Still Here (34 page)

He was finally in the driveway of his house. And, yes, legally, this was still his house. He still owned the rusted mailbox. The ugly porch with the scuffed column. The plastic bat hanging off the awning since three Halloweens ago. He still had the key. He felt it would be wrong to open the door with his own key, even though he knew that Vica wasn't there. He pressed the button of the doorbell. There was a wheezing half-choked ring followed by some commotion in the house.

“Eric, open the door!” his mother yelled. “Eric, now! Eric, my hands are all covered in meat!”

Then there was the clicking of the locks. Mira insisted on locking all of them even though both Vica and Sergey tried to persuade her that the neighborhood was very safe.

“Who is this?” she asked from behind the door in her strained and thus a little rude-sounding English.

“Mom, it's me,” Sergey said.

Mira opened the door and moved to the side to let him pass. She stood wiping her hands on her little apron printed with cat paws. Complicated jewelry dangled off her hands, ears, and neck. She had stopped dyeing her hair since Sergey's father died, and there was something intensely sad about the combination of her childish frame, her fancy jewelry, and her sparse white hair.

“I'm making
ezhiki,
” she announced.

“Great, Mom,” he said and leaned in to kiss her. Her skin felt dry and brittle under his lips, which it did more and more so each time they saw each other. His father's death was abrupt, Sergey thought, but he was being forced to witness his mother's demise unraveling in slow motion.

Mira went back into the kitchen, and Sergey walked up the stairs to the top floor. He took great care not to touch or see anything that would remind him of Vica, so he was grateful that the door to their former bedroom was shut, but the door of the hallway closet was gaping open and he caught a glimpse of the pink towels that he had seen wrapped around Vica's body so many times. Eric's door was half open too. Inside, he saw the usual picture: Eric sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, one sock on, the other sock for some reason lying in the middle of the room. He was flushed and sweaty, clutching his Xbox controller, his thumbs jerking as if on their own, his entire body swaying right and left with the characters on-screen. And what characters they were! Nasty, vicious, dressed in full military garb, loaded with various weapons, screaming, jumping, bursting into flames. Sergey had always said that they shouldn't let Eric play those games, but he never found enough support from Vica to carry it through. “This is normal,” she would say, getting angrier as she talked, “this is what boys do. You don't want Eric not to do what other boys do, do you? To grow up weird and alone?”

“Eric!” he called.

“Not now, Dad!” The characters on the screen started screaming in what sounded like Mandarin to Sergey.

“Hey!” Sergey called again.

Eric bit on his lower lip and made several jerky movements with his hands. There was a series of explosions that left a lonely mutilated corpse on the smoke-clouded field.

“Dad! You distracted me! Now I'm dead!” Eric said and dropped his controller on the floor.

“Is that supposed to be you?” Sergey asked, pointing to the corpse.

“Yep,” Eric said.

A husky Asian man, bent under his excessive weaponry, sprinted over to the mutilated corpse, squatted over his face, and proceeded to push his pelvis up and down.

“What in hell was that?” Sergey asked.

“Tea-bagging. The winner is supposed to do that to humiliate the dead guy.”

Sergey's face contorted with disgust, but Eric must have misinterpreted his expression, because he proceeded to reassure him.

“It's okay, Dad. I won't stay dead forever. All I have to do is to choose a safe place to respawn and then I'll go back to the battle.”

“Respawn?” Sergey asked.

“Yeah, when you die, you just follow the spawning process and then you're alive again. It takes no time.”

“Boys, lunch!” Mira called from the kitchen.

Eric put his second sock on and they headed to the kitchen.

Sergey loathed these weekly lunches that he had there since the separation. Being a guest in his own house, having his mother cook for him as if he were still a child, straining to fit some parental influence into the little time he now spent with Eric.

Their small kitchen table was crowded with little plates and bowls and tiny serving dishes overflowing with chopped, minced, and sautéed vegetables. Sergey had always marveled at how elaborately his mother set the table, even for a simple lunch, even for just the three of them. He remembered this from childhood: her pretty serving dishes, her layered salads, the mushrooms made from tomatoes and eggs, the palm trees made from franks, the farmer's cheese snowmen.

“
Ezhiki,
cool!” Eric said and piled some onto his plate, ignoring the salad with strawberries and tiny shrimp, the minced eggplant, and the mushroom-stuffed zucchini. Mira took a piece of bread, generously spread it with butter, and gave it to Eric. He accepted it with great enthusiasm.

