Chapter 18 : Alex

The house at the end of the walkway looked nothing like the house I remembered from my childhood.

My apartment back in the states would have fit into this monstrosity five times over. The burnt red bricks seemed faded with apparent age, but the opulence in the gold frames of the glass door and windows was obvious. Frowning, I tried to remember the last time I had stood on this walkway. The house was . . . bigger. Kisa must have given them money to renovate. It was the obvious answer.

I swayed as I came to a stop at the door. Maybe all that vodka wasn’t such a good idea. But I really didn’t care at that point. Wasn’t there a spare key around here somewhere? I bent down to the doormat and pried it up with my fingers. That wasn’t smart. My balance was shot. The doormat came up to meet my face as I stumbled into the door with a crash.

“Dammit!” I swore under my breath, trying to right myself and failing miserably. My vision tilted. Sighing, I decided that I would take a rest with my back against the door. Stupid Kisa, hiding the spare key, I thought. Even my brain was slurring.

Suddenly the world careened backwards, and I found myself lying flat on my back looking up at a smug, disgusting face. Kisa stood over me, holding the open door. From the floor, I discerned that her blond locks of hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones hadn’t changed much since childhood. Begrudgingly, I admitted to myself that she was actually quite pretty. I must have been drunk.

“I think America has just vomited on our doorstep,” she called back into the house. She poked her toe at my side roughly. And since she was a ballerina, it didn’t feel grand. “Why are you even here?”

I felt my anger swell—or maybe it was the vodka—and I surged to my feet. “Well, I . . .” That was a good question. In reality, vodka made me do stupid things. What I said was, “I wanted to visit our parents while I am home.”

“Alyksander?” I heard from the hallway. My mother, strangely old and frail-looking, appeared at the door to the foyer. Her white, wispy hair was pulled back into a bun, but a few strands floated loose around her wrinkled face. When did you get so old, I almost said before stopping myself. “What are you doing here?” I tried to remind myself that it had been ten years since I had seen any of them.

I had to make up a quick story. “I’m on a photo assignment,” I blurted.

“Well, come join us for dinner, son,” she said, smiling and beckoning into the dining room beside the foyer. There was something weird about the way she was smiling at me. I hadn’t expected to receive this kind of warm welcome.

Except for Kisa, of course.

The bitch smiled with a malicious glint in her eyes. “Yes, join us.” It seemed like a dare.

The vodka said, “Of course I’ll join you.” What the hell am I doing here?

The dining table was set with the finest china plates I had ever seen, and the roasted turkey in the middle of the table simply begged to be eaten. Vegetables, rice, potatoes . . . It was quite a feast. My father sat at the head of the table, but he didn’t even look up when I walked in the room. He simply dug into his plate with a vengeance.

I sat down, wondering again what the hell I was thinking by barging in here. My mother filled a plate and handed it to me, stirring flashbacks of my younger days, before Kisa had stolen my parents from me.

“So what are you taking pictures of?” Mother asked, eyes glassy.

“Um.” I was quickly becoming the master of fake stories. “Moscow in general. Some travel agency wants to make a travel brochure about the city.” She nodded, satisfied with the lie. We continued eating. It was strangely . . . peaceful. I should have known that wouldn’t last.

“You should have seen the recital last week,” she gushed. Of course, back to her. My mother droned on and on about how pretty the tutus were, how gracefully Kisa danced, how loud the applause roared at the end. Drivel. It was like I had never been gone. Back to the altar to worship Kisa. Once again, the anger in me flared.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” I snapped, staring at Kisa and her smug, nasty grin. Why did it always have to be about her? I had been gone for ten years. Didn’t they care that their son had gone to America, gone to see the world, and had done things outside of their comprehension for such a long time? This was the welcome I received?

My mother rattled on, unaware of the building redness in my face. “Have you seen what Kisa has added on to the house?” she asked unnecessarily. “It’s so lovely to have the extra space.” Her words fell into the boiling pot of water that was my anger and stirred it. I looked up at my father, who continued to stuff his face in silence. Every once in a while, he looked up as though he were paying attention and actually wanted to contribute, but he never said a word.

“It was nothing, Mother,” the bitch said sweetly.

I stabbed my turkey with the fork, pretending it was Kisa’s face, and ripped a piece off.

The conversation continued, but always seemed to return to Kisa and her accomplishments. My father seemed to have taken a vow of silence. It was the same, when I came home. You would think that after ten years, my parents would forget about their daughter for ten lonely minutes and focus on the child that they neglected. During a moment of weakness at the bar, I had made the decision to come and see my family, but obviously that had been a mistake.

I counted the minutes until I could escape. Kisa’s dirty grin haunted my thoughts. A secret part of me wished Buchkiev would call and rescue me from this self-inflicted torture. No such luck.