The Memory Keeper of Kyiv (45)

You’re so beautiful when you sleep that I couldn’t bear to wake you. I love you. I’ll see you soon. – P.





The words both soothed her and enraged her. Now bloodstained from her time spent pressed against his wounded body, she no longer tucked the note in her shirt. Instead, she pressed it into her journal so she wouldn’t risk losing it while she worked. It was the last piece of him she had.

Every night, she tossed and turned, the sweet oblivion of sleep unattainable for her tortured soul. And, every morning, she started off the day with a violent bout of vomiting, which, in her more delusional moments, she imagined was her body rejecting Mama’s attempts to sustain her through the food she forced down her throat. Katya’s body simply wanted to die along with Pavlo.

Three weeks after his death, Mama grabbed Katya by the arm and asked how long she’d been sick in the morning.

“It started right after…” Katya trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

“And how long since your last monthly?”

The question confused her for a moment, then a flash of understanding dawned. Alina had had morning sickness in the beginning of her pregnancy. Now, midway through, she finally had shaken the unwelcome morning ritual.

“Oh, no,” Katya moaned and sank into a chair. “It’s been well over a month. Probably two. I’ve lost track. Mama, how can I do this without him?”

“Hush, now.” Mama pulled her daughter toward her. “I’ll be here to help you through. It’s a blessing, Katya, for a little piece of Pavlo lives on inside you.”

That idea soothed her. Katya rested a hand on her still flat belly and gave a small smile. “He would have been so excited.”

But the smile melted away as the realization that Pavlo would never know or hold this child washed over her.

She collapsed into sobs against her mother’s chest. Mama stroked her hair and told her that everything would be fine, but Katya knew it was a lie.





15





CASSIE





Illinois, May 2004





Cassie set her pencil down on the notebook and glanced at the clock. Her mother and Bobby should be back from the doctor anytime now. She ran a hand across the word–filled page and smiled. That afternoon, the sudden urge to write about her favorite memories of Henry had made her fingers twitch. She almost didn’t recognize the feeling. While she hadn’t been able to bring herself to use her old laptop to write articles or stories yet, journaling by hand had proven to be cathartic.

Bobby had been right.

Some pages bore the tear stains of her grief, and other entries made her laugh out loud as she recalled his antics. When she was done, if she could ever really be done writing about him, she would keep the book for Birdie so she would always have a way to remember her father.

Cassie stood and stretched the kinks out of her neck and upper back, then went to check on Birdie. She smoothed the damp hair off her daughter’s forehead. Birdie always got so hot when she napped. Her breath, slow and even, fell from parted lips still sticky from the chocolates Bobby had given her. Without a doubt, Bobby enjoyed having the little girl here to spoil. Just last night, they’d spent hours working together as Bobby taught Birdie how to embroider flowers on a white cloth.

“That’s how you taught me,” Cassie had said.

“And it’s how my mother taught me,” Bobby replied. “She was an artist with her needle and thread. I could never create pieces as beautiful as hers, but she made sure I learned the craft.”

Cassie eyed the framed, embroidered picture hanging over Birdie’s bed and made a mental note to ask Bobby who had made it. Golden stalks of wheat wove up between scarlet and blue flowers. Green vines and leaves framed the bouquet. It truly was a piece of art.

Her mother’s voice echoed from the kitchen and Cassie slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her so Birdie could keep sleeping.

“So, how was the appointment?” Cassie helped Bobby into her chair at the kitchen table, then sat next to her.

“Bah! Ridiculous!” Bobby said. “They asked me so many questions it made my head spin. And I had to draw a clock. Waste of time.”

Anna, her face strained, fell into the chair next to Cassie’s. “I told you, it’s a standard test to assess your mental faculties.”

“I’m fine.” Bobby slammed her fist on the table. “I don’t need doctors to tell me that.”

Anna massaged her forehead. “Cassie, will you get me some aspirin? I think there’s some in the medicine cabinet. If not, then check the nightstand in Bobby’s room.”

“Sure, Mom.” Cassie left the two of them still bickering and opened up the mirrored doors above the bathroom sink. No aspirin, but since the last time she’d checked, three cans of beets had taken up residence there.

She walked down the hall to Bobby’s bedroom and pushed open the door. The room smelled like old lady perfume and incense. Family pictures and colorful embroidered pictures filled the walls.

Cassie resisted the urge to pilfer through the box in the closet again and instead sat on the bed and rifled through the various bottles on top of the nightstand. When she didn’t find what she was looking for, she opened the top drawer. There, next to a loaf of bread and five cans of sardines, she found the small bottle of aspirin.