Page 57

Two years ago

“What the hell did you do, Abby?” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit with my head in my hands, the room still swirling around me. It’s the early hours of the morning, but she clearly hasn’t slept. Instead she’s standing by her easel, covered in paint, her eyes slightly unfocused, apparently having drunk most of the vodka bottle next to her. “I haven’t been knocked out by vodka since I was a kid. And even then it took more than a handful of shots to do the job.” I squint at her in the darkness. “You drugged me.”

“Yes.” She nods slowly.

At least she doesn’t bother trying to deny it.

I clasp my hands loosely between my knees. “Why?”

She lifts a shoulder. It’s an oddly vulnerable gesture. I hate the fact that I want to wrap her in my arms, when what Ishould really want is to walk the fuck out of this apartment and never come back.

“I needed answers.” Her voice is quiet, raspy with fatigue. “And I knew you wouldn’t give them to me willingly.”

“You had no right to do that.” My head still feels thick, the night oddly surreal.

“I know.” She doesn’t attempt to approach the bed, just stands by the easel, the brush still in her hand. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I know it won’t help.”

“It would have been a fucking start.” I force myself to stand. I walk past her, through the small living room and into the kitchen, where I pour a glass of water and drink it, then another. “I should leave,” I mutter, as much to myself as to her. When she doesn’t answer, I come back into the living room. She’s still standing there, wearing a printed sarong over her naked body, paint splatters covering much of her skin. I want to tear the sarong off and throw her down onto the bed.

I want to fuck her into mindless submission.

But I’m not that man. And no matter what she’s done, I refuse to become the man who would do that.

An old snatch of recollection drifts through my still doped-up mind, a fragment of memory long thrust into the past: of Yakov, in the tiny one-bedroom walk-up that smelled of other people’s cooking, his hands gripping my mother’s shoulders.

“Trust me,Ekaterina. How many times do I have to tell you to just trust me?”

My mother, her face pale and set, stares back at him, surprisingly unafraid given how much bigger than her he is. “You shouldn’t have tried to find us, Yakov.”

He shakes her, hard enough to make her wince. “I brought you to America. I gave you everything, Ekaterina. And I did it all for—”

“Don’t say his name.” I’ve never heard my mother speak like that, so hard and cold. It scares me. “You don’t ever get to speak his name to me again.”

“Mama.” I slide my hand into hers, crushing myself close to her side. I don’t look at Yakov. I already know how dangerous it is to look directly at Yakov. The last burns he gave me are still raw and stinging beneath my ribs.

“It’s fine,synok.” She grips my hand, though she’s still staring at the man looming over us. “It’s all going to be fine.”

His laugh is hard and mirthless. “Not if you don’t come with me now. How long do you think you can last alone out here? You have no passport. No money. No English. You can’t survive without me, and you know it. Look at this place.” He gestures contemptuously at the peeling paint, the stained sink in the corner.

“You need to leave, Yakov.” Her voice is clear and cold.

“I don’t think so.” He moves fast, too fast for me to squirm out of his iron grip, though I try.

“Mama!” I reach for her, but he thrusts me behind him, through the open door into the corridor.

“Leave him alone!” For the first time my mother’s composure cracks. She rushes for me, but Yakov stands like a monolith between us.

“No.” He slams the door in my face, leaving me standing alone in the corridor. “You should have come to me willingly, Ekaterina.” His voice is slightly muffled, but the sound of his hand hitting my mother’s face comes through clearly, along with her cries of protest.

“Don’t fight me,” Yakov grunts, and I hear the sound of the old bedsprings as he throws her onto the sagging mattress. “You need a man. And you’re mine, Ekaterina. You should always have been mine.”

I hear the sickening creak as he lowers himself onto the bed, and my mother’s frantic screams as she tries to fight him off. I bang on the door, twisting the handle and crying out for her. But thin as it is, the old wooden door stands, locked from the inside.

It doesn’t prevent me from hearing everything that happens on the other side of it.

I rub my eyes,suddenly aware that it’s Abby’s living room I’m standing in, not that old, tiny one-bedroom. My heart is thudding, past and present unclear in my drug-addled mind. Abby is staring at me warily.

“Dimitry.” She puts a hand out toward me. “You should lie down. You don’t look right.”