Мария Кузнецова - Something Unbelievable

Though there is one thing I can do when I return to my country, I decide. I can make a trip to that orphanage in Kharkov, after all. Why not poke around there? It could not hurt to see the place where my father and uncle spent their formative years. I have seen a photograph of the endless gray building and have pictured all the little bunk beds inside, though I hope they have been updated since my father told us about them in the mountains. There is nothing to fear. I picture myself opening the door and stepping into the warm, welcoming light.

Just after I hear Natasha stumbling in, I manage to drift off at last, floating on a stormy river on a tiny boat with my sweet father, who is troubled by the roiling waters. We’re wearing heavy winter coats and wool scarves. Papa kisses my forehead and tightens my scarf and says, “You need to bundle up, Larissa, the winter is going to be colder than ever this year.” Then he closes his eyes and begins to cry, which I slowly understand is not my father crying, no, it is the baby stirring, followed by the even-sweeter sounds of her mother waking up to care for her and that, I think, is not the worst sound that could interrupt your slumber.

“And then Babies Vera was like, ‘Wow, with all that makeup, you actually managed to look like you were on the brink of starvation—very impressive!’ Can you believe her? She called me fat the last time I saw her too. It’s like, I get it, I get it—why don’t you try having a kid and see how you come out? And it’s not like those girls are hot shit themselves—with all that makeup, they all look about forty-five, but do you see me insulting them?” I say, trying to keep things light, like I don’t care that nobody came to the play, as Yuri and my grandmother and I dig in to our last breakfast together, one I prepared with some difficulty, due to my brutal hangover and lack of sleep.

The sky was already turning pink when I got home from the after-party and I just curled up in bed scrolling through my phone, counting the likes on my #curtainsup #Mamasback #grandmotherland #brightlightsBrightonbeach posts, trying to feel happy that anyone at all cared at least a little bit, even though a picture of Tally sucking on her foot would have gotten more traction. Though I knew I killed it, I wished the people who liked my damn post had just come to see the play instead. My one comfort was that I think my grandfather wouldn’t have found a thing to criticize. I could almost picture his letter to me: You were perfect. Just the right amount of emotion. And you did it all yourself!

Yuri shakes his head as I continue to make fun of the Borsch Bitches. “You should be happy the Borschies came at all. That was nice of them.”

“Stop being so reasonable,” I say.

“What is wrong with looking like you’re forty-five, dear girl? I would amputate my left foot to be forty-five again,” says my grandmother.

“You look much better than those girls, Larissa Fyodorovna,” Yuri says with a wink.

“And who cares how much you weigh?” Baba says, ignoring the flattery. “You were phenomenal. Truly. And I have seen quite a range of your previous work, so I can say this with confidence.”

“Thanks a lot .”

“What? It is a compliment, darling. You are evolving, and I am so proud.”

“It was your best work by far, Natashka,” says Yuri. “You should have seen yourself—it was like you were possessed. The part where you ate the cat? You were amazing.”

His eyes are somber but sincere. Though he said the same thing last night, I didn’t really hear him. “Thank you.”

The rest of breakfast is quite pleasant. Tally’s sitting in her new high chair, picking at a bowl of berries, smacking away happily, while Baba fusses with her. I stick my tongue out at her and she gives me a little monkey laugh.

Yuri and I chuckle back at her, but we can’t think of anything to say next. We have decimated everything on the table so there’s no food to distract us, so we just watch our daughter finishing up her food. Last night at the bar, he and Stas had words near the bathroom, and after that, Stas said he was leaving to see his family in the morning, that he wasn’t sure when he would be back. But I was okay with that. I told him to take his time, and I would take mine. But the rest of the night, after Yuri and my grandmother left, he was by my side, though Stephanie kept coming between us, raving about how I killed it onstage, but she eventually told me to take care of myself, took a shot of tequila, and went home. Stas and I closed down the place, and though we split an Uber, he didn’t ask me to come up when it stopped in Harlem. He just took my hand and lifted it to his mouth and gave it one long kiss. “Until next time,” he said.

My grandmother gets up and opens the fridge to unearth the chocolate cake we brought to the after-party last night, all covered in pink-and-white icing and far too sweet for more than one bite, though almost two-thirds of it was devoured. She carefully cuts herself a slice, plops it on a plate, and eats it standing up.

“What?” she says as Yuri and I watch her, mesmerized. I know what she’s going to say before she says it: “It’s never too early for dessert.”

Yuri laughs and says, “No, I suppose it isn’t.” He forks a piece of the cake in solidarity. The two of them are just standing in the kitchen chewing together, looking kind of forlorn, because it’s time for them to say goodbye. We had already planned this—he’ll head out and Tally and I will walk Baba to the train to say goodbye.

Yuri gives my grandmother a big hug. “Remember,” he tells her, wagging a finger, “you promised to update your will for me.”

“Of course, dear child. I will leave you all of my horses and carriages, and a room of Roman statues.”

“Anything else?”

“Chests full of gold. You’ll never have to work again.”

“Wonderful.”

I hate when they talk like this, but I don’t stop them for once, I let them do their weird morbid thing, though it hits too close to home. Who knows when—or if—we’ll see Baba again? I stand by the mirror and fuss around with my hair, with old Great-Great-Grandmother Tonya looking down at all of us, her gaze striking me as more bewildered than cold, right then, wondering what the fuck any of us are doing. Then I get Tally out of her chair and hold her chunky little body in my arms, feeling the weight of her head on my shoulder, which makes me feel less hungover and nauseous for one sweet second, like all is right in the universe.

Yuri lifts a finger and runs into the hallway and brings back a huge bouquet of flowers I advised him against buying, which are more majestic than the ones he gave me after my performance, though I can’t blame him.

“Some flowers to see you off,” Yuri says with a shy smile as he hands them to my grandmother. “Since we failed to greet you with them.”

“Foolish boy, you expect me to drag these all the way home?” Baba says, though she is pleased.

“It’s the thought that counts,” I say.

“These are quite nice,” she says, and she gives them a big long sniff. “And they will look great next to Natasha’s flowers,” she says, and she takes the bouquet and drops it on top of the flower pile by the door.

“Can’t blame me for trying,” says Yuri.

He gives my grandmother one more hug before stepping out the door, to begin a slew of errands to keep the house in order before he leaves for his fishing trip. Sharik skulks in from the bedroom, gives the new flowers one big sniff, and turns away, unimpressed. He plops down next to them, sitting right up, and begins going to town on himself. My grandmother and I laugh at the loud, sucking sound. I feel sorry for the old motherless cat, right then—nursing on his dead mom as a kitten, how could it not fuck him up? Still, I reach over to discourage him, but my grandmother lifts a hand and stops me.