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If there's one thing Zhenya knows, it's that Uncle Ilyusha always leaves.
On one hand, Zhenya doesn't understand. Moscow is home. The cold weather, the warm food. The Novogodniy Podarok and peeling tangerines in January. The brief manic rush of summer, when she could meet all her friends in the courtyard with someone's brother playing Russian pop out the window while the linden berries bloomed. She doesn't understand why anyone would leave that to go to a place where you can't speak Russian and would have to deal with English signs and people everywhere, all the time, for a sport that you could just as easily find here. Everything Zhenya sees on television about America just seems... loud. Americans are dramatic, and hardly ever in the right way. They have no appreciation for a good silence, and seem to take a loss as affably as a win. Some parts of it seem nicer. The sports cars, the bright dresses, the pop music. But none of it is something you can't get in Russia, if you truly wanted to.
Papa says Uncle Ilyusha is there because he's a traitor. Because the Americans abide by his laziness and stupidity, and in turn, pay him very well for it.
But then there's the other part. Zhenya, shamefully, secretly, doesn't think Uncle Ilyusha is very stupid at all.
Because deep down the wretched part of her understands why he always leaves. It's the same frantic rush for freedom that she feels fluttering under her breast bone when she's home, when her father and mother are screaming at each other on the other side of the bedroom door, always breaking things, slamming things, storming out. She understands that that's what family is supposed to be about, enduring the hardships. You don't turn your back on your family. You don't sit there and complain like you're the only one who's ever had problems. You grit your teeth, you bear it. You let it make you strong. You don't run like a coward.
Yet Zhenya sneaks out almost every night, and tries not to think of her Uncle, who always leaves.
🙞 🙝
She's at Katya's house when her father gets the news. It's shit timing. Zhenya is eleven now, and her bigger age means she's become more adept at sneaking out, especially in the last year, when Papa was more preoccupied with her grandfather's failing health. The ease of it makes her stupid. When she sneaks back in through her window, her mother is waiting for her, face red and her lips pressed together so hard they turn white. There's a bruise on her cheekbone, but the house is quiet. Papa isn't here then. Not that that means Zhenya is safe. Mama always seemed to vascillate, sometimes her protector, sometimes a snitch.
Sometimes the raging Berserker instead.
This is the latter time. Zhenya avoids the sharp vase her mother flings, just barely, which doesn't really help once Mama grabs her arm, tight, hauling her close. It's a rookie move, getting in arm's length, but Zhenya has already realized that her recent escapes have all made her stupid, dulled her instincts. Katya's mother is soft spoken, with even softer hands. Their house is always quiet, like a little doll house. Zhenya had allowed herself to get complacent there, soften the calluses she'd developed at home. It makes it harder to brace herself now, when Mama gets a hand in her hair, screeching obsenities.
Zhenya gets the gist. Grandfather is dead. Grandfather is dead, Uncle Ilyusha might be cutting off their money soon, and now Zhenya was making problems. Always making problems. Mama wouldn't be stuck in this situation, with Papa, if it wasn't for Zhenya, for her perpetually inconvinient timing. Zhenya won't repeat what she heard the next door babushka say once, which is that maybe Mama wouldn't be in this situation if she kept her legs closed. Zhenya doesn't quite know what that means, but she understood enough, and she remembered the burn in her cheeks, the sharp humiliation that crawled up her spine. She remembers ducking her head and steeling her expression. Mama wouldn't duck her head if Zhenya told her. She would beat Zhenya black and blue.
She nearly does anyway.
The funeral is quiet. Uncle Ilyusha is home, and unlike other times, that doesn't mean more yelling. Instead there's this quiet tension that permeates the air. When he came home, he kissed her hard on the side of her head, and held her gently. She could see her Papa resist the urge to yank her away. He's weirdly nicer now, and Zhenya wonders if that's because he's afraid Uncle Ilyusha will take back the money. She wonders if that's why it's all quiet, at the funeral dinner. She didn't think it was out of respect for Dedushka.
She peeks at Uncle Ilyusha where he sits, unseeing, at the other side of the table, next to Aunty Sveta.
