Laura Kasischke - Mind of Winter

But Holly would never have had the opportunity to explain herself to them, without appearing to them to be a madwoman. So she avoided them instead of beseeching them. It was a loss, though. Neighbors. She wished more than ever that they were her close friends, that she felt comfortable calling them on Christmas Day, asking for help, telling them that something might be terribly wrong.

Certainly, though, none of them were monsters. They’d help, and gladly, if Holly and Tatiana needed help. They held no grudge against Tatiana, of course. Holly knew this for certain. Although Tatiana never talked to Holly about it, Holly knew that Randa sometimes came out to the waist-high fence when Tatiana was in the backyard, and she and Tatty would have what seemed like long conversations with each other as Randa’s little boy ran around with a stick. The two of them seemed to be laughing. Occasionally Randa would touch Tatty’s arm. Holly could see that gesture from the window where she watched.

Randa would help. And Randa was a hospital administrator—which didn’t make her a medical professional, of course, but surely she would know what to do in the case of a burn like this. If the snow was so deep that they couldn’t drive or walk around the block and had to climb over the fence to get her, they could do that. It was a low fence.

Holly looked back down at Tatiana’s fingers and was relieved to see that they seemed to be changing color. They were pinker now. Yes, a layer of skin had torn away, but maybe the skin underneath it was undamaged. Maybe this was just a superficial burn, like a sunburn. Maybe the skin that was peeling away from the fingertips wasn’t dark because of the burn, but had simply been ashed black from some sort of residue Tatiana had touched on the stove. Admittedly, Holly didn’t keep the top of the stove as clean as she might. On many occasions, she herself had come away from the appliance with dirt on a sleeve or a smudge on her elbow or dirty fingertips.

To appraise the situation even more closely, Holly squinted.

Now the peeled-away skin looked superfluous, and the skin underneath did not look particularly tender or overly exposed. It looked like the new skin had been waiting under the old skin for quite a while. There were even fingerprints, it seemed to Holly, there beneath the old fingerprints, which had been there all along, in the shadows, ready to take over.

But, of course, why not? Didn’t their cells renew so quickly that, really, every year they were wearing an entirely new suit of flesh? Hadn’t Holly read that somewhere? It was a miracle, really, the way, despite the shedding of the old skin, there were always those same fingerprints and birthmarks and scars floating to the surface, proof that you were the same person you’d been before your old cells had flaked away.

“It’ll be okay,” Holly said to her daughter. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find some ointment and put Band-Aids on, and it might throb a bit, but we’ll get you some aspirin. Okay?”

Tatty shook her head no , but Holly decided to ignore it. She led her to the bathroom, and Tatty followed—willingly, but sleepwalkingly, just the way she’d followed Eric and Holly out of the Pokrovka Orphanage #2, into the sunlight, and then into the dark car that would take them to the train station, to the airport, to all the stops between Siberia and Michigan—walking, walking, walking, as if it were all a dream, but also as if it were a fate there would be no point in resisting.

SHE’D REFUSED TO be carried. Baby Tatty would not be picked up, even through the endless labyrinths of the Atlanta airport after flying, mostly awake, for nearly twenty hours.

And, of course, being only twenty-two months old, the steps she took in those little leather shoes (which Holly had bought for her in the States and laced onto her feet in the orphanage in Siberia) were tentative by nature—baby steps. Her ankles were wobbly. She’d never had hard-soled shoes on her feet until then. She’d never so much as stepped outside the orphanage—except, Holly and Eric had been told, once, when she and a few other ambulatory children had been allowed to run around in a fenced-in area out back. But that had been just the one spring day the year before, and, except for it, all the walking days of Tatiana’s life had been spent inside the deep winter of Pokrovka Orphanage #2.

It took the three of them twenty-six hours to reach home from Siberia, and in all that time Baby Tatty spoke not a word, stared straight ahead of her, and was willing to go wherever the person who was holding her hand was going—but she would not be picked up.

Now it was like that again, pulling Tatiana by the wrist to the bathroom, telling her to sit down on the toilet lid while Holly started to search through the drawers, then through the linen closet, for—

For what?

Neosporin? Bactine? Would rubbing alcohol work? Witch hazel? Holly wasn’t sure she’d ever in her life cleaned a wound. The only two scrapes that Tatty had ever had (once, scraping her knee open while running to greet Thuy and Pearl in the driveway, and another cutting her finger on a piece of broken pottery) had been tended to by Eric. But Neosporin sounded like something Eric had mentioned in reference to a wound—and, luckily, Holly found a tube of that.

She took the tube out of the linen closet and read the side of it. The description and the directions looked promising. She twisted the cap off and brought the tube over to Tatiana, who was still sitting, expressionless, on the toilet seat. Holly said, “Hold out your fingers, sweetie.”

Tatiana did as Holly told her—just as she’d pulled down her panties to go potty in the tiny lavatory of the twin-propeller airplane that had flown them from Irkutsk to Buryatia. What could Baby Tatty have been thinking then? She’d walked on her own little feet so few times on earth, and now she was on a shaking thing in the sky over the earth. A stranger was telling her it was time to pull down her panties and to pee and that everything would be okay, but telling her this in a language she did not speak. Still, she had done it, peed in the potty, pulled her panties back up, returned with Holly to her seat, walking as steadily as she could on that wobbling craft, and she had not cried.

HOLLY SQUEEZED THE clear gel onto her daughter’s fingertips, and then she bandaged each one of them with a Barbie Band-Aid. How long had they had those things in the linen closet? Or was it, rather, that Tatiana, despite how mature she seemed, had really just emerged from childhood such a short time ago that they were still surrounded by her childhood things?

“All better?” Holly asked, holding the hand with the bandaged fingers in her own.

Tatiana said nothing.

“Are you okay, Tatty?” Holly asked—and, yes, this time there was an edge to it. Her patience was thinning again. Okay , she thought—okay, so there’d been an accident, and Tatty had touched the stove, and her fingertips had been burned. But now it was time to move on , as they said. Right? “Tatty? Did you hear me?”

Finally Tatiana looked up and made eye contact with Holly, and this time it was Holly who found herself glancing away. Her daughter’s eyes looked too shiny to her. Both too bright and too dark to stand. Tatty inhaled, seeming ready to say something she’d been holding in for a while, and Holly felt unaccountably worried about what it would be, could already feel herself beginning to form excuses, denials, but Tatty only said, “They called again.”

“Oh,” Holly said, sagging a little with relief.

The phone call. Her iPhone ringing on the kitchen counter before Tatiana had accidentally thrown it across the house, before she’d touched the stove and burned her fingers. She and Tatiana were back to the banalities of phone calls. “That’s right,” Holly said. “I already forgot. The phone rang, didn’t it? I’d better see if that was Dad.”