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May 10, 1991 - Ottawa
Yuna Hollander looks at her newborn son and feels an overwhelming sense of calm. She reaches out her hand for her husband to take and lets herself breathe in and out in a steady cadence. All of the months of waiting and he was here. Finally he was here and he was…
“He’s perfect, David.” Yuna’s face showed every bit of love she has held in her heart since she had found out she was pregnant months earlier.
Tomorrow they would bring him home to the nursery they had painstakingly decorated in anticipation of this addition to their family.
“Hello, Shane Hollander. I am your mother. It’s nice to meet you.” She whispered reverently.
June 15, 1991 - Moscow
Irina Rozanov welcomed her second son and counted his fingers and toes with the impeccable care that she only allowed for her boys. A part of her happiness was tinged with sadness, all moments were for her. She felt the emptiness in her womb matched the emptiness in pieces of her heart. She ran her fingers over his nose, his cheeks, his eyelids. “Я люблю тебя, моя малышка.” He was….
“He’s perfect, Grigori.”
Her gruff husband let out a sound that could only be described as a “huff”. Anger? Annoyance? Joy? Elation? They all looked the same on his face, all sounded the same to her ear.
“Alexei, love, come meet your brother, Ilya.”
TRANSLATIONS:
Я люблю тебя, моя малышка. - I love you, my little one.
1994 - Ottawa
Yuna sat back and watched, camera in hand. David used to live in ice skates and back when they met in college and they were both looking forward to getting Shane on the ice.
Her particular little boy, who would much rather sit back and examine things than rush right in. Her little boy who refused to eat things that were too hot, too cold or too mushy. Her perfect little boy, who she documented relentlessly. All of his firsts are catalogued in photo books, dated and placed on a shelf in David’s home office. She sometimes wonders if she has gone overboard in her need to document everything Shane does.
His first tooth.
His first words.
His first steps.
Their walls were covered in framed photos of the boy she loved before ever even meeting him. Now her three year old - close ups that she treasured of his face, smiling wide, freckles dusting his nose and cheeks. He was, simply said, perfect.
And now he was on the ice for the first time, his hands tight in David’s as she shuffled forward while David moved in a lazy backward glide.
“MAMA! I’M SKATING!”
Yuna puts down her camera and stands up to wave at him, pride in her expression. “You are! You’re doing it, Shane! You’re doing so good.”
1994 - Moscow
It seemed natural, almost like breathing. She watched her baby boy take a tentative step onto the ice, then another. His feet scraping, his knees just a little bowed. He fell and immediately got back up. Her determined little boy always got right back up. He was a little bit fearless and that both scared and inspired her. Irina Rozanov was a lot of things, fearless was not one of them.
She would jump at her shadow, a knee jerk reaction that she had developed since she married Grigori 5 years ago. Now, as a young mother her goal was to protect her babies all while her body kept her in a state of fight or flight. Her ribs bore scars where she took a blade and sketched out her pain in the form of thin lines.
”Good job, Ilya!”
“MAMA!” Her boy stops, turns and waves at her in the enthusiastic way that only a three year old can, showing all of his teeth. Her eyes search the frozen lake for Alexei and sees him, at 7, holding court with classmates right outside the confines of the rink. Her eyes darted back to her Ilya, with his curly, sandy hair and a mischievous glint in his eye. She wonders quietly how she of all people deserves him.
1995 - Canada
Shane’s jersey was swimming on him. Right now, he is amongst the smallest on the team, but he is as focused and determined as any child she has ever seen. He wears the #4 on his back like a badge of honor. When he picked out his jersey number he was lightning focused on getting that number. Proud about it being his age. It seemed like he loved being four.
Yuna had her own Hollander #4 jersey made at the sports shop by their house. David laughed at her when she showed him in the way that people do when they’re insulting the person they love the most. She had also bought David a hat that said ‘COACH’ and smiled as his eyes welled up.
Their little hockey player. Yuna folds her hands in her lap and sighs from her place on the bleachers. She watches Shane skate like a newly hatched baby penguin, but she sees in his eyes that he listens to everything he is told and files it away in his brain. He’s her boy and he’s perfect.
1995 - Russia
“I’m not sure he wants to play,” Irina corners her husband in the kitchen of their sprawling home. Her voice is hushed to prevent either of her sons from overhearing. Her Alexei was very serious and at the age of 8 he really wanted nothing more than to play hockey. She sensed his frustration that he was a fine player, but not elite.
