Mind of Winter E-Book

Laura Kasischke

• Herausgeber: Hesperus Press Ltd.
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Something had followed them home from Russia - a thought-provoking and chilling drama, Mind of Winter will leave you with a lingering sense of unease before reaching its shocking conclusion. A chilling and dark psychological drama, Mind of Winter is a spine-tingling and beautifully written novel that will leave you guessing until the very last page - perfect for fans of Gillian Flynn or Kate Atkinson. Something had followed them home from Russia. On a snowy Christmas morning, Holly Judge awakens with the fragments of a nightmare floating on the edge of her consciousness. Thirteen years ago, she and her husband Eric adopted baby Tatty, their pretty, black-haired Rapunzel, from the Pokrovka Orphanage #2. Now, at fifteen, Tatiana is more beautiful than ever - and disturbingly erratic. As a blizzard rages outside, Holly and Tatiana are alone. With each passing hour, Tatiana's mood darkens, and her behaviour becomes increasingly frightening . . . until Holly finds she no longer recognises her daughter.

Leseprobe

Mind of Winter

Laura Kasischke

For Bill

Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place…

– Wallace Stevens, from ‘The Snow Man’

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphChristmas, 20 – –AcknowledgmentsBiographical noteCopyright

Christmas, 20 – –

She woke up late that morning, and knew:

Something had followed them home from Russia.

This scrappy bit of information had been offered up to Holly in a dream, she supposed, a glimpse into a truth she’d carried with her for – how long?

Thirteen years?

Thirteen years!

For thirteen years she’d known this, and not known – or so it seemed to her in her half-awake state on Christmas morning. She rose from bed and went down the hallway to her daughter’s bedroom, anxious to see that she was there, still asleep, perfectly safe.

Yes, there she was, Tatiana, one pale arm thrown over a pale coverlet. Dark hair spilled over a pillow. She was so still she could have been a painting. So peaceful she could have been –

But she wasn’t. She was fine. Holly felt reassured and went back to the bedroom, slipped into bed beside her husband again – but as soon as she did, she thought it once more:

It had followed them home!

This was something Holly had known, apparently, in her heart, or in her subconscious, or wherever it was inside her where bits of information like this hid themselves for years, until something made her aware of what she’d forgotten, or repressed, or –

Or was it something she’d willfully overlooked? Now she saw it:

Something had followed them home from Russia!

But what?

And then Holly thought, I must write this down before it slips away. It was that feeling she used to have when she was younger – the almost panicked desire to write about something she’d half glimpsed, to get it on the page before it dashed away again. Sometimes it had felt nearly nauseating, that desire to yank it out of herself and put it into written words before it hid away behind some organ deep inside her – some maroonish, liverish, gillish organ she’d have to pry behind, as if fingering it out of a turkey carcass, ever to get at it again. That’s what writing a poem used to feel like to Holly, and why she’d quit writing poems.

My God, though, this thought was like a poem – a secret, a truth, just out of reach. Holly would need time to pluck this out and examine it in the light, but it was in her, whether she’d known it or not until now. Like a poem that wanted to be written. A truth insisting on recognition. It was the explanation for so many things!

The cat, crawling off. Her back legs, her tail.

And her husband. The bump on the back of his hand, like a tiny third fist – a homunculus’s! – growing. They’d said it was benign, but how could such a thing be benign? They’d said to ignore it, but how? Something was bearing fruit inside her husband, or trying to claw its way out. How were they to ignore it?

(Although, to be fair to Dr. Fujimura, they had learned to ignore it, and it had eventually stopped growing, just as she’d said it would.)

And Aunt Rose. How her language had changed. How she’d begun to speak in a foreign language. How Holly’d had to stop taking her calls because she couldn’t stand it anymore, and how angry her cousins had been, saying She loved to talk to you. You were her favorite. You abandoned her while she was dying.

And then the hens. Ganging up on the other one, on the hen she’d so stupidly, so cavalierly, named Sally. Six weeks, and then –

Don’t think about Sally. Never think of that hen and her horrible name again.

And the water stain over the dining room table in the shape of a shadowy face – although they could never find anywhere that water would have seeped through their skintight, warranty-guaranteed roof. The roof company men had stood around in their filthy boots and stared up at it, refusing to take any blame.

