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Years ago, on a wintry night as she tucked me into bed, kissing my cheeks with her cold, rosy lips, I had asked her about my papa’s family. That night, a flood of questions erupted, though only a few escaped my lips. Did I have cousins? Aunties and uncles? Grandparents? Did she miss Russia? Would we ever go back?
Disappointment filled me when she simply shook her head, sadness clouding her eyes. The guilt that followed made my heart sink as I realized my questions had only stirred up painful memories she was trying to forget.
Suddenly, my mom straightened up, relaxed her shoulders, and began picking up papers, documents, and other items from the floor. Unsure of what to do or say, I helped her until her office was as clean as possible. We ignored the broken glass scattered across the wooden floor, much like the sharp tears that had fallen moments before. Everything felt surreal, as if nothing significant had happened except for an unfortunate, clumsy accident that had splashed water everywhere.
Then she grabbed her purse and trench coat and headed for the door.
I stood there, bewildered, expecting some kind of explanation or, at the very least, a clue about what was happening.
But she was already gone.
I quickly grabbed the small piece of paper from her desk and stuffed it into my hoodie pocket. I rushed after her, catching up just as she was about to drive off. I jumped into the car, where she started the engine without bothering with her seatbelt. Her driving was so erratic that it nearly made me sick.
“Mama, please! What’s going on? Who were those people? Do you know them? Were they from Russia?” My voice was shaky, filled with desperation.
She shifted gears roughly, her grip on the steering wheel turning white. Her eyes darted nervously, and I could see her trying to maintain control. I was afraid she might have a panic attack, just like I was on the verge of.
“Mama, please,” I whispered, feeling utterly drained.
I placed a hand on hers, but she abruptly slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car, and left me alone. The breeze rustled the branches of our apple tree and whipped her hair around as she rushed to the door.
I hadn’t realized we were home until Dasha knocked frantically on my door. When I stepped out, she pulled me into a tight embrace, her pulse racing against me. She murmured something in a language I didn’t understand.
“Da khranit tebya bog moya dorogaya! May God protect you, my dear!”
Confused, I tried to break free, but she took my hand and led me inside. We found my mom frantically packing clothes, shoes, a hand brush, toiletries, a black briefcase, her favorite mug, and a large suitcase. Dasha joined in, folding clothes that seemed too big for the suitcase.
“STOP IT NOW! BOTH OF YOU!”
They stopped and looked at me, startled.
“Please, tell me what’s going on! I’m begging you,” I pleaded, my breathing quickening. My heart felt like it was about to burst.
“We have to leave now, Sofiya. If we stay here tonight, we’ll be dead by morning. Trust me,” my mom said, meeting my gaze with a fierce intensity. “The men you saw this morning are dangerous. Far from good.”
“What?”
“I’m giving you five minutes to pack. If you’re not ready by the time we’ve loaded the car, I’ll leave you here with the wolves,” she snapped. “And I won’t look back.”
Her words crawled over my skin like icy spiders, sending shivers down my spine.
?
Packing was easy for me. We moved so often that I never allowed myself to own too many personal items. My most cherished possession was a small gold bracelet with a heart engraved with “S & D.” Dasha gave it to me for my seventh birthday, saying it meant her heart was always next to mine.
We left soon after I finished packing.
Mama sped through the evening traffic while Dasha whispered prayers. I lay silently in the back seat, unsure where we were heading but knowing it was likely my last glimpse of San Francisco.
I considered texting Claire but then remembered how she had ignored all my previous messages, leaving them on read, and decided against it.
After driving for two hours in silence, we finally stopped at a random gas station.
My legs felt like jelly and sweat dripped down my back; all I wanted was to find the restroom. We headed into the small convenience store next to it.
I made a beeline for the candy aisle, craving chocolate.
From a distance, I spotted Mama and Dasha grabbing water bottles, cans of Coke, sandwiches, and chips. Reese’s was my go-to choice.
