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“My baby here on Earth
Showed me what my heart was worth
So, when it comes to be my turn
Could you shine it down here for her?”
-Mitski
September 28, 1990
I saw the building ahead of me, that apartment in Kiev that was my home for just one month before I was arrested. It looked more or less like every other apartment I’d lived in. The dirty, light grey bricks matched the colour of the sky. Screened windows blocked out most of the light. It looked, simply put, unloved. But it was mine.
As I walked down the road, slowly, one step at a time, I was struck by how unfamiliar this walkway felt. And how exposed. No trees to cover me, all out in the open. I moved closer to Isabella. She gave me a nervous smile, and put a reassuring hand on my back. “Do you need to sit down?” I looked at the apartment close ahead. “No, it's okay.” I would show her she didn’t need to worry about me.
When we finally got through the door, I collapsed onto the couch, exhausted and out of breath. Everything about today, leaving prison, catching up with Isabella was just too much. It frustrated me. My body used to be so strong. It used to run marathons, and work 24 hour shifts, and lift my wife off her feet when I kissed her. But now I couldn’t walk a few steps without feeling completely drained.
I looked around. The same family pictures were up on the walls, which had been painted a cream colour. New tiles had been put up in the kitchen, just a shade darker than the ones in Pripyat, simple and clean. A vase of flowers sat on the kitchen counter, I didn’t know who they were from. But I could see the signs of life everywhere. From the mug sitting on the coffee table, to the papers scattered across the kitchen counter, this place was comfortable, lived in. I smiled. She had made a home.
Isabella sat down next to me, and set a cup of coffee in front of me. “Thank you, Bella.” She hugged me tight, her head resting on my shoulder. I could feel her chest rise and fall against mine, her hair tickling my skin. “It’s good to be home.”
***
I paused as I buttoned my pajamas. The fabric felt so soft against my skin, so unlike the rough, prison uniforms I’d been forced to wear almost four years. And more than that, they smelled sweet, like rosewater perfume, like her. I felt shivers as I pictured her wearing my pajamas as she thought of me, miles away.
I crawled into bed as she stepped into the room. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. This bed was new, this room was new, and my mind was on high alert. I tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable. Isabella pulled me in, her arms wrapping around me, head resting on my chest. “Just stay still, darling” she whispered. I wasn’t used to sleeping like that - so entangled with her. But that night it was what I needed to finally feel safe. “Thank you for getting me out, Bella,” I murmured, “I owe you so much-” She put a finger to my lips. “You don’t owe me anything. I wanted to have you back.”
October 5, 1990
I could still feel the effects of the prison all around me. One particular morning, I woke up without her beside me. I reached over to her side of the bed and felt nothing, just as I had in prison. Immediately, I felt my breathing quicken and my chest tighten. What if they had taken her away? She had spoken out against the government in her efforts to free me. She was just gone, without telling me. And I didn’t know if she was okay, or if she was actually coming back. I started to cry as I thought of everything that could’ve happened. What if it was too much to care for me in my injured state? What if she just took off?
I came to my senses after a few minutes, enough to look at the clock. 10:30 am. It finally occurred to me that she had gone off to work. Still, my doubt lingered, and my anger grew as I let the hours go by. She didn’t even tell me she was leaving. Didn’t she know how much this would scare me? I waited until she came home, tried writing about my time in prison, but I couldn’t. It was like my mind had blocked me from reaching for those memories.
I finally heard a key turn in the doorway. Isabella stepped into the apartment and set her bag down. “How was your day, darling?” Of course she was in a wonderful mood. Her smile faded a bit when I didn’t respond. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.” I couldn’t breathe as I confronted her. I felt tears stinging my cheeks. “Bella, I didn't know where you were!” I hated raising my voice with her. “I thought you might’ve left me.” She looked away with shame.