Also, without explanation, the wallpaper had curled away in the bathroom. Just that one edge. You could never do anything to keep it in place. They’d tried every adhesive on the market, but the daisy wallpaper would stick fast for exactly three days and nights before it peeled away again.

Holly needed to write down these things, this evidence! The cat, Aunt Rose, the bump on her husband’s hand, the hens, the water stain, the wallpaper.

How long had it been since she’d woken up needing to write? God, how Holly used to need to write. Now she needed to write again. What time was it? She was still in bed, or in bed again. Had she already risen, looked in on her daughter? Or had that been a dream? She’d come back to bed and slipped again into sleep? Perhaps. Now she didn’t need to open her eyes to know that it was morning, that it was snowing.

Was there a pen in this room? If she found a pen before Eric and Tatiana woke up, would she be able to actually sit down and write? That broken habit. That abandoned necessity.

Holly thought she could. She would be able to write. She could feel it – the bitter ache of it. There was some awful pressure on her lungs. There was, she felt, something stoppered up in her torso. She imagined vomiting it out of herself, like vomiting up a swan – something with a long, tangled throat nestled inside her own throat – choking on its feathers and all its bony quills. How relieved she would feel afterward, lying on the bedroom floor beside the swan she’d vomited out of herself into the world.

Outside, the wind sounded like a nerve being yanked through the tree. It was Christmas morning, but late. It must be nearly nine o’clock. They never slept this late on Christmas morning! Far too much rum and eggnog last night. Was Tatty still asleep in her bed? Her pale arm, pale coverlet, pale pillow with a splash of dark hair, still. Holly had looked in on her, she remembered this, but it had been hours ago, hadn’t it? Surely Tatty would be up by now, ready to open presents. Where was she? Why hadn’t she come into the room to wake them up?

Because she was fifteen, of course. She was probably also still asleep. There would never again be a Christmas morning, crack-of-dawn Tatty coming in to slap their faces lightly with her damp, new, tiny hands. Instead, they’d all overslept on Christmas morning, and Holly had woken up with this little horror in her mind, that something had followed them home.

Something evil?

Well, perhaps not evil. But it had sapped them. It continued to sap them.

‘Oh, that’s motherhood,’ Thuy would say. ‘You’re just talking about motherhood. Children, they’re energy vampires…’

But don’t forget the cat. The wallpaper. Aunt Rose. Even when she was semi-lucid, even when the words were familiar English words, Aunt Rose had seemed to Holly to be reciting lines from ‘The Fire Sermon’: On Margate Sands I can connect nothing with nothing the broken fingernails of dirty hands my people humble people who expect nothing la la…

And there had also been their CDs, hadn’t there? All their favorites had been scratched, as if overnight – although, surely, it had been over a long period of time? Every one of their favorites had been ruined, and they’d never even bothered to replace them. They’d just left them there on a shelf, like their books, which they never took down to read now, or even to blow the dust off.

And speaking of the dust! My God, it was everywhere. It was Holly’s exhaustion. It was floating and impossible, still bearing cat fur in it after all these years without the cat, as well as strands of Tatiana’s long black hair. When Holly complained about the dust, Eric claimed he didn’t see it, that he had no idea what she was talking about, but that if it bothered her that much she should hire a housekeeper again.

And yes, she could have hired a housekeeper again, but she’d never even found the energy to do that, not after the last one, and her accident on the back steps, slipping on ice while taking out a bag of garbage. And even before that, her allergies, her rashes, and Holly’s guilt at paying another woman, a poorer woman, a Spanish-speaking woman, to do this intimate work for her that she should have been perfectly able to do for herself.

Dust, exhaustion, it was in the air. Repeat it, Holly thought. It is a refrain. As in a poem. Write it down. Write down the way some shadow face is finally peering around a corner on this Christmas morning (they’d slept so late) and shown itself.

Something that was here all along. Inside the house. Inside themselves. It had followed them all the way home from Russia.

* * *

But not the baby! Not Baby Tatty! Of course not the baby. They’d brought the baby Tatiana home from Russia. She was no follower, no revenant, no curse from another country.

