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Mila steps out of my range. Even now, in the midst of remembering a past that she’s keen to forget, she maintains her graceful motions.
“I don’t want your sympathy,” she snaps. “I’m not a fragile little girl hoping for someone to come along and sweep me away into a happy home with smiles instead of sneers.”
Yes, you are. My heart breaks further for her. “Mila …”
“You say you’re jealous of the idea of me and Arsen being together.” Facing me fully, she allows me to see the bitterness burning in her eyes. “But I’m actually jealous of you, Galina Stepanovna.”
“Me? Why?”
“You can’t even hear it,” she says softly. “Can you?”
She nods around the office. As messy as the floors are, the walls are worse. Newspapers, photos, and clippings cover every surface. Some are articles about the studio. The rest are pictures of me and my parents. One of them shows me standing with both of them, flowers in my arms as big as my tutu from my performance in Coppelia.
“You had something I never did,” she whispers. “Galina Stepanovna.”
And that’s when it hits me. I’ve never heard her patronymic. Because she doesn’t have one. Her father was just some nameless man who couldn’t have cared less about her mother or her. And her mother …
Mila is an orphan in all but name—one who was forced to endure unimaginable horrors since God knows how young.
“And now you know.” Her voice is soft, but I can still hear it breaking. She takes a long, shuddering breath. “Let’s finish up here before we attract someone’s attention.”
She watches me intently as I place my hand on the photo. The paper crinkles under my touch. Memories wash over me—most of them pleasant. All of them of things I hold dear.
But it’s the next photo that takes the wind out of me.
I don’t know when Mom taped up a clipping from his obituary. Was it always there and I didn’t notice? My nails trace the words printed on the black and white sheet. “Mila. I need another favor.”
The box of documents has to weigh ten pounds. Mila helps me carry it out the back door. She pops a small trunk on her bike and packs the box in. It barely fits.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“Just tell me where to go,” she says as we get on her bike.
The trip to my childhood home doesn’t take long. I could have walked it, and would have, if I wasn’t worried about leaving the motorcycle behind the studio. The building is two stories, but squat enough that you’d wonder how they fit that second floor in there. I know the low ceiling and angled staircase are the secret. There’s mail in the black box hooked on the top step. It’s a reminder that nobody has been here in days.
I didn’t think to bring my keys, but Mom always left a spare one under the crumbled bricks we used to prop open the back gate that swung shut on us when it was windy. Crouching, I retrieve it. There’s something comforting in the fact that it’s still where it should be.
When the rest of your memories about your past are in flux, anything certain is helpful.
Mila stays outside while I go in. Being in the studio in the dark was unnerving. But this is different. I slipped inside after hours as a teenager more than I want to admit. The floors creak under every shift of my weight. Our home isn’t built as well as Arsen’s. But it’s familiar in a way that his home isn’t.
I don’t turn on the lights, I don’t need to—I can see well enough thanks to the streetlamp outside. The orange glow casts funny shadows around my living room. The sink is empty of dishes, probably something Mom took care of before she left with Arsen. I bet the idea of leaving anything dirty behind was scandalizing. Looking closer, I notice the laundry basket of folded clothing. I can picture her washing things, organizing what she wanted to pack for the visit.
Visit, I muse silently. She hasn’t asked me how long she has to stay at the mansion. She packed enough for five days. Does she still believe that this will be over so quickly?
I thought that too, once.
In my bedroom, I make a beeline for my dresser. I know what I’m looking for. I doubt it’s moved since I put it in my sock drawer. There’s a desire to snatch up other items while I’m here. My own clothes, shoes, a few books … but I can’t. Getting caught with anything from my house would be risky. If Arsen asked how I got them, or if not him, nosy Ulyana, Mila could get in trouble.
With a final, melancholic stare around my bedroom, I shuffle down the stairs. Mila looks up when I appear at the front door.
“Ready to go?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I pat my pants pocket. “I got what I needed.”
She scans my face and then looks at the house, taking in every detail. “So this is where you grew up.” Angling her head, she offers a sad smile. “It’s nice.”
There’s wood rot on the roof. One of the windowpanes is cracked from a hailstorm over a year ago, and we never got around to replacing it. The paint is shoddy—not quite white, and not fully dirty. But I know her compliment is genuine.
