Being at Viktor’s visitation felt surreal. I hadn’t been at a funeral since I was young, and that time Sean and I had been the ones sitting in the chairs, receiving sympathies, like Heather and her in-laws. The line for Viktor was huge, snaking through the cramped hallway and spilling into the foyer, so that the funeral-home attendants, men in somber black suits who smelled of pomade and cologne, had to take shifts at the front doors. They directed mourners for Dr. Lysenko to the end of the line while ushering a much smaller group of mourners to a side room, where a wizened old woman was laid out in a ghastly white coffin.
There were lots of people from the hospital, of course, plus plenty of parents with children Daniel’s age. Multiple young women dressed in scrubs were weeping and I thought of how Viktor had always been able to turn on the old-world charm.
“Oh, God, this is going to take way over an hour,” Michael muttered when we joined the line, glancing at his watch. “We should text the babysitter.”
That was when I noticed the detectives. The shorter, older one had been lingering near the front door, his hand moving repeatedly between a bowl of pastel mints on the table next to him and his mouth. Toss, chew, toss, and chew as his little eyes rapidly surveyed the crowd.
For a moment I thought about leaving, agreeing with Michael that the line was far too long and we should just move straight to the coffin, pay our respects directly to Viktor, and duck out. Except that would call attention to us, far more attention than just standing there. Michael was saying something, making a joke about how we could probably take care of all our medical issues by consulting with half the line, but I could barely hear him. I felt as if all sound had faded away as I watched the detective’s darting, raptorlike gaze fall on one person, then another. I turned away, smiling at Michael as if I were listening, while I could feel the man turn his scrutiny on me. It felt searing, a brand being pressed against my skin. I actually started to sweat and Michael said, “Are you feeling okay? You look flushed.”
Why was the detective still looking? Did he recognize me? The weight pressing against my skin was too much to bear. I turned to confront him, startled to see that the man had his back turned. He wasn’t looking at me at all.
“I’m fine,” I said, digging around in my purse for a tissue to dab against my face. “It’s just hot in here.”
By the time we reached Heather I’d adjusted to the police presence; I’d spotted another detective once we’d inched our way up the line and into the viewing room itself. I hadn’t adjusted to the soundtrack playing in the background, an Eastern European dirge that someone said was a Ukrainian folk song. “If I have to listen to this for much longer I’ll incite a revolution,” I whispered to Michael.
There was only one couple ahead of us, an elderly man and a woman I’d taken for his daughter until I overheard her murmur a reminder about taking his Viagra. When it was their turn, they took forever talking to Heather, who accepted the odd couple’s sympathy with a solemn expression, nodding at their stories, then giving a slight smile when they declared how much they loved Viktor and were going to miss him. “He was one of a kind,” the man said, patting Heather’s hand. Yes, he was, but not in the way the man meant.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” I said when it was our turn, and Michael echoed me. Heather thanked us with the same somber grace, accepting our handshakes and the half-embrace I bent to give her. It felt odd to stand there and pretend that this was the first time I’d seen her since Viktor’s death, but she didn’t give the slightest hint of pretense. She looked serene, like a Botticelli virgin, yet in her black Chanel suit, patent heels, and diamond-and-pearl necklace and earrings, she was every inch the doctor’s widow.
Of course, we’d had to shake Anna Lysenko’s hand first, and voice the same sentiments to her. Then there was her sister, Olga, and the sallow-faced younger woman with a dyed black pixie cut, who was introduced to us as Irina, Viktor’s first cousin. Far from being serene like Heather, Irina had bloodshot eyes and a sullen, surly expression. “They were very close,” Aunt Olga informed me, patting her daughter’s hand until the younger woman yanked hers away. “We’re so sorry for your loss,” I murmured, and Irina teared up and clutched my hand, startling me.
When we finally got out of there, I was surprised to discover that it was still light out, the last of the day dropping off in bright bands of red on the horizon. “God, I thought that would never be over,” Michael said, pulling his tie free as we picked our way through the crowded parking lot to our car.
“I’m sorry for Heather,” I said. “The line is still out the door.”
“What a turnout! All of these people coming to honor her husband—that’s got to be comforting.”
“Mmm.” I tried to sound noncommittal.
“Do you think I’d pull this kind of crowd if I died?”
“I don’t want to think about you dying,” I said, flashing back to the strong smell of blood in the garage and seeing Viktor slumped over in his car.
“It’s okay,” Michael said, putting his arm around me as he saw me shudder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
It wasn’t the thought of his death that frightened me, but of course I couldn’t tell him.
Michael pulled out of the parking lot as I texted the babysitter to let her know we’d be home soon. “You know, I shouldn’t say this,” Michael said, “but I never liked Viktor.”
He seemed surprised when I leaned over to give him a resounding kiss on the cheek. “What’s that for?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I just love you.”
*
At home the kids were clamoring for attention, excited because this wasn’t an ordinary afternoon and they’d gotten to watch movies and eat popcorn and candy with the babysitter, Kristi, a plump and cheerful high school senior, popular with kids but not parents, because she did nothing but watch TV with the kids and allow them to fill up on junk food. The neighborhood’s first choice for sitter had always been Angela, who could tutor your children in Chinese, if you so desired, and had been the first-chair cellist in the high school orchestra, before she graduated and went to study biochemistry at Stanford.
Kristi’s one asset was that she seemed to enjoy our kids’ company as much as they enjoyed hers. I didn’t enjoy the mess that she’d leave in her wake—popcorn kernels scattered across the living room rug, a pile of DVD cases spilled across the coffee table next to sticky juice glasses and crumpled candy wrappers.
“We watched Finding Nemo again, Mommy!” Matthew told me for the fourth time since we’d stepped in the door. “Are you sad we watched it without you?”
“No, of course not, sweetie,” I said, hugging him with one arm while I tried to slip out of my jacket.
“Mommy is sad because of Daniel’s dad, not a dumb movie,” Lucy announced in her best imperious big-sister voice.
“It’s not dumb,” Matthew protested. “Mommy, Lucy thinks it’s dumb. Finding Nemo isn’t dumb, is it?”
“It’s not dumb, you are,” Lucy said before I could respond.