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Sveta swiped through the images in the carousel.
The first, a framed photograph hung above a mantelpiece. Ilya, only a toddler, bundled up in a green woollen jumper and his mother’s ushanka, ear flaps tied under his chin so that only his frost-flushed cheeks and bemused, open mouth were visible. He was propped up in his mother’s arm, her grinning widely, evidently fussing him. Three brightly-coloured tulips bundled with ribbon were tucked into the crook of her other elbow. It would have been Women’s Day.
Next, a broad look over Moscow blanketed in white, taken much more recently from the top of a hill. She remembered, Irina had loved the snow.
A screenshot from the recording of Ilya’s first cup win, beaming as he held it aloft.
From the ice again, his first cup with the Centaurs. This time, Sveta was there herself, arms wrapped around his neck. His face was still so joyful, but weary around the edges. He had needed her there more this time.
A Canadian passport, held up in the sun.
Shane, dimly-lit and smiling sleepily, an imprint from Ilya’s necklace on his cheek.
The sunset from the edge of the lake at their cottage, glowing in its reflections.
She scrolled slightly to read the caption.
Twenty years without you Mama. I never could have imagined the life I have now back then.
I was blessed to have you and now I have been blessed again.
I am sorry I am not there. I hope you would be happy to see me now.
I miss you always. I love you always.
Sveta sighed out the weight in her chest through her nose, then tapped to leave a comment.
She would have been so happy to see you happy. So am I <3
A couple of others were already there.
From Marleau, Crazy proud of you Roz, you’re the strongest guy I know. Always in your corner.
From Rose, She was so beautiful. Sending lots of love.
A soft smile pulled on Sveta’s lips. It reassured her, both to see him talk openly about his grief, and to see she was no longer the only one supporting him in it.
Twenty years indeed.
At twelve, she and Ilya weren’t yet close. Sveta had heard from her father about Irina Rozanova’s fatal accident, and they had attended her funeral out of respect. Ilya had stood with his brother, both looking as though they had been stripped of their coats and forced into a blizzard. Stunned, confused. Both were hiding it well behind tight jaws and clenched fists, but it blazed in their eyes.
Responding to a sliver of unease which at this had coiled in her gut, Sveta had grasped for her mother’s hand. Ilya’s eyes had flicked over to her then. She watched as he took in their joint hands, and the blaze seeped out of his eyes, leaving them cold.
She had never seen despair before.
They would soon after become real friends, and an impishly outspoken character would reveal itself in him. But it was this impression of him, like a lone animal on a vast plane of ice, that would remain with Sveta, even now.
Five years on, Ilya was being recognised internationally for his impressive, aggressive hockey and sharp tongue. He had won at the International Prospect Cup against the only other player to be receiving half as much interest, and they were celebrating.
Sveta had provided her bedroom and Sasha had provided the vodka, proffered triumphantly with a grin. Ilya had been cagey around him lately, the danger of whatever they had no longer fun now that he had had a glimpse of the life he could lose overseas. He still allowed him small touches, fiddling with cuff of his sleeve, or resting his feet in Ilya’s lap, his head on Sveta’s shoulder, as they lounged on the sofa together. The two of them never wanted to do too much in front of her, as if she hadn’t been the one to introduce them to one another. The closest she saw them was when she stood to fetch lipgloss out of her handbag, Sasha’s lips whispering close to Ilya’s ear, visible in the mirror as she reapplied. Whatever it was that Ilya said back, it caused Sasha to roll his eyes and recline again, calling for Sveta to return.
Ten years on, he was back in Moscow for the summer, but his head evidently hadn’t come back with him.
He spent the majority of time caring for his father, resolving what appeared to be a mountain of issues unattended by Alexei — updating finance records, renewing prescriptions that had mistakenly been cancelled, collecting his father’s suits and uniforms left for months at the dry cleaners, contacting lawyers who hadn’t yet even heard that his father was sick, Alexei having been too preoccupied burying his head in the sand. The rest of the time, Ilya was glued to his phone with an unrivalled concentration.
And then they were twenty-seven. When Sveta had last seen him, Ilya had lost his father, cut off his brother. Since then, she had bought a new apartment, set up her own business. So when they caught up in autumnal Boston, they both had a lightness to them, one that was new to Ilya.
They were sat at his kitchen island, scooping from a pan of shakshuka, when Sveta first broached the subject.
‘You had a good summer, didn’t you?’ She asked.
Ilya peered at her curiously from under his eyebrows.
‘Yes, it was good.’ He took another mouthful.
‘Where were you? I know you weren’t in Moscow.’ She said it breezily, attempting to counterbalance the conflicting energy coming from his direction.