“Mom, I don't think he needs that much butter,” Sergey said, watching Eric take a great big bite out of the bread slice. He immediately regretted it. Mira's lips trembled as she tried to put on the defensive expression that made her appear all the more vulnerable.

“Butter helps digest vitamins,” she said.

“That's right,” Sergey said, “but we don't see him eating vitamin-rich food, do we?”

“She gives me baby carrots all the time!” Eric said. “They're, like, chock-full of A and C.”

“And iron,” Mira whispered.

Sergey doubted that Eric was actually eating those carrots, but he wasn't going to pick a fight with his mother in front of his child. Once, about a year ago, Eric had asked him “to be nicer to Grandma.” “I'm very nice to her,” Sergey had said. “No, Dad, you're not nice, you're polite.” Sergey couldn't help but feel that Eric might have been right. He had never loved his mother as much as he loved his father. What he felt for her was pity rather than affection. And the more aware he was of that, the more pity and the less affection he felt.

After lunch, he took Eric for a walk.

“Great Kills or Mount Moses?” Sergey asked, starting the car.

“Mount Moses,” Eric answered from the backseat. He was already furiously pressing buttons on his Nintendo DS.

They drove up to the woodsy part of Staten Island and parked the car off a tiny street overgrown with tall blueberry bushes. They made their way through the bushes, into the large clearing that held the remains of the foundation of some old stone structure, deeper into the woods between the large rocks and the tall trees the names of which Sergey didn't know. Mount Moses wasn't that tall and wasn't really a mountain, just a large hill. They climbed up the slope panting and cursing and trying to hold on to the brittle tree branches along the way. “Ooooh,” Eric said when they reached the top. He was sweaty and winded—they really should make him exercise more.

“Hey, Eric,” he said, “let's start jogging in Great Kills on weekends.”

Eric scrunched his nose. He was probably weighing the physical hardships of weekly jogging against the emotional rewards of spending time with his dad.

“Okay,” he finally said.

They went to sit down on the cluster of rocks that presented a panoramic view of Staten Island.

“Look, Dad,” Eric said, still breathing hard.“The ocean!”

Yes, they could see a narrow line of ocean on the horizon. Blindingly white in the sun, like a sliver of ice.

They could just sit there enjoying the view or Sergey could attempt some parental guidance.

“I didn't really like that game you were playing,” Sergey said.

Eric picked up a little rock from the ground and started scratching the surface of the boulder they were sitting on. His expression was one of resigned boredom. He knew that he had to suffer through this conversation, but he also knew that the conversation wouldn't change anything. None of the previous ones had.

“What game? Battlefield? I like it.”

“Isn't it a tad too violent?”

“Yeah. But I'm in a battle, battles are violent. That's normal.”

“Isn't it tiresome though? You have those guys killing one another over and over again? You dying over and over again?”

“Maybe. But no, not really. I die only because I'm not very good at the game. If I get better at it, I can avoid dying. I can kill all the other guys and not die.”

“Doesn't it make you sad when all the other guys kill you?” Sergey asked.

“No, Dad! I told you—I don't stay dead for long. I respawn and go into the battle again.”

Respawning—what an addictive concept, Sergey thought.

“Does it work like that in all video games?”

“What? Respawning? Pretty much. In Skyrim, if something kills me—a robot sentry, or a dragon, or even my wife—I just restart the game, and it starts from the point where I last saved. And I can restart from anywhere, like, even if I'm halfway up the dragon's mouth.”

Eric could sense his father's sincere interest and was getting more and more animated. He even stood up so that he could face Sergey.

“In Pokemon, if you faint in the battle, you just have to go to a Pokemon center to restore your health. Are you getting this, Dad?”

Sergey nodded.

Eric smiled and continued. “And in Destiny respawns are weirder. Basically when you die, your Ghost, which is this alien robot pal, gathers up all your particles and slowly brings you back to life, while you're watching everything from a deathcam, which is like a pair of floating eyes.”

“You're dead, but you're watching everything. You know, I've actually been working on something very similar,” Sergey said.

“Virtual Grave, I know,” Eric said. “An app that would allow dead people to keep talking. Mom told me about it.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. It sounds a little weird. Could be kind of cool though.”

Sergey smiled and squeezed Eric's shoulder.

It was starting to get dark. The clouds above the ocean took on a dirty pink color.

“Let's head back,” Sergey said.

They were just a hundred feet from the car when they saw a deer. She was standing on the clearing between two birch trees looking at them with calm attention.

“Too bad we don't have any food,” Sergey said.