There's a part of her that's resentful. Uncle Ilyusha always seems so put together. Zhenya shares his curly hair, his light eyes, but on him they look vaguely angelic, his expression always carved like a statue. On her the hair looks untamed, and the color of her eyes looks like dishwater. Him and Aunty Sveta always make a dazzling pair, always like models in all their perfect clothes. Even his escape was perfect. Top hockey player in the world, generational talent, pride of Russia. For all that Zhenya doesn't understand the allure of America, she can admit it's a lot farther than the three blocks she's ever made it to Katya's house. Zhenya knows her parents hate her because she's like Uncle Ilyusha deep down. Zhenya knows the truth, which is that she's never like Uncle Ilyusha in the way that truly matters.
He's even gracious about her inadequacies, which is even more hateful. When he came home, he didn't mention Zhenya's haggard state, or her well-deserved bruises. He silently got her icepacks, and pressed them gently against her back. He didn't ask why she got the bruises, what she did to deserve them. He told her she looked like a princess in her ill fitting black dress. He's a traitor, and he always leaves, and he's so unbearably nice to her when he's here.
Zhenya hates him in a way that makes her want to bury her face into his chest and cry for hours.
But now he might be leaving forever.
Zhenya keeps looking at him, out of the corner of her eye. She notices when he gets up, she notices when Papa follows. She hears the loud thumps from the bathroom, and sees Aunty Sveta get up as well. Her heart pounds in her chest. This is it. This is the moment the silence, the niceties, all of it breaks. This is the moment Uncle Ilyusha leaves, and he didn't even say good bye.
Zhenya feels pathetic. It's not like Uncle Ilyusha is like her friends' Uncles. He was around when she was a toddler but moved to America quickly after, and barely came home for the two months between seasons and for New Years. He was kind to her when he was here, but he didn't necessarily stay with them in their dingy apartment, usually at Dedushka's or with Aunty Sveta. He probably barely thought of her when he was gallivanting across North America, being a rich, successful hockey player, and now he was probably going to cut off the money with any further thought. He didn't care about her, didn't think about her the way she thought of him.
When he finally appears from the bathroom, he doesn't even bother to meet her eye before storming out into the snow.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, Zhenya tells herself, and resolves to focus on her own problems.
🙞 🙝
Uncle Ilyusha doesn't say bye to her when he leaves. It's a reconfirmation of what Zhenya knows, which is that he doesn't actually care about her and has much more important things to do, and that Zhenya should maybe focus on becoming someone who has important things to do too. She tells herself this, and yet she starts focusing harder on her English lessons at school. She tells herself that it has nothing to do with him, and lies cheerfully to herself as she butchers all the articles. What was even the point of articles? If she says dog, why would anyone need to specify that it's the dog?
The apartment gets dirtier, more barren, in subtle ways. Zhenya's dingy school supplies aren't replaced for the new year and she's pulled into a different school, away from Katya. She still visits after school, but it's not the same. Her English gets better. Uncle Ilyusha doesn't come back to Moscow for the summer, but Aunty Sveta stops by despite her mother's beady glare and gives her a new bright backpack that she says is from him. Zhenya wonders if she's lying, to spare Zhenya the truth. The back pack has a cute polar bear charm on it, which Zhenya told Uncle Ilyusha she liked when she was four. He called her mishka for a few years afterwards, until she started getting embarassed by it. She knows it's going to hurt more in the long run, but deep down she allows herself to believe that maybe he did buy it for her.
The shouting gets worse through out the year, and Zhenya decides to torture herself by also learning French. Despite the frustration of it, learning languages feels gratifying in a way that not anything else does. Zhenya is not very smart, nor very athletic, but language acquisition seems to be a function of practice, and she gets enough of it, quietly muttering to herself while the doors slam and the dishes break.
Adeen, dva, tree. One, two, three. Un, deux, trois.
The summer after, Aunty Sveta takes her out to get breakfast.
