I swallow back my disappointment and turn down the long road that leads to the estate where we both work and live. The Levushkas hired my parents as caretakers to the sprawling estate when they were freshly married and my mother was pregnant with me. They were young and didn't have any skills, but the mafia family found a rare bit of pity for their situation.
My parents were forever grateful to the Levushkas and dutifully held their position for the last twenty years. And now that my father has recently passed, my mother is even more committed to her employer, Boris Levushka. Our employer, really. As soon as I was old enough to work, I started alongside my mother as a maid in Boris' home. Now that my father is gone, however, my mother has been taking on his duties, as well, leaving more of the cleaning to me.
"We are running late," she says, glancing towards the clock on the dash and then back out the window.
"We said we would be back at ten," I remind her.
"Yes," she says with a frustrated tip of her head. "And it is five after."
"Boris knows how doctor's appointments can go, mother. He won't-"
"Mr. Levushka," she says. "You should call him Mr. Levushka."
My brows pull together. "I've always called him Boris."
Growing up on the estate, I had free run of the grounds. My parents kept me inside our cottage when important guests were staying in the main house or when a deal was being worked out, but otherwise, I ran between our cottage and the estate's kitchens as though it was an extension of my own house. And Boris was always kind to me.
He is a broad man with a thick neck and arms, and his shiny bald head makes his smile look menacing, but he always had a smile for me as a child. I'd seen him raise his voice to other household staff, berating them for simple mistakes, but even once I began working for him, he had a special fondness for me that I attributed to the fact he had watched me grow up.
"That was before," my mother says.
"Before what?" Before I began working for him? That had been four years ago, so if he minded me calling him by his first name, certainly he would have said by now. Or did she mean...?
Finally, my mother acknowledged the sonogram picture sitting in the cup holder between us. She pointed to it with a stiff finger. "Before this."
Before the pregnancy. Yes, many things were different before the pregnancy. For one, my mother would look at me. She would smile and laugh. She would pull me into a hug at the end of the day and kiss me on the forehead. Now, I'm trapped in the after. When my own mother is so consumed by disappointment that she can't even say my name.
"Why did you come today?" I ask, finally voicing the question that had been burning inside of me since she told me she asked Boris-Mr. Levushka-for the morning off. "Why did you come with me if you can't even bring yourself to look at a picture of my baby?"
She stiffened at the words. My baby. "You shouldn't be alone."
"I'm alone all day," I argue. "I spend hours cleaning rooms in silence. Not to mention coming back to the cottage at the end of the day to find you are already in your room. You don't mind that I'm alone then."
She crosses her arms over her chest. She is thinner than she was a few months ago, and I want to ask if she is eating. She hasn't had dinner with me for the last week, but I'd assumed she was eating before I came home. Now, I'm not so sure. "The doctor is different."
"How?" I want her to look at me. Being silent and waiting for her anger to pass clearly hasn't worked, so perhaps I should try asking her all the questions I've kept pent inside. Maybe I should force her to voice the thoughts and feelings she has been silently stewing over for the last month. Maybe it will help.
"They could give you bad news," she says sharply, her tone in direct opposition to the concern shown by her words. "You shouldn't drive after news like that. Someone should be there for you."
The stone around my heart softens, and I reach across the console to lay my hand over hers. "That is different," I agree softly. Tears spring to my eyes at the thought that my mother still cares. She still worries for me, still wants to be there for me. However, they dry immediately when she wrenches her hand away and leans into the passenger side door.
"And it shouldn't be me," she snaps. "It should be your husband. Or boyfriend, at least. But you do not have one of those."
Her words slithered down my spine like ice water, sending a shiver through me. "No, I don't."
"It should be the father of your child," she said, pointing again to the sonogram in the cup holder. "He should be the one here to take care of you. Where is he?"
We'd had this discussion too many times to count in the last month, and it always ended the same way. Me, closed-lipped and burning with shame, my mother marching off to her room and slamming the door.
I turn onto the gravel driveway that stems from the main road and wraps around the back of our cottage. It is narrow and bumpy, used only by the very few people who ever make their way to our house.
When I don't say anything, my mother sighs and shakes her head. As soon as I park our beat-up car behind the house, she throws open the door and marches inside. I know where she is headed-her room. She will hide in there until I go up to the main house to work. Then, she will emerge and go about her day, doing her best to pretend I don't exist. To avoid me. I can't live this way anymore. Losing my father was hard enough, but now I've lost my mother, too.
I follow behind her, grabbing her arm just before she can grab the handle. She gasps when I grab her, but I'm too angry to care.
"Why are you acting this way?" I feel more like the parent in this moment. Like I'm disciplining a stubborn child. "You cannot just avoid me until the pregnancy is over. You do realize that, right? At the end of this, there will be a child. A baby who will need to be taken care of. Are you going to ignore me then, too? Are you going to continue pretending I do not exist until you join Father, wherever he is?"
"Do not speak to me like that," she hisses, stepping forward, her nose inches from mine. We are the same height and build, though her body is softer, thicker around the hips and thighs. And her eyes are a deep, dark brown. My blue eyes came from my father. "I am still your mother."
"You haven't been acting like it." My voice is loud enough that she takes a step backwards, but she isn't giving up. Not a bit. Her eyes narrow.
"I've been your mother for twenty years, Zoya." It is the first time she has said my name in a month, and I almost sigh at the relief. Even in her anger, it feels good to hear it. "I have raised you and cared for you in the way I thought was right. I've cleaned toilets and scrubbed floors and dishes to make sure you could have a good life."
"I do have a good life," I say, lifting my arms to gesture to our modest, but clean cottage. There is a flower bed in the backyard where my father and I planted herbs and a few vegetables. Flowers bloom from the ground in colorful bouquets on the other side of the door. My parents built something here in this cottage, and I am happy to continue it. I had a happy childhood, and that is all I can hope for my own child.
My mother shakes her head. "A better life. I wanted you to have a better life than me."