No. Of course not Baby Tatty wrapped in her Ratty Blankie. Not Tatty the Beauty. Gorgeous Russian dancer, howler monkey, sweetheart, wanderer, love of their lives. Not Tatiana.

No. Some Thing. And the only thing it had in common with their daughter was that it came back with them from Russia.

Holly was still simply trying to wake up, imagining a pen in her hand, writing it down… How late was it? Ten o’clock?! Why was she still asleep, or asleep again, on Christmas morning? She patted the place beside her for Eric. Please, God, she thought, let him be gone. Let him be gone so I can have a few moments alone to write. She’d almost managed to open her leaden eyes. Please, God, let Eric have taken Tatty with him to the airport to pick up his parents. Please give me half an hour to write itdown, to make sense of it, to look at this thing. Otherwise she would forget it, she knew, and then she would never know it, this thing she knew. It would never be a completed thought, let alone a poem, this thing that –

That had broken three of her mother’s iridescent water glasses! And scratched every one of their CDs, as if with a penknife. Left them unplayable. Unreplaced. Not even downloaded onto iTunes yet (but would they ever have gotten around to that?). The Water Music. The Four Seasons. The Patti Smith. Even the Beatles. Had Holly even heard those Beatles songs since then? Even on the radio of a passing car? It was as if those songs (‘Norwegian Wood’, ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’) had never been written, or played.

And the cat. The horror of that. And before that, the hen, their favorite. How the other chickens had turned on her. Not even pecked her to death, but just pecked her so close to death that she was only a forgotten brokenness, left behind them, as they went on with lives.

And the notebook full of poems snatched with her purse from the coffee shop, and her laptop full of poems from the hotel in California – from the safe.

And the housekeeper, Concordia, whom Tatty had loved, but who’d suffered from allergies and rashes she’d never before had when she began housekeeping for them, and then twisted her ankle on ice on the back steps (taking out their garbage, full of plastic bottles Holly should have recycled) and never come back.

And, my God, Holly had almost forgotten the daughter of her coworker Kay – a twenty-two-year-old hit by a car while crossing the street with the light at a crosswalk on a perfectly sunny day. How irrationally and completely Holly had felt that she herself should take some blame for that. After all, Holly had never liked Kay, and the day before the accident Holly had slapped an employee handbook onto Kay’s desk and told her to read it (she’d been so sick of Kay’s tardiness, her long lunches, her personal phone calls, but what difference did any of that really make?) and that night Kay had gone home with the handbook, in tears, and (who knew?) maybe she’d told her daughter that she was having trouble at work, maybe the daughter had been hurrying across the street the next day, worrying about her mother, and hadn’t looked both ways?

‘That’s insane,’ Eric had said to Holly. ‘If the universe works that way, it means that you yourself are God. I thought you were the atheist, the one who had no superstitions.’

But what if it hadn’t been insane? What if they’d brought something back with them from Russia? Something malevolent. Or something desperate to return to its origins? Maybe it wanted to go back!

Hadn’t one of the nurses in Russia warned them? Tried to warn them? That one with the drooping eyelid and the hair like a Renaissance princess, all down her side in a braid made of gold, seeming slicked with oil.

Had her name been Theodota?

She’d been the one who’d worn some strange thing in a bubble of glass pinned above her breast. It was a dried rose, she’d told Holly, that had been touched to the tomb of some saint – the patron saint of stomach ailments, one of which had plagued Theodota most of her life. The thing in the bubble had looked, to Holly, like some kind of tumor, something shriveled and internal, and she’d complained bitterly to Eric about the religious mania of the Siberian nurses. Weren’t they supposed to be done with religion in this godforsaken place?

‘No. That’s us,’ he said. ‘You’re confusing Russians with Americans. Americans are the ones who’ve forsaken God. The Russians have found Him again.’

He’d always defended religion, hadn’t he? Although he himself attended no church, prayed to no god. It was a way of defending his parents, she supposed, whom he always felt she was criticizing whenever she criticized religion or old-fashioned values or pickled foods.

Had it been in Siberia that the thing on Eric’s fist had begun to sprout, to grow just under the skin? Holly had a vague memory of one of those nurses, perhaps Theodota herself, at the Pokrovka Orphanage #2 taking a long look at his hand, shaking her head, trying to communicate something to him by speaking slowly and carefully in Russian, not a word of which Eric or Holly understood.

