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“No problem,” the driver mutters, pinching his collar.
“Hold my hand and do not say a word, Kat,”Mamanhisses at me as the guard helps her out of the car.
The driver opens the trunk and more men wearing suits and carrying guns take our luggage. I glance around and beyond the now-opened gate, a paved driveway curves up a hill like the yellow brick road inThe Wizard of Oz.
Father. Whoever lives here is my father? I’m so confused.
Mamanholds my hand and walks with her head held high, past even more men with more guns. She’s so beautiful with her long dark hair always brushed and styled so nicely.
I hear static as we walk by more guards as they frantically whisper into walkie talkies. They don’t look atMaman.Theygawkat me. We climb the steep hill toward the massive house for what feels like forever. Pretty pink trees line the upper part of the driveway, and white flowers sit in painted boxes beneath every window.
More men in dark suits stand in front of a majestic house made of stone. I’m amazed at how big it is. Long, really. Tan and brown with fancy windows and black shutters go on forever. A man in a white suit steps out from behind the long line of men in black suits.
He doesn’t smile anddoesn’t look at me. His eyes are glued toMaman. I peek up and see she’s smiling. But I don’t think she’s happy. Her hand is sweaty in mine and crushing my fingers.
The man wearing white yells at the guards, and they scatter down the lawn to where we walked from.Mamankeeps strolling, but the man we’re here to see holds up his hand.
“Loria.” He says her name harshly. “You shouldn’t be here. My wife…”
“Your wife is dead.”Mamanbows her head. “My condolences.”
The man’s eyes land on me. “Who is this?”
“This is your daughter, Alexei.”
I feel dizzy.Mamantold me so many times Grandpapa was all the father I needed. But lately, he andMamanhave been arguing. Then two days ago, one of the maids started packing all my clothes into a suitcase.
“Do you know how manyshlyukhastell me this?”
“You dare to call me a whore? In front of our daughter? You told me you loved me. ThatIwas the only woman you—” She stops talking when the man takes a step toward us.
“Quiet. My daughter is in the kitchen having lunch.”
“Yourotherdaughter. Katriane is your daughter, too.”Mamansmooths her dress. “I learned I was pregnant months after you…you told me it was over.”
“You could have at least given her a Russian name.”
She holds my hand against her chest. “Call her Katya. She’s only twelve, Alexei. Here is her birth certificate. I gave her your last name and listed you as the father because youareher father.” She shoves a brown envelope at him.
Guns click all around us whenMamantouches him, but he screams something to them in that yucky language, and they back off.
“What do you want, Loria?” He pulls her close to him, and I shudder with fear when she gasps.
Mamandrops my hand. “We are here to live with you.”
I tug on her dress. “Maman?”
“Shhh, Katya.” She winks at me. “Alexei, I gave you time to mourn the wife you had no love for. A wife you were forced to marry at eighteen.”
“You make dangerous presumptions.” The man whoMamansays is my father lets her go and looks at me, clutched to her skirt. Our eyes lock, and he’s the meanest man I’ve ever seen, but a few seconds later, his eyes soften on me. “Yulia!” he yells over his shoulder.
Still clutched to my mother’s hip, an older woman in a gray dress appears on a covered porch.
“Da, sir?” She curtsies to him.
He speaks to her in that language I don’t understand. Whatever he’s saying draws a shock of surprise on the gray woman’s face. “Bring the child inside the house.”
Mamanrelaxes and gives me a little push. In French, she says,“It is all right, Katriane. He accepts you. We’ll be fine now. We’re home.”