It's an odd thing. Zhenya's not sure why her mother allows it, other than that she's been harried more than usual over the past year. She's working now, and Papa is constantly gone, meaning that they might not have had the time or energy to fight Aunty Sveta, who's formidable on a good day, let alone when she wants something. And what she wants, apparently, is to talk to Zhenya.
"Your Uncle Ilyusha loves you," Aunty Sveta starts, after she's successfully manage to manipulate Zhenya into confessing about an awkward first kiss she had with Maksim by the school corner that Zhenya was sure she was going to take to her grave.
The topic change is abrupt, but not unexpected. Aunty Sveta has always only ever interacted with Zhenya in the context of Uncle Ilyusha. When she was younger, she thought they were married. Now she's sure they're not, but she's not exactly sure why. Either way, Aunty Sveta is Uncle Ilyusha's family, but not necessarily Zhenya's. She has her own nephews and nieces to actually care about.
"Okay," Zhenya says, because she's not sure what else she's supposed to say. She doesn't believe it, but she knows it's the nice thing to say. She doesn't know why they're bothering with niceties, however. It's not a very Russian thing, more in line with those long meandering confessions that Zhenya always sees in the American movies she's using to practice her English. It's like the articles, a bunch of extra words for no good reason.
Aunty Sveta seems to understand the roundabout method is pointless, because her next sentence is more direct. "He wanted me to tell you this, because he will not be able to return to Moscow."
Zhenya blinks. She was expecting that she wouldn't see Uncle Ilyusha again, but Aunty Sveta made it seem like he was never returning to the country, not just to see Zhenya. "To Moscow?" She echoes.
"To Russia," Aunty Sveta says, which still clarifies nothing.
Zhenya raises an eyebrow. "He is still a hockey player, yes? Not a fugitive. Not an axe murderer."
"Not an axe murderer," Aunty Sveta agrees, neatly dodging the fugitive accusation, which doesn't make sense until she says, "He loves a man. Do you understand, Zhenechka?"
Zhenya blinks. Zhenya has heard of it, of course. Mostly in slurs. She's familiar with the idea, but she's never thought of her Uncle Ilyusha, the brawling hockey player with a woman on his arm all over the news, to be one of them. Her father must never, ever know. "A man? Why?"
Aunty Sveta tilts her head. "It is love, Mishka."
"Love? What man is worth Russia?" It hits her again, that discordance. Zhenya was starting to enjoy french films, American sitcoms, see more and more of the allure of jumping on a plane and seeing the world, but she couldn't imagine never being able to come back. She saw her father and mother, she knew what people thought love meant, how fragile it was. Compared to that, what was a whole country?
Aunty Sveta looks dissapointed in her, and Zhenya knows she was saying the wrong thing, being the wrong thing, as usual. "You are upset. That he loves a man. I told him you would not be."
Zhenya purses her lips. "I'm not upset it is a man. I am upset that that he is giving up Russia for a fairy tale. When the man leaves, where will he be? Love will leave, but Russia will be here. I'm shocked you haven't told him this."
Aunty Sveta smirks. "I have yet to see anyone convince your Uncle Ilyusha to do anything different when he sets his mind to something."
Zhenya still couldn't wrap her mind around it. "Uncle Ilyusha is the pride of Russia. He's the best hockey player in the world. Who is worth all of this? Some... actor, some accountant in America?"
Aunty Sveta starts to look even more amused for some odd reason. "Canadian, actually. Shane Hollander."
Zhenya stares. And then stares some more. She knows Shane Hollander, mainly because the English media refused to say Uncle Ilyusha's name without also mentioning Montreal's Prince of Hockey. Zhenya was of the correct opinion that Uncle Ilyusha was clearly better, and definitely a hell of a lot more interesting, but she had to admit that Shane Hollander was also somewhat of a generational talent. They were the only two players in their strata, the only real competition in all of the NHL, perhaps the world. When Zhenya would sneakily watch some clips of her Uncle's games, she would spend it cursing Shane Hollander and stupid tight turns and his absolutely filthy goals. It seemed absolutely unfair that this stupid Canadian would be this firecracker on ice and absolutely boring off it and be considered Uncle Ilya's competition.
