“Helena Egorova. My name is Veronika Kiselyov. I think—I mean, I don’t even know how to say this?—“
Her eyes go wide. For a second, her gaze locks on mine, her face paling as she takes another step backwards. I can’t tell if she’s asscared as I am or just surprised, but I bet this is as terrifying for her as it is for me.
One of her bags drops and spills groceries all over the ground.
She snaps something in German, and of course she speaks German, she lives here. I hurry over to help her clean up, which she awkwardly accepts, and once everything is back in the bag she looks at me warily.
“How did you find me?” she asks. Her English has a slight Russian accent.
“It’s a long story. I wanted to meet you, that’s all. I promise I’m not here for anything else.”
I think she wants to send me away. And standing here in front of her home with that bike and the nicely trimmed lawn, I don’t blame her at all. I’m a ghost from her past, probably a terrible memory, and I appeared out of nowhere.
Reluctantly though, she turns to the house. “Come inside. We can talk. Do you like tea?”
I peek over my shoulder. Gabe’s still watching. “I love tea.”
Her home is cute. There’s an entryway with boots and shoes piled in neat rows. Coats hang from hooks. It smells like lavender and honey. She walks into a small kitchen and starts unloading the groceries, and my gaze drifts to the living room, my stomach twisting and heart sinking into the floor.
There are toys stacked in a corner. There are photographs on the walls. A man, handsome, blond, smiling and leaning against a younger version of her. A young boy, blond like his dad, with my mother’s same eyes, my same eyes. Another girl, little and pretty, like me. And another of all four of them together, morerecent I think, the boy around twelve and the girl a couple years behind.
That bike is probably the little boy’s bike.
My half brother.
Oh god, she has a family.
“Sit down. Are you hungry? How far did you come? God, I haven’t spoken English like this in a while. The first few years here were terrible, but it forced me to pick up the language. Hendrick says my accent is still bad, but—“ She pauses and catches my eye. “Hendrick is my husband.”
“You got married.”
She nods like that’s perfectly normal. “Fifteen years ago. Lionel was born a few years after that. Then Lily came next.”
“Lionel and Lily are your kids.”
She stops making the tea and faces me, clutching the kettle tightly. “Veronika, you should know?—“
“It’s okay. It’s really fine. I mean, you don’t owe me anything.” I look down at the table, fighting back tears. I don’t even know why I’m so upset.
What did I expect? Did I want her to sit still? Hide in some hovel and mourn me for the rest of her life?
Of course she’s got a husband. She’s got kids, she’s got a family. I bet she’s got a job, and friends, and hopes and dreams. Did I think everything would stop, because she left me?
She walks over and sits down in the chair across from me. She sits straight and looks at me, a sad smile in her eyes, as she folds her hands on the tabletop. “Go ahead. Ask me questions.”
I laugh and wipe my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You came all this way. Ask and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
“Seriously? You don’t owe me any of that.”
“Veronika.” Her voice is sharp. Her jaw tightens. “I owe you a lot more. Please, ask.”
I look at my hands. Then I look at her and I see so much of myself. “I guess there’s only one thing I really want to know.”
The kettle starts screaming. She leaps up, hurries over, and takes it off the heat. I watch her pour two mugs and return with steeping bags and a little dish for when they’re ready. She sits, dunks the bag, and smiles to herself.
“Hendrick says shaking the tea like this is silly, but I’ve always done it. I don’t know, I like the way it mixes.”