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“Two turtle doves will show thee where my cold ashes lie and sadly murmuring tell thee how in tears I did die.”—Nikolai Gogol
Two Turtle Doves will Show (Where Cold Ashes Lie)
“Liza.” Papa’s quiet voice was barely audible over the cackling flames in the fireplace of the living room in their Belaya resort suite. It was Christmas in the NHL but not for the Orthodox, so Papa had taken her out of school for a few days to go skiing with him and Maria. Since Maria had gone out to the spa to have the tension from riding the slopes of the Ural mountains massaged out of her shoulders and back, Liza and Papa were alone as they sat on the divan next to one another, sipping steaming mugs of tea. “I want to talk to you.”
“Uh-oh.” Even though she knew it was disgusting, Liza spat a mouthful of tea back into her cup. Before Papa had made this pronouncement, the herbs in the tea had been causing her breathing too slow and her eyelids to droop like the sun falling in the sky at the end of a winter day, but now her lungs were suddenly working overtime and her eyes were peeled like oranges.
“What’s the uh-oh for?” Papa curled a hand around her to rub the nape of her neck.
“It’s a major red flag when someone says they have to tell you something instead of just saying whatever it is straight out, Papa.” Mainly to give her own hands something to do, Liza swirled her tea around in the mug, watching whirlpools form and fade in the amber liquid. “It normally means they have bad news—like earth-shatteringly bad news—and they want to try to prepare you for it, so you don’t faint dead away when they tell you whatever it is.”
“Well, it’s not bad news.” Papa’s face seemed to be fighting a smile, so Liza began to hope that he had just chosen a poor opening to a trivial conversation, when he went on, “It’s just serious.”
“Just serious.” Liza tried to look as grave as an eight-year-old could as she braced herself for the worst. “I think I can deal with just serious.”
“Good girl.” Papa was still stroking the back of her neck. “You know how much I care about Masha.”
“Yes.” Liza turned wide eyes on her father. Since she couldn’t think of anything else that could be serious with Maria even though she thought that Papa would have called it bad news, not just serious news, she gasped, “Is Masha sick like with cancer or something?”
“No.” Papa bent over to kiss her furrowed forehead. “Nothing like that at all.”
“Thank God.” Liza could feel some of the tension coiled in her muscles releasing like springs. “I can handle anything that isn’t cancer.”
“This is much happier than cancer.” Papa’s hand traveled up from her neck to comb through her blonde hair. “I’ve proposed to Masha, she’s accepted, and we’re going to be married in July.”
Grateful that she was sitting down—because she had come to love Maria since they had been introduced last spring, but that didn’t mean she wanted Papa to get married again or to maybe have to call Maria Mama instead of Masha—Liza repeated, feeling more like an echo than a daughter at the moment, “You’re going to be married in July?”
“That’s right.” Papa nodded, giving her the sidelong glance that usually meant he was waiting for her to explode, either with happiness or with temper.
“Nothing I say will be able to change that, Papa?” Liza’s eyes narrowed to serpentine slits.
“Nothing.” Papa emitted one of his sighs that said more than a thousand words. “I love you more than my own life, Liza, and I value your opinion very much, but I’m having this discussion with you now as your papa to tell you what is going to happen and answer any questions you have about that, not to do whatever you tell me.”
“Are you saying I can ask any questions I like about this and you’ll answer them?” confirmed Liza, her brain flashing like lightning to the conclusion that she could try to use questions to discourage him from marrying Maria if she couldn’t make any headway by arguing outright.
“To the best of my abilities, yes.” Papa sounded somewhat relieved that a potential blow-up had been averted so easily, because he obviously didn’t appreciate that she could be as devious as he was when he performed a deke on an entire team to score.
“Does this mean you and Mama aren’t ever going to get back together, Papa?” Liza hadn’t intended to pose this question at all, but that desperate hope that her parents would realize that they did belong together after all that she had nursed inside her ever since that horrible day when Mama and Papa had sat her down in the living room of the house they had once shared in Detroit to explain that they couldn’t be a real family any more because the arguments were too bad was dying and needed to rasp out its final breath. Papa marrying Maria would mean no reconciliation was possible, and their family would never be whole again.
“Regardless of Masha, we weren’t ever going to get back together again.” Papa tried to pull Liza close to his chest.
Twisting out of his grasp so quickly that it was a marvel that her tea didn’t spill all over her blouse, Liza demanded, voicing the bitter question she had swallowed since the second she found out about her parents getting a divorce, because loving daughters weren’t supposed to speak hatefully to fathers who hadn’t hurt them, “You didn’t really love Mama when you married her, did you? Or else did you wake up one morning and stop loving her?”
“When I married your mama, I loved her, and I still love her now.” Papa lifted Liza’s chin since it, shamed at speaking so spitefully, had sunken. “It’s just that there reached a point where we no longer felt joy or peace—just sadness and as if we were always at war with one another—whenever we were together. The kindest, most loving thing either of us could do for the other was agree to split up, so that we’d both have a chance at feeling joy and peace even if it was with somebody else. Sometimes when you love somebody, you have to let them go like I did on your first day of school.”