Except now they were... lovers?
"Your father can not know this," Sveta says, after the silence has apparently become unbearable. "No one can know this."
Zhenya scowls. "Of course not. I'm not stupid." She focuses back on her pastries, still scowling. "Shane Hollander. Most Boring Man. Most Boring Man in All of Canada," she mocks in English. She can't believe someone who answered every interview question like he was reading off the same index card over and over managed to trap her Uncle Ilyusha. Aunty Sveta snickers.
"He is not so bad," she offers, and Zhenya glares at her. It's like no one was understanding the gravity of the situation. "He wanted me to give you his number."
Zhenya blinks. "I already have Uncle Ilyusha's number." He had her memorize it since she was a child, including the American extension and how to call an international number. She'd never used it, knew better than to ever ask her parents if she could call her Uncle up for a friendly chat. What an idea, honestly. She knew as well as Uncle Ilyusha did that he was giving her the number strictly for emergencies, when her parents might be far gone enough not to notice she swiped their phone.
Aunty Sveta shook her head. "No. Not Ilyusha. Shane." Aunty Sveta pulled out a box. "Ilyusha figured you were old enough to have a cell phone. It's programmed with Shane and Ilyusha's numbers, under Zhanna and Lilia. We'll keep the minutes full, but you will have to hide it. They both wanted me to let you know that you could call at any time, for any reason, and to stay safe."
Zhenya reached for the box with trembling hands. She didn't want to think too much of it. It was only in case of emergencies. But still. Her uncle thought of her. Was still thinking of her.
Well, her uncle and his... Shane.
She wrinkled her nose. "What would I use Shane Hollander's number for?"
"I'll leave that up to you to figure out," Aunty Sveta said, which was patently unhelpful.
Zhenya paused, looking at the phone. It was sleek, a newer model, with a touch screen and the little apps. It was probably the most expensive thing she owned. "Is he happy?" She blurted out, despite herself. Once she did, she couldn't bring herself to take it back. There was a burning curiousity yawning in her, like the maw of a monster. What was worth it, for Uncle Ilya to fall for his boring hockey rival and give up Russia for him? What did he see that Zhenya couldn't?
Aunty Sveta softened, leaving her side of the table to come over to Zhenya's and encapsulate her in a hug. "Oh, Mishka. So much. But he misses you."
And Zhenya allowed that small lie to soothe her, clutching the phone tightly in her hands.
🙞 🙝
Zhenya doesn't call either of them, even after she gets the phone. She keeps it charged, but hides it diligently under her mattress, and tries to focus on anything else.
And then it's announced, that Uncle Ilya is moving to the Ottawa Centaurs, a loser team in podunk Canada. Shane Hollander is from Ottawa. She knows that it is all his fault.
She's calling before she can convince herself otherwise. He picks up on the second ring.
"Zhenya?"
"Yevgeniya Alexeyevna Rozanova," she corrects frostily, because the idea of Shane Hollander trying to fit his clumsy mouth around her full first name gives her a sadistic sort of pleasure. "You stole my uncle."
Shane Hollander splutters. "I didn't steal your—I'm sorry, are you in trouble?"
"I am in trouble," Zhenya hisses, "of wringing your neck. My Uncle is best hockey player. Number one draft pick, MVP award. Why is he going to Ottawa? He leaves Russia for most boring hockey player, he leaves Bears for most boring Canada. Pizdets!"
There's a pause. "You're—Okay. Have you talked to Ilya about this?"
Oh god, he's so annoying. He says Uncle Ilyusha's name like it has more syllables than it actually does. "My Uncle is best hockey player. Busy man. I do not..." What was the english word for disturb? She hated that she was losing her fluency in her frustration. "Call," she substituted, lamely, "For small things. You, Shane Hollander, are boring. Probably doing boring things like yoga and fishing. You, I call. You give me explaination."
"Wow, you are exactly like him," Shane Hollander breathed. "Look, Ilya's not busy, he's here, actually, I can give him the phone—"
Zhenya hung up, heart racing. Stupid Shane Hollander. Zhenya didn't have an explanation, and now he was about to rat her out to Uncle Ilyusha. And Uncle Ilyusha would probably do the thing, where he was nice enough not to talk about Zhenya's shortcomings, making her feel wretched and small.
