A Silver Willow by the Shore Read online

  Nina rubs her eyes. Lately the strain between she and her daughter has grown to the size of a chasm, and she can’t figure out why. Annie had always been hard headed, but never insolent and rude. Sometime in the last year, something happened. Nina shakes her head and looks down at the file on the desk in front of her, forcing herself to concentrate on the words. She jumps when her cell phone rings.

  “Hello?” She says, tucking the phone between her shoulder and her ear while she folds up the file.

  “Nina?”

  The voice on the end of the line is warm. Nina immediately recognizes it as Doctor Shevchenko, and her heart flutters in her chest. She’s thankful no one else is in the room.

  “Yes. Hello! Hi there, yes,” she stammers, her cheeks growing warm. There is something about this man that sends her into fits of embarrassment.

  “Hello,” Dr. Shevchenko replies, an evident grin filling in his greeting. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Oh, sure!” Nina tucks her hair behind her ear and sits on the edge of her chair. She immediately jumps back up and walks to the window.

  “I’m getting some of the results back from your mother’s lab work, and I have a few concerns,” he says.

  “Concerns?” Nina sits back down slowly.

  “It’s nothing that will put her in severe danger,” he says quickly, “but I need you to be aware of what’s going on so you can take a few measures to help her.”

  “Okay,” Nina swallows hard. She rubs her hand over her chest, baffled by the tightness that settled there so quickly.

  “The lab results show high cholesterol, which has been the case for some time now, but it has jumped significantly since the last time you had her in. Her blood pressure was up as well, and when I was speaking with her she seemed to be struggling to retrieve a few words.”

  Nina nods. “Yes, I’ve noticed that lately.” In truth, her mother’s slower responses had been a bit of a relief to Nina, so she’d not thought much of it. Now she feels foolish for not being more concerned.

  “I don’t really think that any of these issues are alarming at this point, but I would like to run a few more tests, and I think we need to change her cholesterol medication. How is her diet?”

  Nina closes her eyes and leans her head back. “I think it’s okay,” she answers. “She doesn’t eat vegetables. She says American vegetables taste like they were grown in a lab.”

  Dr. Shevchenko chuckles on the other end. “Well, she may not be too far off in that assumption,” he replies.

  “She does like fruit, though.” Nina continues. “And she hasn’t quit eating meat yet, though she’s threatened to do so. She stopped eating chicken about six months ago because it tasted like rubber. I believe her words were, ‘If I want to gnaw on a tire, I will go out to the garage and eat the car.’”

  Dr. Shevchenko lets out a full laugh this time, and Nina feels her heart skip a beat. Her mother has been seeing this man once a month for six months now, and after spending time in his office the other morning Nina has no plans to change that routine anytime soon.

  “Your mother reminds me of my grandmother,” he says, his voice laced with a kindness that makes Nina’s heart race.

  “How so?” Nina asks.

  “My grandmother was Russian to her very core. When my parents brought her to the States, she was certain we were all conspiring to lead her to a slow death. The convenience and ease of the country terrified her.”

  Nina smiles. “Yes, that does sound like my Mama.”

  “It’s understandable how they’d feel that way,” he answers. “My grandmother was very secretive. She told us once of the people she knew who disappeared in the middle of the night. Her uncle was sent to a Soviet gulag for telling a joke that offended his neighbor. My babushka was programmed to be suspicious of everyone.”

  Nina is quiet. She lets his words roll around in her head for a moment, digesting them. She snaps back to reality when his voice pierces her thoughts.

  “Nina? Are you still there?”

  “Sorry, Dr. Shevchenko,” she replies, pulling herself back into the conversation. But as she does so, she grabs a pen and writes on the Steno pad in front of her, ‘Soviet gulag.’

  “Please, call me Viktor,” he says. His voice sounds different—a little huskier and hesitant. Nina glances up as one of the nurses strolls into the break room.

  “Of course,” she stammers. “Viktor.” She swallows hard, willing her hands to quit trembling. “So would you like me to bring her back in this week?”

