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“Thou dost overcount me of my father’s house: but since the cuckoo builds not for himself, remain in it as thou mayst.” —William Shakespeare
The Cuckoo Builds not for Himself
The neon numbers on the alarm clock perched on Liza’s nightstand flickered to midnight, and the house around her was so quiet with not a pipe groaning or a floorboard creaking that she could have heard a feather fall. That meant everyone—Papa, Masha, and even baby Vasalisa—was asleep, Papa and Maria in the king bed of the master bedroom across the hallway, and Vasalisa curled like a turtle in a shell in the crib of the nursery that had replaced the guest room the next door over from Liza.
Doubtlessly Vasalisa, who as far as Liza could see did nothing except cry and relieve herself at inopportune moments, would be wailing loud enough to awaken the whole neighborhood in fifteen minutes, or she would have if Liza didn’t plan to accelerate that process because if Vasalisa’s crying and peeing was a nuisance to everybody else in the family, at least she could be made to cry and pee on command.
That was what Liza’s best friend, Nika, who had a bevy of siblings she despised, had assured Liza, Liza recalled as she rolled out of bed and crossed over to her en suite bathroom. Flicking on the hot water faucet and waiting with her palm under the stream for it to warm up, she smirked at the thought of Vasalisa peeing in her sleep, as Nika had promised until her cheeks were blue, that she would do if her hand was dunked into warm water while she slept.
Now the water was warm, so Liza snatched up the aquamarine glass she always kept on the counter and placed it under the faucet to collect the water. Once the cup was full, she turned off the sink and tip-toed, as silently and stealthily as a cat, across her bedroom. Upon reaching her door, she slid it open one tentative millimeter at a time to ensure that the hinges didn’t make a sound and give her away. She peeked her head out the door, checked either direction to be absolutely certain that Papa and Maria really weren’t lurking in the hallway, and then crept out of her bedroom, clinging to the wall like a shadow until she came to the next door over, which was ajar to let in the light from the chandelier in the corridor because Vasalisa was afraid of the dark.
Liza slipped through the crack, feeling like water flowing between stones on a riverbed, and across the nursery until she arrived in front of Vasalisa’s crib. Scowling down at the baby, whose milky face appeared eerie as a ghost’s in the pale glow cast by the princess nightlight Maria had plugged in, Liza grabbed Vasalisa’s small wrist, which flailed an instinctive protest and then permitted itself to be pulled into the warm glass of water.
For a second, Liza believed that her experiment had failed, and her glower deepened in disappointment. Then Vasalisa’s lips quirked upward as they always did when she had gas or was relieving herself, and, an instant later, the salty yet somehow sour stench of urine made Liza’s nostrils wrinkle.
Vasalisa, who was finicky about laying in her own filth, screwed up her face, jerked out of sleep, and began to weep with such volume that Liza started, soaking her silk nightgown with warm water. Muttering about good-for-nothing babies, she twisted the fabric between her fingers, trying to shake out the water.
She was so preoccupied with wringing out her nightgown that she didn’t even notice that Papa, hair tousled from sleep, had come into the nursery until he swooped past her to scoop up Vasalisa. Papa appeared to be so busy rubbing Vasalisa on the back and whispering soothing words that were wasted since the baby was too dumb to understand anything into her ear as he carried her over to the pastel purple changing table that Liza figured that he hadn’t seen her as he so often didn’t when his attention was fixed on the baby who had in so many ways replaced her.
However, as Liza tried to sneak out of the nursery, Papa asked, “What are you doing in here, Liza?”
Liza’s blood froze in her veins, but maybe that helped her keep her cool as she replied, “I heard Vassa cry, so I came in here to see if I could calm her down, Papa.”
“With a water cup?” Even just jolted out of dreamland, Papa was an inconveniently sharp man.
“Oh—“ Liza rummaged through her mind for a possible explanation and then went on in what she hoped was a casual tone—“I had woken up with a dry throat, and I was just getting myself some water when Vassa started to cry. That’s how I got in here so quickly.”
Not wanting to stick around for Papa to poke more holes into her fictional account of events, Liza moved toward the door, remarking, “Well, you seem to have things under control, Papa, so I’ll just be going back to bed now…”
“Before you leave, do me a favor.” In the middle of changing Vasalisa’s diaper, Papa swiveled to face Liza. “Please strip off Vassa’s blanket and sheet, and then put them in the washing machine. You must have spilled water on them when you came in.”