Zhenya resolved to not call again, and to not pick up the phone when either of them called either. This was nothing more than a mistake.
🙞 🙝
A few months later, during an absolutely brutal first season with the Ottawa Centaurs, the team releases a statement that Uncle Ilyusha will be sitting out of the next few games. It doesn't mention much of why, just that he's "under the weather," which is one of those ridiculous English sayings that could mean any illness under the sun. She bites her lip, staring at the edge of her mattress. Mama and Papa are out. All the media has been useless, and all Zhenya can see is dramatic speculation. Shane Hollander is probably her only reputable source, and his team schedule puts him in Chicago, not Ottowa, which means Uncle Ilyusha won't be there. Even if he snitched, what would he say? That your pathetic niece in Russia wanted to know if you were alive or dead? Embarassing, maybe, but acceptable.
She darts out to lift up the mattress and calls before she can talk herself out of it.
"Hello? Zhe—I mean, Yevgenia?" Annoyingly enough, his pronunciation is not that bad. Uncle Ilyusha must have taught him, or maybe he was boring and looked it up in a book to practice over and over. (She ignores the hypocrisy of her practicing French verbs the same way last week.)
"My Uncle is sick," she says, cutting to the chase. She does not want to be on the phone with this man longer than necessary.
"Uh, yeah?" Bozhe. The lack of brain cells in this man.
"Well? Is he dying? Did he loose an arm?"
"Oh. Oh. No, no, it's not—it's just the flu," Shane Hollander says. His tone is soothing, like she's a baby he's putting to bed. Zhenya bristles.
"The flu? Russians do not get flu."
Shane Hollander snorts. "You know, I've been hearing that argument a lot recently and it's less convincing every time."
"Oh my god, you have..." What was the word? Ugh, she hated languages as much as she loved them. Why did they have so many words? "infected him," she finally remembered. "You have infected him with Canadian weakness, like flu. And he is in Ottawa, what kind of borsht or lapsha would he get there? You plan to cure him with the power of love?"
"Chicken noodle soup, actually," Shane Hollander says wryly, and Zhenya groans, flopping sideways onto the bed. Her uncle has placed himself in the hands of an idiot.
"How are you making him chicken noodle soup in Chicago, Shane Hollander?"
"Uh, I'm not. My parents are watching him, they're taking good care of him, I promise."
Zhenya jack knifes upright. His parents? If Dedushka came across a boy his son was in love with, his greatest hockey rival no less, he would have been more likely to poison him than care for him. "Your parents? You idiot! What mama and papa takes care of son's lover, his hockey rival? You have left him alone with them?" Oh my god, Shane Hollander seemed to be actively trying to get her uncle killed. He would've been much better off with Aunty Sveta in Boston. Were there no better men in Boston that her uncle had to choose the world's dumbest Canadian hockey player?
"No, no, it's not like that. My parents are okay with Ilya, they love him."
"That is what they say to you," Zhenya says, voice thick. She knows how the game is played. Her uncle has always been strong, larger than life. Thinking about him lying sick in Ottawa, being harassed or worse by Shane Hollander's parents, makes Zhenya's heart twist in her chest. She knows that he's an adult, that he can handle himself, that he's gotten in Papa's face and won many times before. But this, loving a man, loving Shane Hollander, seems to have made him more vulnerable than ever before. Crazy enough to put himself in the hands of Shane Hollander's parents, to sit out from hockey because of the flu.
"Zhenya," And Zhenya can't bring herself to correct him, caught in her imagination of what exactly her uncle was going through, halfway across the world. "I know what you might be thinking, but it's not like that. My parents are... boring, even Ilya says so. My mom gets competetive over card games. My dad reads the New Yorker."
Zhenya makes a face. "What is... New Yorker?"
