Andrea White: Radiant Girl

The guard gave out a short bitter laugh. “Like I have to worry about smoking. I work in the Dead Zone.” He blew his smoke at me. “We’ll all go when it’s our time.”

A door slammed, and I tensed. Papa’s here. Papa’s here , kept running through my mind. We hadn’t argued since his illness, and I was not looking forward to hearing his angry voice now.

But I had to wait twenty more long minutes before I saw him rushing towards me. The building’s ceiling was low and made him look huge again.

“Katya, what’s the meaning of this?” Papa asked. Underneath his camouflage shirt, I spied a bit of mustard yellow. He had slipped his shirt on over his pajama top.

“I wanted…I’m not sure.” My voice faded off, and I touched the treasures in my pocket. How could I explain all this to Papa?

“Comrade.” Papa motioned to the security guard. The two men moved a few paces away.

I felt guilty as I watched Papa take out his wallet and hand the guard a few bills.

The security guard started to leave. “Tell her that it was a good trick once, but not to come back.”

“Yes, Comrade,” Papa said. He turned to me. “I need to call Mama and tell her that you’re all right,” he said. “Let’s go to my room.”

“Where is it?” I asked. “How do we get there?”

“I borrowed a Jeep. It’s in the parking lot,” Papa said.

I followed him outside.

“How did you get here so fast?” I asked him.

“I was collecting my paycheck,” Papa said. “I heard that two students had slipped away from a school group. You can imagine my embarrassment when I learned that one was my own daughter.”

A beat-up Jeep stood alone in an empty parking lot.

“I’m glad you’re O.K., but you still have a lot of explaining to do,” Papa said seriously.

As I climbed into the Jeep, I was still wondering how I could explain my actions. I didn’t completely understand them myself.

PAPA’S ROOM AT THE STATION contained a bed, two chairs and a small refrigerator. He had no television to watch on lonely evenings and no soft couch to sit on. The ceiling was so low, I could almost reach up and touch its bumpy surface. Standing in the gloomy space, I felt amazed that I had never once questioned where my father spent his time when he was not with us. In comparison with our apartment, this colorless room was the bare cell of a monk.

While I waited for Papa to call Mama, I studied the narrow bed with its one small pillow the size of a napkin. The thin gray blanket reached just to the bed’s edge. This room must be cold during the winter. Yet I had never once heard Papa complain.

Outside, I could hear the occasional sound of heavy boots tramping up and down the hallway. In about five minutes, Papa returned and sat in the other chair.

“I called Principal Goida and explained about my illness. I told him you were upset about my surgery. You weren’t thinking clearly.” When he had finished, a hint of a smile played on his lips. “Being a liquidator is good for something. I don’t think either you or Sergei is going to get disciplined.” He turned his gaze on me. “But now, you need to explain what was going on.”

It was so odd to be visiting my father’s poor home. In this bare room, I felt like he and I were just meeting each other for the first time. Except for the drip of the faucet, all was quiet. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, Papa,” I said finally.

“But why?” He threw his arms out wide. “Why did you run away?”

I began again haltingly. “I’m sorry, Papa,” I said. “I…I had to go back to Yanov.”

“So you snuck away to view some dirt hills?” His muscled face grew redder. “With Sergei Rudko? Is he your boyfriend?” he demanded.

I shook my head.

“Tell me, Katya!” Papa demanded. He was glaring at me. “Tell me everything!”

“I had to see for myself. Sergei followed me.”

“So you didn’t run off into the woods to kiss?” Papa asked. His voice was heavy with suspicion.

I couldn’t help wondering. Why had I left the bus trip? Was it to follow Vasyl? Or was Sergei the real reason? “No,” I said.

Papa’s mouth lost a bit of its clenched look.

“It was all gone. Everything.” As I said this last word, tears welled up in my eyes. I reached out to grab his arm. “Are you angry at me?”

His eyes probed mine. “Are you sure that boy didn’t touch you?” he demanded.

“Papa,” I protested. The feel of Sergei’s lips came back to me. Although I longed for Sergei’s mouth on mine again, his kisses were my business, not Papa’s.

“Then, let’s go,” Papa said, hugging me close. “Katya, I know you are searching to understand what has happened. But never, ever pull a stunt like this again.”

Bumping along in the Jeep, every few minutes, I fingered Sergei’s note just to make sure that the Ferris wheel and the kiss hadn’t been a dream. We were making our way toward the last checkpoint. When we arrived, we would have to leave the contaminated Jeep and get a ride home with one of Papa’s coworkers.

In the distance, I spotted smoke pouring out a chimney. As we drew closer, I saw a cottage nestled in the woods. In front, several cows lazily chewed on green grass. A dog chased his tail. A man hoed a garden. He looked up and shaded his eyes to see us better. He raised his hand in greeting.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Pavel Pascenko,” Papa said. “One of the squatter families.”

I had read about these families. They were mostly older peasants. They had hidden during the evacuation until the soldiers left their homes or had snuck through the checkpoints to return afterwards. There were hundreds of them still eking out their living in the Zone.

“Sometimes, I bring him food,” Papa explained. He glanced at me. “Do you mind if we stop?”

I appreciated that Papa didn’t say the words that I felt hanging between us. Since I may never see him again . And at this moment, I felt a surge of hope. All his life, my father had faced physical danger with such courage and determination. I hoped he might find a way to be brave about his illness.

“I wish I had a gift for him,” Papa muttered to himself. “A ball of twine. Anything.”

I remembered the radioactive doll. “I have something,” I said, and reached into my pocket. I offered the baby to Papa.

Papa glanced down at the little doll on the palm of my hand. “Why not?”

“Does he live alone?” I asked.

“He’s married. But when I visit him, his wife hides.” He rolled down the creaky window. “Pavel Pascenko.”

The old man advanced timidly to the Jeep. He wore a faded blue coat buttoned to the top and a tattered beret. Deep wrinkles traveled from the corners of his eyes all the way to his mouth. His bottom lip tilted inward from loss of teeth, and his fingers spread wide out like fleshy fans. I tried to imagine what type of work had molded his hands this way, but gave up.

“Meet my daughter, Katya Dubko,” Papa said.

“Hello,” the old man said, smiling.

“She has something to give you,” Papa explained. “I may not be back for a while. I just stopped to say goodbye.”

Pavel Pascenko nodded.

I leaned over Papa and solemnly handed Pavel Pascenko the baby doll.

He accepted it, smiling. “Thank you.” He glanced at the doll before slipping it into his pocket. As I caught a final glimpse of the doll, I felt as if I was watching the last bit of my childhood disappear, and I felt sad. But then, I thought, even though I’ve lost all of my old things, aren’t the old ways still inside me? I hoped so.