Winter Garden

“You shouldn’t be here.”



She hears the words as if from far away, and then someone is grabbing her, forcing her to turn.



A man is beside her. “They’ve taken him away. You shouldn’t be here.”



“But—”



“No buts. Whoever he was to you, you should forget him and go home.”



“But I love him.”



The man’s fleshy face softens in sympathy. “Forget about your young man,” he says. “And go.”



He pushes her with a firmness that makes her stumble sideways. In the old days perhaps such a shove would be rude, but now it is a kindness, a reminder that this is no place to stand and cry. “Thank you, sir,” she says quietly as she moves away from him.



Tears sting her eyes and she wipes them away reluctantly. Her eyes are burning when she looks up and sees a wavery image of a young man standing beneath a darkened streetlamp.



From here, it looks like Sasha, with his unruly hair and broad smile and strong jawline. Even as she picks up her pace, she tells herself she is being a fool, that he is gone and from now on all handsome blond-haired young men will remind her of Sasha; still, within a meter or so she is running. A split second before he begins to move toward her, she knows this is no mistake. It is her Sasha, now running toward her.



“Vera,” he says, pulling her into his arms, kissing her so deeply she has to push him away to breathe.



“You waited all day?”



“A day? You think that is all I would wait?” He pulls her close.



Together they cross the street. The Royal Theater rises up from the concrete like a green and white spun-sugar confection, its roof adorned with a lyre and crown. A queue is beginning to form along the sidewalk. Vera notices how beautifully the people are dressed—in furs and jewels and white gloves.



Sasha takes her around to a door in the back of the theater. She follows him into a dark hallway and up a flight of stairs.



They skirt the main hall and slip into a private box.



Vera stares across the darkened hall in awe, seeing the gilt decor and crystal chandeliers. In this box—obviously being repaired—even the tools and disarray can’t hide the exquisite detail. Plush mohair seats line the box’s front; in the back, tucked in the shadows, is an ottoman bed draped in dusty velvet. As she is standing alongside it, she hears the doors open below her, and well-dressed patrons stream into the theater. The buzz of conversation rises to the rafters.



She turns to Sasha. “We have to leave. I do not belong here.”



He pulls her into the shadows. Blue velvet curtains cushion their bodies as they lean against the wall. “This box won’t be used tonight. If someone comes in, we’ll say we are cleaners. There are our brooms.”



The lights flicker and a hush falls over the audience. On stage, gold and blue velvet curtains part.



Music begins with a high, pure note and then sweeps into a symphony of radiant sound. Vera has never heard anything as beautiful as this music, and then Galina Ulanova—the great ballerina—leaps across the stage like a ray of light.



Vera leans forward, as close to the velvet curtains of the box as she dares.



For more than two hours, she doesn’t move as the romantic story of a princess kidnapped by an evil wizard plays out across the intricately staged set. And when the wizard is brought to his knees by love, Vera finds herself crying for him, for her, for all of it. . . .



“My papa would have loved this,” she says to Sasha.



He kisses her tears away and leads her to the ottoman bed. She knows what is going to happen now; she can feel passion coming to life between them, uncoiling.



She wants him, there’s no doubt about that; she wants him the way a woman wants a man, but she doesn’t know much more than that. He lies down on the soft cushion, pulling her down on top of him, and when he slides his hand under her dress, she starts to shake a little. It is as if her body is taking charge of itself.



“Are you sure of this, Verushka?” he whispers, and the endearment makes her smile, reminds her that this is Sasha beneath her. She will be safe.



“I am sure.”



By Sunday Vera is an entirely different girl. Or perhaps she is a woman. She and Sasha have met secretly after work every day since the ballet, and Vera has fallen so deeply in love with him that she knows there will never be a way out of it. He is the other half of her.



“Are you sure about this, Verushka?” he asks her now, as they climb the steps to her front door.



She takes his hand. She is sure enough for the both of them. “Yes.” But when she reaches for the door, he grabs her hand. “Marry me,” he says, and she laughs up at him. “Of course I will.”



Then she kisses him and tells him to come inside.



The hallway is dark and cluttered with boxes. They climb the narrow wooden stairs to the second floor. At the door to the apartment she pauses just long enough to kiss him and then she opens the door with a flourish.



The small apartment is shabby but spotlessly clean. Her mother has been cooking all day and the sweet, savory scent of boar stew fills the room.



“This is my prince, Mama.”



Her mother and Olga stand on the other side of the table, pressed together, their hands on the chairs in front of them. Both are dressed in pretty floral blouses with plain cotton skirts. Mama has put on a pair of worn, sagging stockings and heels for this meeting; Olga is in her stockinged feet.



Vera sees them through Sasha’s eyes: her tired, once-beautiful mother, and Olga, who is ready to burst into womanhood. Her sister is smiling so brightly her big, crooked teeth seem ordinary-sized.



