March 24th, 4 p.m.
Numb.
There’s no other word to express how I feel right now. My tears stopped falling after two days, but the lump in my throat hasn’t gone away. I stare into space, trying to tune out the noises surrounding me: the carts in the hallways full of hospital food, the people coming in and out of other patients’ rooms, some of them hugging, some of them crying, some of them praying, some of them kissing as if they want to remind themselves they’re alive.
Papoushka’s not. I’ll never see him again and just thinking about him makes it hard to breathe. He’ll never play the piano again with a smile on his face. Because I didn’t convince him to let me stay behind. Because I didn’t convince him to not drive me to the airport. Because, then in the car I had to pry, I had to keep on bugging him, distracting him, challenging him.
I’ve forgotten some pieces of the accident. I can’t remember exactly what Papa said before we swerved. The doctor assured me that it’s normal.
But when I asked about my leg, he told me it was going to take months to heal. That even after it heals it might still be too fragile to go back to dancing professionally. He doesn’t know me. If there’s even a tiny chance, I’ll take it. I’ll work my ass off to make sure that I grab it.
I turn my head to Uncle Yuri slowly. It’s still painful to do that. “Did the school call?”
He nods, but doesn’t meet my eyes.
“What did they say?” I ask.
Still nothing from Uncle Yuri.
“Someone has to tell me, and Mama isn’t here. Please.”
“They said you got the role. You were right. The director said he’s holding a spot for you when— if you can come back.”
“I had it,” I whisper. “I really had it.” My throat burns, and I close my eyes, remembering how it felt to be onstage, the way my body morphed into a story, the way my heart belonged to dancing. When I open my eyes again, I turn to Uncle Yuri and, without a word, his hand finds mine and he squeezes.
Mama swings into the room, her blond hair falling on her shoulders. She’s wearing jeans, her snow boots, and one of Papa’s sweaters. She’s carrying a bouquet of lilies with her—my favorite flowers, the ones Papoushka always gave me after a recital or on my birthday. She freezes in front of my bed and fumbles in her bag. I know what she’s looking for, but instead of pulling out her flask and taking a swig, she wraps her arms around herself.
“Thanks for the flowers, Mama,” I say. She nods, not looking my way. For a split second, I think today’s the day she’ll take me in her arms and hold me, a day we can both mourn my father. I stare at her and try to squish the small part of me that wants to yell at her for getting Papoushka so worked up, for making him so sad all weekend.
“That’s what your papa would have wanted.” She struggles to speak. “Your father loved you so much,” she whispers. “You know that.”
Uncle Yuri squeezes my hand one more time. “He would have done everything for her,” he says. “I told Nata about the auditions. She needed to know she came in first. She needs to know she always comes first.”
Mama turns away from us. “I have to go,” she mutters. “I have to see the doctor.”
“I’ll come with you,” he says, then kisses my forehead. “I’ll be back.” He sighs. “You look so much like him. You smile the same way.” His shoulders sag, and there’s so much in his eyes, as if looking at me is too much, too hard, too big of a reminder of the family he lost.
When Mama comes back into the room, she’s alone.
“Where’s Uncle Yuri?”
“A client called. He has to head back to New York,” she explains, fidgeting. “I have to go, too, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“I’ll be here,” I say. “Can you hand me my iPod?” She grabs it from the nightstand and places it in my open palm.
She stares at me for a second, and without a kiss or so much as a “good night,” she leaves me there. She didn’t even tell me what the doctor said.
I turn my iPod to The Chopin Collection and close my eyes, imagining Papoushka is the one playing for me.