“Arya?” My mother knocked on Dad’s study’s door three hours into my research, holding a tray with lemonade and cookies. Whatever had happened to the muffin tsar? Guess I was okay to eat carbs now that it was a real possibility I’d be her only family left. I doubted she’d stay with my father if he were penniless.
“I’m just going to leave these right here,” she said gingerly, tiptoeing into the room and placing the drink and snack beside me. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I needed you to be exactly like this when I was young. To acknowledge my presence, instead of resenting it.
I might not have known Aaron, but I’d always felt the loss of him. It was in the air in this house, every piece of furniture, each painting, drenched with it. The vast emptiness that remained where another family member should have been.
“Thank you.” I didn’t look up from the mountains of files surrounding me. She lingered by the door.
I plucked another cordial email printout between Amanda and Dad, adding it to my Amanda pile. I was trying to figure out where it had gone sideways between them. “Um, Mom? I’m kind of trying to work here.”
“Oh. Sure. Okay.”
She closed the door with a soft click.
“Come on. Heartbroken admirers. Moneygrubbing opportunists. Show me your true faces. Tell me it’s all a lie . . . ,” I whispered to myself, skimming through the documents.
The universe must’ve heard me, because two minutes later, a black envelope fell from one of the manila files. It was padded with paper and sealed.
What the . . . ?
I looked up, scanning the empty room, listening for noises in the hallway. The coast was clear. I took an envelope opener to it and ripped the thing clean. A batch of yellowed papers rained down on the carpet. I picked one letter up, my heart ramming its way through my chest. The handwriting looked familiar yet strange. Italic, pushed together, like the person was trying to save paper.
Dear Conrad,
I did as you told me to do. I did not answer any of Nicholai’s letters and telephone calls. I feel bad about this. He is my son after all. But you know my loyalty is with you. I miss him and would like to see him soon. Do you think I can spend Christmas with him? Of course, I would like to spend it with you, too. But only if she doesn’t come along. I cannot bear the sight of her. She doesn’t deserve you or Arya.
Love,
Ruslana
The letter fell from between my fingers. Nicholai.
Ruslana was talking about Nicholai. But what did she mean by doing what Dad had asked her to do? Why would Dad ask her not to answer Nicky after he’d moved? This was not the version Dad had given me all those years ago for what had gone down after that shameful day.
One thing that didn’t take a detective to conclude from this was their insinuated affair. I guessed “she” was my mother, who had indeed opted out of our annual Christmas celebrations in favor of working on her tan in Sydney. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Dad and Ruslana to take me someplace during the holidays, distract me from my motherless existence. But Ruslana always stayed in a separate room and barely spoke a word to my father. I picked up another letter.
Dear Conrad,
I suspect you are a liar. If you aren’t, then why are you still with Beatrice?
You said you would leave her for me. Yet it has been three years and look at us. Nicholai is a man now. He doesn’t even talk to me. I lost my connection with my only family, thinking I would join yours. Nicholai was supposed to take care of me when I grow old. Now he won’t even take my calls. There is a saying I’m sure you are familiar with. You the Yankees love it. You don’t buy the cow if you can get the milk for free.
I feel like cattle now, Conrad, and I do not like this feeling at all.
Still yours,
Ruslana
My stomach turned violently. Ruslana and Nicholai hadn’t been in contact all these years? How was my father connected to all this? He’d looked rabid that day when he’d found Nicky and me in the library, reenacting that scene in Atonement. But he couldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . .
Poor Nicky. Was my father really capable of such atrocities?
If it smells like a pig and looks like a pig . . .
I grabbed another letter. And then another. The words blurred, fuzzing behind a sheet of unshed tears.
Dear Conrad . . . I can’t eat . . . I can’t sleep . . . my love for you burns like midnight oil . . .