—I understand, Mia. I will give you some time.
—How much time?
—I will give you… enough.
I can tell she was expecting more resistance. She probably had a whole speech prepared. I would not be surprised if she had spent the entire night memorizing it, weighing every word, fine-tuning her rhythm. I should have given her the satisfaction, but I do not want to lie to my daughter again.
—Okay.
She is smart. She got what she wanted out of this conversation. She has nothing to gain by talking, but everything to lose. Now let us see if I can get what I want.
—I will give you some time, but you will have to give me something in return.
—What?
—Quid pro quo. You have to be in charge. You have to take care of things.
—I thought I was.
She is, sometimes. She dips her toes into her new life but she won’t dive in. She’s a dilettante, a substitute teacher, the babysitter watching someone else’s children.
—Not like that, Mia. I mean really take care of things. We have been in Moscow for nearly a year and the Russians have not made any real progress. Neither have the Americans. They are utterly convinced they have the ultimate weapon. Such shortsightedness. I want a race, Mia. I want them to build bigger and better rockets, not because they want to, but because the other one will if they don’t. You need to speed things up. You need to get us there. You do. You must not rely on me anymore.
—What about you? What will you do?
—I would like to continue my mother’s research before I go. I need to know if this planet has a future.
—Before you go? You say it like you’re planning a vacation or something.
—In a way. You can help with my research if you want. I would love to spend more time with you. What I would really like is to see a man in space before I die. Can you do that for me, Mia? Can you make that happen?
—I’ll try, Mother.
—You’ll do more than that.
She will. She might not like what it means for her, but she is us. She has the will of her ancestors, their determination. A hundred life spans of refusing to give up is coursing through her veins. She may not be ready to accept it—she sees it as weakness—but it is in her. It has always been. She will follow her instincts. She will watch herself do things she never thought possible.
Right now, she is thinking about what she has to lose. Me, the person she thinks she is. But there is a part of her brain that craves all this. She is a Labrador who fell into a lake for the first time. Her instincts will kick in. At first, she will be surprised that she can swim at all. Soon, she will not want to get back to shore.
—…
Her brain is working overtime. I know that look too well. It starts with a feeling, not a thought. The urge to act, to do anything. Throwing paint at the canvas. Out of the chaos, a shape emerges. She cannot quite make out what it is, but she knows it is there, begging to be seen. She can either freeze, afraid of losing what little there is, or trust herself and throw more paint at it.
—Mia?
—I know what to do.
There it is. She is starting to believe.
—What?
—I know what to do, Mother, but you’re not going to like it.
Of course I won’t. I am losing my little girl. I am no more ready to lose her than she is to let me go. She is my daughter, a reminder of what I once was. I love watching her grow and slowly turn into us. Mostly, I love that she is trying not to, clinging to her sense of self at all costs. Resist, Mia. You will lose, but the fight is worth it. Those days will never come again.
—What am I not going to like, Mia?
—I have to go back to Germany.
26
You Gonna Miss Me When I’m Gone
She has that long scar on her left shoulder. Not straight like a cut. It twists and turns, like a river on a map.
—Billie, look at me! It’s only for a few weeks.
—I don’t want you to go.
I don’t want to go either. That’s not true. I do. I didn’t tell Mother the whole reason why, but I do want to go. At least, I did an hour ago. Now I’m lying next to Billie and every bit of certainty has gone out the window…. All she had to do was turn her back to me and I feel like I’m already a thousand miles away.
—I have to.
—Why? You’re not the only interpreter in Russia. Tell them to send someone else. Tell them you’re sick.
—It doesn’t work like that, Billie. You know it doesn’t.
I meant that. Now that I got myself assigned there, it’d be really hard to say no. Stalin’s pretty much removed that word from the vocabulary.
—You want to go. I can see it.
I don’t know what this is. Jealousy? I look at her and I see… strength, independence. I marvel at it but I also worry that she doesn’t care, that I can’t reach her. I worry all the time. Now she’s showing me an ounce of frailty and I can’t feel anything but guilt for making her less than she is.
—Billie, I—
—Forget it. You want to go, so go.
—Billie! I care about you.
So much.
—Does your mother know you’re here?
—What?
—Your mother. Did you tell her about me?
Touché. I don’t know why that hurts, but it does. Guilt I can live with, but I wasn’t ready for shame. What stings the most is how deliberate it was. This was meant to wound.
—Do you want me to leave?
Her face changed. That carefree grin of hers is gone. This is more restrained. A soft smile that barely dimples her cheeks. I don’t think it’s conscious, but part of her knows she went too far.
She’s lifting the covers. She wants me to move closer. For a second or two, it felt like our roles were reversed, but it’s over now. Billie’s Billie, and I’m… unsettled, overconscious of everything. I feel the cold on my exposed shoulder. I feel my fingers tingling, the texture of her skin. I want her. I want to get closer and closer and never stop. Even with our bodies pressed against each other, I want… more.
—Where did you tell her you were going?
There was no tone here. She really wants to know.
—To my mother? To the library.
—The library!
—What’s wrong with the library?
—Is that what I remind you of? A dusty old place full of forgotten things. I’m not that boring, am I?
That she is not.
—I love the library! It’s full of adventure, mystery.
—Like me!
I… Why am I crying? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is what I wanted. Her hand running down my side. Her lips sending shivers down my thigh. But it’s too much right now, or too little. I feel exposed like an open wound. I’m shaking like a fucking leaf.
—Stop.
—What’s wrong, Nina?
—Nothing. I just…
I can’t put it into words. I’m terrified. I’m scared of everything. Of what I am. Of leaving her. Of what Mother wants me to do, of what might come of it. I don’t want who I was to end. I don’t want this to end. I want this moment, now, to last, frozen like an ice sculpture. But it won’t. It’ll melt and disappear. Everything does.