56. This Is Me Trying
THIS IS ME TRYING
I’m staring at the black screen of the phone Lev gave me, trying to come up with a message appropriate to send to the man who married me because my father is heartless and his is opportunistic, when there’s a knock on the door.
I check the time, shocked to see it’s already seven.
Dinner is delivered exactly on time every day—the only proof that anyone aside from Maksim, who’s continued running with me every morning, remembers that I’m living here.
I take the delivery to mean I’m not welcome downstairs, although I can’t picture the Sokolov family breaking bread and sharing stories about their days.
I stand, folding up the letter I was attempting to write my father before I switched to trying to text Lev.
I don’t owe Salvatore any apology, and yet …
I want him to know I’m not being held here against my will.
That I chose this because he had limited my options, but also because I wanted it.
Maybe that will disappoint him—that I found a silver lining—but at least my conscience will be clean.
I slide the folded paper between two books on the shelf before continuing toward the door.
I open the door to an unwelcome surprise—the same maid who was in my room a few days ago. Again, her expression balances on the edge of hostility as she holds the covered tray out.
I force a smile, refusing to appear intimidated as I reach for the handles to take the tray from her. “Thank you.”
She appears reluctant to release her grip, but she finally does, dusting her hands along what I know is scratchy fabric.
Uneasily, I wonder if she spit in my food.
“I’m Carina,” I say.
She spins and walks away. I shut and lock the door, returning to the table with my meal.
As I eat, I try to picture what might be happening downstairs.
The size of the house is a factor, but I’m still surprised I haven’t encountered anyone on the occasions I’ve left these rooms. Aleksandr and Victoria are still living here with their son since the attempted attack, yet I haven’t heard the baby cry once.
He looked tiny when I glimpsed Victoria holding him last week, but I don’t know how old he is.
I finish my dinner and scan the space. I’m bored, just like Maksim said.
I’ve exercised, I’ve read, I’ve showered, I’ve eaten.
I feel more like a prisoner in Lev’s absence.
I’m not sure I’d be allowed to leave the property without him, and I don’t know where I’d go even if I could leave.
Going shopping or to a restaurant or even to another symphony performance alone holds little appeal.
I stand, grabbing the empty tray and carrying it over to the door. I have to balance the collection of dishes on my hip to get the door open, proud when I manage without dropping anything. Rather than leave the tray outside my door, like I normally do, I continue down the hallway with it.
At the top of the stairs, I hear someone call out in Russian. It’s not a word I recognize, and I curse my limited vocabulary.
Again, an unfamiliar voice echoes along the empty hallway.
I continue past the stairs hesitantly, heading down the hallway across from Lev’s wing.
There’s an open door on the left that I approach hesitantly.
The voice sounded like a woman’s. I’m less apprehensive about encountering a fellow female than Igor or Aleksandr, but the only person I’m somewhat comfortable around is Maksim.
Porcelain clatters as I lift my elbow to nudge the door open wider, foiling any attempt at an inconspicuous entrance. At least the dishes don’t break, just slide some.
“It’s Carina. Did you need … can I help with anything?”
Elena Sokolov’s gaze reminds me of a hawk’s. There’s a shrewd intelligence in plain view, paired with a perfect posture that makes me think she’s a very difficult person to catch off guard.
She glances down at the fabric in her lap, releasing me from the prison of her close attention. “You liked the pelmeni?”
I assume she means the meat dumplings I had for dinner. “It was delicious. I-I’m not much of a cook. Isa—my, uh, aunt tried to teach me, but not much stuck.”
“Not your mother?” Elena sews the same way I presume she does everything else—the needle moving in quick, efficient dips.
“She’s dead.”
No reaction. Most people apologize, but I’ve never found I’m sorry to help.
Again, I wonder how much Lev’s family has dug into my background.
We were careful enough that I doubt they know about the years of meetings, but it wouldn’t have been hard for them to discover what Carina Carson’s life was like.
Report cards, performance recordings, where I lived—there’s a trail attached to all of it.
Asking about my mother might have been a test to judge how truthful I was.
I set the tray down on a table and wander deeper into the room without waiting for an invitation. I’ll never get one, I don’t think.
“What are you making?”
