When my father’s tears fell, I was amazed that they weren’t giant’s tears. Actually, they were no larger than mine. I had never seen Papa cry before.
“Katya,” Papa said. His voice was heartbreakingly raw. “Chernobyl has taken so much from me. I don’t want it to take my daughter, too.” He sucked in a jagged breath. “I’m not talking about the cancer. I mean that I don’t want you to hate me.”
Suddenly, I felt the strong connection with him that I had had as a child. I felt like I did in the old days when we had hunted and fished, shoulder to shoulder in the woods. I never wanted to leave his side again. I threw my arms around his thick neck.
“I don’t hate you, Papa,” I cried into his shoulder. “It’s just that… In the last few months, I’ve started to want to become a scientist.” I struggled to find the words to explain. “I want to learn all about the accident. I want to prevent another one from happening.”
Papa hugged me even tighter. “You are strong, Katya. You are smart. You have great academic ability. Your questions…” As his voice trailed off, he met my gaze.
In his gray eyes, I thought I saw his own growing doubts.
“Even as I’ve been afraid of your curiosity, I’ve admired it,” Papa managed.
I realized that my Papa had been watching me. Perhaps, on my halting and difficult journey to piece together the truth, he had even been pulling for me.
“You’ll get through this. You’ll have a great future,” Papa tried to reassure me.
“Papa, we’ll have a future. All three of us.”
Papa shook his head. “Nothing has been right for such a long time.”
As I often had done as a child, I clung to my father and inhaled his distinctive smell of earth and sun, the smell of the Ukraine itself. With my face pressed to his thick neck, I felt closer to my home, and I realized how desperately I missed it.
Mama came through the door. Papa and I were still hugging each other.
“No chicken,” Mama said. “But I bought three beautiful cutlets…” As she held her grocery bag in the air, she smiled at us. “I’ll have dinner ready in about an hour.”
I couldn’t stand watching both my parents break down on the same day. “Mama, is it O.K. if I go by the library? I have a science report due.”
Mama’s face drooped. The bag dropped to her side.
“I’ll be right back.” I assured her. “I’ll be on time, really.” I stood up and made for my backpack by the door.
“Please don’t forget and be late,” Mama called, but she wasn’t scolding me.
I returned and kissed Papa on the head. I noticed that a clearing of skin had appeared in the forest of his thick dark hair. Like most men his age, he was balding.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
STUDENTS CROWDED AROUND THE TABLES in the library. Everyone was working on the science projects due next week. Lyudmila Pikalova waved gaily at me. “Hallllooo, Katya.” She wore tight-fitting jeans and a T-shirt. As always, a pack of boys surrounded her.
I acted as if I hadn’t heard her greeting and headed straight for the bookshelves. I grabbed a medical encyclopedia and flipped the pages until I found the word ‘thyroid.’ The illustration showed an organ in the front of the neck. The caption said: the thyroid, a ductless gland, regulates growth.
Next, I skimmed the text until I found that awful word ‘cancer.’ Still standing, I searched for the subtitle, “Thyroid Cancer Treatment.” Trying to walk and read at the same time, I bumped into a sharp object, a table edge. Unable to take my eyes off of the book, I slouched into the closest chair.
If caught early, the encyclopedia claimed, thyroid cancer is among the most treatable of cancers. Surgery or radiation therapy or a combination will cure many cases.
After I had read for half an hour, I decided that my father’s doctor was right. Unless Papa had an advanced case, thyroid cancer was a good type of cancer to have.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the scar my father would have following surgery. It would look like a shiny half-moon on his thick neck. But I reminded myself that I was picturing the best case. So much of our lives had been the worst case—Papa would probably have advanced cancer, too.
After searching through several newspaper articles, I found the official position on whether Papa’s cancer was caused by exposure to radiation. Dr. Mykola D. Tronko, director of Ukraine’s Thyroid Cancer Institute, said, “To tell you the truth, even…years after the accident, we have more questions than answers.” So many more questions, I thought.
I lifted my head to consider what I had just read and was surprised to find Sergei standing in front of me. His slacks fit neatly over his slim hips, and his blue T-shirt was tucked in loosely. His blond hair was brushed back from his face.
“Have you changed your mind?” Sergei asked.
“About what?”
“About going back?” Sergei said.
“Going back?”
“To the Zone.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “The field trip next week?”
“The field trip?” I said vaguely. I had forgotten all about this.
“Angelika is the student leader for the trip. She’s asked me to help her with the count.” Sergei’s mouth broke into a smile. “Why don’t you come?”
Do you want me to come? I wondered.
Sergei gazed slyly at me out of half-closed lids. “What ever happened between you two?”
“Between who?” I asked.
“You and Angelika,” Sergei said.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Angelika told me once that you really let her down, but she didn’t say how.”
“I’ve barely said ten words to her in four years,” I admitted.
Sergei shrugged. “So are you coming? What should Angelika tell Nina Ivanovna?”
He blushed, catching his own mistake. Nina Ivanovna had been our teacher in Pripyat.
“Tell her I’ll go,” I said impulsively.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A FEW DAYS LATER, WHEN I ARRIVED HOME late from school, the apartment felt empty. I dropped my books on the breakfast table.
Seeing the large pot on the stove, I remembered that Mama had to take an exam tonight. Chicken soup for dinner. Be sure to look in on your father.
The day before Papa had gotten the call from Dr. Sokolov, he had been his usual athletic self. But ever since he had learned of his diagnosis, my father had spent a lot of time in his bedroom, leaving only occasionally for errands and walks. Several friends had stopped by to visit.
When Uncle Victor returned from Canada, I wondered if he would be among the visitors. I was curious and apprehensive about how my father would react to his old friend.
I headed down the hallway to my parent’s bedroom and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Papa called in a husky voice.
My father was sitting up in bed leaning against a pillow. The stink of sweaty gym clothes was gone, replaced by the menthol scent of cough drops and the dry papery smell of tissues. Although I’d always been bothered by that locker room smell, now that it was too late, I realized I would miss it.
Not a single beam of light crept in through the closed curtains. “May I turn on the lamp?” I asked.
My father gave a halfhearted croak, “Sure.”
I moved his unused jogging clothes, his XX Large T-shirt and black shorts, from the big chair next to the bed, and sat down.
“Hello, Katya.” He was wearing his favorite pair of mustard-colored pajamas. The yellow pajamas made his complexion look unhealthy, like clay. “Did you have a good day at school?” he asked.