– 10 –
The call comes again. More demanding.
The corridor seems longer than usual. The walls are very close, the air is thick and heavy.
I walk up to the door, press my forehead against the cold metal, and look through the peephole.
And the world shrinks to one face.
Gordey.
He’s extremely disgruntled, scowling, his jaw clenched. He’s wearing a black coat, his collar up, and snowflakes clinging to his hair and shoulders. There’s that look in his eyes that always made my neck clench. Judging, harsh, and leaving no room for maneuver.
The heart makes a couple of painful beats and falls somewhere.
Okay. Now I’ll… pretend to be a cactus. No one’s home. I’ll quietly walk away, turn around, and return to my son…
“Open up, Varya,” Gordey immediately shatters all my hopes. “Or did you think I forgot your mother’s address?”
He looks straight through the peephole.
“And your light was on,” he adds coldly.
I curse silently. Why, I wonder, was I sitting there with the light on?!
The next moment, another thought strikes me. Lev’s toys in the hallway, his jacket, his little shoes by the nightstand…
I glance back. Lyova’s dinosaur jacket hangs on the coat rack between my coat and Mom’s old jacket. A pair of tiny boots sits on the floor. On the nightstand are his mittens, his pom-pom hat, and his beloved dump truck, which he stubbornly drags everywhere with him.
Panic tightens my throat.
I frantically grab Levin’s jacket, hat, and mittens from the hanger, but the things slip from my hands. My shoulder hits the nightstand, and the typewriter falls to the floor with a loud “thud!”
I’m almost howling with terror. I just hope my son doesn’t wake up.
I jerk open the door of the old closet in the hallway and stupidly, like a fool, start stuffing everything in there: a jacket, a hat, boots.
The mitten falls past. I bend over, hit my knee on the floor, grit my teeth, stuff everything back into the depths of the closet, and close the door so hard it slams.
“Varya,” the voice behind the door becomes lower, more dangerous. “You have five seconds.”
I straighten up and take a deep breath. My palms are sweaty, my heart is pounding so loudly I think he’ll hear it.
Automatically, I smooth out my pajamas. They’re old, faded, with stretched knees and funny little stars. What a damn sight for a meeting with my ex-husband.
I click the lock and open the door.
“Gordey?” I stretch my lips into a feigned smile of surprise, as if his face hadn’t haunted my nightmares for three years. “Why so late?”
He’s standing on the threshold, very close. He smells of the cold street, wet snow, and a painfully familiar perfume. My ex doesn’t share my joy. Somehow, completely…
“You didn’t think it necessary to talk to me earlier,” he replies sullenly, his gaze sliding over me from head to toe. “You chose to run away again.”
I feel a tightness inside me. I want to snap back: “But you chose a new family over me.”
I want to throw all my pain in his face. But right now, Lyova is sleeping through the wall. And I can’t raise my voice. I can’t lose my temper.
“Come in,” I squeeze out, stepping aside.
He doesn’t ask permission. He simply takes off his shoes in one motion, stands them upright, toes against the wall, and habitually pulls off his coat. He carefully hangs the coat next to my down jacket.
He glances down the hallway. I freeze, afraid his gaze will catch the door to the room where my son sleeps. The door is closed, revealing a dark crack beneath. Lyova usually grumbles in his sleep, but today there’s silence. Thank you, baby.
“Well,” Gordey says, already heading for the kitchen. “Where’s Sergei?”
He pronounces the name “Sergey” with such contemptuous emphasis that I want to snort.
I follow him, feeling like an intruder in my own apartment.
The kitchen greets us with dim light. A small table, a flowered oilcloth, two mugs in the sink, a pot of soup on the stove. Modest. Poor. But at least it’s ours.
“Sergey?” I ask again, confused, clearly unprepared for such questions. “Sergey has a lot of work. He does everything he can to ensure I have everything I need.”
That’s a bit of a stretch, of course. But I’ll swallow the clarification.
Gordey smiles crookedly.
His gaze glides around the corners of the kitchen, over the faded curtains, over the old refrigerator, over my pajamas. And then it stops on me. On my thin wrists, on the circles under my eyes, on my too-thin shoulders.
“Everything?” he raises an eyebrow. “As in, ‘nothing’?”
I involuntarily squeeze the hem of my pajamas.
He sits down at the table like he owns the place. Calmly, confidently, slightly pushing his elbows out of the way. He turns his chair and positions himself so he can see both me and the door.
The habit of controlling all exits.
I remain on the threshold, leaning my back against the frame, crossing my arms over my chest like a shield.
“And?” he asks, not even trying to pretend he’s embarrassed. “And won’t you pour me some tea?”
“No,” I cut him off. “Why did you come?”
Gordey shakes his head slightly, as if my question makes the back of his head hurt.
“I want to understand,” he says slowly, carefully checking his words. “Why didn’t you think it necessary to talk to me back then, but instead parted ways with a childish note.”