She sat down next to me, wiping away my tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you when I left.” Her hands were cold from the autumn air. “Oh you must have been so worried, I’m sorry.” Her eyes were wet, and a small line of worry appeared between her brows. She kissed my temple then whispered in my ear. “I don’t think we’ll ever be the same again.” I pulled her in, and held her tighter than I ever had. “I love you.” I heard her mumble “I love you too, darling,” through the tears.
I felt guilty for worrying her, and for my disabled state. I couldn’t work, so I just stayed home, waking up late, unable to do any housework. And I got upset with her just for trying to provide for me. “I’m sorry I got upset with you, Bella.” She squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, love, no more surprises.”
October 6th, 1990
The next morning, I woke up to a note on my bedside table in her neat cursive.
Gone to work, will be back before you know it.
Lots of love,
Bella
Each day after that, I found a similar note on the kitchen counter, on my bedside table, or taped to the bathroom mirror. I was touched that she did that for me. She truly was the best wife, I just wished I could be a better husband.
October 7th, 1990
Our daughter Olga came to visit now that I was out of prison. When she saw the typewriter and the stack of papers on the coffee table, she got to questioning me. “You must let me edit this before you send it out, Dad,” she said, sitting herself down.
Olga had always had a talent for writing. When she was only nine years old, I found her in my office using my typewriter. Isabella and I stood in the doorframe, watching her for a moment. I had never seen her so focused on something, so dedicated. She noticed us and jumped up, her cheeks flushing red. I smiled at her. “It’s okay, dear. You can use that whenever you want.”
Thinking about it saddened me. That had been a much happier time. Nostalgia couldn’t describe the feeling. Everything reminded me of what I used to have, what I no longer had. It made me want so desperately to go back. I felt like a young child being dragged past a toy store window. I wanted something I couldn’t have, something close enough to touch, and it made me angrier that it used to be mine.
October 8th, 1990
I was feeling down after Olga had left on the last train back to Moscow. It was a cold night, and the draft from the bedroom window only made it worse. It was the first real cold night since I’d gotten home. I couldn’t stop shaking. My fingers felt too numb to do anything. I know it made Isabella very anxious to see me like this. She insisted that I wore her warmest cardigan while she froze in a threadbare blouse. “Oh, you’re so thin. You must be freezing,” she cooed. From the moment she draped it around my shoulders I was engulfed in her scent, like the delicate knit patterns were strangling me. A reminder, until I went to bed, that I was taking from her. I hadn’t experienced shame quite like that since I was first arrested. I felt like a parasite bleeding her dry.
Isabella hadn’t been able to bring much to the new apartment, with most of our lives still in Pripyat collecting dust. I mention this because we only had one good blanket in Kiev, and it wasn’t nearly big enough for our bed. Without even asking she draped it over me as I lay down. “Bella, aren’t you cold?” Her pajamas were threadbare at best, and the sheets were so thin. “No, darling.”
And suddenly I understood my father and all of his sadness. I remember how I would turn my head in disgust when I saw my father from my house, limping slowly along the river, lighting the buoys - the only job he could manage in his state. And every time I heard my mother yelling at him when money was tight, I could feel my cheeks flush red with rage. But now I was just the same. My purpose as a man was to give her everything, to provide for her, and make sure she was happy. Now I couldn’t even provide for myself. I was an invalid. A failure in every sense of the word.
I slept so fitfully that night, waking up at least once an hour. From cold or from worry, I couldn’t tell. Every dream that I had was about prison. About dying in prison, about being kept from my wife - it didn’t matter. I couldn’t purge it from my system. I felt Isabella shiver next to me. I reached out to feel her hands. They were ice cold. I wrapped her in my blanket, and pulled her in. She could give me all she wanted, but I would not let her suffer. She stirred in my arms, her head finding its usual place on my chest, then fell back asleep.
October 9th, 1990
I still didn’t know what to write about prison. Writing about the reactor was easy. No emotions, no flowery language, just pure knowledge. But this was different. I hate writing about myself almost as much as I hate talking about myself. I could imagine someone far away, perhaps in another country flipping through these pages, and seeing every part of me, making their own judgments.
