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1
GALINA
No matter how many times I punch the numbers into the calculator, they don’t make sense. How is this possible? I think it to myself because I’m afraid if I voice my worry, it will become reality. Worse, my mother will hear the simmering anger in my voice. I’m not ready to be upset at her. Not when we’ve both been through so much.
Come on. Come on! My fingers stamp forcefully onto the keypad as I punch in the numbers again, and my heart falls at the sight of the same result. Again and again.
I hit the clear button over and over until finally, the calculator slips sideways, clattering to the smooth floor of the tiny office. The room is made smaller by the boxes of paperwork I’m trying to swim my way through. I’ve never touched any of them before now, and I’m starting to wonder if my mother ever did either.
“Galina?” My mother, Katya, asks nervously, reaching her hand across the desk toward mine. Her fingers are thin—she doesn’t eat enough—but her nails are always perfect. She does them herself, which is good, because according to these papers …
“We’re broke,” I say bluntly. Lifting my eyes from her nails to her face, I catch how she flinches. “My God, Mom, how long have you known?”
She draws her hand away, shrinking in her chair. Her chin-length hair, the same charcoal shade as mine, hides her face. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“Mom! These bills are insane!”
“Don’t raise your voice at me, Galina Stepanovna.” She switches to Russian and uses the patronymic I haven’t heard in years in an attempt to reassert her own authority.
I fight to keep my eyes from rolling. That used to work when I was a kid, when her habits from the old country could still scare me into doing what she wanted me to do. But I’m not about to let her try and shut me down. Not about this.
This is too damn important.
“You’re worried about my voice?” I reply in English and let out a sour laugh before jumping to my feet. “Our dance studio is being smothered by these debts! That’s what you should be worried about!”
Her mouth puckers before straightening into a tight line. Angling her chin upward, she watches me with hooded eyes. There’s fury there, but it’s not aimed at me. “We did what we could, Galina.”
We. She means her and Dad. Flooded by a rush of grief, I spin around, looking at the bloated boxes stuffed with proof that our studio is going under. “It’s okay. We can fix this. I just need to think.”
“There’s no need.” Pushing herself from her chair, my mother weaves her way over to me. Even though she’s in her late forties, her lithe body still manages to move with grace. She’s been doing ballet from age four, and she’s taught me everything I know. But losing my father has aged her in a way only despair can, and for the first time, I realize that Mom is getting old. “I’ve found a buyer.”
“You what?”
“He comes tomorrow to see the place. It’s done, Galina.”
When she reaches for me, I recoil. “We can’t just sell the studio! We’ve owned it since I was born.”
“The bills … You saw them yourself.”
“Yeah! But still, to just throw away all the work Dad put into this place? How can you do that?”
She jerks away, her hair hiding her severe cheekbones. She always does that when she’s overwhelmed, like a turtle tucking into its shell. My own hair hangs in long waves down to my elbows, but I keep it tied back in a high tail, making it impossible to hide behind. When I was small, I used to wrap it around my chin, pretending it was a beard until Dad laughed so hard he turned beet red.
My mom breathes in deeply. I’ve hurt her, and I hate it. “Mom,” I start apologetically.
“You’re right.” She wipes at her eyes. Mom never cries, not in front of anyone. “Selling the studio is shameful. Please understand that I’d do anything else if I could. But there’s no other choice, Galina.”
A wretched, jagged sensation yanks through my guts. I can’t stand to see her looking so miserable. I don’t agree with her plans, but I care more about taking away her pain.
“It’s okay, Mom.” Reaching for her, I pull her to my chest. We’re nearly the same height, her chin grazing my brow bone. Her wiry arms circle me instantly, and the smell of her lemon-scented soap fills my nose. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s drop it for now.”
“I’m really sorry, malyshka. I am.”
“I know, Mom. And I love you. Okay?”
Her arms squeeze until my breath wheezes. “I love you too.” She releases me, flapping her hands at her cheeks like she’s hot. “I’m going to get some fresh air.”
“Don’t you dare have a cigarette,” I scold her.