Elena doesn’t answer. She does tilt the quilt so I can see. The I and L are already carefully stitched. She just started the Y. A constellation of stars and a crescent moon surround it.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
She glances up again. I’m torn between being happy about the acknowledgment and visibly squirming under another close inspection. When we first met, I was taken aback by how intense Lev was. After meeting his family, I’m shocked he smiles as much as he does.
A flurry of Russian sounds behind me. I turn to see a maid has entered, one I don’t recall seeing before. Even considering the size of Serebryanovo, it’s hard to comprehend how much staff works here.
Elena replies in Russian. I’m surprised to hear my name mixed in with the foreign words, even more so when the maid gives me a respectful nod. I’m on a friendly basis with most of the guards, thanks to my morning runs, but no one inside has addressed me unless they’re delivering a meal or cleaning.
The maid turns and leaves, taking my tray with her.
“I was going to do that.”
“Dressing like a maid does not make you one.”
I glance down at my current outfit—the same jeans and T-shirt I put on after showering this morning, post-workout. Not the most glamorous, but nothing like—
I belatedly realize what she’s referencing. I’ve noticed the cameras in the hallways. Elena—or someone else—obviously looked through the footage from my wedding day.
“It worked.”
“You should learn Russian.” She moves on to the next topic without reacting to my last comment.
“Lev is teaching me.”
“That is not all he is teaching you.”
The sentence has no inflection. I can’t tell if she has any opinion on my training—if she approves or disapproves.
“Weak men prefer weak women.”
The steady threading stops, and I worry she’s taken my observation the wrong way. That she thinks it’s a reference to her and Igor, or to Aleksandr and Victoria.
But then Elena nods, and I swear I see something similar to approval appear. Of me? Doubtful. But at least I managed to do something to impress the woman who, I realize suddenly, is my mother-in-law. I have a mother-in-law.
“That has been my experience as well,” she states.
I smile, appreciating the moment of kinship. It never occurred to me Elena might be an ally—she seemed as cold as Igor. Now I wonder if I’m looking at a future Lev saved me from. Carina Morello wouldn’t have been capable of running five miles or loving her husband.
“Well, I’ll let you enjoy your evening.” I take a step toward the door.
“You can stay if you wish. I do not often have company when I’m here.”
When she’s here? The Sokolovs could clearly afford a second home, but I assumed Elena always lived at Serebryanovo. For security reasons, if nothing else. Apparently not. I wonder if her current presence is because of the attack, same as Aleksandr and Victoria and Ilya.
“Usually, I listen to music, but the player is broken,” Elena adds.
I’m anxious about continuing the conversation and unintentionally saying or doing something to lower Lev’s mother’s opinion of me, but I swallow my nerves and take the seat to her left. It’s a plush armchair, the smooth fabric silky against my bare arms.
“What sort of music do you like to listen to?” I ask, seizing on a topic I might have some knowledge of.
“Mostly classical. Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Prokofiev.”
I nod eagerly, familiar with all three. “The ‘Swan Theme’ from Swan Lake is one of my favorite pieces. I spent the summer before starting middle school learning it. The bow control is difficult since you have to master the crescendo and decrescendo. Third position is also …” I clear my throat, recollecting the bored expression most people wear when I delve into music specifics. “I like classical music too.”
I glance at Elena, who’s steadily sewing.
“Have you been to the Moscow Conservatory?” I ask.
“Many times.” A pause. “You?”
“Once.”
“You met Lev in Chicago?”
I suspect this is another test to see if I’ll share the truth, but it could also be an educated guess. Elena knows her son. Lev isn’t impulsive or impetuous. Him protecting me makes more sense if we had an existing acquaintance predating our fathers’ plans. Or maybe she spoke to Maksim.
“Yes.”
“He stayed there more than he should have. I suppose now I know why.”
“We never spent more than a night together. Lev takes his job very seriously.”
I sound more defensive than I meant to, but the insinuation Lev was in Chicago for me chafes, especially when I think about all the times I woke up alone. I woke up alone, again, this morning, so the reminder feels especially raw.
His work will always come first, and I’ve accepted that. It doesn’t mean I like it.
“He does,” Elena agrees. “He also takes you very seriously.”
“I think you’re misunderstanding.”
For the first time, Elena smiles. It’s a small one, tiny lifts in the corner of her lips, but it’s unmistakable. “I think you are, Carina.” She reaches down into the basket by her feet, withdrawing more fabric, which she holds out to me. “I will teach you to embroider, if you would like.”
I take it. “I would.”