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There was something so familiar about the smell of the ice rink that she almost started crying right there in the doorway. The cold air against her lips, the artificial light, the quiet hum of the air conditioning system.
Half a world away, and yet some things stayed the same. Irina Rozanov felt the tears pressing behind her eyes.
“Mama!”
The tug of Ilya’s excited hand in hers was the only thing stopping her from having a breakdown. His golden curls, inherited from her, were bouncing wildly around his little face, looking every bit the perfect messy angel he was.
Just last week, one of his front teeth had fallen out, giving him a lisp that was achingly adorable. Irina wished she could keep him just like this. Bottle him up, all sweet and young and excited.
She took a fortifying breath. That was why she was here, wasn’t it? She had found their escape and taken it. Left everything she knew behind for the hope that Ilya and Andrei would not face the same challenges she had met.
“Come on!”
Ilya was almost vibrating with excitement. Only a month since he was last on the ice. But that was back in Russia. So very far away.
Irina knew how he was feeling. That longing. That incredible, indescribable feeling of your skates hitting the ice, and all worries fading away.
He had inherited that from her. And just like her, he could recognize the feelings in the air. The sounds, the smells, the environment. Skating was in his blood. Even if he had chosen hockey, and not her beloved figure skating.
They had brought Ilya’s skates with them from Russia. Irina was glad. She wasn’t sure she would have been able to afford new ones here. Everything was expensive in a new way. She’d lived all her life in the Soviet Union. It was all different now, this world she was trying to navigate.
“Hurry, mama!” Ilya groaned, kicking his left foot against the bench while she laced up his right. He always struggled to sit still.
They differed there, her boys. Andrei was quieter. More looming, like his father. Sometimes, Irina wondered how much Andrei had picked up from Grigori. In the time since they had come to Canada, he had grown even more quiet. Angry in a way she had never seen before.
She hoped he would settle with time. If she could just give him a calm, loving environment. Maybe the boys could even be friends. Start acting like brothers, and not people forced to be in the same space.
“There, my love,” Irina smiled, and tapped Ilya’s leg. With a whoop, he jumped off the bench, and wobbled his way towards the ice. His hair was sticking out messily beneath his helmet.
He would need a haircut soon, she realized. It was getting in his eyes. But she just couldn’t. Not yet. Needed him to remain her little angel boy for a while longer.
Ilya cast her a last look, before stepping onto the ice and pushing off. He was a solid skater. Secure in his movement. Fast. Irina could see the change.
How the little boy who had refused to let go of her hand any time they went into public the last month melted away and gave space to the confident skater in front of her.
Irina wrapped her jacket tighter around herself, and watched as Ilya skated backwards towards centre ice. In Russia, Ilya was never scared of anything. Naturally curious and chatty. He talked to the neighbours, to the grocer, to his teachers. Asking the strangest questions. She adored that about him.
Canada was different for him. He couldn’t ask what he wanted. He didn’t know the streets or the language. He only knew her. But skating he knew. She could see how he was beaming.
A little boy, about Ilya’s age, glided carefully over to him. He was wearing a red and black jersey, a team name Irina didn’t know written on it.
Well, she did recognize the city name. Ottawa. Their refuge. Perhaps the city’s team? She should learn this, in case Ilya asked. If he began asking her questions again. He would want to know. The logo was awful, that much she could tell.
“Hi,” the little boy said when he stopped in front of Ilya. He was all freckles, dark hair and big, brown eyes. He continued talking, and Irina could see the way Ilya’s eyes flickered nervously across the other boy's face.
Ilya scratched his nose, the way he always did when he was unsure about something, before he turned to look at her. His blue eyes were even bigger in his little face than normal.
Irina’s heart broke a little. She didn’t know much English, but at least she had heard it before. Could understand a few words, read the Latin alphabet. Everything was new to Ilya.
This whole world they had entered was big and foreign. Nothing Ilya had ever learned fit in here. But some things should always be front and centre. Despite not really knowing what the dark haired boy had said, Irina would make sure Ilya behaved politely.
“Your name, my love,” She called out, through the glass. Ilya perked up, and turned to look back at the boy.
“Ilya!” He said, proudly, whilst pointing towards himself with a gloved hand. The other boy grinned back, and Irina noticed he was missing the opposite front tooth of Ilya. He pointed to himself.
