Moonlight in Odessa (41 page)

I miss you, miss home. I even miss the walls of our apartment and long to press my forehead, my palms against them. Everything will be fine. I will be fine. But please won’t you consider coming to California? We have a spare bedroom. Don’t you miss me?

Love,

Your Dasha

Tristan and I spent our six-month anniversary at the clinic where the doctor informed us that a couple is not considered infertile until they try to conceive for a year. ‘Just keep going,’ he advised. ‘If there are no results, come back in six months.’ He explained about ovulation and cervical mucus and gave me the business to find out the peak time of the month.

Here we’d been having sex every night when in fact there was a propitious window of twenty-four hours. Only one day. There was so much I didn’t know. But how could I? Boba never talked about sex. Even if she had, I would have been mortified. I doubted that she knew about cervical mucus. My classmates barely knew more than I. In grade school, many of them slept in the same room as their parents. They described the fumbling and moaning in the night, but their stories sounded just as implausible as Grandfather Frost bringing presents on New Year’s Eve. As teens, some of my girlfriends were curious about sex, but they were nervous without an envelope for the letter. We’d heard about the miracles in the West. A woman could urinate on a twig to find out if she was with child or take a pill to avoid pregnancy. We also heard the pill contained male hormones and that women who took it grew beards. Anyway, it was difficult to find a place to have a private moment – when three generations lived in the same flat, someone was always home. My first time happened in a deserted basement in the position called ‘the lookout.’ The man lifts his partner’s skirt and penetrates her from behind – if someone approaches, the couple can hide. It was nothing special. If anything, the preliminaries – a bouquet, soft words, the opera – were better.

But it would be worth the discomfort to have a child. A little girl to share my joy of being in America. A little girl to share my impressions with. I wanted someone – my own flesh – so I wouldn’t feel so isolated and alone. Someone who would always love me. Boba, Mama and I had formed a trinity – God loves three. And now it was time for me to create my own. I wanted my daughter to have something I never had: a papa.

Tristan wasn’t my dream husband, but he would be a caring father. He had deep roots. A house, a job, a future. He would be there every step of the way. Like me, he wanted children immediately. A little voice in my head said it was because he didn’t want to lose me, and a baby would be the cement that would keep us – two mismatched bricks – together. He said he didn’t want to be too old, like his mother and father when they’d had him. I sensed he was still angry with them. He never spoke of his parents except to say he felt removed from them. I’d been very close to my mother. It had always been just us girls. I remember sitting on Mama’s lap in the kitchen where it was always five degrees warmer than the rest of the flat while we pored over Western fashion magazines together. How she loved
Vogue
! She smelled of vanilla. When we walked down the leafy boulevards of Odessa she held my hand. She read to me at night. Her voice was the last thing I heard as I fell asleep. I’d always wanted a little sister, but my father was long gone, then Mama became sick. Boba and I took care of her until she died. And Boba became my everything – my grandmother, my mother, my older sister, my confidante. And now that I was alone, more than ever I wanted someone with whom I could share her wisdom, her courage, her life. A child to pass our stories on to.

Tristan would never run off the way Vlad had. No child of his would ever wonder.

How many times had I asked my mother, ‘Who do I look like?’ When I was small, she replied, ‘You look like a fairy princess, come to earth to bless Boba and me.’ The answer charmed me but it didn’t satisfy. Later, I felt my fine arch and looked at her thick brow. At her wiry hair, her broad shoulders, her large hands. She was my mother; she was my opposite. Again and again, I asked,
Who do I look like? Who? Who?
I yearned for one small piece of my own history. Why couldn’t I know? What had I done? Who? Who?
You
, she answered.
You look like you
.

End of discussion.

I wanted my child to know where she came from.

The doctor’s words had soothed me. I touched my belly often, wistfully thinking:
Soon
. I pulled the baby dress out from under the bed and marveled at how something so small could bring such joy. Tristan and I moved the computer out of the office into the living room to make room for the crib. He took my hand in his. My daughter would have a father. A
real
family. God loves three. We kept trying.

Sometimes, I pretended it was all happening to someone else. The distance helped. It wasn’t me who was frustrated. It wasn’t me who was disappointed. It was someone else.
He rolls off her. Naked, she goes to the bathroom to wash. She imagines that if she loved him, she would pull on one of his old T-shirts, the faded cotton soft to the touch. Instead, she pulls on pajamas that her grandmother has sewn for her and returns to bed
.

Groggily, he takes her in his arms and kisses her temple. Patiently, she waits for him to fall asleep before she disentangles her legs from his and moves to the cool edge of the bed.

You can’t have everything, she thinks to herself.

You can have one thing, a voice replies.

She looks at her husband, his face softened in sleep.

He’s a good provider, she hears Boba say.

He’s a good provider, she hears Molly say.

He snores gently. If she loved him, this soft sound would remind her of the constancy of the sea.

She is unsatisfied. She wants release. Release from the days and nights of longing.

I want, I want, she thinks.

Give yourself this one thing, the voice says again. It is a man’s voice. She craves its caress. She runs her hand down the plane of her stomach to her hip bone. She pauses.

Yes, yes, he says.

Yes, yes, she says.

Her back arches, her hand travels lower, she closes her eyes, she gives herself this one thing.

Another barren month passed. Tristan turned forty-one, the same age his dad was when he was born. ‘I’m going to be an old father. An old man. It’s your fault.’

‘You shouldn’t have left it so long,’ I shot back. ‘You could have had a dozen children by now. You should have been like me. Married at twenty-four.’

‘I didn’t want to marry someone I didn’t love.’

And you think I did?

