4. Ta Ostatnia Niedziela
Ta Ostatnia Niedziela
The front door creaks open, boots thudding heavy in the hallway.
“Dzieci! (Children!)” Tata calls, voice booming with end-of-day cheer.
He carries in with him the scent of late February air, chilly, edged with the bite of winter and bleach from mopping the shop floors when he strides in, cheeks ruddy from the walk home.
He doesn’t miss a beat, plants a kiss on the top of my head, then Natalia’s golden-dyed locks, then swoops around the table to press one to Piotr’s dark hair.
Piotr groans like it’s the worst thing in the world, ducking low, but Tata catches him anyway.
The baby gets his kiss last, soft and lingering, Piotr’s complaints forgotten as his father bends to the tiny head with infinite gentleness.
He clucks his tongue, telling Piotr he’ll need to feed the boy properly, that he doesn’t have enough fat on him for a baby.
He turns then to Aga, drawing her into a quick embrace. “And you, kochana,” he asks warmly, “is my son treating you well?”
Aga smiles, the kind that crinkles her eyes. “Yes, always.”
Satisfied, Tata nods and heads straight for Mama, gathering her in his arms mid-stir.
He rocks her in place, humming before breaking into song, “Ta ostatnia niedziela…” The old Polish tango about one last Sunday before lovers part.
His favorite, all drama and heartbreak. Mama laughs, trying to twist away, smacking him with her wooden spoon, but she doesn’t pull too hard.
The onions hiss louder as if to join the chorus, and for a moment the whole kitchen leans toward music and mischief.
Tata finally releases her, slipping the spoon from her hand as though he’s been waiting for his cue.
He stirs the onions without being told, reaching for the salt, moving around the kitchen in sync with her as though they’ve practiced this dance a thousand times, which, in truth, they have.
I catch myself sighing. Love, in their hands, isn’t a grand gesture or a fairy tale; it’s something older, steadier.
Mama rules the stove, Tata mops the shop floors, and somehow in between he 's never short on romance. He always seems to know what she needs.
It’s something I’ve seen all my life and still can’t quite recognize when I look at it up close.
I’ve only had a handful of relationships, ones that fell to the wayside in favor of studying, long nights spent with books and a plan, no time for love.
Watching Mama and Tata, they fit together so naturally, like breathing.
It looks easy, simple, when it’s anything but.
Wishing for my own version of their love is what caused the hairline crack in my composure, just big enough to do something outside of my comfort zone.
I gave my number to Dominik Nowicki. He showed up at Mama and Tata’s store last week, looking ridiculous, all smiles and easy confidence.
The memory carries a faint warmth, the way a small blush creeps up my cheeks before I can stop it.
He shrugged, casually. “You remember me, huh? You’ve been buried in books, a busy life, doktorka.”
I snorted. “How could I forget? I used some of my best fighting skills back then. Don't come between a woman and her chocolate. I’m surprised you can still walk. Your knees have recovered, I see.”
“Yes, a full recovery.” he’d said, a smirk forming. “Knees and everything else… You should come for dinner one Sunday with my parents. They talk all the time about famous Kasia the doctor. It’d be like having a celebrity in the house.”
The implication had been as obvious as the effort he'd put into his look that day. The shirt fit a little too tightly across his shoulders, hair shaved neat underneath but still full on top, combed back with a little gel. The blond darkened from time, shot through with lighter strands at the tips that caught the light when he moved. Men like him, my Tata would say, are too pretty to be Polish. He’d wave his hand and call him some American heartthrob.
But he hadn’t been alone. His little girl, Zosia, clung to his hand, bouncing as she picked out chocolates, pointing with the same greedy certainty we used to have as kids.
He crouched down to her level, speaking Polish softly, happily.
It was the gentleness that stayed with me, the way his face reset when he smiled at her.
A single father to a five-year-old. An unexpected turn of events from the goofy boy I knew as a kid, but one that seemed to suit him well.
My sigh at the memory of watching them together is still lingering when a click cuts through the air. Natalia has her phone raised, angling for the best shot. “This is going to melt my followers’ hearts,” she announces.
Tata startles, then reaches for the phone with a scowl. “Natalia! Give me that.”
She darts back, laughing, already swiping to frame the photo. “No way! You two are goals. This is content gold.”
“Oddaj (Give it back),” Piotr says, begging Natalia to give it to him. “Come on, give it to him.”
The baby chooses that moment to let out a wail in Piotr’s arms, tiny fists flailing against his chest. Piotr groans, trying to rock him while still laughing, which only makes the crying louder.
Mama just shakes her head, muttering under her breath as she tastes her onions.
“The peace was nice for five seconds.” Her eyes flick to mine with that exasperated look only she can manage, stitched with love and humor both.
Then she stirs once more, satisfied, and declares, “Perfect. Time for dinner!”
Dinner is everything it always is: loud, lively, food passed hand to hand, everyone talking over everyone else. Mama asks Tata how the cousins are managing the store without him tonight. He waves her off, saying they’ve been given tasks, stock to put out, it will be done, not to worry.
Then Tata turns to Piotr. “And you, synu (son) ? The shop?”
“Really good,” Piotr says around a mouthful, then swallows. “Too good. So much work, not enough time. Might need to hire a few more mechanics.”
Aga burps the little one, who’s just finished his bottle, and adds with pride, “Everyone knows Piotr is honest, does things for a good price.
He can't keep up with it all, he works such long hours.
But it's good, the extra money will come in handy. Soon... we might have to buy a bigger house. Trying to make a sibling for Kacper.” She nudges him and he goes, unusually shy.
