Theresa’s hand slowed for a second as she put down the knife. “I know. She’s the one who taught me how to cook. I’d never had grilled cheese made that way until I moved in here. It’s how I’ve made them ever since.”
The food was ready in a few minutes, and she slid plates across the table with a gesture for him to sit. He hadn’t been sure he wanted food, but once he took the first bite, his appetite roared, and he gobbled everything on the plate; then he went to the stove for another sandwich. She’d made extra, like she knew he’d want more.
“Will you be back tomorrow?” he asked, once he’d returned to the table.
Theresa wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “I’d like to see her again. The nurse there told me they thought she didn’t have much longer.”
“Are you going to go all the way home?” He realized he wasn’t sure where home was for her. For all he knew, she’d moved back to Quarrytown years ago, and they’d merely been missing sightings of each other. It was a small town, though. That didn’t seem likely.
“I thought I’d find a cheap hotel room close to the home . . . crash there. I have some work to do in the area, too.”
He also had no idea what Theresa did for a living, but despite the belly full of carbs and fat, he was still a little too hammered to figure out how to ask her without sounding like an idiot of the highest order. “There aren’t any hotels close to the home. They were talking about putting in a business-suite-type place nearby, but it never happened. You can stay here if you want. Your old room. It hasn’t changed much, if you want to know the truth. Galina made it into a sewing room after you and your dad left—”
“We didn’t leave,” Theresa said sharply. “She threw us out.”
Ilya didn’t say anything at first. His brain was still fuzzy at the moment—his memories faded even without the booze—but that had not been the way he’d heard the story. “Galina threw you out?”
“Yeah. She wanted to split up from my dad, so she told him we had three hours to pack our stuff and get out.” She tilted her head to look at him. “You didn’t know.”
He should have. It was exactly the sort of thing his mother would have done and turned around later so she could make herself look like the victim. He frowned, heat tickling his throat with embarrassment. “No.”
Theresa shook her head. “That was your mom, through and through. Anyway, I can get a hotel room. Don’t worry about it.”
Ilya knew he had his moments, but he’d never in his life been the kind of class-A bitch his mother could be. He wasn’t going to be one now. Ilya stood on wobbly legs. This seemed important. Really important.
“Shit, no, you stay here. She threw you out? You should stay here, in your old room. Yeah.”
“I don’t have to—”
It wasn’t going to make anything right, but he was so damned tired of everything being wrong. He shook his head and took her by the shoulders. “You lived here. This was your house—hell, it’s too big and empty with just me in it, anyway. You stay here.”
Theresa looked amused. “Okay. For tonight, anyway. In case . . . well. In case you need a ride.”
From the kitchen doorway came the scuffle of feet. “What’s up?”
Ilya and Theresa both turned to see Niko. Ilya greeted his brother with a clap on the shoulder and a chest bump. Niko looked past him at their former stepsister.
Ilya gestured. “I told Theresa she could stay here in the house, so she can be here when . . . well, she can be here for Babulya. I don’t give a damn what Galina says.”
Niko’s brow furrowed. “Why would she say anything? Oh, shit, she’s coming home? I mean, of course she is. When did you talk to her?”
“She left a voicemail. Yeah, she’s coming. Sometime. I guess whenever she gets here.” Ilya shrugged.
Niko looked confused. “Did Mom say Theresa couldn’t stay here? Why?”
“Ilya, you should drink some more water,” Theresa put in. “Niko, do you want something to eat?”
“Drunk?” Niko asked her.
Ilya waved them both away. “I’m fine. Theresa says she threw them out, her and her dad. Did you know that?”
Niko looked uncomfortable and embarrassed, the way Ilya had felt when Theresa told him the truth about what had happened. The way he’d often felt over the years when he’d discovered his mother had been untruthful about one thing or another. It should have stopped being a surprise but somehow never did.
“I didn’t,” Niko said. “She told us they left. She cried about it, remember?”
“She lied,” Ilya said. “She lies all the time.”
“I’m sorry, Theresa,” Niko said. “You should definitely stay here if you want.”
Theresa looked from one of them to the other, before her gaze settled on Ilya. “It wasn’t your fault, either of you. It was our parents’ business, anyway. Not ours. And it was a long time ago. I saw some ice cream in the freezer. Anyone want some?”
CHAPTER NINE
Back in Niko’s adolescent bedroom, daylight cracked through the attic’s twin narrow windows in pale-golden stripes, exactly as it had done for all the years he’d lived there. The house was so quiet he couldn’t tell whether he was alone or whether Ilya and Theresa were still asleep, but he made sure not to make a lot of noise, anyway, when he went to the kitchen.
Someone had already been up. A plate of scrambled eggs covered in cheese, still warm, tempted him, and he noticed a stack of toast on a plate next to the toaster. He buttered some and made an egg sandwich, then took it into the living room to turn on the television. He didn’t have one at the kibbutz, and although there was a communal one, he hadn’t mindlessly watched anything stupid in a long time.
“The cable doesn’t work.” A low, husky voice came from the corner of the kitchen. “I guess your brother didn’t pay the bill on time.”
Nikolai had talked to his mother but hadn’t seen her in close to eight years. She had some silver in her hair and a few more lines around her eyes, but the persona . . . that hadn’t changed. Never would, as far as Nikolai was concerned—not unless she had a reason to become someone different, and why would she? Who she was had worked so well for her, all these years.
“Mom. Hi.” Awkwardly, Niko hugged his mother while trying not to drop the egg sandwich. It was a familiar feeling—most interactions with his mother felt like he was performing a strange sort of dance while struggling not to break something. “When did you get in?”
“About half an hour ago. I went first to see Babulya at the home, but she was sleeping. They said I could visit her later. But I suppose that’s good, yes? Means she’s not actively dying anymore. But what do I know? I only took care of people who’d gone under the knife. If I wanted to understand geriatric medicine, I’d have gone to work in a nursing home.”
He kept himself from flinching at the harshness of her words, a habit that hadn’t changed no matter how long it had been since he’d seen her.