March 22nd, 4 p.m.
“SHE SHOULD be awake soon,” a muffled voice says. It’s close to me but oh so far away. My mouth feels like cotton, and everything hurts—my head, my arms, and my legs.
My legs. There was an accident. The truck. Our car against the tree.
Papa.
Papoushka.
My breathing stops. I was holding his hand in the snow. He wasn’t answering, but he must be fine. He’s probably talking to the doctors outside. My eyes flutter open. Everything’s out of focus, and it takes me a few seconds to distinguish anything. The room seems to be entirely white, and there’s an overwhelming smell of Clorox, as if someone dropped an entire bottle and forgot to air out the room. A few people stand around: Mama, my uncle Yuri, and doctors and nurses clothed in scrubs and white coats.
But I don’t see Papa.
“There she is,” my uncle says as he carefully caresses my forehead. “Natalya.” He sounds sad. Too sad. Tears well in his blue eyes, so similar to my father’s that for a second I almost see Papa looking at me.
I try to sit up but wince at the pain. Yuri makes a tutting sound that I think is meant to comfort me. He turns to Mama, who’s leaning against the wall, not looking my way—not looking at anything. She crumbles to the floor, her long blond hair hiding her face, but it can’t conceal the shakes that rack her body.
“Mama,” I call to her, but she buries her head in her knees.
“We killed him,” she whispers, and I stare at her, not understanding, not wanting to understand.
“Papoushka?” I ask, and I close my eyes.
This is a nightmare and I want it to end.