Seasons of Change
September…
Over a month had gone by, and we hadn’t heard from Vladimir. Boris and Anya bought a house a couple of miles away that was close to their church. It had enough acreage to keep chickens, goats, sheep, and room for a vegetable garden. Their living arrangement at our house was temporary, and when they found the perfect new home, they moved into the spacious ranch along with Babushka and Pasha. We all believed Vladimir would’ve been home by the time they moved, but I wouldn’t let them derail their plans on my account.
Dmitri stayed at the house with me, set up his room on the lower level, and we created a new normal with the girls. We enrolled them at a private school in Indian Hill, ten minutes from home. Each morning, Dmitri made a hearty breakfast, and I helped Mari and Ruslana get dressed. While they were at school, Dmitri and I did the shopping and worked together on the domestic duties of the household. Even though I was worried about Vladimir, I never let the girls see me stressed. They were doing so well, I didn’t want to give them a reason to be concerned.
But after I tucked the girls into bed, I spent my evenings alone in my bedroom where I could unleash the stress and fear that consumed me. I was living in my own head, dreaming of Vladimir, and inserting him into my new normal. My nightly ritual began with a photograph. I undressed in the bathroom, snapped a picture of my naked body in front of the mirror, and printed the photo for a flip book I was putting together for him.
It wrecked me that Vladimir wasn’t here to see the changes to my body. I wanted him to see how the baby was growing, my breasts were becoming fuller, and my skin reflected a maternal glow. I deflected the negative thoughts and sought a proactive solution to my longing for him by making the photo album.
After I completed my first evening ritual, I went to the closet and dressed in one of his undershirts and a pair of his long, silky pajama bottoms. I brought in some pillows and blankets from the bed and made a fort on the floor, where I worked on a second album. I filled the books with photos of the girls in their new school uniforms, candid shots of us decorating the house for fall, and playing soccer in the back yard. Even though Vladimir wasn’t with us, I didn’t want him to miss out on seeing our girls thrive in their new home. When I worked on projects and concentrated on him, I didn’t feel so alone.
***
October…
The leaves had changed to their fall colors of brown, green, and gold, and we still hadn’t heard from Vladimir. I refused to give in to negative thoughts and immersed myself in caring for the girls, volunteering in their classroom, and acclimating them to their new country. I didn’t want Vladimir to miss out on a single moment, so I upgraded my makeshift photo studio in the closet and invested in some new equipment.
I bought a professional camera and created a work station by bringing Vladimir’s desk into our bedroom. I set up all my supplies in my new photo studio and ordered a lifetime supply of albums. I added pictures of the girls dressed in their Halloween costumes, action shots of them playing on their rec soccer team, and photos of them with my little sister and our family at the fall festival at the Russian church. Focusing on my job of preserving memories for Vladimir helped me get through the quiet, lonely evenings in our bedroom, but I still cried myself to sleep every night.
***
November…
The air had turned crisp and the wind had stripped the leaves off the trees. It had been more than three months since our ordeal in London, and Vladimir still hadn’t made contact. I had amassed several thick photo albums and continued my evening ritual of adding more and more memories to his collection. Pictures of Mari and Ruslana enjoying their first Thanksgiving feast. One of the girls with Dmitri and me wearing matching jerseys at a hockey game. A smiling snapshot of me at my 20th birthday party, standing next to my new, white, and shiny Range Rover Autobiography loaded with three car seats in the back—a sweet surprise from the guys on behalf of Vladimir.
I continued my other routine of taking a daily selfie of my naked body for Vladimir’s intimate album. My stomach was full and round to accommodate our growing boy, and he was active and healthy and thriving as his body developed. I started a new habit of jotting down notes and adding them to Vladimir’s private album, so I could share with him what I was feeling with my first pregnancy.
Craving oranges, salty feta cheese, cherry tomatoes, and I drizzle honey mustard on everything. Boris says I eat too much peanut butter. Babushka and Anya make sure I have plenty of jars of homemade soup and marinated veggies in stock on the shelves. Confession: I have been eating grilled steak and chicken kabobs at dinner. George must have meat!
***
December…
The weather had turned blustery cold and a winter storm was on the way, threatening to blanket the city with several inches of snow—a light dusting by Russian standards, a blizzard for native Cincinnatians. The family gathered at our house to celebrate the holiday season and decorate for Christmas. Babushka baked a batch of cookies from scratch, filling the air with the delicious scents of honey, vanilla, and cinnamon, while the girls and I hung handmade ornaments on our freshly-cut tree.
My mother-in-law’s favorite pastime was sewing, and she surprised us with hand-stitched Christmas stockings with our names on the cuff, each featuring a different winter-themed design. I loved how Anya included a mix of Russian and American culture into her crafts to reflect both our respective cultures. She even made adorable designs for the dogs. Dmitri set up hooks on the mantel, and we each took turns hanging our stockings. When all the spots were filled, I was crushed that Anya hadn’t made one for Vladimir.
I kept my emotions bottled up in front of the girls, but as I sat on the couch and stared at the line of stockings—Dmitri, Carter, Mari, Ruslana, Gustav, Anastasia—I knew my family had given up on Vladimir. An unspoken truth had settled over the household, and I could tell by the demeanor of my loved ones that I was alone in holding out hope that my husband was alive. It had been four months since I’d been home, and Vladimir hadn’t made contact. I’d questioned Boris relentlessly, begging him to tell me anything he heard from his associates in Moscow, but he insisted he knew nothing. He assured me his best men were trying to track him down, and he was doing everything within his power to locate him.
I plastered on my happy face so as not to upset the girls, but inside, my soul was shattered. Vladimir made me promise not to give up on him, and even though the odds of him being alive were dwindling, I felt the warmth of his love burning in my chest. My instincts told me he was out there somewhere, trying to find his way back to me.
When everyone settled into the living room to nosh on homemade sweets and watch Christmas movies, I excused myself under the guise of needing a nap before dinner. Instead, I went to the closet, riffled through my sock drawer, and retrieved a pair of fleece boot liners. The overall pattern of the socks was plaid, and they had a forest green cable-knit cuff, which was perfect for what I had in mind.
I rummaged around in my art supplies and pulled out a pair of scissors and a couple bottles of puffy paint. I laid one sock on my work table and smoothed down the fabric. Then I took my scissors to the other one and cut out a thin strip to make a loop to attach to the top of Vladimir’s last minute, emergency Christmas stocking.
I squirted red puffy paint across the top and wrote “Vladimir” on the cuff. The letters were crooked and the paint was too heavy in some spots and too light in others, so I added a few imperfect red hearts with wings to complement the made-with-love style of the stocking. I set it on the floor next to the air vent to speed up the drying process, and then collapsed on my bed. I crawled under the covers and hugged my body pillow. I was blessed to have a big family and cherished the time we spent together, but I missed the intimacy of Vladimir’s loving embrace.
I craved the warmth of our bodies entangled under the sheets, the way he whispered in Russian while he trailed kisses down my neck, and making love outdoors under the moonlight. Going through my pregnancy without my husband here to share the joy of our baby growing inside me was torture. I had never felt so alone in my life. While I refused to give up hope that Vladimir would return, the anxiety of imagining all the possibilities was eating me alive.
At some point, I would have to let go. If Vladimir was alive, he would come home. For the sake of the children as well as for myself, I decided on an end date—the day our baby was born. If, by that time, Vladimir still had not made contact, I would surrender my hope and accept he was dead. I was certain, however, that after all we’d been through to make our forever a reality, nothing—not even the Russian mafia—would stop him from being with me during the birth of our child.