About Tatiana, Theodota had said, ‘No. Don’t name her Russian. Name her American. Or she’ll be back.’

The nurses had called her Sally. They had explained to Eric and Holly, ‘We give her American name so that in her life and in her death she will not be restless in America, try to return to Russia.’

‘But we want her to be proud of her Russian origins,’ Holly had tried, in turn, to explain, not sure if any of her English was being understood. ‘We want to call her Tatiana because it is a beautiful Russian name for a beautiful little Russian girl.’

The nurse had scowled and shaken her head vehemently. ‘Nyet, nyet, no,’ she said. ‘Sally. Or’ – here she softened, as though sensing that they might be able to compromise – ‘you name her Bonnie. Bonnie and Clyde, no?’

Holly had been smiling, but she was having a hard time keeping the spirit light. She said, ‘No. Tatiana.’

‘No,’ the nurse had said right back to her.

‘Oh my God,’ Holly had said, later, to Eric. ‘What is wrong with these people?’

Even Eric, at that point, had regained his sense of humor enough to shake his head in disbelief at the superstitions of these people in Siberia.

But that had been almost the least of it! On their second trip back to the orphanage, this time by train from Moscow, the conductor, wanting to practice his terrible English, had explained to them that he always wore, under his uniform, a cilice – which, it turned out, in his case, was a barbed cross on a chain. The conductor undid the buttons of his shirt to show the cross to them – primitive and the size of a child’s hand, hanging from a piece of twine – along with the scratches on his sparsely haired chest (could he have been even thirty years old?) that the cross’s barbs left there. He explained that the tracks of the Trans-Siberian Railway were laid over the graves of the prisoners who’d built it, as if that explained the need for the punishing barbed cross he wore against his skin.

Holly was appalled, while Eric had been charmed. Neither of them had expected this sort of thing from the Russians. They’d expected, maybe, searchlights and vodka bottles and barbed wire and an unfriendly, militaristic citizenry – although, in truth, they’d not even gotten that far in their imaginings. Had Eric and Holly even believed that Russia, that Siberia, existed until they were in it? Hadn’t they thought that the adoption agency was just being descriptive, calling it ‘Siberia’ – which to Holly had always been a way to describe a place, not an actual place. She’d perhaps actually thought, even as the adoption agency arranged plane tickets for them, that by ‘Siberia’ they just meant ‘off the beaten track’ or ‘desolate’. Not that the orphanage was actually in Siberia.

But it was Siberia they found themselves in. Siberia existed. There were vodka bottles and searchlights and barbed wire, as Holly had expected, and there were women wearing babushkas, wagons full of straw, grim men in uniforms, some beautiful young girls with fur hats – none of which surprised her. Although Holly was surprised by everything else. Everything. And, particularly, the superstition. At the Pokrovka Orphanage #2 the babies had coughs and fevers, so the nurses had asked Holly and Eric to wear cloves of garlic around their necks. They’d handed Holly and Eric actual cloves of garlic dangling from pieces of gray twine. To ward off germs? Or…?

In any other place, Holly would have balked, but, inside Pokrovka Orphanage #2, she slipped the garlic over her head happily, gratefully. She would have done anything at that moment – opened a vein, gorged on ashes, pledged her soul to Satan – to hold this baby they’d come all this way to hold.

Whose name would certainly not be Sally. Holly and Eric had known all along that they would call her Tatiana. It meant fairy queen in Russian.

Baby Tatty.

* * *

‘This is the baby,’ a nurse said, appearing suddenly in a doorway. Holly had expected an hour of paperwork first, or a long walk through a corridor. She’d pictured herself and Eric standing behind a vault door while a guard twisted a lock. Instead, they’d no sooner slipped the necklaces of garlic over their heads and sat down in the waiting room than they heard the words, heavily accented but in a musically feminine voice: This is the baby.

