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CHAPTER THREE
Elena Rusu spat out the window, grimacing at the sight of grime and filth stretching through the narrow street of rundown old farmhouses. A middle-aged man passed by, completely unperturbed by the mucky water spilling onto the street from broken pipes or even the worn laundry flapping on the clothesline overhead. The man gazed at Elena, and she growled at him. He smiled politely and threw her a curt nod, then averted his gaze, hastening his steps.
Elena rolled her eyes and scoffed, shifting her gaze to a broken hand mirror resting on the windowsill.
“Cursed men,” she grunted, frowning at the bags under her eyes and the lines forming on her skin. She sighed, knowing the days of her youth were far behind her now. She was thin and tall, but not as tall as her daughter, Alina, who was sitting on the worn orange couch behind her.
“I used to be pretty, you know,” Elena said. “The kind of woman the Americans called dolls after the war.” The worddollalways rolled off her tongue with an accent. Elena had a pale complexion, which complemented both the fake black dot above her thin lips and her bright blue eyes. Her wrists were adorned with colorful bracelets, her thin fingers and neck overladen with fake rings and necklaces.
Looking around the small, old house she shared with Alina, she was unable to hold back another sigh, heavier than the last. Stained wallpaper was peeling off the walls, and the battered furniture and outdated appliances cluttered the rooms.
“We should be living better than this . . . may he rot in hell,” she muttered, her eyes moving from the cracked ceiling to the cobwebs in the corners as she listened to the scratching of what she was sure was a rat scampering behind the thin wooden walls.
Behind her, thick smoke rose through the air. She turned around and glared at Alina, who was clutching a thin cigarette in her long fingers with pink nail polish. She was beautiful, with striking grey eyes. Her hair was blonde; a few strands had fallen out of her bun and over the side of her face. She was dressed in tight pink jeans and a purple sweater, her heavy makeup spotless.
Elena looked back at the mirror and slammed it onto the windowsill with a grunt.
Alina looked up when she heard the smash. “Do you mind? I was going to use that later.”
“You wouldn’t have to use mine if you’d get yourself a man who can buy you your own things, huh, Alina?” Alina focused back on her phone, taking a short draw from the cigarette which had already been smoked down to the butt.
“You know I don’t want to play wifey for an old man. I want to go to univ—”
“Dreams, dreams, nothing but dreams!” Elena barked.
Alina frowned. “What’s going on with you today? You seem angrier than usual.”
Elena grunted and placed her hands on her waist. Her eyes flashed when she saw the crumpled cigarette pack on the floor.
“Did you smoke the last cigarette again?” she said, her voice rising higher as it usually did whenever she got upset. Alina rolled her eyes and sat upright on the couch, brushing off the ash from her pink pants.
“Yeah, so?” Alina snapped back at her mother.
“You selfish dog!”
“I’ll pay for the next pack,” Alina muttered under her breath.
Elena fumed. “Oh yes, I forgot. With all those millions you make selling the farmer’s produce at that dingy little market.” She threw her hands in the air and paced around the room, looking for another pack of cigarettes. “Go do something useful and get yourself a man, a rich one. Maybe then we won’t have to live in a place like this, like animals.”
Alina finished her cigarette with a frown, pinched her nostrils, and puffed out the smoke, flicking the thing into an overflowing ashtray.
Elena grabbed the old, blackened kettle by the kitchen counter with the intention of making a strong coffee, but she set it back down. “I need a stiffer drink.”
She fumbled around the mess on the kitchen counter, peering over her shoulder to make sure Alina wasn’t watching while she reached for her secret stash of whisky. She grabbed a glass, blew out the dirt in it, taking a whiff and deciding there wasn’t any need to rinse it out. She poured the drink and quickly hid the bottle, leaning back on the counter as she poured the burning liquid down her throat—not wincing once.
“To think my brother died and didn’t leave us a penny.”
“Not this again!” Alina shouted from the cramped living room.
Elena continued bemoaning. “Leaves it all to some stranger. Endless piles of money—gone.” She stared at the remaining whisky in the glass and tightened her face, muttering through her teeth. “I knew Maria was nothing but trouble the first time Andrei laid eyes on her. Bewitched. That’s what she did to him. Magic. Who in their right mind would leave all his money to some woman’s daughter, not even his own? And what does he do to us, his real family? He casts us out!”
Elena felt a burning hot rage take over her body. She was about to throw the glass against the wall, when her eyes caught the corner of a white letter on the countertop, buried under a pile of old newspapers and bills. She stepped closer, staring at the white envelope, and caught the wordsUnited States of America. She frowned, then reached for the letter and slipped it out, not minding the other papers, which tumbled to the floor. She flipped the letter over in her hands and saw it was sent by an Olivia Carter.
OLIVIA CARTER!
With shaking hands, Elena snapped at her daughter, “How long has this been here?”
Alina looked up to see the letter Elena was waving around. “I don’t know, a few weeks or so . . . maybe. What does it matter?”