Tata beams, claps his son on the back hard enough to make Piotr, broad as he is, nearly choke. “That’s my son.”
Then his eyes slide to Natalia. “And you, córka (daughter), when will you focus on school or a career? Somewhere like Blackmoore or Bellevue? Still time to apply.”
“Instagram is a school. Influencer is a career,” Natalia shoots back, with a shrug.
I can’t roll my eyes at her even if that’s what Tata does.
I almost admire her. She knows what she wants, even at twenty-two.
When I set myself on medicine, it was more pride than certainty.
Since the afternoon Mama dragged me to get new glasses, despite my teenage mortification, my course was set.
What stayed with me wasn’t the frames or the lenses, but the way she looked at the doctor: attentive, impressed.
I remember thinking, with sudden clarity, that’s how I want someone to look at me one day.
The feeling followed me long after the appointment ended.
Somewhere along the way, the eye itself became fascinating, the way it utilizes light, has over two million working parts, and makes a conspirator out of the brain when it fails, were just some of the ways it hooked me.
I lost hours to my studies without noticing the cost. By the time I reached Johns Hopkins, the choice had already taken something from me.
Wanting that kind of respect, that regard, especially as a woman in a male dominated field, meant giving pieces of myself away in the pursuit.
I didn’t know what they were at the time.
I only knew the price would come later, until later became now, the abandoned pieces of myself staring back at me from the mirror every morning.
Tata’s gaze lands on me next. “And you, Kasia? How was your first week on your own as Dr. Sawadzka?” He says our name like it’s already etched on a plaque at some award dinner. His daughter. A doctor, a specialist, no less.
It makes me sit up straighter. “It’s… going. I had almost forty patients today. It wasn’t too bad. One of the techs even said they love working with me.”
“Ah,” Tata declares, slapping the table. “I knew it! One week in, already the favorite doktorka!”
But Piotr can’t leave it there. “Yeah, but her real prize is the tickets to see her blood man.”
Tata clicks his tongue. “Ah, Kasia, don’t tell me you still chase after that skinny boy that makes all the noise!”
“Tata!” Heat floods my face. “He is fully grown now, thank you. In his thirties like the rest of us. He’s filled out nicely.”
Piotr raises his eyebrows, but Natalia doesn’t let it go. “Mama, Kasia needs some water. She’s thirsty.”
At first Mama takes it seriously, reaching for a glass, until Piotr bursts into laughter.
“Will the two of you stop it!” I snap, cheeks burning hotter.
Natalia is already pulling up her phone again, triumphant, a photo of the band in full lighting up her screen.
Obelus commands the center, guitar strapped across a body that finally fits the space it occupies.
Leather and paint cling to muscle and shadow, black veil hiding everything but those dark, almond-shaped eyes that still carry the same haunted pull, dangerous now, but with the shy boy flickering beneath it if you know where to look.
Behind him, Threnos hammers the drums like a war chant, dark-blond hair half-shaved and wild in contrast, face marked in blue and white, piercing eyes flashing through a solid black veil as he holds the entire thing together by force of rhythm alone.
Bomos anchors the left, broad and immovable, bass cradled like bedrock, his presence felt more than seen even through the veil. He’s not shirtless in this picture, which is unusual for him, he likes to show off all the muscle beneath.
Haima bends into the music like it’s in his blood, curls falling into his eyes, stitched veil grinning its familiar bloody smile, silk and crimson moving with him like he's the pied piper and it's answering his call.
Together they don’t just look like a band. They look like a rite in progress, every line of Greek etched into their stage names alive in them: Obelus the Sacrifice, Bomos the Altar, Haima the Blood, and Threnos the Lament.
Tata squints at the screen, holding the phone out at arm’s length. “They can’t be the same boys from your posters.”
I laugh, unable to help myself. “Told you.”
“He looks more than filled out, kochana!” Tata snorts. “He looks weighed down. So much metal on his face! Look at his eyebrows and ears, can he even move?”
Piotr nearly chokes from laughing, pounding the table with his free hand while jostling the baby in the other. Natalia fans herself dramatically. “Please. Bomos is gorgeous, look at him.”
I grin sideways at her. “Yeah, I figured he’d be your favorite.”
Dinner runs late, plates scraped clean, stories piling over one another until everyone’s talking at once. Eventually Mama waves me off when I try to help with dishes, packing leftovers into foil instead. “For tomorrow, I worry.” she insists, pressing the plate into my hands like it’s nonnegotiable.
By the time I slip out, the night air has cooled even more, biting almost. I tuck the plate onto the passenger seat, start the car, and scroll for the track I want.
Obelus’s voice cuts through the speakers as I pull away from the curb, relentless, spilling every emotion he holds into the dark.
By the time I pull into my driveway, the spell is still clinging, until my phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen, and the breath leaves me. A message from the clinic. The finalized on-call roster. My name stares back. Friday night. The exact Friday night of the concert. Eight weeks from now.
For a moment I just sit there, staring at it like it might change if I blink hard enough. My first time on the on-call rotation as a real attending. It should feel like a milestone, proof that I’ve finally arrived. Instead, all I feel is dread.
“No, no, no, no…” The words rasp out before I can stop them, rattling in the empty car. How could I have forgotten?
The horror sets in: the stage I’ve dreamed of for years replaced with the beep of an ancient pager, the endless possibility of emergencies that don’t care about the band I love, about the girl I used to be.
The first attempt at being something other than duty-bound, and life reminds me exactly why I haven’t bothered. My first official week as Dr. Sawadzka, and I’m already screwing it up.