78. Zona
Zona
“You’re quiet today,” I say, tipping the vodka bottle back slightly, listening to the slosh. “Which is honestly suspicious. You always had an opinion. About everything.”
The wind moves through the trees. Nothing answers. I sit cross-legged on the ground, scarf spread beneath me, the headstone cold at my back. The bottle between my knees is already uncapped.
I huff a small laugh. “Don’t pretend you’re being respectful now.
If you were here, you’d already be scolding me for not bringing a thicker coat.
Or taking your scarf and practically strangling me with it, grumbling the whole time about how I never learned to look after myself, then checking twice to make sure I was warm. ”
I take a sip. It burns, distracts from the tears that come no matter how I try to stop them, so I stop fighting. I just let them fall.
“It doesn’t feel like Christmas without you,” I go on, like this is just another update I forgot to text.
“No debates about who’s on cousin-wrangling duty once the vodka starts flowing.
No overplanning. Or calling me three times to ask what to buy Aga, then calling again just to ask, ‘But what would a good Polish woman actually want?’” I shake my head.
“You never trusted your own instincts when it came to her. Even though they were usually right.”
I glance back, waiting for the comment that doesn’t come.
“See? Nothing,” I mutter. “Not even a jab or a ‘Polish women take careful planning, doktorka’. Very out of character.”
The silence stretches. It isn’t peaceful, it’s shaped like him. Something that can never be replaced.
“It’s been almost a year, but the hole you left doesn’t shrink,” I whisper to the breeze. “I know people like to say it does. They mean well. But it doesn’t. Some days it feels wider, like the gap between us keeps growing even when I fight against it.”
I twist the cap back on, then off again, restless. “I’ve just gotten better at walking around it.”
My breath fogs as I exhale. I focus my eyes skyward, as if it has answers for me.
“I wanted to tell you some things,” I say. “Because apparently that’s what I do now. Talk to you like we’re being polite.”
I take another drink. “We’re thinking about buying a house.
Not right this second, we’ll start looking in January, probably.
Apparently that’s when the listings are better.
Everyone waits until after the holidays.
” A pause. “You’d hate that. You’d say timing the market is bullshit, to start looking when we want, trust the gut and then somehow still be right. ”
I smile despite myself.
“I’m opening my own clinic. No more Conrad watching over my shoulder like I’m going to accidentally dismantle the entire practice. I’ll set my own hours. Take the cases I want. Have time to actually breathe.” I swallow. “Travel sometimes, go to a gig or two with a certain someone.”
I lean my head back against the stone, careful, like he might feel it if I’m too rough.
“He’s a good man, Piotr,” I say softly. “Rafe. He’s…
steady in the ways that matter. Loves planning our future together.
He loves me, too, somehow, without trying to turn me into something else.
I know what his world looks like. No illusions this time, I’m ready for it.
I want to see it up close. Spend more time together.
” I close my eyes. “Build something that feels like home for both of us.”
For a moment, I let myself imagine Rafe’s arms wrapped around me at some future kitchen’s sink, pretending to wash dishes just to keep him pressed against me like that. A world that finally allows us peace.
I sit up, and turn towards the headstone, like suddenly the conversation is serious and I have to face Piotr, ready for his judgment. My eyes trace the darkened letters of his name carved into stone.
“Go on,” I add lightly. “This is where you tell me I’m being reckless and rushing things. Or I’ve turned into a hopeless romantic.”
I close my eyes, nothing. I crack one eye open. “Still nothing? Wow. Death has really mellowed you out.”
Footsteps crunch behind me.
“You’re forgetting something,” Natalia says gently.
I smile, already knowing. She comes into my line of sight and crouches beside me, scarf pulled up, eyes bright in that way she gets when she’s holding herself together. She takes the bottle from my hands, unscrews the cap, and takes a sip without ceremony.
“For courage,” she says, then tilts the bottle and pours a measure onto the ground at the base of the headstone. The vodka darkens the soil.
“Merry Christmas, Piotr,” she murmurs.
I reach into my bag and pull out the framed photos. Amelka grinning, her teeth coming in nicely, he’d be proud of that smile; Kacper holding a soccer ball in his tiny, chubby hands. He’s already in love with it like Piotr was. We lean them carefully against the stone.
Natalia snorts. “They’re going to get ruined. Or vandalized.”
“I know,” I say. “We’ll keep coming back with more.”