Holly had looked up to the open door to find that an astonishing amount of light was pouring from a window, or from a great wall of windows, somewhere behind that nurse, and the nurse’s hair, pale and cut close to her head, was glowing like a halo. That nurse (whom they never saw again, although they asked to) had a cherubic face, a stunning smile – straight teeth and glistening lips. She could have stepped off a cloud or out of a movie screen, bearing this child. She could have passed for any number of supernatural beings – angel, fairy, goddess – or an actress hired to play the part of one that day. It was hard to look away from her face, to look at what she was holding in her arms.

Eric always claimed that Tatty had been wrapped in a blue blanket, but Holly knew she hadn’t. Their daughter had been wrapped in a dirty-gray blanket, and it had looked to Holly as if the sun were trying to launder it, bleach it white, bless it. The sun was trying to make the baby shine. The sun wanted Holly to love the child, to take pity on her, to take her home. The sun couldn’t have known that no effort on its part was needed for that. Looking from the nurse’s face to the baby wrapped in gray in her arms, it was all Holly could do not to fall to her knees, not to cry aloud. Instead, she grabbed Eric so hard that, later, walking away from their first trip to the orphanage, they would laugh that she’d left him battered and bruised – and, in fact, she had. When Eric took off his shirt that night they saw that he had a purple mark in the shape of a small conch shell just above his elbow.

When the nurse had stepped fully into the room, Holly stood, and the baby was placed in her arms.

Holly took her daughter in her arms, and before she saw or felt or heard her, she loved her – as if there were an organ and a part of the brain that was love’s eye or nose or ear. The first sense. It had never been needed before. Now Holly realized that it was, in fact, the sharpest of her senses.

The second sense: smell. Holly would always associate her daughter and her love for her daughter with that secondary sensory impression – the ripe, rich Allium sativum, muddy hoofprint of that clove in its torn papery wrapper around her neck, at her chest, between herself and her baby. And a dirty diaper. And the scent of sour milk and cereal soaked into the damp neckline of the ratty, tatty gown they’d dressed her in, as if to sell her to them – as if they’d need to be persuaded to snatch her up! – with a few faded daisies on it for good measure.

And Holly remembered how, then, too, she’d wanted to write it down. She’d wanted to say something about it on a piece of paper before she lost the words. But, of course, there was no time then. Even in the bathroom after they’d had to return their daughter to that nurse and walk away, Holly couldn’t write it down. With her naked ass on the cold porcelain, fishing through her purse while her husband paced around outside the thin door, she couldn’t find a pen.

* * *

Now, she needed to find a pen to write this down:

Something had followed them home from Siberia.

From the orphanage. Pokrovka Orphanage #2.

Holly needed a pen and a half hour alone before the in-laws and the roast in the oven and the Coxes. God, the Coxes. Who would sit at the table waiting for her to entertain them. And their terrible son, who seemed to have been born without a soul. Holly had not wanted to write in so many weeks, months, years – and if she didn’t do it now, if she could not wake up fully and find a pen, if she did not have a half hour alone, it would pass, and perhaps the desire would never, ever, come back.

She moved her hand over to Eric’s side of the bed, to the place she hoped to find empty, the place she needed to find vacant beside her, the sheets cool, Eric gone, so that she could have a few moments alone –

But he was there, and Holly felt him twitch awake, and then Eric sat up so fast the headboard slammed against the wall behind him, and Holly was fully awake then, too, realizing that there was far too much light in the bedroom, and Eric, realizing it, too, was out of bed fast, standing over her, shouting, ‘Jesus Christ. We overslept. Fuck. It’s ten thirty. My parents must already be sitting at the fucking airport, and the fucking Coxes will be here in an hour. Where in the hell is Tatiana? Why didn’t she wake us up? Jesus Christ. Holly. I gotta go!’

Then he was gone:

Holly had barely put her feet on the floor when she heard the sound of Eric’s car in the garage, and the garage door opening. Eric was not the kind of man to squeal his tires on the way out of the driveway, but nevertheless he did, and Holly heard it for what it was – the implication of blame. Of course. Of course if his parents were already waiting at the airport, worried or sick or complaining, it would somehow be her fault. When Eric’s siblings arrived later they would say, ‘Why in the world was Eric late to get Mom and Dad?’ – as if the question were the answer because both were directed at Holly.