Her mother comes around the table. “We have heard much about you, Your Highness. Welcome to our home.”



Olga giggles. “I’ve really heard a lot about you. She can’t shut up.”



Sasha smiles. “She talks to me of you also.”



“That is our Veronika,” Mama says. “She is a talker.” She shakes Sasha’s hand firmly, gazing up at him. When she seems satisfied, she lets go and moves toward the samovar. “Would you like some tea?”



“Yes. Thank you,” he says.



“You attend the cleric’s college, I hear,” Mama says to him. “This must be exciting.”



“Yes. I’m a good student, too. I will make a good husband.”



Her mother flinches a little but pours the tea. “And what are you studying?”



“I hope to be a poet someday like your husband.”



Vera sees it all as if in slow motion: her mother hears the terrible words together—poet and husband—and she stumbles. The fragile glass cup in her hand falls slowly, crashes to the ground. Hot tea sprays Vera’s bare ankles and she cries out in pain.



“A poet?” her mother says quietly, as if none of it has happened, as if a treasured family heirloom does not lie broken at her feet. “I thought a prince was dangerous enough, but this . . .”



Vera cannot believe that she forgot to warn Sasha of this. “Don’t worry, Mama. You needn’t—”



“You say you love her,” Mama says, ignoring Vera, “and I can see in your eyes that you do, but you will do this to her anyway, this dangerous thing that has been done to our family already.”



“I wouldn’t endanger Vera for anything,” he says solemnly.



“Her father promised me the same thing,” Mama says bitterly. Simply the use of the word—father —underscores how angry her mother is.



“You can’t stop us from marrying,” Vera says.



This time her mother looks at her, and in those eyes she loves is a nearly unbearable disappointment.



Vera feels her confidence ebbing. Ten minutes ago it would have been inconceivable that she should have to choose between Sasha and her family . . . yet wasn’t that exactly what her mother had done? Mama had chosen her poet and run away with him, only to come back home in shame. And now, though her mother accepts her, there is little love left between them.



Vera places a hand on her stomach, rubbing it absently. In the months to come, she will remember this moment and understand that already his child is growing inside of her, but all she knows then is that she is afraid of



“Stop.” Meredith pushed the closet door open and stepped out of her hiding place. The bedroom was blue with moonlight and in it, Mom looked exhausted. Her shoulders had begun to round, and her long, pale fingers had started to tremble. Worse than all of that, though, was the sudden pallor of her skin. Meredith walked over to the bed. “Are you okay?”



“You were listening,” Mom said.



“I was listening,” she admitted.



“Why?” Mom asked.



Meredith shrugged. Honestly, she had no answer for that.



“Well. You are right,” Mom said, leaning back into the pillows. “I am tired.”



It was the first time Mom had ever said she was right about something. “Nina and I will take care of you. Don’t worry.” She almost reached out to stroke her mother’s hair, as she would have done to a child who looked as worn out as Mom did. Almost.



Nina came up to the bedside and stood beside Meredith.



“But who will take care of you two?” Mom asked.



Meredith started to answer and stopped. It dawned on her both that this was the most caring thing Mom had ever said to them, and that she was right to ask it.



Mom would be gone someday, and only they would be left. Would they take care of each other?



“So,” Nina said when they went out into the hallway, “how much of the story have you secretly been listening to?”



Meredith kept moving. “All of it.”



Nina followed her down the stairs. “Then why in the hell did you stop her?”



In the kitchen, Meredith put water on to boil. “I don’t get you,” she said to her sister. “When you look through a piece of glass the size of my thumbnail, you see everything.”



“Yeah. So?”



“Tonight you sat in the room with Mom for all that time and didn’t notice that she was fading right in front of you.”



“Says you.”



Meredith almost laughed at the immaturity of that. “Look. It’s been a hell of a day and I can tell you’re itching for a fight, which I definitely don’t want to have. So I’m going to go home to my empty bed and try to sleep through the night. Tomorrow we can talk about the fairy tale, okay?”



“Okay. But we will talk about it.”



“Fine.”



Long after Meredith had gone, Nina remained alone in the kitchen, thinking about what her sister had said.



You didn’t notice that she was fading right in front of you.



It was true.



If Mom had been fading, Nina hadn’t noticed. She could blame it on her interest in the words, or the darkness of the room, but neither answer was quite the truth.



Long ago, Nina had mastered a simple survival skill: she’d learned how to look at her mother without really seeing her. She still remembered the day it had begun.



She’d been eleven years old, and still trying to love her mother unconditionally. Her soft ball team had won a spot in the statewide tournament, to be held in Spokane.



She’d been so excited, unable to talk about anything else for weeks. She’d thought—foolishly—Now she’ll be proud of me.