Chapter 40 #2
Maksim closes his eyes, runs his thumb along the thick scar that cuts across the left side of his face, and considers for a moment. I can see he hates the decision he’s made, but he’ll go through with it just to give me the closure I need. He kisses me quickly, then says:
“Tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow.”
It’s a three-and-a-half-hour drive to Vysotsk, and I spend most of it with my stomach churning and an annoying need to pee.
“Eat.” Maksim pushes a package of crackers toward me without taking his eyes off the road. “It’s been three hours since you’ve eaten anything.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“The baby is.”
I roll my eyes but take the cracker. Arguing about food with him is almost as tough as arguing with Olga. The two of them are driving me crazy with all their fussing over the pregnancy.
“You don’t have to come in with me,” I say, chewing. “You can wait in the car.”
“I’m coming in.”
“I know how to handle my own mother, Maksim.”
“I know you do.” He finally glances at me before turning back to the road. “But I want to make sure she’s not stupid enough to think she can come at you.”
I don’t tell him that physical aggression isn’t Galina’s style—I don’t want it to seem like I’m defending my mother. Verbal and psychological violence are her weapons of choice. The abuse always came that way.
Through the window, I see that Vysotsk is the same as always—gray, dead, the sea air corroding everything. The house I grew up in is still crooked and looks abandoned, but now there are two men standing on the porch. They wear black coats, arms crossed, tattooed hands on display.
When Maksim walks past them, I notice their slight gasp of surprise at seeing the Pakhan without a mask for the first time. They compose themselves quickly, giving what looks like a salute—a closed fist over their chests—then open the door for us to enter.
“Pakhan.”
Maksim nods briefly and enters, ducking slightly to clear the low doorframe.
The smell hits me first. Vodka, cheap cigarettes, and bad food.
The smell of my entire childhood, and it disgusts me instantly.
I breathe deeply through my mouth, fighting the nausea that could be from the baby or from the bad memories, and follow Maksim as he moves through the rooms like he already knows the house.
Galina is sitting at the kitchen table, looking thinner and older than the last time we saw each other. Her hair is plastered to her head, her eyes more sunken, but she still has that same glazed look as she stares at the glass in her hand.
“Look at that.” She speaks slowly, a mocking smile spreading across her face. “The princess remembered she has parents.”
Aleksei gets up so fast from the other chair that it falls backward with a thud in the tiny, dirty kitchen.
“Daughter…” His fake worried voice doesn’t bother me like I thought it would. “Svetlana, daughter, thank God.” He comes toward me with outstretched hands but stops halfway when Maksim takes a single step forward. “You came! I knew you would come, I knew my angel wouldn’t let…”
“Sit down, Aleksei,” I order dryly.
It’s funny, in a very sick way, to see the man who sold me obey my command like a dog. I like the taste of this small act of power.
Galina gets up and stumbles over until she’s standing in front of me. Her alcoholic breath hits my face as she looks me up and down.
“Did you come to show off? Did you come to rub the mafia in our faces?” The questions come out slurred, each word louder than the last. “You threw everything away, Svetlana! Everything! A career that no woman in this rotten city had, and you threw it away to become a gangster’s whore.”
I wait for the pain to hit me. The shame, the guilt, and even that horrible feeling of pity for the people I called parents my whole life.
But nothing comes.
The longing of a seven-year-old girl who just wanted her mother to look at her and praise her—it’s not there. Neither is the secret hope that if she sent enough money home from her ballet salary, maybe her mother would ask how she was instead of how much she was making.
All those wounds that were once open and bleeding, too deep to ever heal, now seem to have closed. Thick, rigid, uneven skin covers every hole their parenting left behind, leaving only a scar as large as Maksim’s.
Unexpectedly, this makes me laugh. The idea that my mother wounded me as deeply as his father wounded him is almost as absurd as her drunken voice screaming that I’ve become some gangster’s whore.
The sound of my laughter echoes through the small house and makes her furious. Her face twists into an outraged grimace, and for the first time in my life, I see Galina raise her hand. I stand there waiting for her to hit me, determined not to dodge, but the slap never comes.
Maksim intercepts her hand mid-air, her fist disappearing inside his enormous hand as he squeezes slowly.
Galina’s eyes widen. She tries to pull her arm back, hissing curses, but Maksim keeps squeezing without any rush, his murderous gaze locked on hers.
A tear runs from the corner of her green eyes—green like mine—and when the hoarse scream fills the kitchen, I reach out to touch his arm.
“Maksim, you can let go.”