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

“I work down the block,” I say. “But I am guessing you know that already.”

“Yes, one of your roommates told me you work around here. His name was August, I think. Is he your boyfriend?”

“Oh my God, no, Mom,” I tell him, my eyes bulged out in horror. “He’s like my brother.”

“Hmm,” is all she says.

“Did Masha tell you where to go? I finally checked my UWM email at the library and saw a few emails from her.” She doesn’t answer but I can’t help but frown a little. “I still don’t understand why she was looking for me.”

“Because we’re family,” Mama explains. “That’s what we do. We find each other.”

My stomach grumbles again, this time loudly. Because my mom is a mom she cannot ignore this and takes out some cash to buy me something from the table closest to us, which is selling piroshkies, a croissant-like pastry baked with farmer’s cheese inside. The sign is advertising three for a dollar. I scarf one down instantly, then, seeing my mom’s face, hold on to the other two in my hand.

“Thanks,” I say, my mouth full.

Mom begins accepting change from the old woman at the table, doing the entire exchange in accented English as if she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s like them . I finish chewing and start walking, putting the other piroshki in a pocket on my bag meant for water bottles. Reluctantly, my mom follows me down the street, which is plastered in Russian businesses as far as the eye can see. We pass by bookstands filled with Cyrillic spines, tables with mounds and mounds of matryoshkas; we have at least three of them in their basement in Wisconsin, in a cupboard with many of the exact types of things being sold here on the street: shiny, plastic children’s books, delicately painted china. Orange, polka-dotted metal pans. Tables filled with kitschy Soviet relics; cigarette cases and lighters with the hammer and sickle on them.

“God, this is depressing,” Mom says in English.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “This is so cool.”

My mom shakes her head. Her face is paler than usual, her freckles practically gone. She looks as if she’s left someone’s funeral. “It’s like nothing has changed in twenty years,” she says. “Like they all just came here and continued along as if this is the Soviet Union.”

“They want to hold on to their culture,” I say. “What’s so wrong with that?”

“Because, they’re not in the Soviet Union,” my mom says. “Why even come to New York at all?”

“I think it’s cool,” I say. Whenever I’m in Brighton Beach I can’t help but feel like we’re with our people. There were so many like us who had come from the same place and now stood in the same place again—so many who’d made the same transition. For a moment I forget that I derailed my parents’ marriage, left college, stole things, hurt my sister, and took a fifteen-hour train to New York City. That everything I own is sitting in a room no bigger than a closet. That I can’t decide if it’s freeing or incredibly depressing and maybe even stupid. No, that’s not true. It’s amazing. It’s the poorest but also the happiest I’ve ever been.

I haven’t done a single drug since I came here, because I no longer have to self-medicate myself into feeling alive, I just feel alive by living.

“Did you see all those old ladies selling fruit that’s almost rotten? They’re basically beggars,” my mom complains. I don’t even feel bothered by this; we clearly do not see home in the same way. The things that make her feel alive are not the same things that do so for me. “They could’ve stayed in the Soviet Union and been beggars there.”

“I don’t think they’re like beggars , Mom. Come on. They’re selling something. It’s like any other store here.”

“And who do you think buys rotten fruit?” Abruptly, Mom stops again and looks around. “I can’t deal with this. Can we go somewhere else?”

I stop sorting through a pile of DVDs with Russian titles on them. Brat and Brat 2. Night Watch and Day Watch , an apocalyptic vampire series I have seen numerous times already, and follow her east towards the boardwalk, even though I have to be at work soon. I don’t feel like I have much of a choice.

“Does your dad know where you are?” Mom finally asks me.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “Does he know where you are?”

The sidewalks are glistening, the trees dripping. It’s cold, even under my sweater and leather coat. Not quite winter anymore, but not quite spring either. “Why don’t you come back to New Jersey with me?” She turns to me, putting a hand on my shoulder, brows pointed with concern. “Sveta has plenty of space. You can share your cousin Olga’s room.”

“Why don’t you go back to Milwaukee?” I ask, annoyed. She knows perfectly well that I can’t stand my cousin Olga or New Jersey.

“Anastasia.”

“What?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. The leather of my coat swishes and pulls. “Are you going to stay there forever? Have you moved in with them? What about work?”

“Not forever, no.” She pauses, looks down at her manicured hands. “Until…”

“Until what? Dad goes back in time and doesn’t sleep with his accountant?” I ask.

My mom looks like I’ve slapped her, and now I feel bad. It’s not her fault. Why am I taking it out on her? Probably it’s just guilt. I’d been expecting to be discovered at some point, but I thought it would most likely be Masha who found me, or maybe even my dad. Not my mom. I had no idea my mom wanted to see me after everything I put her through. Well, after everything that my dad put her through and that I maybe helped bring to light. “Sorry,” I say softly.

We start walking again, and even though I can’t hear it, I suddenly know my mother is crying.

“How did you find out anyway?” I ask, softly.

“I’m not blind,” she says. “And your father can’t ever remember to log out of his emails, which I’m sure you’ve noticed.” She shakes her head and almost laughs.

“I see.”

“Anyway, it’s none of your concern.”

“But did he… is she…?”

“We never heard from her again, if that’s what you’re asking.” She looks at me sternly. “And let’s keep it that way.”

“All right. Whatever you want.”

“I just don’t understand what you’re trying to prove. That you don’t need us? Fine. Point taken,” she says, her voice shaky. Her heels click against the pavement, and mine drag, one of the flaps of my boot coming loose. I feel embarrassed and yet defensive at the same time. We don’t usually have these types of conversations—honest ones—and I can tell it’s hard for her. I can’t help but wonder, too, how much Masha told her about what I was up to. She doesn’t mention it though, so neither do I.

“Isn’t that the point you’re trying to make?” I ask her. She stops and stares at me, her brows furrowed. Then, to my surprise, we both burst out laughing. I suppose it is funny in a way. Like we are leading some sort of parallel life, so different than the ones we had mere months ago.

“Can we sit?” she tells me more than asks. I follow her to a nearby bench on the boardwalk, where she sits, then takes off her heels and starts rubbing her feet. I don’t dare to take my own shoes off, even though my feet are sore too. The smell would probably knock us both unconscious. Alternatively, I look out at the clear blue sky, the jagged skyline and smooth water reflecting it, calmness and chaos in equal parts. Like yin and yang; or me and my mom; or life in general, always balancing precariously on the precipice of that fragile line between. It’s a beautiful image, and it fills me with a convoluted mess of emotions, which, as it often does, turns into an idea for a painting. I try to imprint the image in my brain to use later. I picture myself with my paintbrush, blocking in the shapes of our bodies on the bench, the line where sky meets water. One of those Russian couples walking past in the distance, next to a Russian mom pushing a carriage, like my mom used to push me. It could be my best piece ever. Something about the circle of life.