Page 85 of Rafi

TAYANA

The house is unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that feels heavy, as though it’s holding its breath. I’m curled up on the couch with a book I’m pretending to read, but the words blur together on the page. Something feels off. I tell myself it’s just my imagination, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re alone in a big, empty house.

Then, the shrill ring of the landline shatters the stillness and causes my heart to stutter.

I jerk upright, startled, and stare at the old-fashioned phone on the hall table. It never rings. Ever. We all have cell phones, and no one but my father insists on keeping this relic around. I wait for one of the housekeepers to answer it, but no one comes. The second ring cuts through my hesitation, and with a sigh, I stand and cross the room to pick it up.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause, a faint crackle of static, and then a man’s voice, brusque and impatient. “Mr. Aslanov, please.”

I frown. “Which one? There are two.”

“Anton Aslanov,” the man replies, his tone sharp. “It’s important that I get ahold of him today.”

My frown deepens. “Have you tried his cell phone? I can give it?—”

He cuts me off with an audible sigh, and my grip tightens on the receiver. “He’s not answering. I need to speak to him today.”

“Well, if he’s not answering, there’s probably a reason for that. He’s busy,” I say, my irritation rising.

“How else can I reach him?” the man presses.

“Sorry, but whoisthis?” I ask, suspicion creeping into my voice.

“Dr. Letvy,” he says. “It’s important?—”

“Dr. Letvy?” I interrupt, the name striking an unfamiliar chord. “Well, you can leave a message with me. I’m his daughter.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then his voice comes back, measured but firm. “Please let him know that the chemotherapy starts tomorrow. He needs to be at the hospital at 8:00 a.m.”

The words hit me with a jolt. I can’t breathe. My fingers tighten around the phone until they ache, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

“Chemotherapy?” The word barely escapes my lips, and it sounds foreign, wrong, as though it belongs to someone else’s nightmare.

“Yes,” Dr. Letvy says, his tone softening slightly as if he senses the impact of his words. “It’s critical he starts the treatment on schedule. Please make sure he knows.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. The world tilts on its axis, and I clutch the edge of the table for balance. When I finally manage to croak out a reply, my voice is hollow. “I’ll… I’ll tell him.”

The doctor says something else, but I don’t hear it. The phone slips from my hand and clatters onto the table.

I stand there, frozen, the wordchemotherapyreverberating in my mind like a death knell. Anton… cancer… treatment. It doesn’t make sense. Anton Aslanov is indestructible. He’s thestrongest man I’ve ever known, the man who’s always been larger than life. The thought of him being… sick, vulnerable, is incomprehensible.

My legs feel like jelly as I sink into the nearest chair, my head spinning. Memories flood my mind—him teaching me how to shoot, the stern lectures, the rare but precious moments when he’d smile, the way he’d pat my shoulder with a gruff “Well done” that meant the world to me. His acknowledgement. Always seeking his acknowledgement. His approval. I realize that’s all I’ve really ever wanted.

How could he keep this from me? From all of us?

The anger comes next, sharp and hot, cutting through the numbness. How dare he not tell me? How dare he face something like this alone, as if I wouldn’t care, as if I wouldn’t drop everything to be here for him? How long was he planning to keep this from me?

I push myself to my feet, unsteady but resolute, and march toward his study. The door is ajar, and I see him inside, seated at his desk, papers spread out before him. He looks up as I enter, his expression calm but watchful, as though he can sense the storm brewing inside me.

“Tayana,” he says, his voice steady. “What is it?”

The sight of him—so composed, so infuriatingly composed—makes my chest ache. I close the door behind me and take a step closer, my hands trembling at my sides.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” I whisper.

“Because it never stops ringing, and I need to get some work done. Is everything okay,malysh?”

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