Returning to the crib, Liza spotted for the first time a puddle on Vasalisa’s blanket and sheet that must have been created when Vasalisa’s crying made her jump.
“It must have been by mistake.” Liza yanked off the blanket and sheet before any more incriminating evidence could be furnished from it to further undermine her story.
Papa’s only response was a noncommittal grunt from deep in his throat.
Glaring at him as she bundled up the dirty laundry in her arms and marched toward the door, she accused, forgetting in her indignation that she was lying, “You don’t believe me!”
“I didn’t say that, Liza.” Papa arched an eyebrow at her in a way that made it clear she had protested too much in his opinion. “Put that stuff in the wash, please, and then go back to your bed. I’ll be in to talk with you once I’ve made Vassa’s bed again.”
“I don’t have anything to say to you, Papa,” snapped Liza, stalking out of the nursery and down the hallway until she reached the stairs, which she stomped down, taking pleasure in picturing that every step her heel punished had Vasalisa’s features.
Once she had thrown the wet blanket and sheet into the washing machine and switched it on, she stormed back upstairs to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her when she arrived in it. She climbed into her bed and tugged at her blanket, wondering if she was going to be in trouble for something that he couldn’t prove that she had done.
When he appeared to take her out of her suspense, turning on the light and practically blinding Liza with the brightness as he came in, she folded her arms across her chest, tilted her face away from him, and declared obstinately, “I still don’t have anything to say to you, Papa.”
“I’ll do the talking then.” Papa sat down on her bed with a rustle, cupped her chin between his palms, and directed her gaze to his. “You have to start treating Vassa like a sister, not an enemy, Liza.”
“She’s not my sister, and she is my enemy.” Liza’s jaw clenched. “She’s a cuckoo in the nest where I’m supposed to be the baby bird.”
“Are you worried that she’ll trick me into feeding her while you starve?” Papa’s tone was the exaggeratedly serious one he always adopted whenever he didn’t want her to know that he was having an internal chuckle at her expense.
“It’s not funny, Papa.” Haughtily, Liza stuck up her nose.
“Humor is never universal.” Papa tapped her nose and she regretted calling attention to that feature. “What one person thinks is not funny another breaks a rib laughing at.”
“Well, I thought it was a hilarious joke to make Vassa pee by sticking her hand in warm water,” snarled Liza, staring at her Papa as though daring him to discipline her.
“I didn’t share your sense of comedy.” Papa gave her shoulders a slight shake. “Neither did Vassa.”
“I don’t care what Vassa thinks.” Liza rolled her eyes. “Assuming, of course, that she’s even smart enough to have thoughts, which is far from proven.”
“You should care what Vassa thinks.” Papa sighed. “As she grows, she’s going to look up to you and copy you. It’s the old monkey see-monkey do trick. Do you really want her to believe that making people pee is funny when she might decide to pull that prank on you?”
“She truly is going to want to be like me?” Liza bit her lip, having difficulty imagining that anyone on Earth would wish to do such a bizarre thing.
“Of course.” Papa chuckled as he stroked Liza’s hair away from her forehead. “You’re her big sister. Who would she want to imitate more?”
“Tomorrow I could read her Sleeping Beauty,” suggested Liza. “That was my favorite when I was little, and when she’s older, she might want to try ballet like I did. I could hold her hand while she learned how to spin and everything.”
As she spoke, she could almost feel Vasalisa’s grip—which was strong like Liza’s and Papa’s—around her fingers, and she smiled, remembering how she had once been a pink ballerina, dancing in the living room with Papa holding her hand, ready to catch her when the world turned too quickly beneath her pointed toes and she started to fall, but also prepared to burst into enthusiastic applause whenever she finished a turn with hideous form that would make her current ballet master shudder. Soon it would be her time to teach a little girl how to spin and how to fall. The circle hadn’t ended, and the dance would continue with only the participants changing.
“That’s a wonderful idea. Now get some rest, Sleeping Beauty.” Papa kissed her forehead as he rose. “Love your sister. Your heart is a muscle that will shrivel up if you don’t exercise it by loving as many people as possible every day.”