Her Ilya, on the other hand, can and does skate circles around kids his age as well as the older kids. She knows this does not sit well with Alexei, who is so much like his father, even at 8 that it concerns her a little. She tries to embrace her boys in the same ways, loving them through ups and downs. She protects them as best she can from Grigori’s angry words, both the ones that he hurls at her and the ones he uses with slightly more subtlety about the boys themselves.
“Ilya wants to draw, he wants to write. He wants to settle in and read books about dragons and magic and….”
“ENOUGH!” Grigori explodes. “You think I had sons because I want artists? You baby him. You allow for his every whim to be explored. You treat him like an infant!”
“He’s four and he’s my baby.” Through clenched teeth, Irina can feel her anger rising, both at Grigori for his short sightedness and for her thinking she could bring this up without any repercussions.
“Get him in the car. We’re going to be late.”
Irina gives a curt nod and watches her husband leave the room. She knew it was not going to work. Ilya had told her during bath time last night that he did not like the feel of skates on his feet. She knew what he meant, even at four there was an expectation when he put on skates. He was a savant, and hockey was supposed to be fun and he told her it was no longer fun. She had to say something. She had to try. She dabbed at her eyes with the tips of her fingers, not allowing the tears to fall. If she started crying she feared she would never stop.
“Mama, it’s ok.”
Her sons soft voice came from the doorway. Her baby who looked so much like her that it cracked her heart a little every time she looked at him. He had her soft heart, which she constantly worried about. She wants her boy to be sweet and kind and perfect. She fears she won’t be able to protect him.
2001 - Ottawa
“LET’S GO SHANE!!!!!” Yuna yelled at the top of her lungs, drawing stares from the opposing teams parents.Shane’s team had been together for years now, so all of the parents there knew how fervent she was in her cheering. It seemed to shock opposing teams, though.
She cheered for everyone on the team, but at age 10 Shane was clearly head and shoulders above where he should be. He skates with ease. He passes with ease. He scores goals with ease. When she watches him she can’t help but beam with pride. He has a glint in his eye when he’s on the ice. He’s a quiet leader and the kids look up to him even though he is their peer. On the ice, he’s unstoppable.
Off the ice, he’s complicated and observant and quiet. She stays up at night worrying about him sometimes. She has to trust that she and David built a safe place for him to be honest with them if he ever had trouble at school or in social situations, but so far he’s kept to himself about any issues if they exist.
2001 - Russia
“THAT’S IT, ILYA!” Irina pumps her fist in the air as her son scores his second goal of the game. She claps louder than anyone in the stands. He salutes her in the cute way he always does when he scores, just a small touch of fingers to his helmet and a point in her general direction. When he told her that those little salutes were for her she felt her entire heart fill with every emotion she could name. He has been doing that since he was five. For every goal he’s scored. And she’s seen every single one of them.
Even on days when it is tough to get out of bed. Even on days where all she wanted to do was sit in a dark room and listen to nothingness. Ilya always peeks in on her, a whispered “mama.” Ever since he was very young, even when he did not know what she was dealing with he’d always come into her room and whisper to her. Kind words. Loving words. Silly jokes, that only a child would find funny. She held onto all of his words and wrapped herself in them like a blanket on her darkest days. Now that he is 10 she suspects that he gets it, at least in part. He is smart, he is observant and he is empathetic. He asks her what she needs and stands at her side when Grigori yells, which is often. She fears that as he gets older and bigger he will actually challenge his father on her behalf and the thought of it kills her. To have her youngest son take up for her, to be her protector was embarrassing. She was supposed to be his protector, and she can admit that she’s never been great at that. Loving her boys? She can do that in spades. Protecting them? She’ll be the first to admit that she is lacking,
Somehow she still shows up to every game, sometimes made up and looking healthy, other times in a ratty old cardigan that she pulls around her tightly, her hands tucked up in the sleeves. Like a cocoon.
The parents never sit with her. They gave her a wide berth, like what she has is contagious. Even her husband does not sit with her. He watches from the top of the stands, perched like a king on his throne. Observing. Always observing. Looming, just like he does at home.
She ruffles Ilya’s hair as he comes out from the locker room after the game. He’s starting to smell like boy and it amazes her every day that he is hers. The sweaty curls fall on his forehead and down his neck. “Great game.”
