Page 79 of Pageant

And then crashes through the earth as he takes the turn and the car disappears.

I stand on the corner, paralyzed with terror. No mom, and now no dad. I don’t have anyone, and the ache that’s been in my belly since last night expands throughout my entire body. What’s going to happen to me now?

A sharp voice cracks over me. “Lilia.”

Babushkahas followed me and is standing behind me. She jerks her head over her shoulder and walks back up the street to her house. With a sinking feeling, I follow her, dragging my feet and not bothering to wipe the tears from my face.

Inside, the dark, somber house is filled with the sound of a ticking clock and the hateful scent of boiled cabbage and vinegar. She pushes me toward the spare bedroom, and I go, but then hesitate.

“Why am I here?”

She shrugs and mutters something in Russian, not meeting my eyes.

“When can I go home?”

Babushkamakes a dismissive sounds and turns away.

Fear and desperation lurch through me. “Wait, please. I think there’s something wrong with me. My stomach. It won’t stop aching and I’m bleeding.”

She peers at me, frowning. “Bleeding where?”

“Between my legs,” I mutter, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I wait for the inevitable tirade that everything about me is wrong, annoying, disgusting.

Babushkasnaps, “Did no one tell you about periods?”

I frown, recalling an afternoon in health class six months ago when the girls were separated from the boys and the teacher passed around strange cotton objects. That wordperiodcame up a lot that day, didn’t it? I’m not sure because the night before, Dad’s brother was shot and we were all at the hospital until two in the morning. I was like a zombie at school the next day.

Babushkatuts at my confused expression, reaches for her handbag, and walks out of the house. I hear her car start and she drives away.

Ten minutes later, she’s back and she hands me a purple packet.

“Put them in your underpants,” she tells me, watching me open the box and examine the flat, squishy pads wrapped in plastic. “I bought Alyona these things nearly thirty years ago.”

For a fleeting moment,Babushka’sexpression is as bleak as midwinter. Then her face hardens and she turns and walks out.

I take a shower inBabushka’spastel yellow bathroom that looks like it hasn’t been updated in thirty years. The soap is scratchy and smells of tar. She has bought the same cheap-looking soap, shampoo, and conditioner in bulk, and it’s all stacked beside the bath.

Her insulin sits on the vanity next to her toothbrush.Babushkahas always been diabetic, and I have a vague memory of her testing her blood sugar and injecting herself after she eats.

I sit in my room all morning, staring out the window and hoping I’ll see Dad’s car coming up the street. At midday,Babushkacalls me into the kitchen for lunch and we eat flavorless stew with stringy meat. I didn’t have any dinner the evening before or any breakfast this morning and my stomach is rumbling, so I eat every unpleasant bite.

After I finish, she stares at my empty plate and asks with disdain, “How am I going to afford you?”

I tiptoe aroundBabushka’shouse whenever I have to leave my bedroom and her disapproving eyes follow me everywhere. She tells me off when I turn the lights on or spend too long in the shower. My shoes are dirty. My hair is tangled. Her criticisms go on and on.

The only place I enjoy being in is the garden.Babushkahas a beautiful back garden that’s filled with flowers and sunshine. All the local birds flock to the trees and shrubs and line up on the birdbath to ruffle and hop in the shallow water. I sit for hours watching them, studying them closely until I think I’ve learned to tell them apart from each other. How wonderful to be a little wild bird and flit from here to there without anyone caging you in.

Every day, I call Dad and beg him tearfully to let me come home. He listens to me for a moment, and then hangs up without a word. I go to school. I eat dinner in silence withBabushkaand then sit in silence with her while she watches the news and endless crime dramas. In the evenings, she calls her friends and speaks in Russian, but I can’t understand her. She sounds different with them, pleasant and happy. The moment she hangs up her phone and notices me staring, a cold expression descends over her features, and I wonder why she hates me so much.

After I’ve stayed with her for two weeks, I hear her asking for my dad in English. I’m doing my homework at the kitchen table, and I look across the room to where she is leaning against the sink.

“Tell Aran to come and take her. I do not want her.” A long pause. She must be speaking to the housekeeper. “Then put Aran on!”

I cringe and bow my head, pretending to be absorbed in my spelling assignment. I know I’m not welcome here. She could at least wait until I’m in bed so I don’t have to have my nose shoved in it.

Dad must get on the phone asBabushkaswitches to rapid, angry Russian. They go back and forth for several minutes, and thenBabushkacurses and hangs up the phone.

Then she does a very strange thing.

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