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“Nothing,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
Kirill drops back on his haunches and looks at his brother.
Pain and love and grief rise up in me, more palpable than anything I’ve ever felt. I’d give anything to trade places with Ilya. To take Kirill’s pain away.
Everyone else is keeping their distance. No one seems to know what to do.
Slowly, I pick my way through the crowd and gently drop into the sand next to Kirill.
Ilya looks even more pale in the moonlight. He could be made of stone, carved from pale marble and memorialized in some museum forever.
A sob catches in my throat, but I clear it. “Kirill, I’m… I’m so sorry.”
Kirill takes a deep breath, but doesn’t respond.
“Sonya,” German says from behind us. “Tell the guests and servers to leave. Clear everyone out.”
The guards disperse and second by passing second, reality is setting in.
This is happening. Ilya is gone.
Suddenly, Kirill stands up and reaches for his brother. He rolls him onto his side, and a bit of water dribbles out of Ilya’s mouth.
“Wait. What are you doing?” I ask. “Maybe you should leave him—”
“I need to take him inside. It’s freezing out here. I’m not leaving my brother in the godforsaken fucking cold.”
I want to tell him Ilya can’t feel the cold anymore, but Kirill is already hefting his brother into his arms, rising, and heading for the house.
“Do you need help?” German asks him.
Kirill shakes his head and German falls back. He knows to give him space. I, apparently, haven’t learned that lesson yet.
“Where are you going to take him?” I ask, trotting along as Kirill marches resolutely towards the bright glow of the mansion. “Maybe we should call a doctor.”
“I did call a doctor.”
“An ambulance, I mean. We could take him to a hospital and—”
“And what?” Kirill says. “What would they do that I haven’t already?” There’s none of his usual fire in his voice. It’s hoarse and broken and all the more devastating for it.
I don’t have an answer for that. Or, really, I do. But I wish I didn’t.
Nothing.There is nothing anyone can do.
Ilya is dead.
I follow him wordlessly through the back door. We’re a sad procession. Ilya’s arms and legs flop against Kirill’s body. Sand falls from his body in a path across the floor.
My mind ping-pongs from question to question to meaningless question. Whose job will it be to clean up? Someone will have to go upstairs and clear away Ilya’s things. Or maybe he’ll sell the house and everything in it. The only reason he bought this place was to let Ilya escape the city noise. Without Ilya, does this place mean anything to him? Do I? He won’t need me in New York if Ilya isn’t there…
Don’t be selfish, you bitch.
I don’t mean to be, but if I let myself think about Ilya—about how badly Kirill is hurting—I’ll lose it. I can’t. I have to hold it together, and if being selfish is the only option I have, then fine, I’ll take it. Because I’m dangerously close to ripping apart at the seams.
Kirill places Ilya on the tile floor. He looks even worse under the artificial light. Almost gray. I want to cover him up, though more for Kirill’s sake than my own. No one should see their family like this.
I would know. I watched my mom wither to ashes in that fucking hospital bed.
