Mila rested her hand on my shoulder. The weight of her touch grounded me. Calmed my frayed nerves. “You don’t have to go in. We can come back tomorrow.”

“No, no it’s fine.” I paused, trying to take it all in. I couldn’t believe I was actually here, standing on the doorstep of my parents’ home. “It’s just so overwhelming. I never thought I’d ever be here.” I shook my head. “I never thought I’d have a chance to find out what had happened to them. I spent my whole life with people who wouldn’t tell me anything. They acted like my past never existed.” Tears blurred my vision. Don’t cry…don’t cry…too late.

Mila gave me a quick hug. “Why don’t you and Anatoly go in and check things out? Nickoli and I will wait here. Give you some space.”

I wiped away my tears. “Okay, thanks.”

I hiked up the wooden steps and stood in front of the huge black door, trembling with anticipation and a sudden rush of anxiety.

Anatoly jogged up the steps and came to my side. “Do you have key?”

I nodded and pulled the key from my pocket. I slid it into the center of the doorknob. At first it seemed too big for the lock. The grating noise of the metal in the key hole set waves of disappoint rushing through me. Had I been given the wrong one? The wind whistled from the edge of the woods, rustled in the trees, but otherwise the rattling of the key was the only sound audible. The stillness made even more nervous, like something or someone was crouched inside, waiting to spring out at us at any moment. I jiggled the key and finally it turned in the lock and the heavy door swung open and revealed a yawning gulf of darkness beyond.

We went inside and the door slammed behind us with a roar that echoed through empty halls and passages. I jumped and grabbed Anatoly’s arm. He stiffened at my touch and I released my grip. What was it about me that repulsed him so much?

I took a step forward. The first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn’t musty as I'd imagined. It was a sweet, garden fresh smell I couldn’t quite place at first, then it came to me—basil. Which was really weird because the house had supposedly been closed up for so long. Everything was dark; I strained to see the interior.

Anatoly clicked on the flashlight and swept a beam of light around the room. Heavy Sun-bleached curtains in an anemic pink covered the windows. He went into the living room and pulled the shades back, letting the natural light from outside ghost its way in.

There was very little furniture. Two matching chairs with needlepoint pillows, husky oak end tables. The walls were covered in paintings flecked with cobwebs on their frames. I held my breath.

“Give me the flashlight,” I said.

“What is it?”

“I want to see if these are my mother’s paintings.”

Anatoly handed it over and I ran a beam of light over a large mural over a rock fireplace. It was a depiction of the church we had passed on the way. I shone the light on the next one to the right, an autumn landscape in muted reds and greens. I wiped away the cobwebs and found her signature painted at the bottom. I swept the flashlight beam over several others. Landscapes, rolling seas, flowers. It was like looking at a photograph, every detail perfect.

“Your mother was amazing artist,” Anatoly said. “Do you feel connection to her through her work?”

I nodded and wiped away tears in the corners of my eyes. “Art has always been a major part of my life. The only thing I really cared about. And it’s so overwhelming that I’m standing here, after all this time looking at my mother’s artwork…. I never would have imagined this. Not ever. I didn’t think I’d ever get to know anything about her. And it’s amazing to me that here I am standing in the house they lived in, untouched after all this time and….”

“It is tremendous gift to know where you come from. Who your people were. To know purpose in life. I am happy for you, Natasha.” His voice was softer than I had ever heard it. He held out his hand for his flashlight, and I didn’t want to give it back. I wanted to keep searching the house on my own, but tomorrow in the daylight it would be easier to see everything, experience it all again.

“Thanks.” I handed the flashlight back and followed him down a hallway that led to a modest kitchen. Small refrigerator. A deep stone sink, square tables covered in dust. Anatoly waved the light over my head. Dangling from the ceiling were dozens of dried herbs, the source of the smell I'd first encountered. Leaves and stems littered the floor. Something about it made me sad. It was almost like a memorial. On a nearby table, a rolling pin caked with old flour, and empty pans resting nearby. Cookbooks in Russian neatly aligned on a narrow bookshelf. A giant mural had been painted on the walls. Religious figures, Saints and angels swimming in clouds. Brilliant golds and reds under a layer of dust and webs.

“I would like to see your paintings someday,” Anatoly said.

I shrugged. "I haven’t felt very inspired lately. I’ve been doing pencil sketches instead.”

“You must paint!” Anatoly yelled, his voice loud and thunderous. “To waste talent like this would be sacrilege!”

I took a step back in shock. “Take it easy. I didn’t say I’d never paint again—it’s just that I’ve been through a lot lately and….”

“Of course. Please forgive me.” He quickly turned away.

What a weird reaction. Why was he being such a psycho about whether I would paint or not? My stomach knotted. Here I was in a dark house with a guy I barely knew. I let him walk ahead of me while I kept my distance. I knew better than to be so trusting. We wove up a series of steps that led to a short hallway with two doors. A long copper stain ran the length of the floorboards. Anatoly waved the flashlight over it. It led from one bedroom to the other, each at opposite ends of the hallway. We entered the closest bedroom at the top of the stairs.

The room was shaped in a perfect square with an iron framed bed dominating the center. The sheets and blankets were a rumpled mess. Two end tables stood at each side. I opened the closet door to my left. Hangers jingled in-between coats, frilly dresses, and men’s suits. Obliviously, this was my parents’ room.

I walked to the bed and studied a picture on one of the end tables. There was a picture of my mother holding me as a baby. I knew it was her because we shared the same eyes. The same icy blonde hair. She wore a flowered dress with her long hair captured in a loose braid.

I picked the photo up. Staring into the face of my mother, trying hard to remember the sound of her voice, the way she smelled. I suddenly needed to sit down. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hand grazed something—my heart sank—old blood. My stomach churned.

I jumped up, almost dropping the picture. I set it back on the nightstand and almost bumped into Anatoly. He reached out to steady me. I waved him off. I could hold my own, plus I hated the way it felt whenever he touched me. There was no warmth to it. It was like he was holding a tree branch to steady me.

I pointed to the floor. “Shine a light on these stains. I want to check them out.”

Anatoly illuminated my mother’s blood with a brilliant beam of light. I followed the stains, fighting back my queasy stomach, careful not to step in it even though it was old and dry. I followed the stains from the bed, out of the room, down the hallway, and to the next room. I pushed open the door and followed the blood trail leading to an overturned bassinet. Anatoly shined the flashlight over it and the bloodstains along the walls. A rush of sadness overpowered me. The picture was clear; my mother, shot and bleeding, had made her way in here to save me. Her last thoughts were not about herself, but about saving me.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I whispered.

Anatoly cocked his head. “Did you say something?”

I shook my head as he waved the flashlight around the walls. Murals of lambs and angels were everywhere. A closet door stood ajar. I opened it the rest of the way so I could peek inside. What I saw in that closet—I will never forget—ever.