I didn’t say it. But God was I tempted.

I begged the clinic secretary to schedule another appointment for us, even though the year wasn’t up. As usual, things were easier for a man. Tristan’s exam consisted of a plastic cup and a
Playboy
. His sperm count was below average but ‘far from catastrophic.’

The doctor stuck a gloved finger into me and groped my lower abdomen, looking for any kind of deficiency. I wondered if he found it. After the examination, Tristan and I sat across from the doctor. The Verdict: He felt I didn’t have enough stores of fat and mentioned it could help if I gained weight. Tristan told him I’d grown up in Russia and had suffered as a child. I rolled my eyes.

‘Well, she’s been in America for a while, and she’s still slim. I’d guess it’s more about healthy choices than any kind of suppression.’

I looked at him gratefully.

‘She’s a vegetarian,’ Tristan blurted out.

‘There are lots of vegetarian moms out there,’ the doctor assured him. ‘Let’s not assign blame here.’

Back in the waiting room, Tristan wrote out a check for the appointment and tests. I couldn’t believe how much it cost. And we hadn’t even been there an hour! Seeing my shock, the receptionist soothed, ‘The insurance should cover most of it.’

‘What insurance?’ Tristan asked bleakly.

The ride home was tense. Dinner was tense. I was tense.
Bind-bound-bound
. When the phone rang, I flinched. It rang so rarely and when it did, it was usually a telemarketer. Tristan always seemed to relish the fight. ‘New windows? Why don’t you give me your home number so I can call and interrupt your dinner? Huh? Huh?’ he yelled, then slammed the phone down. ‘I showed them.’

‘They’re just doing their job.’

‘If their job is to piss me off, mission accomplished.’

I shrugged.

‘No one likes telemarketers,’ he said.

I rushed to the phone to avoid another shouting match.

‘Hello, beauty,’ Oksana said. ‘Good news. I may be a doctor again.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Let me start from the beginning. In Russia. When Jerry said he didn’t want me to work, I thought that meant he wanted to spoil me – and I was all for it. You wouldn’t believe the fantasies I had. Mansions. Dollar bills growing on rose bushes. A fabulous husband.’

We both laughed. I remembered how I’d thought Tristan was wealthy because he’d given me a laptop. I’d imagined myself living in a Victorian house in the smartest district of San Francisco. I thought we’d be so happy. I knew all about fantasies.

‘Now I realize he didn’t want me to have friends, colleagues, or my own money. I’m so isolated. It feels like I’m going mad in this big house. Two months ago, I applied for a job at the hospital as a doctor.’

‘
Molodets!
’ Good for you!

‘It’s not so easy. They want my transcript. My mother sent it to a translation agency in Los Angeles. I was supposed to pay by check or credit card, but I don’t have either. Jerry doesn’t give me any cash except for groceries. Holding back a little here and a little there, I saved enough for a money order.’

‘He’s so cheap?’ I asked.

‘You can’t even ask him for snow in winter,’ she replied.

‘Who’s on the phone?’ Tristan yelled.

‘Oksana.’

‘Speak English!’ he said.

‘He’s just like Jerry.’ Oksana said.

‘He’s not that bad,’ I said weakly.

‘I’ll need to take an exam – in English. Will you help me?’

‘I’d love to. But maybe you should ask a native speaker,’ I said, worried that Tristan was right, that my English wasn’t good enough.

‘No one here is as rigorous as a Russian or Ukrainian.’

‘That’s the truth,’ I seconded.

‘How are things?’

I sighed.

‘I know. He says he’ll get me deported if I leave him. Do you think he can?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Everything’s in his name: the car, the house, the bank account. It’s like I’m a ghost. I don’t exist. Americans are always talking about their rights.
“
It’s my right,
”
they say. What about us? What are
our
rights?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m totally dependent on Jerry – for everything. He says I’ll be penniless if we divorce.’

‘Are you thinking about it?’

‘I wasn’t. But as time goes by, I realize he’ll never trust anyone again. He’s waiting for the bomb to drop. It’s almost like he wants it to, so he can say ‘‘I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.”?’

Tristan was glaring at me. ‘It’s rude to leave the table in the middle of a meal.’

Oh, great. Now he was giving me etiquette lessons.

‘I came here for security,’ Oksana said. ‘I knew I’d never be in love with him, but I thought that we could build a life together, as partners. But he controls everything. It feels like I have less security here than I did at home. What would you do if you were me?’ she asked.

I looked over at Tristan, who was shoveling rice into his mouth. ‘I am you.’

The nurse called to say the tests revealed there was nothing wrong. She advised me to check for peak days and have intercourse then. After all those tests and all that money, this was all she could say? I was starting to lose faith in Western medicine. It worked about as well as the fertility goddess statues that David had in his apartment pre-Olga.

I asked Oksana to examine me. She said if I’d consulted an American doctor, there wasn’t much more she could add, but she did suggest that I see an acquaintance of hers, a white witch who’d worked as a midwife. We decided on a Sunday. Tristan moaned, but he drove me to Jerry’s. Oksana and the white witch stood on the front porch, waiting. I felt immediately welcomed. She was short and plump with dark eyes and raven black hair. It was silly, but she reminded me of my mother. I felt a surge of hope. Maybe she could help me.

Tristan started to follow us women down the corridor, but Jerry said, ‘Don’t be a pussy. Get in here and watch the game.’ He gestured to the gigantic television.

In the kitchen, Oksana pointed to the dark cabinets and brocade wallpaper. ‘I call it the “ex-wife kitchen.” I wanted to lighten it up, but Jerry forbade any changes. He said he wants his kids to feel at home. But they never come.’