Page 17 of Born into Blood

“I am right,” I say, making sure she hears how confident I am.

When I’m fairly certain she’s not going to be foiling our windows, I relax a little and take another bite. We eat for a few more minutes before I work up the courage to ask, “Mom, do you think maybe it’s possible that no one is looking for us?”

I know it’s a mistake the second the words are out of my mouth. She drops her fork with a loud clatter and reaches for my arm, squeezing it through the hoodie I’m wearing. “Lara, it’s not safe. You have to believe me. The Melnikov bastards killed your dad and your uncle, and they will kill you too if they ever find out about you. They can never know about you.”

“Mom, it’s okay, just relax.”

My words just make her tighten her grip on my arm, unknowingly pressing into my scars.

“You don’t understand how dangerous they are. I’m ashamed to admit that when you were little I was obsessed with revenge, and I used to dream about you growing up and killing them for me because I knew I’d never have the strength to do it.”

I flinch at her words, at the idea of me committing murder, the idea of me killing Luka.

“But I’d been wrong,” she quickly says, seeing my horrified look. “I could never put you in danger like that. They’re trained killers. You could never get close enough to them to hurt them, and the thought of losing you, of losing the last piece I have of your dad, makes me feel sick. No,” she says, shaking her head and looking back at the window. “It’s safer if we hide. It’s safer if they never know you exist.”

“Mom, who was my dad?”

I’ve asked the question many times before, and she’s always blown it off, saying it’s safer if I don’t know.

“I told you his name was Osip, and he was a good man.” Her voice softens, and I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s lost in another memory. “He was so sweet and kind, and he loved us so much.” She smiles at me, but her eyes have that glazed-over look she gets when it’s a really bad day and she’s not thinking clearly. “He was so happy when I told him I was pregnant with you.”

“But what was his last name?”

“Your last name is Swan.”

“Mom, I know my last name, but Swan isn’t Russian, and you told me once that you changed it because you wanted to keep me safe.”

“They would’ve been able to find you if I’d given you his last name. It was safer to give you your own.” Her voice turns panicky again, so I rest my hand on hers and give it a soft squeeze. Part of me feels guilty about trying to get information from her when it’s obvious she’s not in a good place mentally, but I want answers. I need them. I’m sick to death of not knowing.

“I know. You did the right thing, but what was his name?”

When I’m sure she’s not going to answer, she surprises me by whispering, “Lebedev. His name was Osip Lebedev. He had a black swan tattooed on his arm, so that’s the name I gave you.”

“Lebedev,” I whisper the name back. My real last name is Lebedev, not Swan.

When my mom hears me repeat the name, her eyes widen in panic. “You can’t ever say that name to anyone, Lara. Promise me you’ll never repeat it.”

Her fingers are gripping me tight enough to hurt, and I recognize the fear in her eyes. She’s seconds away from a panic attack, so I give her a reassuring smile and squeeze her hand again.

“I promise, Mom. It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

It takes her several seconds before she calms down enough to loosen her grip on me, but instead of going back to eating, she chews on her thumbnail and looks back towards the windows.

“We need to stay hidden,” she whispers, but she’s no longer talking to me, and I have no doubt that when I come home from work tonight, our apartment will have been turned into a cave again. The very thought has my body breaking out into a nervous sweat, and I promise myself that I’ll tear the foil from my bedroom window. I won’t live like that again. I refuse to.

No longer hungry, I toss the rest of my omelet in the garbage and refill my mug before giving my mom a hug and going to my room. As soon as the door is shut, I’m grabbing my laptop and sitting on my bed. I spend the rest of the day searching for anything I can find about Osip Lebedev, which turns out to be absolutely nothing. There are several Lebedevs in the city, but when I dig further and search each name, it’s all a dead end. One is in his nineties and living in a nursing home, obituaries pop up for a few others, and the last one is a woman who, according to her Facebook page, moved upstate and changed her name when she got married.

Before I have to get ready for work, I do a little digging on the history of the name and learn that if I were in Russia, the feminized version would be Lebedeva, and that Lebed means swan in Russian. That would explain my dad’s tattoo, I guess. When I dig a bit further on an ancestry site, I see a forum set up for our city with people who are searching for information about Russian ancestors, so I make an account. Leaning into the swan theme, I choose the name Odette from Swan Lake and tack on 19 for my age, because I’m creative like that.

I make a quick post, asking for any information about Osip Lebedev, adding in the year that I was born since I know for a fact he was here at that time, and it’s also the year of his death. I’m not expecting a miracle, but it’s nice to finally be doing something. Even if it doesn’t lead anywhere, it’s at least something, and that’s a hell of a lot more than I’ve ever been able to do before.

With barely enough time to spare, I grab a clean, black skirt from my closet and another black henley and quickly change. I look in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of my closet door and cringe a bit. I’ve never liked my legs, but I can’t wear jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. I’m lucky that my boss doesn’t mind the shirt when all the other waitresses are wearing cute tank tops or tiny T-shirts. I can’t push it by adding jeans to the mix, no matter how badly I might want to. Plus, I’d probably die of a heat stroke on the walk to and from the subway. I try and forget about the legs that I think are too short, the thighs that I think are too big, and the complete lack of a gap between them and slam my closet door shut before pulling on my black sneakers.

My mom is leaning against the wall by the window, peeking out from the blinds with the tip of her thumb in her mouth, the nail gnawed down to the quick no doubt. I’m grateful that at least she hasn’t dug the foil out yet. When she hears me, she turns and gives me a worried look.

“You’re leaving already? You usually don’t work both Friday and Saturday nights.”

I hate lying to my mom, but there’s no way in hell I can tell her about my new job. She’d never let me walk out the door if she knew who I was working for. I keep an easy smile on my face and say, “Lauren needed me to switch shifts with her. I don’t mind. The tips are usually pretty good on Saturday nights.”

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