«Shane.»
«Sheen,» Ilya repeated, excitedly. Irina couldn’t help but smile. Shane shook his head, and said his name again. Ilya repeated it back wrong once again.
A chuckle left Irina before she could stop herself at Shane’s slight look of displeasure. He tried again, with the same result from Ilya, who did not seem to care at all that he was butchering the pronunciation.
The sudden voice to her left surprised Irina, and she flinched away before she could stop herself. Muscle memory from years spent dodging blows and harsh words. But there was no danger here, and with a soft exhale, she turned to see who was speaking.
Besides Irina stood a beautiful woman, with long black hair and a fashionable grey coat. She was clearly older than Irina, but probably still somewhere in her thirties.
Warm brown eyes looked at Irina, as the woman continued speaking, her face apologetic. Only one word made sense to Irina: Sorry.
The beautiful woman held out her hand, and carefully, Irina grasped it. While having no idea what the woman had said, she did know how to introduce herself.
“Irina Rozanova.” she pointed towards herself, like Ilya had done. Tried not to think about how she was speaking this language at the same level as her seven year old.
Next, she pointed towards Ilya on the ice. “Mama for Ilya.”
The other woman nodded slowly, and with a small smile put her hand on her chest
“Yuna. Shane’s mama.”
Irina nodded once, and expected the conversation to be done. She wasn’t exactly able to contribute much. But Yuna seemed determined to keep going.Words tumbled out of her mouth, slower now than before. Irina thought she might understand some of it.
Move. Here.
She nodded slowly.
“Eh- yes, From Russia. Bad English.”. Irina felt like a child. All these thoughts she couldn’t explain. No way to make herself understood. Or even to understand. Not even the alphabet was the same here.
Yuna seemed nice, but Irina wished she would leave. Go talk to the other mothers gathered around the little snacks table.
“You eh- skate?” Yuna pointed at Irina, then the ice. The blonde shook her head.
“No, no.”
She wanted to explain. Tell this woman that she used to skate. The ice had been her home. She had been so very good, so beautiful. Then she had gotten herself pregnant and ruined her own life. But she couldn’t. There were no words for that in her limited vocabulary. So instead she smiled as politely as she could.
“You?” she asked back. One word sentences were okay. Manageable. Yuna smiled and shook her head.
“No. Um- Shane’s dad- papa. He skates. Hockey.”
Irina nodded instead of answering. Looking out across the ice, Ilya and Shane were racing around the edges of the rink, moving at a speed that she should probably be worried about.
“What about Ilya’s papa?”
It felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice down Irina’s back. Her whole body tensed up before she could stop it, time moving as through water.
“No. No papa,” she stuttered, realizing she sounded more panicked than she probably should. “Me, Ilya, Andrei. Old, eh. Old boy?”
“Older brother?” Yuna supplied, to which Irina nodded. Tried to settle the panic rising up her back. Grigori was in Russia. She knew this. He wasn’t coming to get them. They were getting divorced, he'd said so on the phone. If she could trust him.
“Mama! Look!”
The sound of Ilya’s voice was like a magnet for her attention. He was sitting on the ice, his arms thrown around Shane, who was sitting right next to him. They were panting, clearly having pushed harder in their race than needed.
“I have a friend!”
Ilya talked the whole way home to their small apartment. Chatted away in rapid russian. Translated to her the words Shane had taught him in practice.
Skates.
Coach.
Hockey stick.
Ice.
All words needed to know if one was to play hockey in Canada. All pronounced with a heavy accent Irina found herself wondering if he would ever lose. She almost hoped not, despite knowing it would probably be better for him if he did.
Ilya would begin school soon. She was working on it with immigration. They would provide the boys with translators. Soon he wouldn’t need to hold her hand each time they went outside.
He’d made his first friend today. One of many, hopefully.
Irina had spent many years feeling empty. Like there was so little left for her in the world besides her children. Grigori had tried to break her. But she hadn’t let him. She was brave.
So while Ilya chatted, and Andrei waited at home, while the leaves fell around them, Irina took a breath. Deep. It felt different. Like it had been years since she last could breath like this, and now the air was flowing through her like an uncontrollable stream.
They would be okay.