Bang-bang. Buzzing drowns out the gunfire. I can’t hold on. Sleep, my mind calls out. Forget.
I throw up right into someone’s lap—in the creeping black of sleep, I hope it’s Masha’s—and my forehead strikes the metal floor as soft as a pillow, as deep as the Black Sea.
CHAPTER 26
I’M AT THE HIGHEST POINT in Moscow—the upper tiers of the central skyscraper at Moscow State University. The grandest of Stalin’s Seven Sisters. I’ve dreamed all my life of standing here, in the red granite hallways, unlocking the mysteries of life. The code inside our DNA; the pattern in the noise of my brother’s head. But I never could have imagined the path that brought me here—not a university exam, but a thin smile from Rostov, opening the door for me as he thanked me for a job well done.
The head doctor marches toward me, checking his charts. A scream drifts toward us from the far corridor; it’s like a shard of ice in my heart. He utters something to the pretty nurse at his side, and she scurries toward the corridor.
“Please, pay no mind to that. Many of our patients suffer from afflictions more … severe than Yevgenni Andreevich’s,” he says. He smiles at me with suspiciously white, parallel teeth. “Your brother will be out momentarily.” He gestures toward a row of wooden chairs, set along the window bank that peers out over the Moscow skyline.
“I prefer to stand,” I say.
“I understand you are interested in research yourself. We are all great fans of your mother’s work—her techniques for educating the mentally infirm have greatly enhanced the level of care we provide. It would be an honor to add another Chernina to our ranks, you know.”
I take a deep breath, despite the fear constricting my chest. This is what you’ve always wanted, Yulia. A normal girl would jump at this opportunity. Kruzenko is helping me prepare for the admissions test in March, even bringing in a tutor to help me with the advanced mathematics I never learned when I missed four years of school. A cleverer girl than me would be turning this conversation to her favor, securing an internship spot on the research team.
My head tells me to listen to Mama’s pleas and Sergei’s reasoning. Surround myself in the safety of the thick wool of the Soviet system, far from the scrubber’s reach. Embrace my gift, use it well, and live the life I’ve dreamed of, working within the structure, playing the games until the day I die.
So why do my feet still itch to run, run, run?
Two figures appear at the end of the hall, the tallest leaning on the other for support. Bozhe moi, my Zhenya. I swear he’s grown half a foot in these past few months. Smile at me, Zhenya. Run toward me. Doesn’t he remember me?
“We are working with him on proper socialization,” the doctor explains, as if the rejection I’m feeling stings him, too. “But you must understand that he does not respond to new situations as you or I would.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. Sometimes Zhenya would panic if I left the room for more than five minutes, but he could pass entire weeks without acknowledging my presence at all. I cannot take offense. I love him, quirks and all.
He reaches us, still leaning on the petite nurse for support. His face is fuller. We share the same dark features, but his chin juts like Papa’s, instead of pointing as Mama’s and mine does. That mischievous sparkle in his eyes—I’d nearly forgotten it.
“It’s too cold for our walk,” he tells me.
I try to smile. Does he mean the daily stroll we used to take? Or am I a random observer to him?
“Have you been working on your symphony?” I ask, as the nurse disentangles herself from him. “I was very impressed with your progress on it.” But he jerks his head away from me. All right, he doesn’t want to talk about music today, fine. Already I’m slipping back into the game rules of Zhenya, easy as hopping back onto a bike.
“Now, Yevgenni, what do we say when someone compliments us?” the doctor prompts him.
“We don’t call them a liar. Even if they are.”
I wince. “You know I’d never lie to you, Zhenya. You know who I am, don’t you?”
He shrugs. “Mama says you shouldn’t come here.” His face screws up. “‘She doesn’t need distractions.’”
“Zhenya.” I reach for his arm, then pull back, remembering that he hates to be touched unless he initiates it. “Zhenya. You’ve spoken to Mama? Are they letting you stay with her?”
He rolls his eyes at me, but it’s answer enough. He hates stating the obvious.
“What does Mama say? Does she really want me to—” I swallow. I’ve been trying so hard to comply with Mama’s wish for me, though it pains me to. “Is this what she wants for us?”