I lean forward and press a kiss to the cold stone, right where his name is carved. “Live,” I whisper. “You always told me that. So that’s what I’m trying to do. Merry Christmas, give Babciu the kisses from all of us down here.”
I stand, pluck my scarf from the ground and loop my arm through Natalia’s. She squeezes, and together we turn away, leaving the bottle lighter, the pictures watching, the silence full of everything he still is to us.
Christmas comes whether we’re ready for it or not. The house feels different this year. The space where Piotr should be feels wrong, like a missed note. A single candle burns on the table for him, its flame steady against the chatter, the scent of wax and pine drifting through the room.
Aga keeps refilling plates even though no one can eat more. Zosia darts between chairs with her new doll, her laughter slicing through the warmth. Amelka sleeps in her carrier, tiny fists curled beneath her chin, oblivious to the chaos that built her world.
Kacper points at the framed picture of Piotr and says, “Tatu?!”
I nod, lifting the frame. “Yes, Tatu?. Tatu? loves you very much.”
The words catch in my throat, and Aga meets my eyes, tears brimming. Rafe’s hand finds my shoulder; I swipe one tear away before it can fall. Kacper looks up, those big brown eyes, Piotr’s eyes, and I smile back. I don’t want him to think sadness is all that’s left of his father.
“He was always happy. Happy.” Kacper grins and points again.“Happy Tatu?!”
“Yes,” we all echo, even Mama and Tata. “Happy Tatu?.”
Aga rushes to the kitchen before her tears can spill.
Later, Rafe’s laughter rolls through the room.
He’s across the table, telling Tata about the first time he tried ?ubrówka and thought the blade of bison grass was garnish instead of warning.
His Polish is still crooked, full of misplaced endings and brave guesses but he never shies from trying.
Tata roars, claps him on the shoulder, and throws an arm around him.
“Synu,” he says, son. The word hits me like breath caught in the chest, the sound of belonging.
After dinner, the house glows in that soft, post-meal blur of warmth and clinking glasses. Mama and Natalia are locked in another debate about which Polish soap opera has the better villains; it ends in laughter so loud the windows fog. It feels human again. Almost whole.
My view wanders toward the kitchen and pauses at the doorway.
Aga’s rinsing dishes, her hair tucked behind her ear.
Dominik’s rocking Amelka leaned against the counter beside her, Kacper at his feet running a toy car along his shoes.
He looks down, smiling, murmurs something to Aga that makes her tip her head back and laugh.
The sight is almost too beautiful, like watching light decide to stay after a long storm.
Something precious that might be born from loss, just starting to bloom.
Something I know Piotr would approve of, would want, for them both. I smile.
When I look back at the living room, the noise rushes over me again: laughter, clinking cups, the rustle of wrapping paper as Mama insists Rafe open a gift first, something she knitted to “keep him warm for the rest of the day.” He’s by the tree now, Tata’s arm still slung around him, cheeks flushed from vodka and affection.
Rafe looks up the moment my focus lingers.
Our eyes meet across the distance, as if the whole world has finally exhaled and left us standing in the quiet after.
In that moment, I understand. This is what it means to see your future.
To see your home.
A few days later, the house feels different, like it’s exhaling now that the holidays are finally letting go.
The tree is practically naked, branches thinning as we work our way down, ornaments wrapped back into tissue paper and boxes that smell of pine and dust. The Christmas lights are still on, casting that soft gold glow that makes everything feel kinder than it probably is.
Rafe stands behind me, arms sliding around my waist as I reach up to unhook a string of lights.
“You know,” he says, chin resting on my shoulder, voice lazy and warm, “I’ve been wondering why you put this tree up when we’re not here on Christmas. I don’t even own a tree.”
I smile. “Because I like coming home to it.”
“Fair point. So do I.”
I lean back into him, feeling his warmth along my spine. “Plus, Mama would be deeply offended if I didn’t. Even if she doesn’t see it, she’d know somehow I wasn’t pulling my fair share of holiday spirit.”
He laughs softly. “Sounds like your Mama.”
His arms tighten just a little. “Mum was… satisfied this year,” he adds, like that alone is an achievement worth noting.
“Oh?” I glance at him.
He nods. “Christmas Eve was acceptable. Though the conversation about alternating Christmas Day each year has already come up.”
I grin. “Already?”
“She’s very efficient.”
“Sounds like your Mum.”
I shake my head, smiling to myself. “It’s starting to feel like we’re becoming a family or something.”