‘Yes.’ Ilya took a bite, evidently for the excuse of chewing. He shrugged, glanced around, raised his eyebrows, gave all manners of nonchalant affect. Once he had swallowed, waving a hand for the same purpose, he spoke. ‘I went to Ottawa.’
Sveta hummed. ‘Nice city. What did you think?’
More raised brows, another shrug. ‘Nice, yes.’
‘What drew you to Canada?’
That was the last question she would have asked. If he didn’t bite then, she wouldn’t have gone any further.
She didn’t know, per se, what it was that had drawn him — away from Sasha, towards his phone, now towards Canada. But she knew, and Ilya knew, that she was most of the way there. And so they stared at each other. A stalemate, unless:
‘He is my boyfriend now. Maybe.’
Sveta’s brows jumped halfway up her forehead. ‘Maybe?’
‘Maybe, yes. Definitely. He is my boyfriend now.' Ilya said. 'We are together.’
Sveta straightened up completely, elated, then sprung out of her seat before she could help herself. She hopped over to Ilya, wrapping her arms around his neck, squeezing his shoulder, the soft curls on the back of his head.
‘Ilya!’ She exclaimed, rocking the both of them from side to side. ‘Ilya, Ilya, this is amazing. You are happy?’
She looked him in the face then, tenderly cupping his jaw. She felt it tighten as he glanced away again, eyes filling up as he smiled tightly. But he nodded still.
‘Yes.’
‘Does anyone else know?’
Another nod. ‘His parents.’
‘And they are…?’
‘They are nice.’ He smiled again. ‘Very nice.’
Sveta grinned. 'So it is good.'
Ilya nodded, but his smile was still tight. She could see his mind wandering.
'What is it?' She asked.
‘I...' Ilya started, then stopped. For a long moment, he stared at the place where Sveta had been, across the island from him. Sveta waited, watching the tension shift around his face.
'I wish it was different.' He started again. 'I wish that Papa had been different.’ He shook his head ruefully, then returned to his sad smile. ‘Or more than that, I wish that my mother was still here. I wish that she could meet Shane and that he could meet her. They would love each other, I know it.’
Sveta smiled softly, nodding, all of Ilya’s stories of his mother relayed over the years congregating in her head.
Ilya continued. ‘Shane would find her so interesting. She would answer all of his questions, and they would make each other laugh. I can hear it in my head, I can see it, and then I realise that I can’t imagine Mama at the age she should be now. And the only thing as strong as how much I love him is how much I miss her.’
Sveta crumpled. She pressed the sides of their faces together, stroking his head as he breathed heavily, tired from the emotion. His breaths became wetter at some point, and Sveta moved wordlessly to wipe the tears from his cheeks.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured. Sveta shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, wiping more tears as they fell. ‘No apologising.’
Ilya nodded and exhaled a laugh through his nose, embarrassed. He leaned into Sveta’s hand on his cheek, accepting the comfort.
‘Ilya, you have all of the things that made her beautiful,’ she said. He shook his head. ‘Yes, it's true. So Shane, and me, and everyone else who gets to know you — through knowing you, we get to know her, too. I didn’t meet her, but I love her because I love you. I’m sure that Shane loves her too.’
‘Mm, but I am not like her, I am too…’ He waved a hand around. ‘I am too much of an asshole. I like pissing people off too much. She wouldn’t do that.’
Sveta smiled, one eyebrow raised. ‘Ah, so you got your sense of humour from your father?’
Ilya laughed then.
‘I’ve heard your stories, Ilya, I know she had mischief in her,’ she continued.
‘Maybe. Maybe I am more like her than I thought.’ Ilya nodded, contemplative. ‘For a long time, I only saw how different I was to Papa and to Alexei. But when she was alive, I felt like there was no one more like me than her.’ He smiled, with humour this time. ‘And I still liked pissing people off back then. So yes, maybe. Maybe you and Shane know her a little bit.’
Sveta smiled at him fondly then. She felt her eyes glitter as she stepped back from him.
‘Maybe,’ she said, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
So now, twenty years later, Sveta was finally starting to let go of that image of the lonely twelve-year-old boy she had made friends with.
Now he had become a man, one who guided children — some lonely, confused, hurting, like he had been — helping them to become stronger through the compassion and love of fun that he had learnt from his mother, not the iron suppression that he had been led to by his father.
Now he was loved wholly for who he was, as his mother had loved him. She had met Shane not long after Ilya had confirmed their relationship to her, and she got to see the way he looked at Ilya, held him gently, murmured heatless insults through the most affectionate smiles.
Now, Sveta swipes back to the first picture on the carousel, looks again at Irina’s wide smile, eyes full of admiration for the little boy she cherished, who had become this man so strong, so kind, so loved.
Now, all of them get to know and to love Irina. All through knowing him.