mile. “She's waited almost ten years to see you again, you know.”
I lean toward him. “But Daniel, I don't speak Russian!”
He flinches back for a second, then shrugs. After a moment’s thought, he pivots toward the woman and throws out his arms, pulling her into a crushing embrace before reaching back to snatch my hand to drag me forward again. He babbles a bunch of words I don't understand to her and she nods, clapping gently under her chin.
I just stare at him, dazzled by yet another of his many wondrous talents. He speaks Russian. That is awesome.
I creep forward and the woman grabs my arm, crushing me to her bosom and swaying back and forth, weeping into my hair and laugh-crying the whole time. Even though I don't understand what she's saying, I'm swept up in the emotion of it all and clutch at her tightly, trying to plod through the emotions I don't even understand.
This is my grandmother. My babushka. This is the home where my mother grew up.
The kids run back up to the front door, from behind, shouting and laughing and ushering us all back into the house. The rooms are small and cramped, with low ceilings and simple furniture. The air is warm and damp, sort of humid with cooking smells. It smells like brisket, and my mouth instantly starts to water. I hear my stomach growl and squeeze my middle tightly, shocked at how loud that was.
Babushka spins around and squints suspiciously at my middle.
She jabs a finger in my direction and asks me something, then raises her eyebrows at Daniel.
He chuckles, drawing me closer and slipping an arm around my waist. His other hand drops to stroke my round, protruding belly fondly. After a brief conversation, babushka starts clapping again and we have to go in for another round of strenuous, Russian-style hugging.
And even though I’m a little bit shy, I'm starting to love this. She must recognize me, though to be honest she just looks like every National Geographic picture of a Russian grandma I ever saw. I wish that I felt naturally close to her, or that I recognized her. But I don't. I was born in the US, and so I only spent a little bit of time with her during trips that I can't recall at all.
But here with Daniel, I don't feel awkward. He'll translate for me and I can accept her loving welcome.
He gazes down on me finally, pressing a lingering kiss against my forehead as he strokes my belly again, for the millionth time since I told him we were expecting a baby. I was completely surprised, but I guess I shouldn't have been. Since we were making love practically every day for months, it had to be inevitable, but I've been so focused on programming my app, writing the business plan, and generally being the happiest woman on the planet that I wasn't really paying attention to my cycle or anything.
Then one day morning, Daniel was staring at me when his expression got suddenly serious. He knew right away, even before I did. He's so in tune with me, it was crystal clear to him.
I needed more proof, but the doctor confirmed it right away. I'm having our first child in six months. Starting our life together with a bang, as they say.
Babushka grabs me by my shirtsleeve and starts pulling me toward the kitchen, explaining things to me in her lisping, gentle dialect that she knows I don't understand at all. But it doesn't matter, somehow we are almost communicating. She's dragging me to the kitchen, where we will do things that women do together, I suppose. Cooking, chatting. Just being together in the same space.
And I have to admit, gathering over food is something that is so uncomplicated it's probably universal. I'm fine. I'm totally fine.
But when Daniel nods at me and edges away, I start to panic all over again.
“Um, excuse me? Where are you going?” I ask through a plastered-on smile.
He grins. “You're in good hands,” he assures me. “Just do whatever she says.”
“Whatever she — I really don't understand! Please don't leave me.”
“Oh, you can handle it, my kitten. I know you can,” he winks at me. He picks my hands up and kisses my knuckles quickly and then pushes off, disappearing through the low doorway, back the way he came.
I look at my short, full-figured grandma and just smile awkwardly, shrugging. I hope that seems like I just offered to help. Hopefully I don't burn the house down or anything.
She squints, smiling so big it closes her eyes. Then she pushes a colander full of beets toward me and hands me a short, wooden handled knife. Beets. Okay. I pick one up and hold it in my palm, then take the knife in the other hand and pantomime scraping the skin off. Then I look at her and raise my eyebrows, like, is this what you are asking me to do?
She holds up a cartoonish okay sign with her fingers, then switches to two enthusiastic thumbs-up that she shakes in the air until her blouse ripples with the effort.
Okay! We’re making progress. I'm peeling beets with my grandma!
I settle into the activity pretty quickly, at first trying to keep the bright purple liquid from staining my palms, and then just giving up. So, I'll be wandering around with violet hands. Maybe that's a common sight around here. It's not the worst thing, anyway.
Halfway through the basket, I notice how comfortable the space is. I hear more voices far away in the house, and see people periodically poke their heads into the kitchen, waving at me shyly, grinning with familiarity. I always smile back, but I don't know who they are.
In some ways, the sound of their voices far away in the house is more familiar to me than their actual faces. I do sort of remember hearing this kind of rhythm and sound when I was little, listening to my dad. But although I know these are my uncles, cousins, and aunts, I wouldn't be able to recognize them on the street.
I hear a ruckus at the front door, a dog barking and exclamations. Babushka pushes herself away from the counter, clapping her hands and wiping her palms on her apron. She chatters to me enthusiastically.