Eric reached into his pockets and pulled out a bunch of baby carrots in various stages of decay.

“I wonder if they are still chock-full of A and C,” Sergey said.

Eric threw a few toward the deer.

The deer jolted back.

“Don't throw them! Offer her some,” Sergey said.

Eric took a few steps forward and extended his hand as far as he could.

The deer looked away and headed back into the woods.

“She doesn't understand the concept of the carrot,” Eric said.

Sergey's heart tightened with an overwhelming mix of tenderness, worry, and guilt. But then wasn't this what parental love was supposed to feel like?

“Will you have time to come into the house?” Eric asked when they got into the car. “I could show you how deathcams work and other stuff.”

“Sure,” Sergey said.

He would play with Eric, then he would go home and send out his résumé to all those banks he had marked and answer all his LinkedIn inquiries. And tonight, after they watched that stupid movie, he would finally man up and make love with Helen.

It was almost dark by the time they made it back to the house. The first thing he saw was Vica's car, parked a mere inch away from the garage door. Vica never slowed down when she drove into the driveway. She took pride in making her turns sharp and precise.

“I'm sorry, Eric,” Sergey said, “I think we'd better look at your games some other time.”

Eric tried to hide his disappointment under a mask of male camaraderie. “Sure, Dad,” he said, “or if you install a console at your place, we could play each other.”

“I'll think about it,” Sergey said.

He waited until Eric entered the house and started to pull away. Just then the front door opened with a bang and Vica came running toward the car, barefoot.

Sergey stopped the car and rolled down the window. “What is it?” he asked, hoping that his voice wouldn't tremble.

“Could you come out for a second?” she said.

Sergey got out of the car, bracing himself for a very unpleasant conversation.

But Vica wasn't saying anything. She just stood in the driveway, in her ridiculous too-tight yoga pants, her bare feet pressing into the gravel. There was that hungry, pleading look on her face that he hadn't seen in such a long time that it took him a while to recognize it.

“Do you want me to come in?” he asked.

She nodded and started to cry.

Sergey winced at Vica's stupid emoji and checked the time before putting the phone back into the pocket of his jeans. He still had about four hours before he had to head to Williamsburg for Vadik's going-away party. He had called Sergey two weeks ago to tell him that he was leaving for Singapore. Sergey's heart leaped with joy when he first heard Vadik's voice, then he thought about him and Vica, and the joy got mired in anger and pain. They met for a drink and talked about what was happening with Virtual Grave, and Regina's decision to adopt a child (Can you believe it!), and Vadik's plans. They were both careful not to mention Vica. It turned out that Vadik didn't really have plans. His headhunter had offered him a two-year contract overseas, and he had jumped at the opportunity. Singapore!

“Perhaps this was for the better,” Sergey said to Vica when he got home that night. Better for Vadik and for their friendship too. Perhaps what they needed was some distance in order to salvage what they had. Vica just nodded in agreement.

A bicycle bell made Sergey jump. He was walking down the narrow East Ninth Street on his way to Goebbels's place. Even though he was officially back together with Vica, Sergey still had to feed Goebbels and spend some nights with him. He wondered if he was going to miss the cat. His owner was coming back in two weeks. Sergey would definitely miss this apartment, having a room of his own, getting to spend some time by himself. The idea of having a room of his own had supported him all through the turbulent process of reconciliation. He and Vica would be in the midst of yet another screaming fight and he would remind himself that there was a dark, quiet, cat-smelling retreat just thirty minutes away.

“But it's getting better, isn't it?” his mother asked. It was. He had to admit that it was.

The moment of clarity came after the call from Cleo. Bank of America had just offered him a junior financial analyst position. He had given up on Virtual Grave and was ready to accept it. He went ahead and took the drug test and filled out all the forms for the background check.

Then the call came just as he, Vica, and Eric were walking along the beach in Great Kills. Eric was crouching nearby trying to revive a horseshoe crab. The number was unfamiliar and Sergey hesitated before picking up.

“Sergey? This is Cleo Triantafyllides.” Sweet female voice. He had no idea who that was. He walked away from the surf to hear her better.

“We met a few weeks ago,” Cleo said. “I used to work as James Kisco's assistant.”

Cleo! The doll-faced, slightly frightening girl.

“Yes, I remember,” Sergey said. He was pacing back and forth, barefoot, on the cold lumpy sand, while Vica sat down on a driftwood log.

