Alina Bronsky - Broken Glass Park

It’s a shame nobody has ever videotaped us. Angela’s not completely idiotic, just in spurts. Sometimes she understands things, though most of the time she’s completely lost. She needs her fingers to help count. She often holds up her hands in front of her face as if to shield herself from a math problem she’s just glimpsed.

“They’re just numbers,” I say. “They don’t bite. You have to play with them.”

“Play?” she asks, looking at me horrified. She’s afraid of me, like Maria. I try to remain patient with her, but I’ve yelled at her a few times.

But that’s not the only reason she cries. She’s plagued by fundamental doubt. She cries at some point during almost every session.

“I don’t understand anything,” she often says. “Why do they want to torture me with this stuff?”

“So your pretty little head doesn’t just float away because it’s so light and empty,” I say. “Or maybe you think you wouldn’t even miss it?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m going to fail,” Angela says. “I know it. Do you really think my head is pretty?”

“It’s okay,” I say. “But I’m not a boy.”

Still, it’s not as if our sessions are worthless. She is getting a little better. When she understands something, she flushes with happiness. She looks down and waits with rosy cheeks for my praise.

“See,” I say, “you can do it if you just set your mind to it.”

“It was just luck,” she says. “I’m telling you, I can’t do math.”

“But you just got that right.”

“Like I said, it was by accident.”

“You don’t have to be coy with me. I know how much trouble you have with this stuff. But you got that right.”

She leans back over the books with a look on her face as if she’s about to throw up.

It’s strange that I never see Grigorij in the apartment.

“Where’s your father hiding?” I ask one time. “Does he work mornings now? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“He’s in his room,” says Angela.

“Why — is he sick?”

“He’s drinking,” Angela says casually. “He usually drinks all night long. Then he sleeps like a log all morning.”

A chill runs through me.

“Is that something new?”

“What?”

“That he’s so hardcore.”

Angela shrugs her shoulders. “He used to do it once in a while,” she says. “But it used to be rare. After three weeks he’d be clear-headed again and wouldn’t drink at all for six months or so. It was no big deal. But it’s been two months straight now with just a couple of days off.”

“Holy shit,” I say. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Angela says. “Maybe because that fat-ass in your apartment threw him out.”

“How does he make it to work?” I ask.

“How could he go to work — on all fours? He got fired.”

“He was a. . ”

“Cab driver. Good job. Always worked nights. And I had peace and quiet here.”

I look around, forgetting the math for a minute.

“Who takes care of the household here?” I ask. “I thought he cooked and ironed.”

“Household?” Angela looks at me, bewildered.

“Yeah, I mean, everything’s cleaned up.”

“Only my room’s clean. Nobody cleans the rest of the place. I don’t have time. I have to study.”

I laugh.

“What?” Angela says angrily. “It’s enough that I do the shopping and cook. What else should I have to do? You have it good, that fat old lady does everything.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I say automatically. “Anyway, she’s not old. She’s only thirty-seven.”

“So? My father’s thirty-six and he ain’t young.”

“What?” I blurt. “I thought he was at least fifty.”

“Listen,” says Angela, “are you here to talk about my father?”

I hunch over a piece of paper with an equation on it.

As I’m leaving I look around furtively. There are three other doors off the hallway. They are all closed. Behind one of them is Grigorij. I hold my breath but can’t hear anything. I can’t believe he’s been lying here every morning and I didn’t realize it. I thought he had avoided being around when I was there. Now I also notice that there are dust bunnies the size of tennis balls in the corners. And that the winter jackets are still hanging in the entryway.

“Where are all the empty bottles?” I ask.

“In the garbage,” says Angela in an irritated tone. “What would possess you to ask that? Do you expect me to leave them sitting around? You sure are curious. It’s not like your place was always dry.”

“It was, actually,” I say blankly. “Even Vadim. At least compared to everyone else around here. How long will your father keep doing this?” I ask. “When does it stop?”

Angela doesn’t look at me. She looks at herself in the mirror. She’s pretty plump — about twice as wide as me. She’s wearing hot pants that cut into her light skin and a leopard-print bikini top.

I notice for the first time that she has a piercing in her belly button. Steel-colored with a blue stone in it. When she’s sitting down there are folds on her stomach and you can’t see her belly button.

It also occurs to me that it would look better on me.

“When he dies, I guess,” says Angela, and turns away from the mirror.

“What do you mean?”

“You just asked when my father would stop. And I’m saying he’ll stop when he drinks himself to death. Are you leaving now? I have to meet someone.”

I walk out with my books under my arms. I find myself wondering why a feeling of shame is once again washing over me.

Then suddenly I’m all pissed off.

Maybe I’ve looked in the mailbox one too many times. There’s still nothing for me in it. All of a sudden I can’t take it anymore.

I never wanted to wait around for anything like that — a postcard, a text message, a call. I’m not one of those stupid girls. It’s not the end of the world for me if some asshole doesn’t stay in touch. Nobody to blame but himself. Or the post office. The mail can take weeks. And he’s not going to write the first day of his vacation, the jerk.

Sascha doesn’t wait around.

But she is waiting right now.

I’m starting to hate myself for it. As well as the person who hasn’t written. I’m not sure which one I mean. Volker and Felix have merged into one single person who is enjoying himself on an island somewhere, looking out at the ocean, letting white sand trickle between his fingers, cracking open coconuts or whatever, and all the while not thinking about me at all.

I decide to stop running to the mailbox all the time. And not to get on the phone when they’re back and call me. If they call. They can kiss my ass.

I ride my bike downtown to return some books to the library. I check out a couple new ones and sit down outside on a warm stone wall. Behind me a briar of dark-pink dog roses are in bloom and it annoys me that they are thriving so prettily when I feel so miserable.

I don’t notice at first when someone addresses me. I often don’t get it when someone tries to chat me up.

“Did you leave your hearing aids at home?” says the person. I look up and can’t help but smile.

What I see: blond, blue eyes, sunburn on the face and upper arms. Male.

I stop smiling and my eyes return to my book.

“Hello? I guess I’ll have to talk a little bit louder.”

I have to smile again.

All of a sudden he sits down beside me, so close that I shift away a little.

“Hot,” he says.

“Uh-huh.”

“The wall, I mean. Doesn’t it burn your legs in those shorts?”

I look at my legs. So does he, intently.

I look back at my book.

“I keep asking myself whether we know each other,” he says, his gaze still lowered.