There's a pause. "Never mind. The point is, they're very nice, normal people who wouldn't hurt Ilya while he's sick. If they really had a problem with it, they'd just say no to taking care of him, and I would've gone to Ottawa. Look, why don't you call him, he'll tell you himself." There it was again, that infernal meddling.
"I told you. He is busy."
"He's not too busy for you, Zhenya," Shane says softly.
How can Zhenya explain that he is? Uncle Ilyusha is not like Shane Hollander, who could be decieved into thinking that Zhenya and Uncle Ilyusha's relationship was closer than it was. That Zhenya had the right to worry as much as she did, instead of being a pathetic limpet hanging onto her uncle's coat tails as he moved on to bigger, better things. Zhenya could bear to annoy and steal the time of Shane Hollander, the stupid Canadian Prince of Hockey who stole her uncle, but she couldn't herself to bug her Uncle Ilyusha, who would be nice enough to bear it instead of telling her the truth. The truth, that no one in the Rozanov family was close the way other families were. That Zhenya was the unintended offspring of a brother and a woman who Uncle Ilyusha didn't seem to like very much, who had all the worst qualities of them. That Zhenya was putting unwanted expectations on a relation who she'd seen maybe four times a year since she was three.
Zhenya realizes that she's been silent to long when Shane speaks up again. "You don't have to. I just wanted to offer. And let you know that he loves you, and that he would always make time for you."
"I know that he would," she confesses, not really knowing why. Maybe this is how Shane Hollander charmed her uncle. By being so boring and inoffensive that one got the urge to confide anything. Like talking to stone. "I know that he would, which is why I can not ask."
Shane exhales sharply. "Oh, sweetheart," He breathes, and that's all the pity that Zhenya can take. She straightens her back, returning to her imperious tone that always seems to work to put Shane Hollander off guard.
"Take care of my uncle. Give him hot milk with honey and butter. And work on your backhand. It is sloppy. Weak." She doesn't know much about hockey. Probably more than a non-hockey person, not enough to analyze the plays. But she heard an announcer say it once, that Shane Hollander was no match for Ilya Rozanov's strong backhand, and she knows for someone who lives and breathes hockey, that the comment should sting.
Shane doesn't get as annoyed as she likes, letting out a huff that might be a laugh. Stupid Canadians. "Literally, the exact same," he says to himself, and then to her, "I'll take that into consideration." Consideration? Zhenya mouths to herself, and then ignores it. She'll look up the word later. "I'll let you know how he is when I go see him, okay?"
Zhenya pauses. It's not like she wants to say no to that. "You will not tell him? Tell him that I..." Worried like a little child?
"I'll tell him that you checked in. I'll try not to give him any details. Okay?"
Zhenya grumbles, but she knows this is probably the best deal she's going to get. If she pushes, Shane Hollander seems like the type of man who will start lecturing her about honesty and trust in relationships. "Okay," she says, and hangs up the phone before she can say something stupid like thank you. Boring Canadians who steal uncles don't get "thank you"s just for sending a text message.
Even though he does, exactly two days later. Just reached home. Ilya's on the mend, he's just sick of puzzles. He liked the milk.
Zhenya has to plug in "on the mend" and "sick of puzzles" into the internet, but she ends up getting the gist. There's no idiomatic meaning to the word puzzles, so Shane Hollander must mean the actual thing. She remembers him mentioning that his mother was competitive about card games. Apparently they've been harassing her Uncle by being boring, which seems par for the course, given what she knows about Shane Hollander. She refuses to admit that the idea of it soothes her.
🙞 🙝
Shane Hollander and Zhenya do not talk, in the strictest sense of the word. She sends him brief messages about French translations, English translations. Japanese, once she decides to kill herself with another language, which Shane asks his mother about mostly. Sometimes she sends him chirps about his hockey performance, if she can think of something to say. They are not friendly, by all means. Shane Hollander is a language resource, at worst, and a mild entertainment, at best. She likes to imagine his face scrunching up in annoyance, when the chirps seem to actually land. It's a funny thing for a person having such an outstanding season to be so bothered by. Zhenya thinks it's because deep down he knows she doesn't know shit about hockey and is chirping him anyway.