Isabella walked into the kitchen, humming to herself, and pulled me out of my daydream. I watched her turn on the kettle, then turn her attention to the vase on the counter. She looked at each flower with such care as she picked away the dead petals and leaves, still humming to herself the entire time. She reordered the bouquet like she always did, placing the small, wilted daisies on the outside of the arrangement so that they would not be forgotten. “I feel bad for them,” she once told me. I was struck by an awful memory.
***
We had been fighting about which apartment to live in all day once we married. I told her we needed a place near the water because I worked with submarines. But she wouldn’t listen, and told me I could find another job. The anger flared within me, as it so often did.
Growing up poor, the worst way I knew how to hurt someone was to destroy something that they’d spent money on. So I walked up to her flowers on the coffee table. And I tugged on a daisy petal. It was so delicate, ripped away so easily. But that wasn’t enough. She wouldn’t notice. So I picked the petals off each daisy, then beheaded it. And with every pull, I felt a stab of regret, so I moved faster to get it over with. I started to cry as I heard each flower hit the bottom of the trash can. I was shocked at myself, at how I’d acted with such cruelty, but also childishness.
When she walked into the living room, it took her all of five minutes to notice what had happened. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I said nothing. She sat next to me on the couch. “Well, why did you do that?” I hung my head in shame. “I’m so sorry, Bella, really, I don’t know what came over me.” She just sat there and shook her head. “I’ll buy you new flowers tomorrow.” The look she gave me was one of disgust and pity. “That’s not the point. Why did you want to hurt me?” I dug my nails into my wrist to keep from crying, breaking my skin, drawing blood. I hurt her because that’s how I grew up. With people who were quick to anger, who were cold, and cruel.
I cried myself to sleep that night. Each sob racked my body as I felt the shame wash over me. I hated seeing her upset. I wished she would hurt me back. If she slapped me across the face, or burned my things, we’d be even. But all she said was “This is your last chance. If you do this again, I’m leaving.”
Still, she forgave me quickly. A few days later, she pulled me aside to show me one of her daisies. Another bud had started to bloom. “See, darling? It grows back.”
Whenever I noticed her flowers looked wilted after that, I bought her new ones. I picked crimson red roses like the colour of her lipstick, pink lilies because they were her favourite colour, and white daisies to remind me of what I had done. I kept this up for years until we moved to Pripyat. As for last chances, she gave me plenty more after that.
***
I felt a mix of admiration and guilt as I watched her. What had I done to deserve her, a wife who gave her love to all the little things in life, and asked for nothing in return?
She looked up and noticed me watching her. “What are you thinking about?” she asked with a smile. “Nothing, I just love you so much.”
I turned to my typewriter and got back to work. If I could do nothing else for her, I would show the world that she was the best wife I could’ve ever hoped for.
The Final Chapter
My life had ended in a hospital room two times before. The first was when my son died. A part of me was killed that night, and I never got it back. The second was after the accident. I thought I would die then, before I could ever see my wife again. But this time, it really was the end. It had been a long time coming.
Isabella sat in the chair next to my bed. I could remember sitting in a chair just like that next to her when my son was dying. And now it was my turn. So many regrets plagued me. The greatest was that I hadn’t brought her enough happiness. “Bella, was I a good husband?” She looked over at me. “Oh darling, you were the best. You bought me flowers out of your salary when money was tight, and when I was on some awful diet you put milk in my coffee every morning. Then when your body was broken, and you had nothing left to give, you didn’t let me go cold.” A pause, and then “I don’t want to live without you!” It was such a desperate statement, delivered with the frustration of a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched my hand so tightly in hers.
So this was the end. If I had known, I would have lived my life differently. I would’ve taken more days off to spend with my family. I would’ve made the most of every moment, and let myself feel every emotion. I looked at Isabella. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I always wanted to die happy,” I said quietly, not more than a whisper. “But you were by my side the entire time. And that’s the next best thing.”