Page 24 of Waters that Drown Us

If Ilya followed through on this promise—that I was his possession, and he would use and dispose of me how he saw fit—I knew I would find no savior in my father. I would be beholden to my husband’s every violent outburst, his demands for sons,his whims for how I looked and walked and acted, and my father would not save me.

“If he were alive, would you try to fix things?” Emily asks, and I finally find the courage to look her in the face. “Would you want him to apologize? Could you imagine a world where he could do anything to make up for it?”

I’ve never considered it before. I knew my defection was a final decision when I made it, not only because I was ostensibly dead, but also because I know there’s no redemption with my father. When I was younger and learning about the weapons trade, I watched him dispatch dozens of traitors. Not with my own eyes, of course. That was too violent for my delicate nature. But I knew what happened to the men he brought before him to grovel and explain their sins. I’ve made peace with the knowledge that, if I’ve miscalculated and my father comes for me himself, I’ll bite this capsule and swallow every last drop of poison, hoping it’s more than my self-imposed immunity can handle. I’d rather die a slow, excruciating death than find out what consequences would come by my father’s hand.

Death would be merciful. There are plenty of worse things he could do to me.

“My father’s not the kind who makes peace,” I answer simply, picking up a chip from the overflowing bag on the blanket. “But even if he was, he’s not someone I want forgiveness from.”

Another strange look passes over Emily’s face, almost like relief. But that’s probably also a projection. My hope that, even though I’m not a good person, I won’t stoop so low as to beg forgiveness from a man who is incapable of mercy.

“Tell me a story. A fairytale,” Emily says, pushing her barely-touched food away and tugging me into her arms. We readjust so she’s propped up against one of the smooth boulders dotting the cliffside. I’m tucked against her, my back pressed to the hardmuscles and soft curves of her front. Her fingernails rake against my scalp as she brushes through my hair.

A fable appears from the depths of my soul, the way a whale rises from the deep, dark ocean, slowly becoming more and more clear as the light filters through the water.

“Long ago, there lived a family of three—a mother, a father, and a daughter named Vasilya,” I start, sinking into the muscle memory of the story, translating the Russian intricacies in my mind. “After years of happiness and peace, the mother fell gravely ill, and knowing that she was going to die, she gifted her daughter a doll.”

I hear my father’s voice, a ghost of a memory created long before my own mother died. Even now, I can remember her soft laughter in the background as my father took on voices for each of the characters at my request.

I can’t recreate them. It’s too painful to try.

“Keep it secret and safe, her mother instructed.If anything bad happens, ask the doll for help.”

Emily’s thumb draws circles on my shoulder, lulling me into a trance. I’m not fully here, but I’m not home either. It’s cold and windy, even tucked against her body, but some part of my soul is in my childhood bedroom surrounded by stars and spires.

“Years after her mother died, Vasilya’s father remarried. But her stepmother was cruel, and came with two spoiled step daughters who never gave her a moment of rest.”

“Oh thisis La Cenicienta,” Emily interrupts, pausing her soothing touch. “Cinderella, in European fairy tales.”

“He called it Vasilya the Beautiful,” I say. I didn’t consume a lot of Western media growing up, and most of my English education was from dated language books. Emily taps my shoulder, which I take as a cue to continue.

“The stepmother and stepsisters demanded Vasilya complete all sorts of chores and tasks, working her until she wasexhausted in hopes of turning her ugly. But Vasilya had her doll, and every day she would ask it to complete her tasks, allowing her to rest and only become more and more beautiful.

“One day, Vasilya’s father had to leave for a long trip. The stepmother left the three girls with chores to complete and a small fire burning for their only light. But the flame quickly burned out. The two stepsisters demanded that Vasilya travel through the dark woods to…do you know who Baba Yaga is?”

“I’ve heard the legend,” Emily murmurs, sounding like she’s also a little lost in a space between here and somewhere else.

“The stepsisters forced her out of their home to seek fire from Baba Yaga. She was more frightened than she’d ever been, but she pulled the doll from her pocket and it soothed her, reminding her she could not be hurt as long as the doll was with her.

“As she continued walking through the night, until she reached the house of Baba Yaga. There were many traps and tricks surrounding the house, but as Vasilya approached, Baba Yaga greeted her. Because Baba Yaga was related to her stepmother, Vasilya had protection against the things that would attack her here.”

“Related, that’s a twist,” Emily says, her chest vibrating with silent laughter when I slap her arm.

“So Baba Yaga brought her into her home and set her a task of picking all the burned grain out of a sack while she slept. During the night, Vasilya asked the doll for help, who called flocks of birds to complete the task on Vasilya’s behalf. In the morning, Baba Yaga was angry that she could not punish Vasilya by eating her, so she set another task of separating peas and poppy seeds in another large sack. As Baba Yaga went outside to tend to her yard, Vasilya again asked the doll for help, who summoned mice to sort the peas and seeds for her.

“Again Baba Yaga was not pleased, so she told her maid to prepare the oven to cook and consume Vasilya in the morning. Once Baba Yaga fell asleep again, Vasilya asked the doll for help one last time, who told her to beg assistance from the maid. In exchange for a silk scarf, the maid gave her the tools to escape the house without setting off the traps. With more direction from her doll, she took a skull from the fence, and its eyes glowed so brightly that it led her home in the dark of the night.

“When she returned, her stepmother and sisters were furious at her extended absence. They took the glowing skull and set it in the house, hoping the light would sustain them for much longer than the flame. But instead, the skull burned down the home, with the stepmother and sisters inside.”

“¡Jesucristo! Alice, frightening is an understatement,” Emily chuckles, and for some reason that humor is the best reaction she could have had. “At least in the Western European version, the sisters only had their eyes plucked out.”

“Still pretty horrifying for a kid’s fairy tale,” I reply, turning my body so I can snuggle into her. That familiar guilt rolls around in my stomach, shaming me for seeking comfort from her when I know what fate I’m sealing on her behalf.

“Yeah, but in both the Argentine and American versions, the girl ends up marrying a prince.”

“Oh, that’s how this one ends, too,” I amend, picking up the story where I left off. “Vasilya goes to live with an old woman in town and learns to weave fabrics so fine, they were only fit for royalty. The old woman she lives with travels to gift the fabric to a son of the Tsar. But it’s too delicate for any of the clothiers to make anything out of, so he asks the old woman to make clothing for him. Vasilya does, and when the old woman returns to give the clothes to the Tsar’s son, he demands to meet the maid who created them. When he meets Vasilya, he’s so struckby her beauty, that he immediately asks her hand in marriage, and they live happily ever after.”

The silence this time is more melancholy, even the wind crying through the trees over the sound of the water crashing into the cliffside. It might only be me, but I think Emily feels it too.