“You didn’t abandon me in the classroom forever, though, Papa.” Liza pointed out acerbically, determined to accentuate the pitfalls in this particular comparison in case her father thought that she was too dumb to spot them from a kilometer away during a blizzard. “How do you know that the same thing that happened with Mama won’t repeat itself with Masha?”
“I’m not clairvoyant.” Papa squeezed Liza’s shoulder before she could duck out of his grasp. “I don’t know for sure that the same thing won’t happen with Masha, but I don’t believe it will because you have to understand, Liza, that your mama and I were very young when we got married, and I’m wiser now.”
“You mean Mama was a mistake and so was I?” Liza hissed, and, because the mug she was holding abruptly felt too hot, she slammed it down on the coffee table with enough force that tea spattered over the colorful informational brochures littering the maple.
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Liza,” chided Papa, tapping the bridge of her nose. “This conversation is difficult enough without you doing that.”
“Answer the question, Papa,” Liza countered, lifting her chin and praying to any listening saint that he wouldn’t notice it was trembling like pudding. “This conversation is difficult enough with you doing that.”
“Your mama was not a mistake.” Papa leaned over to murmur this in Liza’s ear, the words tickling like a kitten’s whiskers. “You are not a mistake. You know that.”
Biting her lower lip and ignoring the metallic taste that filled her mouth when the tender skin broke under the pressure of bone, Liza flipped all this over in her mind until she found an angle where it didn’t seem quite so harsh and jarring before she said, “I like Masha, and I want you to be able to be happy with her—for us all to be happy together, actually—but after you marry her, do I have to call her Mama, since I don’t think that’d be right, as it’s very weird for a girl to have two mamas?”
“Even after we’re married, you can continue to call her Masha for as long as you like,” Papa assured her, brushing a lock of hair away from her forehead so he could kiss it.
“Good.” Figuring that she should get as many important promises as she could out of him while he was disposed to offer them to her, she added, “Just because you’re married, you won’t let Masha punish me when I’m naughty, will you?”
“Are you planning on being naughty enough that she has to punish you?” Papa arched an eyebrow.
“No.” Liza shook her head. “It’s just that a stepmother will seize any opportunity she gets to beat her stepchild, and I have to protect myself against that.”
“Who’s been filling your head with such dreadful nonsense?” Papa’s forehead was a giant frown that matched the one on his lips.
“The whole world.” Liza gave a matter-of-fact shrug. “Everyone has heard about a million times those fairy tales starring the evil stepmother who abuses their stepdaughter.”
“We’ll compromise, Liza.” Papa seemed as if he were smothering a smile at what he doubtlessly perceived as her childish comment. “I won’t let her beat you, but if she sends you to your room or some other reasonable form of discipline, you have to accept that. Sound fair?”
“I guess.” Liza didn’t think any punishment was really fair, but she knew that her papa would be extremely unsympathetic to that argument, so she changed the topic away from her discipline, announcing as she hopped down from the sofa, “I want to call Mama in my bedroom where it’s private, Papa.”
“That’s a good idea. I know this is big news for you, and it’s a lot for you to take in all at once.” Papa hugged her for a moment before letting her go with a gentle nudge toward her bedroom. “I love you more than words could explain. Always remember that, Liza.”
“I love you, too, Papa.” As she opened the door to her bedroom, Liza glanced over her shoulder at her father. “Would it be okay if I talk to Masha when she gets back from the spa?”
“Of course.” Papa nodded. “I’ll have her knock on your door when she gets in.”
“Thank you.” With that, Liza shut her door and collapsed on her bed, staring out the window at the snowflakes shimmering silver in the resort lights as they glided toward the ground in a dance of doom.
Wondering how Mama was going to react to the news that Papa was going to give marriage a second try, she pulled her cell out of the pocket of her blue jeans, scrolled to her contacts, and hit her mother’s number—the first on her list—with a shaking index finger.
“Hi, Mama,” she said as soon as her mother picked up.
Liza hadn’t thought that her tone betrayed how rattled she was, but Mama, who had a six sense about when Liza was upset, detected her distress anyway. “What’s wrong, dear?”
“Papa is going to marry Masha in July.” Liza burst out. “I like her, but it’s weird to think about having two mamas even though Papa says I don’t have to call her Mama, and I’m not going to, because you’re my only real Mama.”
“You can call her Mama if you want.” Mama’s tone was suspiciously calm. “I won’t be offended.”
“You knew Papa was going to get married,” Liza accused.
It wasn’t a question, but Mama replied anyway, “Yes, he told me before he picked you up for this ski trip.”
“Why didn’t you warn me, Mama?” Pinching the bridge of her nose, Liza thought that she hated it when her parents kept secrets from her.