And, as Eric had said, where the hell was Tatiana? Could she still be asleep? Had Holly peeked into her daughter’s room only an hour or two ago (pale arm, pale coverlet?) or had that been a dream? Was it before or after that when she’d woken with the need to write?

Holly was surprised and pleased that she still felt that need. But what, exactly, had she wanted to write down? That something had returned from Siberia with them? That it had somehow followed them? Was that the explanation she’d woken up with, the Thing that accounted for the unexplained tragedies of the last thirteen years?

And what were those? Nothing! They were all still alive, after all, weren’t they? What else was there, then, beyond the ordinary misfortunes one suffers in thirteen years in a typical American town? The average calamities of a normal family? There’d been a great many more joys than sorrows in these thirteen years!

Sure, she’d had her notebook and her laptop stolen. But the thief who’d snatched her purse at the coffee shop hadn’t been after her poems. He’d been after her cash. Purse snatching happened to a lot of women who left their purses on their tables when they got up to refill their coffee cups. And how stupid had it been to leave a laptop (hard drive not backed up!) in a big-city hotel and expect it to be safe in a safe?

And the rest of it? The housekeeper? Kay’s daughter’s accident? The cat had suffered the usual death of a domesticated animal, slipping out the door and dashing into the road. And the hen, Sally. What did they expect? Holly and Eric had known nothing about chickens and their habits when they’d gotten them. It was something the whole neighborhood had figured out at the same time when their town full of clueless academics and software company employees had passed the ordinance allowing backyard chickens.

And the changes to her marriage? Well, she and Eric were, simply, older. Holly sometimes forgot that. Instead of looking hard at Eric’s face, or her own in the mirror, on a daily basis, Holly had gotten used to looking, every morning, into the faces from the past that were framed on the wall in the hallway outside the bathroom:

She and Eric thirteen years earlier, standing with their backs to the bare institutional wall of the Pokrovka Orphanage #2, while, in Holly’s arms, the wide-eyed Baby Tatty looked up into her new mother’s eyes. In this photograph, each of their images held the suggestion of who, in thirteen years, they would be. Eric’s red hair was already a little gray at the temples, and his fitness, his physique (all that running and basketball: he’d been only forty-two then) was already beginning to diminish a little with his bad knee. His torso looked thin under his white shirt, and it was easy to imagine that the man in this photograph would grow even thinner as he aged instead of fatter.

And herself. Holly had been thirty-three, and her hair was still naturally blond. She hadn’t yet needed glasses, really (or had still been too vain to wear them), and although she, too, had weighed more then than she did now, that weight had been arranged differently on her. She’d worn her soft padding in other places.

And Baby Tatty already had the gaze that made her Tatiana. Those eyes were fiercely black, and her hair was already longer than Holly had ever seen on such a young child. In the Pokrovka Orphanage #2 the nurses had called her Jet-Black Rapunzel. Anyone looking at the photograph framed and nailed up in the hallway would have known that she’d become what she was now – a long-legged teenage beauty, still with that silken hair around her shoulders, and those dark eyes.

‘Tatiana?’ Holly called as she stepped into the hallway, rubbing her forehead. It was, she realized, true. She had a hangover. Not a serious one – but she feared that last rum and eggnog might haunt her all day.

‘Tatiana?’ she called out again. There was no answer. Could Tatiana have left the house? But where, why? If not, she couldn’t still be asleep. Now, she would have to have been willfully determined to make no sound in response to Holly’s calling her – which would have been some kind of punishment, perhaps, for Holly, for sleeping. Holly rubbed her eyes with a thumb and forefinger, sighed, readied herself to call out to her daughter again and then gasped, startled nearly to screaming when she found her daughter only inches away, staring at her, disapprovingly it seemed, and standing completely still in the bedroom’s threshold. ‘Tatty, Jesus,’ Holly said. It took her a second to catch her breath. ‘You scared me. How long have you been standing there?’

‘Merry Christmas,’ Tatiana said. ‘Sheesh. I thought you and Daddy were going to sleep until New Year’s Eve.’ She sighed that dramatic teenager sigh she’d perfected in the last year – a sigh that managed to convey in a single breath both bitterness and detachment, a sound that never failed to remind Holly of the snow in Siberia. Holly had expected that snow to accumulate, as it did in the northern Michigan of her childhood, and to organize itself into banks and walls. But it didn’t. It just drifted. Endless drifting. There was nothing, it seemed, that could stop it. It was snow, it was solid, it could be seen, but it was one with the wind. Exactly like that teenage-girl sigh.

