Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“Your mother?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers, her fork clattering to the plate. “She never cooked. She barely let us out of the room. I should have seen it.”
“You couldn’t have,” I tell her from experience. “When someone is that far gone, they make you believe what they want. They fool everyone.”
Both Magda and Talia are staring at me now, and I look away. Pushing my chair back, I reach for Talia’s hand. She does not hesitate to give it to me. But the despondency has set in again, so she cannot walk. I lift her into my arms and rest her head on my shoulder while I carry her up the stairs.
I don’t know what to do with her. How to help her. And it weighs on me.
I can’t leave her alone, so I simply sit down with her and cradle her in my arms. She rests her face against my chest and relaxes. Her fingers move over the soft material of my sweater, sliding the material between her thumb and forefinger.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she says.
Live.
That’s what she means by those whispered words.
“You can, and you will,” I tell her.
She is quiet. Thinking dark thoughts. And I know that I need to coax them from her. I know that helping her means facing my own fears. That she will not recover. That I can’t ever help her.
I reach for her fingers and place them over the star on her hand. And without further insistence, she moves them of her own accord. Into a rhythmic pattern. Tracing the lines and my name, over and over again.
“Tell me about your mother,” I insist.
She meets my eyes, and hers are violent with emotion. More than I’ve ever seen in her before. It wants to break free, but she doesn’t know how.
“Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear,” I encourage. “You have only ever been honest with me, Solynshko. So be honest now.”
It takes her some time. Time to decide she trusts me. But that’s exactly what it is when she looks up at me. And I know it is not easily given.
“I hardly knew her,” she tells me. “She was a storm. And we just tried to survive the bad days until the sunlight broke through.”
“You took care of your siblings,” I reply.
“I was the oldest,” is her answer. “She kept us locked away. During the bad times. In a room, together. We only had each other.”
Her eyes drift up to the ceiling, and she finishes. “And now, it is just me.”
I know what I need to tell her. The thing that is true, but I cannot bring myself to admit. That she has me. The words don’t come. So I comfort her in the way that I can. With my hands. Combing through her hair. Clearing away the tangles from her face.
She likes this. She will never admit it. Just as I will not admit I enjoy doing it.
“Tell me what you think you should feel about your mother,” I say.
This time, she answers without delay. “Sorry. I should feel sorry for her. Because she was sick.”
“But what you really feel is anger,” I reply.
She moves her gaze back to me. Examining me. Picking me apart. “Tell me about the woman in the bathtub.”
“This is not about her,” I deflect.
“It never is,” she replies.
“You need to allow yourself to be angry, Solnyshko. Release that anger. On me, if you want. But you have to accept that it’s there.”
“But you don’t,” she says. “That’s always the way it works with you.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“By lying to me and yourself?” she sits up and stares at me, the anger I asked for rising to the surface. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. A selfish asshole.”
She tries to get up. To leave me. But I hold her in place. My own anger coming out to play.
“Yes, and you are a psychotic bitch.”
She tries to yank herself away, but again I don’t let her. I grip her chin in my hands and force her to kiss me.
“But you’re my psychotic bitch,” I murmur against her. “And I am your selfish asshole.”
Her resistance flees, and she places her hands on my face. Kissing me back. Stroking through my hair. But then she pulls away again, angry and hurt.
“They are just words, Solnyshko.”
And then she says the thing I don’t expect. The thing that guts me. Because it is the most vulnerable thing she’s ever said.
“Not when they come from you. Not then they aren’t.”
29
Talia
When Magda and I reach the bottom of the stairs, Alexei is waiting for me.
He is dressed as he always is. Gray trousers, black oxfords and a charcoal sweater stretched across his muscular frame. He is in the process of shrugging into his black coat and flat cap when he pauses to look up at me.