March 21st, 4 p.m.
“You’re going to be late,” Papa calls from outside. The snow drifts down steadily, covering everything in a peaceful white blanket.
My heart skips a beat. I’ve told him three times that I don’t want to go back today. Mama is still gone and Papa looks even worse than he did yesterday. He doesn’t understand that I deserve to know what’s going on. If they get a divorce, would they even tell me?
“I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here. They can tell me if I made it or not over the phone.” I stand still, burying my fears of them splitting up. Maybe divorce would be best for them. Mama’s drinking is clearly getting out of hand, but then I’d lose her, too. There’s no way she’ll get help without Papa pushing her.
“You’re going. End of discussion.” He pauses. “You need to be back at school. We’ll be fine, Natoushka. Okay? Grab your suitcase and let’s go.”
I draw in slow, steady breaths. Getting mad at Papa won’t solve anything. And he seemed so sad earlier at the kitchen table. “Fine, but I’m coming back next weekend,” I reply.
“We’ll see.”
I walk carefully out the door and down the steps to the car, and then settle into my seat. Papa puts the car in reverse, and the tires slide on the wet ground.
“My flight might be cancelled, you know.” I attach my seat belt and cross my arms over my chest.
Papa maneuvers the car out of the driveway and heads toward the interstate. The little roads are neither entirely plowed nor salted and I’m not sure how he can see anything with the snow as thick as it is. He turns the radio to NPR.
“Papa, why do you let yourself be bullied by her?” I ask after a few minutes. “You fight all the time, but it’s getting worse.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Natoushka,” he replies.
“But I want to. Why did Mama leave? Why were you yelling?” I press him, but he doesn’t answer, his fingers playing an invisible piano on the wheel.
“Papoushka?” I try again, but still nothing.
“Fine.” I pump up the radio volume and change it to a Top-40 station.
“I told you not to play with the radio while I’m driving.” He switches the program back.
“And I want to know what’s going on.” I change the radio again.
He swats my hand and sighs, not taking his eyes off the road. “The important thing is you know I love you.”
He sounds so serious, way too serious. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Papoushka,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
He glances my way, staring at me for what seems like forever. His fingers are all fidgety. The car slides dangerously across the centerline of the road, but then he shakes his head, mutters something I don’t understand, and rights the car, regaining control. Loud honking distracts him, and lights slice through the snow, nearly blinding me in the early-evening darkness.
A semi-truck barrels toward us, honks again, and then pummels across the road.
I’ve never understood the expression “my life flashed before my eyes” until now. I have so many things I want to live for, so many things I still want to say, to Papa, to Mama, to Becca, and to the friends I have neglected. I have so many ballets to dance.
“Papa!” I yell.
“Hold on tight,” Papa shouts, cranking the steering wheel. Our car slips across the road, tumbles to the side and into the grass. It’s moving so fast and we just keep going. It’s like we’ll never stop.
“Hold on!” Papa yells again.
And then there’s nothing.