  Viktor clears his throat. Does he sound embarrassed? “Yes, that would be great,” he answers. “Can you get her in on Friday morning?”

  Nina nods her head. “Yes, Friday morning will work. Thank you for calling and letting me know.”

  “Okay, then,” Viktor replies. “Until Friday.”

  “Yes,” Nina answers, her voice barely above a whisper. The phone goes quiet, and she sets it down on the table in front of her. She looks back at the note on her Steno pad and feels her mouth go dry as she remembers Viktor’s words.

  “My babushka was programmed to be suspicious of everyone.”

  Tapping her fingers on the table, Nina lets her mind drift to her childhood. They were years spent in silence, her mother quiet and reserved. If Nina spoke too loudly, her mother jumped and looked around the room. It was as though she was always waiting for someone to enter, but whom, Nina could never quite figure out. When she pried, she was quickly shut down, told that children don’t ask questions. One conversation in particular had never left Nina’s memory.

  She had been thirteen years old, trapped in the hormonal abyss of the teen years, and feeling completely abandoned by her mother. Elizaveta worked long hours as a research technician at a medical lab, which meant Nina was usually on her own for most days, and many evenings as well. One night, she’d waited up for her mother to return home.

  “You’re still awake?” Elizaveta asked when she walked through the door. “Why do you sit here in the dark, child?”

  Nina could still remember the fear that had settled in her stomach when she asked the question that had been bothering her for years.

  “Where is my father?” She asked. Elizaveta stopped in the hallway, her eyes frozen as she stared at her daughter. In that brief moment, Nina had seen terror flash through her mother’s eyes, but she didn’t care. In those days, she didn’t care much about how her mother felt.

  “Why do you ask?” Elizaveta replied.

  “Why wouldn’t I ask? It seems like something I shouldn’t even have to ask.” Nina crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair she’d been sitting in for hours. She’d arrived home after a day of being taunted by two girls she thought were friends. They’d called her a bastard child, the daughter of a whore who couldn’t name her father if she had wanted to. Nina had responded by kicking one of the girls so hard she’d fallen over. A teacher at the school saw the incident and took Nina inside, making her spend the rest of the afternoon standing up in front of the class, her cheeks enflamed with humiliation and anger.

  “I am tired, Ninochka,” Elizaveta had responded. “I will not have this conversation tonight.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Nina hissed. “You will tell me his name at least. I won’t go to bed without it.”

  Elizaveta had drawn herself up and stared hard into her daughter’s defiant eyes. “Then I suppose you will not be sleeping tonight, detka,” she answered back, her voice hard. “I will see you in the morning.” Just before she left the room, she turned back to Nina. “Oh, and please, Ninochka,” she said, her voice humming with frustration. “Put on your tapochki or your feet will freeze, and you will get pneumonia and die.”

  Nina leans back in her chair and rubs her temples. Like any decent Russian mother, hers was always certain they were moments away from pneumonia. Half of Nina’s childhood was spent bundling up against the elements, certain that imminent death waited around every icy corner. She takes a deep breath and glances up at the cl
ock. Her break over, she stands and stretches. Nina tears the paper off the pad and sticks it in her pocket, wondering when and if she can make it to the library to do a little research.

  Annie

  Annie bolts up with a cry. Her foot is pulled back at an angle, the cramp in the back of her leg tying her calf in knots. She slides off the side of the bed and limps around her dark room, taking in deep breaths, trying to loosen up her leg. She jumps when the light flips on.

  “Are you okay?” Nina stands in the doorway, her hair askew and eyes squinted as she takes in the sight of her daughter hobbling in circles. Annie’s sheets are crumpled in a heap in the middle of the bed, which sits against the wall of a room that’s still decorated for a little girl. Nina had been meaning to update Annie’s décor, to remove the wallpaper border with pink flowers and paint the walls a more grown up color. But there never seemed to be enough time or money, so she’d continued to push the task off. Now it’s almost comical watching her daughter limp around the room, a nearly grown young woman trapped in a little girl’s world.