When they announce the Irina Foundation is the first time she wants to call for something good. Boring, Uncle-Thieving Canadian or not, even she can see the beauty in this, in using all this fame to help people. Irina. Her grandmother. No one speaks of her. She died before Zhenya was born. Everyone always told her it was an accident. No one told her it was because of suicide.
When her papa finds out about the foundation, he goes on a rampage. He nearly trashes the home, and Zhenya escapes through the window with her heart in her throat, burner phone in hand, the clanging and crashing echoing in her ears.
She presses the contact for "Zhanna" with trembling fingers. It's late, she knows. It doesn't matter. Shane will pick up the call. He does, after barely a ring, phone thick with sleep. "Zhenya?"
"Babulya. Is true? She killed herself?" Zhenya doesn't know how to feel. Her father's rage is still echoing in her ears. She doesn't know why she's crying, and for whom. It's not like she ever knew her grandmother. It's not like it would've mattered. And still. And still.
"Oh, sweet heart. I... I don't know if this is something I should be telling you." Uncle Ilyusha, he means. Shane hasn't pushed since the first few calls, for her to talk to him.
"Papa is angry. He's wrecking the apartment," she says dully. "Is true then. Is true, she killed herself. She killed herself to get away from this family." She knows that in her bones, knows just the same way she feels the urge to run in her heart, run far away. Her babulya could not run. So she killed herself instead. Is that the fate that awaited Zhenya too? Was all this scraping by, clawing her way into survival, piece by piece, was all of it for nothing?
"Mishka."
Uncle Ilyusha. She should've known, that they might have been together, this late at night, right after the foundation is announced. He must've heard everything. The sound of his voice makes her burst into desperate, heaving sobs. She goes into a little alleyway between the compound of apartments so she can get more privacy. The last thing she needed was to have some well-meaning passerby stumble upon her crying. Having a mental break down, just like the babulya she never met.
"I don't want to die," She says, relieved to be able to say it in Russian. In a language that makes sense to her like breathing. "I don't want to be like her, Uncle Ilyusha." It's a cruel thing to say, she knows it. She can't stop herself.
"You're not going to die, Mishka, Solshynko. Your babulya was sad. For a very long time. She didn't have anyone to talk to. You talk to Shane. You talk to me."
She scoffs. "Is that the cure? Talking? She wouldn't have... If she'd just talked?"
"Sometimes. These things are complicated." He sounds dull, muted.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean... I'm sorry." Maybe to her it was her grandmother, but Uncle Ilyusha knew her. This was his mama, the person who raised him. She thought of how overwraught her father was, but Uncle Ilyusha wasn't the type to rage, even if he was feeling the same depth of emotions. Always put together. Unlike Zhenya, who never even knew the woman and was breaking down and making it all about herself.
"It's okay, malyishka. In Russia, we do not talk about these things. Makes us strong in some ways, makes us weak in others. I don't want you to think she was weak." Zhenya couldn't not. If she admitted that her babulya was strong, then she would have to admit that even strong people could break like this, and where would that leave her?
"It's like cancer," Shane said. She must have been on speakerphone. He apparently understood enough Russian now that he got the gist of their conversation. "Some people with cancer, when you catch it quickly, you can use medicine to cure it. Some people don't have access to it. Brains are capable of being sick too. Your grandmother didn't have access to treatment, didn't know what it was. You do. So if you start feeling that way, you can talk to me, you can talk to Ilya, and we'll help you."
"How do I know? If I have it?"
"Well, there are symptoms. Numbness is one of them. Not being able to do your hobbies. Not caring for things anymore. Feeling tired."
Zhenya blinks. She's always tired, but it never feels like she's properly numb. She feels like she's always feeling things too much, all the time, in all the wrong ways. Like right now, where she feels an overwhelming flood of relief. "I'm never numb. Just angry. Or sad."
"That's good, that means you care," Shane says. She wonders if she's still on speakerphone.
"I'm sorry. I did not mean to make this about me. I wanted to congratulate you. Is beautiful, amazing thing. To help people. I am proud of Shane Hollander, for first time," she adds slyly.
