daughter. “Hey, talk to me.”
I stare at my hand on my stomach. My child. My baby. Mine and Lev’s.
“I…” My voice catches. I clear it and try again. “I’ve just had a long day.”
She doesn’t buy that for a second. “Did something happen with Dmitri? Pyotr told me things have been pretty active over there.”
“No.”
“With Lev?”
The name alone sends a fresh wave through me. Love. Fear. Anger that he exists inside all of this so completely.
I press my lips together and choke back a sob.
“Are you crying?” Daria asks.
“No,” I reply with a sniffle.
“You’re a terrible liar. Do you want me to come there?”
My eyes burn. God, I want that. I want my sister on the edge of this bed. I want her hand in my hair and her voice telling me exactly what to do next. I want one hour where I don’t have to be smart, controlled, or useful.
But if Daria comes here, then she sees. Then she asks questions. Then this starts moving forward.
“No,” I respond in a whisper. “Don’t come.”
There’s another pause, then, very gently, “Tell me what you need.”
The truth sits there, ready. One sentence and my life changes shape.
I’m pregnant.
“I need,” I say, forcing each word into place, “five hours of uninterrupted sleep and for you to stop diagnosing me over the phone.”
Daria lets out a slow breath. She knows I’m evading. She also knows when to leave a bruise alone.
“Fine,” she relents. “But I’m calling tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is.” I hear fabric rustle on her end, then Kira’s small voice in the background asking for juice. Daria answers her away from the phone, muffled for a second, before coming back. “You should’ve seen her face after she finished. She kept searching the crowd until she found me.”
I close my eyes again. My hand stays where it is.
“Tell her I’m proud of her.”
“I will. And Polina?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever this is, don’t go through it alone. I’m here.”
The room goes eerily quiet around me. Too late, I think.
Instead I say, “Good night, Daria.”
“Good night.”
The call ends, and I set the phone beside me and sit there in the fading evening with my palm flat against my stomach and the truth locked behind my teeth.