  “Fine,” Annie says through gritted teeth. She rolls her ankle around feeling the muscle beginning to release tension. “I just got a cramp.”

  Nina rubs her eyes. She walks to her daughter and grabs her elbow. “Come sit down. Let me look.”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Annie says, pulling her arm from her mother’s grasp. “Geez, it’s just a cramp.”

  Nina drops her hand and swallows hard against the hurt that threatens to bubble to the surface. Annie sits on the edge of the bed, exhaling loudly.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I’m not really awake. But I’m fine. It already feels better.”

  Nina nods and studies her daughter a moment. She reaches out and places the back of her hand on Annie’s forehead. For a brief moment, Annie leans into her mother’s touch rather than pulling away. “You’re very pale these days, my dear,” Nina says gently, moving her hand up and over the back of her daughter’s head. “Have you been feeling okay?”

  Annie softens to her mother’s touch, allowing it to comfort her for only a few seconds. She has fleeting memories of being sick as a small child and curling up in Nina’s lap. Her mom would croon old Russian folk songs into her ear and rub her face until she fell asleep. It always made her feel better. But this isn’t an illness that can be cured. Annie shakes her head and pulls away once again from Nina’s touch. She lays slowly back in her bed.

  “I’m just tired. There’s a lot going on.” She glances at her mom and feels panic well up inside as she sees the way Nina studies her features. “I probably need to drink more water or something,” Annie says. “I think I’m just dehydrated.”

  Nina nods. “Yes, that is a possibility, but I wonder if it could be something more. You should come in with me to the office one day this week and we can run a blood test. It could be mono. We should have you checked.”

  “No!” Annie cries out, then winces. “No, Mom,” she repeats, forcing her words to come out softer. “Really. I’m fine. I just need to sleep and stay hydrated. And I probably need more protein. It’s okay.”

  Nina sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll get you a glass of water,” she murmurs, turning to leave the room.

  “Thank you,” Annie says, her voice small and soft, hovering in the chasm between them. Nina pauses and studies her daughter for a moment more.

  “Of course, dorogaya,” she says quietly. My darling. The term of endearment catches in her throat, and Nina moves quickly from the room to escape the emotion. There’s a nagging pit in her stomach that she can’t shake. Her daughter is hiding something from her, she can tell. She’s spent a lifetime living in the shadow of secrets. She knows them when she sees them. She just wishes she could figure the secrets out.

  Elizaveta

  Exile. It is an ugly word, and a wretched way to live.

  I wake with a start and immediately pull the covers up to my chin. I heard a cry. Who was it? There is a knocking sound above me. My eyes shift up and down, left and right, trying to discern what is causing the sound. I hear muffled voices, and I shut my eyes tight, then open them back up. The small nightlight in my room casts shadows across the walls, and suddenly I am a child again hovering under the sheets of our small home in Ukraine. The fire in the hearth dances across the dark walls, as I lay warmed from underneath by the oven that mama keeps lit. Dima and Tanya lay beside me on our little bed, and I hear Dima’s breathing grow unsteady.

  Another knock, louder this time. Peeking out, I see Mama’s small, wooden broom leaning stoically against the opposite wall. Next to it is a bucket full of melted snow, which Mama will use tomorrow to clean the floors. There’s a small table in front of the fireplace, and a rocking chair sits beside it. Dried mushrooms hang from the ceiling, strung across the room like a banner. We collected them during the autumn months, and now Mama uses them to make soup. She plucks mushrooms from the string each night and peppers them into the pot simmering over the fire, stirring and blending together a meal that may not fully satiate the rumbles of our stomachs, but which is sufficient enough to satisfy us.

  Against the wall next to the door is a bench that Papa made for us. It’s roughly fit together from pieces of wood that Papa gathered when he splintered the chicken coop after our chickens were killed by wild dogs. It was his way of comforting Mama, who was devastated that we would no longer have eggs to gather for our morning meals. Papa made this bench just tall and wide enough for Mama’s skrynia to fit beneath, the worn box nestled like a puzzle piece between the bench and the floor. Inside her skrynia, Mama keeps all the linens and clothes, and the torn rags she has acquired, which have been wound up into a thick ball. They are the clothes that my brother, sister, and I have grown out of. Mama has torn them into pieces, and from those pieces she will knit us new blankets to keep warm. Before sliding her treasure box into place, Mama always covers it with her embroidered rushnyky, the dainty towel that she says makes the house look more like a home.

