March 20th, 9:30 a.m.
MY PLANE lands in Portland, Maine, with an hour delay because of the snow. I let the couple with the young child who’d been crying the entire way here pass in front of me. They smile gratefully and I return it. It’s like the world’s waiting for me and I’m ready to jump in. I managed to convince myself that Papa and Mama are going to be happy to see me and that we’re going to spend a nice weekend catching up, that I imagined how sad they both sounded during our last phone call.
I hurry out to the baggage claim and spot Papa right away. He’s standing by the exit.
I stretch my neck to see where Mama’s hiding, but I can’t find her. My heart clenches, but I don’t want to give up on my fantasy weekend just yet.
“Natoushka!” Papa waves and opens his arms.
“You know I don’t like hugging,” I mutter, but there’s something about the way he looks at me that tugs at my heart. His brows are furrowed and his lips fight a smile, but it’s a lost battle. His shirt isn’t tucked in properly and his usually smooth face is riddled with hair, as if he hasn’t shaved in a few days.
Instead of turning away, I step into his embrace. He wraps his arms around me, and I feel like I did when I was younger, like nothing bad can ever happen to me with him by my side. My papa’s always been my hero, the one to save me from my nightmares, the one who made sure my lunch was packed up for school, and the one who explained to me that I wasn’t dying when my first period came.
Mama was always too “sick.” Now I know “sick” meant she was totally hangover or too wasted to move.
“Where is she?” I ask, still hopeful that Mama might be buying a magazine or waiting in the car.
“She’s waiting for you at home,” Papa replies. My chest constricts.
I should have known better than to believe her when she said she’d come. It’s not like she hasn’t seen me in months. It’s not like I had the most important audition of my career to date yesterday. It’s not like she’d promised last time that she’d come to pick me up.
No, nothing like that, I think bitterly, clutching my necklace and trying very hard not to start crying right here.
I run my fingers through my hair. We stroll by the store Cool as a Moose, turning toward the exit as the smells from Linda Bean’s Maine Lobster Café waft by. Their chowder is yummy, but after splurging at the steakhouse—Delmonico’s—with Uncle Yuri last night, I can’t even think about eating.
“How was your flight?” Papa grabs my small suitcase.
“Fine, whatever, nothing special,” I reply harshly. I shouldn’t punish Papa for her mistakes, but sometimes I can’t help myself. I usually snap at him when all I really want to do is yell at her. But not today. I won’t let her ruin the good mood I’ve been in all morning. “I mean, a little bumpy, but nothing too bad,” I say and glance at Papa. His hands tremble a bit, which is unusual. Papa’s a pianist. He has the steadiest hands of anyone I know. I climb into the passenger seat of our car and wrinkle my nose. The car smells like a mix of Papa’s cologne and . . . vomit. “What happened in here?”
“Nothing. Your mom got sick, but it’s all good.” Papa opens one of the windows, sending a gust of the chilly wind into the car.
I cringe. “Is everything okay?”
“Great. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.” He maneuvers out of the parking lot and onto the highway before talking again. “They’re calling for more snow and sleet tomorrow and Sunday. Maybe you should leave earlier. Like tomorrow morning. Or even tonight. The last flight out is at about eight.”
My heart breaks a little. Tonight? That’s so soon. I expect those comments from Mama, but not from him. “Do you want me to?”
He glances my way for a second, before turning his attention back to the road. “That’s not what I meant. I know how important it is for you to be there on Monday, and if the flights get cancelled you’ll be stuck with us.” He attempts a smile, but it looks more like a grimace than the real thing. “I’m sure you got the part.” Before I can answer, he turns on the radio and switches to the CD he always has in his car: The Chopin Collection played by Arthur Rubinstein. According to Papa, Rubinstein is a legend. Papa used to tell me that playing an instrument and dancing had several things in common. He said Rubinstein nailed it when asked how he could continue to play the same waltz for over seventy-five years: Rubinstein had replied, Because it’s not the same, and I don’t play it the same way. It is so true. Last year, I danced a small role in Cinderella, and each night I discovered a new detail, a new feeling.
Papa’s fingers tap out a rhythm on the steering wheel, and his deep voice hums the melody of the song.
Familiar houses flash by the windows, and I close my eyes. The adrenaline from the past few days is slowly wearing off, and the music and my father’s humming rock me like a lullaby. Papa always tells me that when I was a baby, the only way to calm me down was to put on a Nocturne from Chopin and I’d fall asleep instantly.
Chopin still has the same effect on me now.
The car jolts to a stop and wakes me up. “Come on, sleepyhead. We’re here.” The snow covers part of the driveway, but a path is cleared up to our small house. The next house is a few miles down the road. Papa wanted to live outside the city because he said nature helped him create. Fortunately, Mama didn’t care where she lived. I rub my eyes, yawn, and then stretch as I get out of the car.
My feet slip on a patch of ice, and I cling to the door. My heart hammers. Accidents. Stupid accidents happen all the time.
“You okay there, Natoushka?”
“Fine.” I press my lips together, taking another step but still holding on to the car.
“Come on, let me help you.” He tucks his hand under my elbow, and we slowly make our way to a spot that seems safe. We walk up to the house and Papa pushes the door open. Warmth engulfs me. There’s a fire in the living room and soft music is playing in the background. Chopin again, but this time his Preludes.
“Mama!” I kick off my shoes and shimmy out of my coat. “Mama!” I run upstairs.
“Natoushka, wait!” Papa yells after me, but I don’t listen.
I hear sniffles through the door of my parents’ bedroom. “I’ll be down in a minute,” Mama calls.
I turn the knob, but it doesn’t move.
“I said I’ll be down in a minute.” Mama’s voice has an edge to it, and I back away slowly, feeling like someone punched me in the stomach. She’s probably been drinking, and again, I’m reminded what place I have in her life . . . None.
I trudge back downstairs. Papa’s waiting for me, frowning. “She’s not doing well. I told you she’s sick,” Papoushka says. If I didn’t know better, I might believe him.
Mama’s true love is vodka. It’s also her most toxic relationship.
Sometimes she proudly drinks herself to total oblivion in front of friends, joking that she can hold her own, saying it comes from her Russian heritage, but most of the time she hides her dirty secret, drinking when no one can see her, drinking so she can function, drinking until she crashes. I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. Usually Papa kept me busy whenever she was having a down moment. He would play Chopin on his old piano, he would ask me to help him cook pelmeni—ravioli-like bundles of dough with meat and onions inside. My favorite kind has mushrooms and mashed potatoes in them. He would take me for a walk by the water, or he would insist it was okay for me to spend hours on the phone with Becca or rehearsing at the local studio.
“I’ll go practice upstairs for a while,” I tell him.
“Natoushka.” He holds his hand out, but I shake my head.
“I’ll be dancing.”
This is what I do when the pain becomes too much, when the knowledge that my own mother doesn’t care about me makes it hard to breathe. I dance.
Upstairs, I stretch my muscles to the music Papa plays down below. The notes he’s creating from the piano are the saddest I’ve ever heard.
He plays “The Farewell Waltz” from Chopin again and again. And for the first time, I’m afraid that even though my father loves my mom, she may have gone too far.