‘We were tired,’ Holly said, trying not to sound overly apologetic. Why should she be?

‘I guess so,’ Tatty said.

‘I got up a couple of hours ago, and you were dead asleep, so I went back to bed.’

‘I wasn’t asleep,’ Tatty said. ‘I haven’t been asleep for hours. You know that.’

‘Well, you sure looked asleep.’ Always an argument, Holly thought. She passed by her daughter in the doorway, smelled mint on her, and tea tree oil shampoo, and L’Occitane Verbena, two bottles of which they’d bought at the mall because Tatty didn’t want to share a bottle with Holly, although Holly couldn’t wear it anyway, as it turned out. It gave her a headache. She added verbena to the list of flowers she couldn’t wear the scent of for more than ten minutes without feeling sick – lily of the valley, magnolia, gardenia.

‘Are we going to have breakfast? So we’re not opening gifts? Did Daddy go to the airport already? Wasn’t he supposed to take me?’ Hostile, rhetorical questions. Tatty wasn’t whining. The tone was reproachful, challenging.

‘Look,’ Holly said, turning around at the kitchen island, trying not to sound as defensive as she felt. ‘Why didn’t you just wake us up if you’ve been so anxious for all these things? Daddy flew out the door because Gin and Gramps are probably already at luggage claim. And I’ve got ten million things to do. Can’t you eat a bowl of cereal or something?’

‘What about presents?’

Holly parted her lips, shook her head, exhaled, turned to the coffeepot, punched the blue eye to turn it back on – the coffee had been set to brew at 7 a.m., and had long since grown cold in the glass decanter.

‘Presents will have to wait until Daddy gets back. You know what your presents are anyway.’

Tatiana turned then, and headed back toward her room. Her white tank top was almost too bright to look at with all her dark hair between her shoulder blades, and her hips swayed, and her white yoga pants were so high and tight between her legs it was almost obscene. The cheeks of her sweet baby bottom. Pulling against her crotch. Holly hated thinking what a man would think, looking at that beautiful bottom. And then she remembered, with the swiftness of a slap, that although her daughter might pretend to be, and look like, a woman now, she was, truly, just a child. And it was Christmas. Holly should have set an alarm. ‘Sweetheart,’ she called after Tatty, softening, sorry, but her daughter was already closing the bedroom door behind her.

* * *

It had been Christmas, too, the first time they went to Siberia, first saw Tatty, although, after all their exhaustion and elation and the weeks of preparation for their travels, Eric and Holly had completely forgotten about the holiday, or the significance of arriving at the Pokrovka Orphanage #2 for the first time on the morning of December 25.

But there were no signs of Christmas at the orphanage that day, since, for the Russians, Orthodox Christmas was still thirteen days away. Eric and Holly might have forgotten about it entirely, themselves, if it hadn’t been for the other American couple staying at the hostel run by the orphanage. That couple had thought to bring gifts for their new baby – blankets and booties wrapped in green and red paper – and fancy soaps and chocolates and silk scarves for the nurses. It was, Holly realized, exactly what they should have done themselves, but by then it was too late. They were seven thousand miles away from Macy’s.

‘It’s okay,’ the other American mother-to-be said to Holly. ‘They don’t really do Santa here or anything. Mostly they celebrate New Year’s, not Christmas. Just a lot of drinking. No one is expecting a present.’

But arriving at the orphanage bearing not a single gift for their child or her caretakers on December 25 mattered to Holly. Terribly. Unforgettably. Her first failure as a mother. What difference did it make if she was the only one who knew or cared about it? She was the only one who needed to know or care.

* * *

Holly looked to the tree. Tatty must have plugged it in. The miniature lights glowed dimly, like electrical pencil tips, in the brightness pouring in through the picture window. Those lights looked futile to Holly – not really lights in all this brightness. Just little nubs of effort. Overly effortful. She wanted to unplug them again, until later, when the darkness gave them some reason for being lit, but she didn’t, because Tatty wanted them on.