  Our one room cottage sits at the edge of our village, the large trees behind us stretching far beyond what my young mind can comprehend. I don’t like the woods behind our little house. Dima told me that Baba Yaga, the witch who steals little children and boils them for supper, lives back there. I make sure to never go beyond the fence line toward those fearsome trees, but stay instead wrapped in the safety of our small garden, which blooms bright and happy with sunflowers in the summertime, their stalks pointing toward the sky like they are asking for a hug from the sun perched high. I love to wander through the sunyashiki, and when they bloom full and bright Mama plucks some of them from their stalks and wraps them into a wreath that she sits atop my head like a crown of praise.

  Another bump outside our door and my eyes shift across the wooden room, a knot growing in my stomach. I take in all the sights, stitched together in my memory like one of Mama’s blankets, and I begin picking at them, unraveling to this particular moment. I’m frightened, and I whimper softly.

  “Shh, dochinka,” Mama whispers in my ear. Her voice sends a shiver down my spine. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” She glances behind her, then pulls up the small icon of Saint Maria holding the Christ child and slips it under my pillow. “You will keep this safe for us,” she says. “Keep your head down no matter what happens.”

  She pushes to a stand and steps away from the bed as I burrow beneath the covers. I can feel the wooden icon beneath my thin pillow, and I’m scared. Peeking one eye over the top of the sheet, I see Mama standing next to the fire. It crackles behind her leaving her petite frame nothing more than a silhouette. She smooths out her dress, the embroidered flowers on her apron glowing in the firelight. Grabbing the headscarf that hangs over the back of her chair, Mama quickly ties it around her head, tucking it behind her ears and covering her thick hair. She looks young, illuminated by the light, her bare face revealing both strength and fear.

  Another figure moves toward the door. This one is taller. Stronger. He is my father, t
hough I cannot see his face, and how I wish that I could because that would be the last time I saw him, and I was left with nothing to chase but a shadow.

  There are muffled voices at the door, and I hear my Mama draw in a sharp breath, though her shoulders remain high and proud. My brother and sister huddle in the bed next to me. Tanya sits up, and Mama’s hand quickly waves her back. Dima pulls our little sister back into his arms and she cries, the sound of her indignation piercing the darkness and filling the shadows.

  Papa turns and casts one quick look back at Mama.

  “It will be okay,” he says. His voice is calm. I may not have a memory of his face, but those final words lock deep inside my consciousness and never leave. They work their way out when the shadows start to close in on me.

  Mama kisses her fingers gently, then holds her hand up toward my father. Papa sucks in a deep breath and lets it out long and slow.

  “Tell the children I love them,” he says, and then he is gone. It’s as though he has been swallowed by the fog of the night. His voice hovers over us all, mixing with Tanya’s wails and Mama’s soft sobs. I take it all in, hiding the memory in the recesses of my heart, not knowing that this one moment in time is only the beginning.

  The next morning is when the real nightmare begins. That’s the morning that they come back for us. They come when the earth is still covered in a hazy grey from the night, and they stand in the doorway barking orders. They pull all our possessions out, dragging them into the yard and rifling through them callously. Mama’s skrynia is split wide open, her beautiful towels tossed in the mud. The men laugh as we pick through our things, choosing only what we can carry with us.

  “You won’t be back, so make sure you take only what is necessary,” one of them says. He grins at me, his yellowed teeth jutting out awkwardly, and his eyes revealing pools of deep hatred. He steps back and as he does so, his booted foot comes down on Mama’s icon of Saint Maria, splitting the wood down the middle. Throwing his head back, he lets out a howl of laughter, kicking the broken pieces to the side. I watch him as a mixture of fear and intense anger bubble up inside my young chest.