He manages a shy smile. “I was pretty good today.”
Irinia laughs. “C’mon. Let’s get home.”
2003 - Ottawa
It’s a regular day. The sun is out and Yuna watches Shane as he takes notes during a professional hockey game he is watching. Always studying something. It is a regular day.
2003 - Russia
“Mama.” Ilya peeks into his mothers room, he hasn’t seen her in four days. He sees her head move towards him in the darkness and she reaches out her hand to him. He shuffles over, taking inventory. There are two empty glasses on the side table, three pill bottles, and a journal she uses sometimes to get her thoughts out.
He grabs her hand tentatively. “I’m worried about you mama.”
“Oh Ilya, I’m okay. Just tired.”
“And sad.”
“And sad,” she agrees. She pats the bed next to her and he curls up at her side like he used to when he wasn’t all knees and elbows. Her boy is twelve and she feels like she simultaneously missed everything and nothing all at once. She knows he recognizes, it would be hard not to. It has just been so hard lately, and Grigori has been more demanding of all of them. She just wants to sleep and maybe… maybe….
Ilya mumbles something against her shoulder that she could not make out. “What was that, baby?”
Ilya clears his throat and she feels a tear on her skin through her nightgown. “I said.” His voice cracks, but he clears his throat and continues in a voice coated in assurance that he cannot possibly feel. “I said,” he repeats, “I’m going to get us out of here. In three years I can play in juniors - and in juniors we travel more. It will get us out of the house, then I will get drafted and you will come with me. I am going to get us out of here.”
Irina feels her heart break. “Sweetie, that is not your job.”
She feels Ilya’s body go tense. “It is exactly my job, it is why I play hockey even though I do not want to. I am going to get us out of here.”
What has she done to her boy? At 12 he was caring for her, parenting her. She never wanted this and it was never ever supposed to get this bad. She feels tears fall from her eyes and into her hair. She sniffles and feels Ilya burrow into her further. She holds onto him like a life line, all the while thinking about how pathetic it was to treat her son like the only thing that would save her.She runs her fingers through his hair. “I love you.”
“I love you too, mama.”
She couldn’t tell how long they laid there together. It could have been minutes or hours or days for all she knew. She brushed his hair, which was getting overly long and brushed a kiss on his forehead. She took one deep breath. Two. Three. She suddenly knew with clarity that she could not do this to him. She could not depend on a 12 year old boy in this way. She could not burden him with this.
She sat back against the headboard and watched him sleep. Her boy. She grabbed her journal off of the side table and started writing.
‘My sweet Ilya….”
With her note written she closes her notebook, wondering if anyone will ever actually see the feelings she spilled out or would care about the despair of her words. Easing out from under covers she feathers her fingers across her sons cheek and he chases her touch in sleep as she pulls her fingers away. “Goodbye, Ilya.”
She grabs her pill bottles, a glass that she fills with vodka and enters the bathroom.
Ilya wakes up in a sort of daze and feels for his mama. The space next to him is cool to the touch. She must have gotten up for breakfast and did not want to wake him. There is a sliver of light coming through the blackout curtains.His feet hit the floor and he walks toward the bathroom door, which is opened a crack.
“Mama,” he whispers. “Mama.”
Through the door he sees her feet splayed on the floor. Oh no… his brain does not know how to compute this. He opens the door further and his mother is so still and her color is off, just a bit, but off.
“MAMA!” he cries. He immediately knows what this is, has feared it. He glances around the bathroom and notices pills, empty bottles and a glass tucked at her side. He slaps her face gently, he shakes her shoulder but she gives no reaction. She gives him nothing. Sliding his back against the vanity he runs his fingers through his hair, tears streaming down his face. He hugs his knees to his chest and weeps, deep heaving sobs.
In his brain his thought is to protect his mother. He has failed her in any number of ways, but not this way. He collects the loose pills and empty bottles- he is not sure what he is doing, but his body is moving independently from his brain. He grabs his mothers hand and presses it tightly against his cheek. She’s not warm anymore. She’s not cold, but she’s definitely not feeling like his mama anymore.
Ilya kisses her hand. Her cheek. Her forehead.
He shakes his hands out to get rid of the emotions he is feeling, shaking out the helplessness too a bit. “Good bye mama.”
The last thing he does is unclasp the necklace from around her throat. He goes back to his room and waits for the chaos to start.