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

“I see,” Dedushka says. From below, my dad beeps his horn in the parking lot. I know it’s him because I can see his car from here. I stand to go, but my grandpa looks so miserable that I first have to give him another hug. He is even sweatier than he was earlier. My grandma, on the other hand, is covered now in two blankets and looks dry as a bone. I am filled with so much love for them it’s like a balloon that could pop if I stand there any longer. “Well, as long as she is okay.”

“See you soon, Dedushka,” I say, blinking back tears. I hadn’t realized till now how much I’d missed them being abroad all these years; how much I will miss them when I return. He doesn’t ask me why I’m in town, which I’m grateful for. It occurs to me that he might not care why. Then he squeezes me so tight I can’t breathe again.

“Oh, Mashinka, you and your sister are my life. Please come back more often. When are you flying home?”

I don’t know the answer to this. My dad only bought me a one-way ticket. Possibly this was a hint, but I choose to believe it’s because he doesn’t know how long this might take. “I’ll come say bye before I go, I promise.”

I move to my grandma and give her another hug, too. A piece of food that is stuck to her cheek falls to the side of my sweater, and I quickly flick it off. “You tell my son Pavel I’m not dead yet and he better visit me soon. He’s forgotten about me, his own mother!”

“He was just here, what are you talking about!” Dedushka yells.

“I’m a useless old lady now,” Babushka laments. “Oy, you better hope you don’t live this long, my granddaughter. Sixty, seventy, okay. But eighty? Put yourself out of your misery first.”

“Mila, for God’s sake!” my grandpa screams, getting angry again.

“It’s not her fault,” I explain again, patting my grandpa’s shoulder. Because of the work I do in Israel, tutoring and helping new immigrants translate official documents, I’ve spent a lot of time around elderly Russians, and they seem to take dementia extra hard. It’s probably because no one lived that long in Soviet Ukraine, so they never had a chance to witness what happens to people when they reach such an advanced age. Instead of being sad, they get angry, like the other person is merely trying to annoy them. “She’s sick, Dedushka.”

He continues to shake his head in bewilderment. “He was just here,” he repeats, almost as if to himself.

“I know,” I tell him, patting his shiny bald forehead like I used to do when I was little.

Once I’m outside again, my stomach aches with so many conflicting emotions I almost feel like I could throw up. I’ve only been gone a few years; in some ways, nothing has changed at all. But in others, it’s like an entire lifetime has passed. My grandparents have always been old, in my mind. In some ways my grandma is right. Seventy is old. Eighty-three and eighty-five? Practically ancient. You can die from a cold. And that’s if we even know their real ages. What if I never see them again?

How could I ever repay them for what they did for us? Can anyone really ever repay anyone?

I get into the car, squeezing the envelope in my fist. It’s like a little bright star emanating from my pocket. Then I turn to Papa.

I try to take in the image of him, smoking a cigarette with his shoulders slumped, drinking his third espresso in a row. My father who is most certainly only going to get older, too, the longer I am away. I am already thinking about how I will remember this moment, how the trip will settle into my brain and feel less and less real the more days pass in Israel with David. And the more days pass, the more I will remember what I already spent so much time learning before and forgot: it’s hard for me to be apart from my family—but it’s harder to be with them. Not everyone is meant to share space. I prefer to love them all from afar. Because we are so different, it’s the only way I can be myself.

I also want to forgive them. I’ve spent the last five years trying to ignore the shadow of guilt I feel every time I have a good conversation with David’s parents instead of my own. I was so mad at them for being unable to accept me that sometimes I couldn’t see straight. It felt like I could only see myself in opposition to them. This was, in part, why I’d left, and why I’d enjoyed Judaism, too. Sure, it has rules, but for the most part its followers can do as they please and believe in God as much as they choose. In contemporary Hebrew, Ba’al T’shuva describes a Jew from a secular background who becomes observant. T’shuva also means to atone for one’s wrongdoings. So in a way, becoming religious in Israel is a process of also atoning for your past. In the month before Yom Kippur, rabbis preach T’shuva, or atonement, between people and personal relationships; on Yom Kippur, we seek reconciliation between us and God. If I’m being honest, I’d always skipped straight to the latter.

I’m seeing now that was a mistake. The two are eternally linked.

Without turning to face him, I tell my father, “You should have told me about Zoya.”

He places his mug down into the cupholder with a thud. He doesn’t appear to feel sorry; but I know it’s not my responsibility to make him feel so. I can only control my own reactions, not his. “Why, so you can look at me how Anastasia looks at me now?” he asks. “What good would that have done?”

He’s right. I can barely look at him. But it’s not for the reasons he imagines. It’s because he’s a liar. It’s because he’s unable to look in a mirror and see himself. Everyone makes mistakes; even rabbis admit to them. It’s how you choose to make up for these slipups that shows who you are. “Is Mama still in New Jersey?” I ask.

“I think so,” he says. “Why?”

“Good,” I say. “I need to tell her where to find Anna.”

I’m getting off the train at the corner of Neptune Ave. and Ocean, like I do every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, when who do I see standing there at the bottom of the steps?

My mother, of all people.

I nearly fall down when I spot her distinct brown-and-cream fur coat. She surprises me by rushing forward and hugging me tight. That hug, or maybe the smell of her freshly washed hair, or maybe all of it—New York City, dust creased into my jeans, the uncertainty of tomorrow—sends a jolt of guilt through my whole body. And here I thought I’d left all that guilt behind in Wisconsin, along with the rest of my family.

“Privet, Anastasia,” she says into my hair. The hot water is out at our Williamsburg apartment, and I haven’t washed it in days, so I pity her nose, and feel slightly embarrassed too. Then that is replaced by a jittery nervousness. It’s almost like seeing a stranger; at the same time, it’s like looking into a mirror.

“Hi, Mom,” I finally manage to choke out. I dig my dirty nails into my palm while she stands back and watches me like she is seeing a ghost. I can’t look at her, so I turn my eyes towards a deli with giant pink sausages hanging in the windows, over various chunks of white cheese, pickled radishes, pickled onions, bright yellow signs advertising caviar and fish. My stomach starts grumbling. This is my main problem with working in Brighton Beach—or Brooklyn in general—everywhere I go I just want to eat. But only a rich person can live that way, not a barista.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, finally. I look towards the café down the block, where I am due for a shift in less than fifteen minutes.

Mom turns to follow my glance, searching for the café, but being obstructed by too many Russian booths and stores in her way; unlike me, these places furrow her brow instead of making her smile. “What are you doing here?”