Shane groans. "I literally am having one of the best seasons of my career."
Zhenya rolls her eyes. "Because you kicked my uncle into most Boring team of Boringtown. I understand. Needed advantage to beat number one hockey player." Uncle Ilyusha laughs, and Zhenya feels warm to her toes.
"Even a child knows the truth," Uncle Ilyusha points out, which makes the fuzzy feeling dampen a little.
"I am not child," Zhenya snaps.
Uncle Ilyusha takes it in stride. "Always child to me, malyishka. You will be safe, da? You have place to stay, for few days? Tyotya Sveta can take you, or I can—"
"I'll figure it out," Zhenya says. She knows that's not the right thing to say, doesn't really know what is. "Dyadya Ilyusha?"
"Hm?" He already sounds like he's drifting half to sleep.
"Ya tebya lyublyu." It's too much, probably, and embarassing. But Uncle Ilyusha gives a soft sigh.
"ya tebya lyublyu, Mishka. So much."
And then she hangs up, and heads to Katya's house, where she hopes Katya won't have any of those prissy girls over that she befriended after Zhenya switched schools.
🙞 🙝
When she comes back from Katya's, it's to an empty apartment. The apartment is still trashed. Something twisted and sick starts festering in her stomach. Some things are put to rights, but barely. Some one was here, but if they were, why didn't they clean all of it? It's not like Mama could cook without dishes, sit in front of the tv when there's still glass shards on it. Is she hurt?
Katya's heart pounds in her throat. It's not a big apartment. She checks her parent's room, the bathroom, her bedroom. Everywhere.
"Mama? Papa? Mama!" She doesn't know where she's supposed to look, what she's supposed to do. For a second, she considers calling Uncle Ilyusha, but tamps down on it. She can't bother him, can't bother Shane now that she knows he might pass the phone over. Not again. Zhenya has to be smart about this. She's not a baby. She takes deep breaths, tries to tamp down the way her lips keep trembling.
Then she spots it. A letter, on the kitchen counter. Zhenya picks it up with trembling hands. It's in her mama's handwriting. It takes her a few tries to comprehend it, despite it being relatively straightforward.
Mama left. The trashed apartment was the last straw. In the letter she rails at Papa for his incompetence, for him tying Mama down by getting her pregnant. For the lack of money, the lack of support.
The worst part, is Zhenya can't be mad. What was there worth staying for? Certainly not Zhenya.
She scrunches her face up and sits on the kitchen floor amongst all the broken dishes, gasping as she tries hard not to cry. This wasn't true, was it? Mama was coming back? And where was Papa? What if he left too? What if Zhenya was all alone, what would she do then? The urge to call Uncle Ilyusha gets stronger, but thankfully, before she can give in, the door slams open.
It's Papa, and he looks haggard, red eyed and his hair tufted like he'd been pulling it. At the sight of Zhenya, his eyes widen. He rushes forward, and Zhenya braces herself, but instead he wraps her in a hug.
Zhenya stiffens for a moment, and then collapses, sobbing. She doesn't have another choice, her body gives her no other option.
She'd been so scared.
"It's okay, Zhenechka. It's okay. We never needed that bitch anyway, you hear me?"
"I want mama," Zhenya sobs, and her father stiffens, pulling back to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. The movement rattles the sob in her throat, cutting it off at the source. Zhenya tenses at the wild look on her father's face, swallowing back any further cries.
"No. Never say that again, you hear me? She's not your mama anymore, Zhenyecha. No Mama. Just Papa. We don't abandon family, you understand?"
Zhenya blinks quickly, trying to rid herself of her grief. If she shows a milimeter of it on her face, she knows that her father will see. If she thinks about how she also wants to run, deep down, then her father would see. And he would never forgive her, just like Mama. She nods quickly. "Of course, Papa."
"You won't ever abandon your family, right, Zhenyecha? Not like your whore of a mama," he says, frantic.
Zhenya shakes her head. "I won't. I promise, I won't."
He draws her into another hug. He smells like vodka. It doesn't matter. It's her father, and for now, he's here.