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

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Tristan is gone in the morning. I’m not surprised, but I do spend ten minutes making sure he didn’t steal anything before I go to the kitchen to have breakfast. As far as I can tell, everything is in place. Still, I text him to see what his plans are for the day. I remember him saying something about extending his trip to Milwaukee a few more days for me, and I’m curious if that was alcohol talking or if he really meant it. I grab my backpack and am leaving the house for my least-favorite class of all time, Astronomy 101—who knew it wouldn’t be about horoscopes?—when I see my dad’s car parked in the driveway, sitting in a cloud of fumes. Still high from my unexpected romantic encounter and so tired from a lack of sleep that my brain is fuzzy, I don’t assume it’s terrible right away. But when he gets out, slamming the door furiously and dressed up like he’s come straight from work, or right before work, I guess, my heart plummets.

My dad heads straight for me with an envelope in his hand. He doesn’t stop till his head is practically touching mine. I can smell his cologne, the nicotine gum in his mouth. “What did you do?” he asks.

I back up, onto the sidewalk. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this!” Here, he dumps out the contents of the thick manila envelope in my face. Inside, there appears to be some kind of scientific kit. And a letter, printed out in Russian.

A lump forms in my throat. This must be the anvil I’ve been waiting for. “What is that?”

My dad hands it over and I read—well, skim, it’s a lot of tiny text—what’s written on the page. It seems to be a list of directions. Directions how to take a DNA test properly and where to mail it when it’s ready. On the sides there are some images accompanying the directions, in case you’re like me and zone out anytime you see a list of anything.

“Oh. Wow,” I tell him, my heart racing. I hand it back over. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Why are you so surprised?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where did she get my address, if not from you? Aren’t you the one talking to her?”

“I didn’t give her your address! I told her not to send it to you, in fact. She just…” I don’t finish the rest of the sentence, which is that she asked me about his address, and I confirmed it was correct. Because, oops? Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. But then why had she kept asking me if the kit had arrived? Wouldn’t that imply it was en route to my house, not my dad’s? Or did she mean my dad’s house all along? If she sent a DNA test to my dad, who ignored all her emails, why would she expect him not to ignore that too?

“I knew you were still talking to her,” he says. My dad, who is now bright red in the face, begins pacing back and forth like a lunatic. I quickly glance around to make sure no one is watching us; what if Tristan chooses this moment to return? Or, worse: what if he doesn’t return? But there is no one outside so early in the morning. Only mountains and mountains of snow surround us, and cars trapped underneath them. A few people far in the distance are out there with shovels, but most, because it’s the east side and full of college students, are still asleep. It is mornings like this I am relieved not to own any vehicle besides a bicycle.

“This is insane, Anastasia. What am I supposed to do?” My dad is still pacing, his pants getting wet around the ankles due to the fact that my landlord hasn’t been by to shovel yet. The pacing is making my own anxiety spike. I sit down on the cold concrete steps by our door, to allow more space between us. The smell of cigarettes is so strong I worry he is smelling it on me. It certainly couldn’t be coming from him. He’d quit years ago, when my mother had gone through a little health scare. “Can you imagine what would have happened if your mom got home before me and saw this?”

“I only talked to her like one more time,” I explain to my dad as patiently as I can. Or three more times. Maybe five? “I definitely didn’t tell her to send you a DNA test.”

My dad stops and leans against his car. He looks to the sky, as if he will find an answer in the gray clouds. “You must really hate me,” he spits out finally, in Russian.

“I don’t hate you,” I mumble

“Then why would you believe a stranger over your own father?”

“Who said I believe her?” I look him straight in the eye. “Do you believe her?”

My dad turns away. “I told you,” he says with an annoyed sigh. “She’s blackmailer. Apple fall far from tree.” He lowers his head back down and starts shaking it in frustration. I start to feel like he is really overreacting. How is any of this my fault? She found him. She found his address. I did nothing but try to help them and fail. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done by talking to her?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I am sorry, but I also feel defensive. “But why would she target you ? And why would she ask for a DNA test, not money?” I ask. Mulling it over, I guess I really didn’t believe her. And yet, now, I am questioning the entire idea. If she was a stranger to him, then why would he be panicking so much?

No answer from my dad.

“You really didn’t date her mom?” I probe.

He gives me a piercing look, as if to tell me, See? I knew you talked to her . “I fired her. She was mad. She started trying to blackmail me.”

“Blackmail you for what?”

“You know this, Anastasia, we did all sorts of crazy things in the USSR. I had to bribe everyone from the brick layer to the manufacturer just to get anything done. She wasn’t the only one to try to get us all in trouble.”

“Why would she blackmail you though? What did she want in return?”

My dad shakes his head. He returns to English now, having calmed down a little. “It was crazy place,” he repeats. “People did stupid things. Forget it.”

“And you really didn’t date her? Not even a little?” I pry. “Mom told me once you used to be quite the ladies’ man when she met you.”

A long pause ensues, at the end of which my dad seems to deflate. “I did not date her. But…” He pauses again, his expression now less defiant and tense.

“But what?”

“I did not date her,” he continues, deflating more; looking relieved even. “We had… relations, after a work party. There was a lot of vodka involved.”

I want to laugh when he says this. I’ve never been in shock before, but maybe that is what shock feels like—an unbearable urge to say that’s so ludicrous it’s funny. Preposterous. For a moment I can’t catch my breath. I realize then that I never really believed Zoya. My faith in my dad’s honesty trumped anything she could ever say to me. Now I have no idea what to think.

“Oh my god!” I say finally. My dad looks back towards the house anxiously. This has all been a story to me, an investigation; play acting, almost. I haven’t considered him at all, not really, not what this would mean for him if Zoya is correct and she is, in fact, his daughter unknown to him for most of her life.

He might actually have another daughter.

I might have another sister.

My grandparents might have another grandchild! And what about my mom? What would she now have?

“I told you to stay out of it, Anastasia. But you never listen. This all your fault.”

My heart starts pounding all the way into my ears. I feel myself start to get angry. All I ever do is listen. “Dad—” I stop, lowering my voice. “All I did was answer a message.”

“No. You gave this woman hope.”

“But if she’s really not yours, as you claim, then why are you so worried? Just take the test!”