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German and I take turns digging, working until our hands are numb from the damp cold before we switch. By the time the hole is deep enough, the sky is endlessly dark. It’s like looking into eternity, the black swallowing up the world and leaving no crumbs behind.
It’s not so far off from how it feels to lower my brother’s blanket-wrapped body into the ground. The earth consumes him. It leaves nothing behind for the living.
“Is there anything you want to say?” German asks when we both stand sweating under the moonless predawn darkness. “Anything you want me to say?”
Ilya’s life flickers before my eyes. The same way I’m sure it flickered in front of his as the dark water pulled him under.
I see him at every age, every stage. A baby, a boy, a man. I see his huge smile as I walk into the room. Feel his bone-crushing hugs as his body matured, even though his mind didn’t.
Mixed in against my will, I see flickers of Rayne. The way she tenderly cared for him even though she hardly knew him. The way he adored her more than anyone he’s ever met.
I see his huge hands, miming the signs for her name.Rayne. Like rain. Ocean in her eyes.
In the end, I speak on behalf of us both. Myself and Rayne alike. Because I know exactly what she’d want to say.
“We’re sorry, Ilya.”
I bend down to tap the shrouded corpse three times.Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then I straighten up and shovel in the first scoop of dirt. German follows suit, and we start filling the hole. One shovelful at a time, my brother disappears.
When we finish, German stands back, hands on his hips. “No one will find him here. He’s tucked away close to the house and it’s private property. I’m sure it will be fine. Even if you sell it—”
“I’m not selling.”
“Right,” he says. “Not right away. But even in the future—”
“I’m keeping the beach house,” I say. “Ilya loved it here. I’m keeping it.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Whatever you want, Kirill. I’m with you. You know that.”
I believe German. I do. He’s always been a loyal friend to me. But from this point on, wherever I go, whatever I do, I will depend on myself.
As I bury my brother, I bury my old self. It’s fitting then, that my own life flashes before my eyes.
My brother.
My father.
My woman.
I see them all.
And one by one, I let them go.
40
RAYNE
THREE WEEKS LATER
The guest house is a disaster, even by my standards. Apparently, becoming a maid does not make you a tidier person.
Chinese takeout containers, crunched-up water bottles, and fistfuls of tear- and snot-stained tissues litter every possible surface. The same pair of pajamas I’ve been putting on at night and then swapping for sweatpants in the morning are on the floor next to the bed. And the bed—well, I’m almost too embarrassed to assess it. The blankets are a crumb-infested nest in the center of the mattress. I’ve been balling myself up at night and hiding beneath the covers. As if I might be able to condense myself into a small enough ball that the universe will forget I exist.
I pan my phone around the room, showing Harmony every excruciating angle. Through the video chat, she whistles. “Holy shit, girl. That place is nasty.”
“I’mnasty,” I add. “Or, I was. I actually showered today.”