Cleo told him that she had decided to branch out and set up her own start-up with her friend Mischa, another Wharton grad who was “amazingly savvy.” They were looking to develop a project that would truly stand out. And they thought that Virtual Grave would be an ideal start. Both she and Mischa loved how dark and edgy it was. They didn't have a lot of money, so they couldn't offer him much, but they were willing to pay him a modest salary while the project was in development stage. And a share of the profits later on. They had a wonderful team of very hot young programmers and designers. She knew that they could build something truly beautiful together. She hoped to meet and discuss the details in the next few days.

Sergey's first thought was No, let me be. He was so tired of that roller coaster. Bob, Kisco, Kotov. Hopes up, hopes down. It was so much easier to give up. Sergey was almost hoping that Vica would tell him to do just that when he told her about Cleo's call.

He walked over and sat down next to her on that driftwood log. He described Cleo's offer, expecting her to say: “Forget about it! You have a nice offer from Bank of America.”

But instead Vica hopped off the log and started to jump up and down. “I knew it! I knew it!” she was screaming. “I always thought that Virtual Grave was a brilliant idea! Brilliant!”

Then she leaped at him, making him fall off the log, and fell on top of him. They toppled and tumbled around on the sand, laughing like crazy, until the worried Eric left his crab alone and ran up to them.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Eric! We just sold our app!” Vica screamed. “It's gonna work. People are gonna use it!”

“Yeah!” Eric yelled and hurled himself down onto the sand too.

“There is no way of knowing if it will be successful,” Sergey said when they got up and were cleaning the sand off themselves.

“It doesn't matter,” Vica said. “We need to see it through, up until the very end.”

“Is that the one where you're respawning people?” Eric asked.

“Yep,” Sergey said.

“That's seriously cool!”

Afterward, the three of them sat down at a picnic table and had a celebratory picnic of My Europe offerings. They kept talking and laughing, eating like pigs, protecting the food from the seagulls, protecting their napkins from the wind, smearing the sauces around. And all Sergey could think of was Vica. Here she was with her wild hair in the wind, sand all over her clothes, smiling at him, smiling at Eric, smiling at that stupid salami sandwich in her hand. Buoyant, victorious, half delirious with happiness.

I love her, he thought then. I really do.

He did love her, that much was clear. Whether they would be able to be happy together was a different question.

The staircase was dark as always and Sergey had trouble finding the keys to Goebbels's door.

“Hey, there, Sergio,” Teena said, sticking her head out of her apartment. “Where's my pal Enrico?”

“Eric,” Sergey said. “I promise to bring him next time.”

Eric loved feeding Goebbels, and Sergey would bring the boy with him from time to time. Teena had struck up a surprising friendship with Eric. They would play videogames in her room, building castles together, burning bridges, killing their enemies, and respawning their friends.

“Where's your mom?” Sergey asked.

“On a date,” Teena said smugly.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, good for her. I made her sign up for Hello, Love! It's not like she cares that you went back to your wife or anything.”

Goebbels meowed from behind the door and Sergey said good-bye to Teena and walked in. There he was, lying in the middle of the kitchen floor, flapping his tail against the tiles.

Sergey opened a can of minced duck delight, shaped the meat into tiny meatballs, and hid the anti-inflammatory pill inside one of them. That was Eric's idea. He said that he did it all the time when he had to give medicine to Gavin's cats. Then he confided to Sergey that his dream was to be a vet someday.

“But that's so—” Sergey started to say “unambitious.” He stopped himself just in time. Let Eric figure out what he wants, he thought.

“Yeah, it's tough, I know,” Eric said. “You have to have all As in biology, and Ms. Zeh keeps giving me Bs.”

Sergey put the meatballs into the bowl. Goebbels limped over to his food with great fervor. The medicinal piece was down (thank God) and now Goebbels was working on the remaining meatballs. He always turned his head sideways when he ate and that gave him a vicious expression, as if he was eating a live bird rather than the thoroughly processed minced duck delight.

Sergey's phone beeped. There was a text message from Regina: “Is Vica with you?”

“No, why? Aren't you meeting her at IKEA?” he typed.

“She's not here and she's not answering.”

“Must be on the subway,” Sergey texted back.

Regina sighed. She'd been waiting for Vica for twenty minutes on the crowded first floor of Brooklyn's IKEA and she was getting restless. The place was awful, unbearable, loud, inspiring both agoraphobia because of its size and claustrophobia because of its crowded little pretend rooms. There were all these families moving in all directions half hidden behind the enormous boxes sticking out of their shopping carts. Angry, screaming, exhausted.