Zhanna Slor - At the End of the World, Turn Left

“I know.”

“If you really knew—if you understood why—you wouldn’t want to go back to Ukraine. Ever.”

Before you go thinking I’m a total ignoramus, let’s get one thing clear: I understand that the USSR was no picnic. But it was not all prison either. There were upsides, too: camaraderie among the oppressed, tight-knit family units, off-the-grid survival skills. The fact that you knew where you were, where you belonged. I’ve never had that. In emigrating from the Soviet Union, whatever we all gained in safety, we lost in an assortment of smaller, equally important things. Cultural heritage, community, a high-stakes life.

And then there’s this: struggle isn’t all bad. Struggle makes your lungs remember air, makes your eyes remember there are stars.

What makes us remember anything now?

“It’s been sixteen years. It’s not the same anymore. We went to St. Petersburg on that cruise. And Estonia,” I try. “And it was fine!”

“That’s different,” my mom says. “It was only for a day, and we were there.”

“I don’t understand why you would even want to go to Russia again. You were miserable on that cruise,” my dad says.

“I was miserable because I was fourteen, not because we were in Russia.”

“It’s not how you imagine it,” my dad adds. “I promise. Everyone who could leave it left. You think that many people leave a place because it’s so wonderful?”

“I know it’s not wonderful ,” I say. “Cuba isn’t exactly heaven, and people still go there.”

“Bozhe moy,” my mom says, placing two fingers on her temple. And if I’m not mistaken, she looks a little teary-eyed. This makes me feel bad—my mom is not a crier—but it doesn’t make me stop. It’s too late now to stop.

“Cuba?” my dad asks, his voice now an octave higher. “What are they teaching you at that school…”

With a dramatic sigh, my dad turns the car left with one hand, and allows the other to clasp my mom’s, as if to remind me they’re a team, and I’m the interloper. For a moment, I feel some empathy for Masha, who had to bear the brunt of their disagreements growing up. The three of them were always fighting. They fought so much that by the time I became a teenager, I decided that I would keep my opinions to myself, even if it meant making a few sacrifices. I didn’t think I could take it. If this car ride is any indication, I was absolutely right.

“Anastasia,” my mom says. “They didn’t want us there, don’t you understand?”

“I don’t really need your permission. I’m nineteen. If I want to go, I can go.”

“Maybe. But you do need our money,” she says. “Or have you found a way to fly to Eastern Europe on your own?”

She has me there. It’s the only reason I even bother arguing with them about going or not. I spent all my savings from summer jobs on coffee and cigarettes, and I’m still not done with a four-foot painting commission of Le Père Jacques’s “The Woodgatherer” I was slowly working on for my former high school guidance counselor last year and no longer even bother trying to finish. There is also, of course, the daily distraction of drugs and parties and schoolwork. How I get anything done at all is nothing short of remarkable.

“No. But I could get a job.” It makes sense they can’t relate to my incessant pull toward all things Ukraine. They went through hell to get here. This displacement is something they will never understand. They did have a home, once. Now they have a new home. To them, it is simple: they were there, and now they are here. People they knew then are dead or in jail. The worst thing that could happen now to the people they know is that they become lazy, or Democrats.

It probably goes without saying I avoid talking to them about politics, too.

“You and this Ukraine obsession…” my mom sighs, still rubbing the sides of her head with two fingers. “I thought you were done with it years ago.”

I, too, put my fingers to the sides of my forehead and rub them. When I look up again, I see we have finally stopped in front of my house. Feeling brave for one final moment, I say: “I wasn’t done, I was just done telling you about it.”

“Anastasia, there is a lot you don’t know about life. And about people,” my mom says. “We left that horrible place so you wouldn’t have to.”

“But don’t you ever wonder…?” I start, but I don’t finish the sentence.

“What,” my mom says, flatly.

“Have you ever considered maybe you don’t know everything?” I finally snap.

“Anastasia!” my dad interjects. “Don’t talk to your mother that way.”

I unbuckle my seat belt. I need to get out of the car, now. “Never mind,” I tell her. She seems to feel bad suddenly because her body language changes. It’s like she suddenly remembers I’m an adult and can choose whether or not to call her. Or maybe she’s remembering what happened with her other daughter when they disagreed too much.

“School is more important, honey. Why do you need to go to Ukraine?” she coaxes.

“Because I want to,” I say, knowing I sound like a petulant toddler but unable to help myself. “Isn’t that enough?”

“You don’t know what you want,” is all my dad says. “You’re a child.”

I look out again at my apartment, where I can see Margot working on a terrible abstract painting of a dog for an upcoming art show at the school’s gallery. A part of me wishes so desperately to be a part of that culture, hanging my oil portraits in line beside all the mediocre watercolor landscapes and mixed-media collages, drinking wine and eating cheese until I am ready to pass out. Everyone in the art department gets to do it and most of them have the talent of a shoe. Or maybe I’m simply jealous that they have the ability to try, and I don’t. But why shouldn’t I, too, have this chance? Because my parents told me I can’t? Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the conversation we’ve had, but a little door starts to open in my heart then. And inside that door is a small voice that is telling me your parents don’t know everything , and it’s telling me if you don’t want the same things, then maybe you shouldn’t do what they say . That should seem obvious, the realization our parents don’t always know what’s best for us—but it’s harder to see when your parents have made so many sacrifices for you and behave like perfect robots.

“Actually, Dad, I’m not a child,” I say finally.

As I leave the car, and watch them drive off towards Highway 43, I’m awash in a feeling more familiar to me than love, or kinship, or even sorrow: an angry, guilty hopelessness.

If I had to name the feeling, it would be this: Family .

I drag myself upstairs and open the door into the kitchen, where August is at the table drinking coffee and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette while simultaneously rolling another one. The window is open to the crisp, cool autumn air, and it smells like one of our neighbors is having a bonfire. I love that smell. Immediately, I feel more at ease than I have all night.

“Hey,” I tell August, with a nod. I let out a long breath of air and look for where to sit; the chairs are all semi-occupied. A polka-dot road bike leans against one, and a large backpack is open on the other. It’s full of yogurts, bagels, and some bottles of wine. Probably he came home straight after dumpster diving. “Trader Joe’s again?”

“Yep,” August says. “And Einstein’s must have had a very slow day.” When he doesn’t move, or offer me some of his haul, which he sometimes does, I begin to ransack the nearly empty cabinets for snacks, in order to soak up the alcohol and have at least some chance of sleeping later. Drinking too much gives me insomnia, for whatever inexplicable reason. And maybe I could get past the difficulty of falling asleep in a normal setting, but then every little noise wakes me up too, and my roommates are not quiet people. So I find a bag of pretzels and some cheese, and am about to head to my room to eat it, but then August starts talking.