“Papa and I agreed that it would be best if he told you,” explained Mama, as delicate as porcelain.
“For people who are divorced, you agree about a lot.” Liza scowled, wondering how her parents could manage to agree when they were divorced but not when they were married. Adults could be so illogical and backwards that they really had a ton of nerve laughing at kids for being foolish.
“It’s because we are divorced that we can agree on things.” Mama sighed into the phone, and Liza took advantage of the fact that her mother couldn’t see her to roll her eyes at this ridiculous statement. “Your papa and I both love you and want what is best for you. That’s one thing we have in common. That’s one thing we’ll always have in common.”
“It would’ve been best for me if you stayed together.” Liza’s words were daggers that cut into herself as much as her mother.
“No.” Mama sounded as weary as if she had gone a week without sleep. “It wouldn’t have been best for you to hear us shouting at each other all the time. It would have given you wrong ideas about love and marriage.”
Wanting more comfort from Mama than she was getting, Liza pouted. “I like Masha, but this is hard, Mama.”
“It’ll get easier with time. You have until July to come to terms with it,” Mama reminded her. “Now, promise me that you’ll be good for your papa.”
“Aren’t I always?” Liza assumed her most innocent manner.
“No.” Mama’s tone was the strict one that meant Liza could find herself grounded until the end of the century if she didn’t pay heed. “That’s why I want a promise from you, because if you try to punish Papa or Maria for getting married, I’ll punish you when you get home. Understand?”
“Don’t worry, Mama, I’ll be good as gold.” Liza hated when her parents tried to present a unified front about discipline since it never ended well for her. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Good,” approved Mama. “Now be happy. You’re on a vacation many girls would give anything to go on. Act like it.”
“I’m grateful for all that you and Papa do for me.” Liza massaged a throbbing temple with the hand that wasn’t holding her phone to her ear. “I’m not trying to be a brat or anything like that, I swear.”
“You aren’t being a brat.” Mama chuckled. “I love you, Liza.”
“I love you too, Mama,” Liza responded, and then the phone went dead, as Mama hung up.
Her emotions a tangle she was too tired to unravel, Liza switched off her cell, placed it on her bureau, and fished her flannel nightgown out from behind the mountain of pillows on her queen-size bed. She had just finished slipping into her nightgown and crawling under the cotton sheets and goose-down comforter when a knock rapped against her door.
“Come in,” she called, and a second later, Maria entered, shutting the door gingerly in her wake and settling on the edge of Liza’s bed.
Wrapping her warm fingers around Liza’s abruptly cold hand, Maria remarked, “Your papa told me that he explained to you that we’re going to be married in July and that you wanted to talk to me.”
Letting Maria cling to her hand whether because she was magnanimous enough not to wish to be rude or because she was weak enough to crave comfort from the woman Papa was going to marry that summer, Liza established in a voice she hoped didn’t quake, “Papa says I don’t have to call you Mama and can just go on calling you Masha.”
“That’s fine.” Maria’s free palm patted Liza’s knee. “I love you, but I’m not trying to replace your mama or anything wicked like that.”
“Speaking of wicked—“ Liza locked eyes with Maria—“Papa promised me that he won’t let you beat me, either, so you can’t be that kind of evil stepmother at least.”
“I don’t want to be any kind of evil stepmother.” Maria’s face was as shocked and hurt as if Liza had slapped her across it. “Where in the world did you get the idea that I’d ever beat you?”
“Fairy tales.” Liza kept her voice breezy as she scraped at cuticles on the hand that Maria wasn’t squeezing. “All the fairy tales are packed with stepmothers who abuse their stepdaughters.”
“I see.” Maria nodded, as her free hand tucked a stray bunch of hair behind Liza’s earlobe. “In that case, I promise you that I won’t let your papa beat you, either.”
Glowering at Maria, Liza yanked out of her touch, and snarled, because nobody was allowed to insult her father in front of her, since he was the best papa on the planet even if she got mad at him sometimes, “Papa would never beat me. He loves me too much to hurt me. You don’t know him at all if you think he’d ever beat me.”
“Hmm.” Maria cocked her head. “I thought that all the fairy tales were full of strict fathers who beat their daughters?”
“Papa didn’t come out of a fairy tale.” Liza folded her arms across her chest.
“Neither did I.” Maria rested a palm on Liza’s shoulder. “Liza, the reason fairy tales have that name is that they are fantasies, and the reason they’re all set a long time ago in a kingdom far away is that they have very little meaning to our lives in the here and the now.”
“Are you saying reality is better than fairy tales?” Liza couldn’t decide whether she believed this or not.
“Sometimes.” Maria gave a half-moon grin. “Other times it’s worse.”
“Even if this isn’t a fairy tale—“ Liza batted her eyelashes at Maria, striving to seem as adorable and endearing as possible—“can we still have a happy ending?”
“I don’t see why not.” Maria bestowed a good night kiss on each of Liza’s cheeks. “Sleep well, Liza. You’re our little princess.”