Page 59 of Heartfelt Pain
She always kept out of any car talk. Dad would take me to automotive shows and we’d watch reality TV shows about muscle cars. The only time I saw Mom around cars was when we were getting in and out of the black SUVs that make up our fleet.
“He owned a Mercedes, his pride and joy,” she states. “It might not seem like much, but he purchased it when not many owned foreign cars in Russia. Your grandmother would send me down to the garage, and tell him to come in for dinner. Hours later she would find us there, music playing and both of us drinking. A soda for me and vodka for him.”
I sit up on the small stool I’ve been using. “Mom. . . are you saying you know about cars?”
She gazes at the underside of my Barracuda. “I am noexpert, but my father ensured I knew the basics of car mechanics. He thought it important I knew how to change a tire or know what to do if the engine overheated.”
My mom changing a flat tire?
Her clothes are worth thousands of dollars. I can’t imagine her bending down to lift a tire iron. She currently looks like she can barely hold one up.
“You. . . did you ever have to?” I ask.
She smiles, her hands fidgeting in her pockets. “Only when my father tested me. But knowledge of cars has come in handy. Thanks to my father’s training I successfully escaped out of the trunk of a GAZ-3102 after being kidnapped by rivals.”
I almost drop the tool in my hand. “You were kidnapped?”
“When I was twenty. In what feels like another lifetime ago.”
Her blue eyes study my car and I see it. How she categorizes the different parts she’s seeing. Most people I know can only sort of pick out different car parts when they lift the hood.
How did I never know Mom got kidnapped? Everyone in this city knows about Gia Akatov’s ordeal. Maybe because it happened in a different country, but it still seems strange. I know she made Max and I go through training in case something similar happened, but a lot of kids in our lifestyle did the same.
When we’re together as a family, it’s not uncommon for Dad and Dima to tell stories. They switch back and forth, adding little insights into each other’s narratives.
The only time I’ve seen Dad hesitate was the other night. The story about Emma’s rival lover.
But there is another story, now that I think about it, that I don’t think I’ve ever heard.
“Mom. What was it like the first time you met Dad?”
Something stabs me in the heart when she looks over and her eyes are a mixture of surprise and delight. As a kid, Max spoke Russian to Mom the most. Of course, we were all taught it, but I assumed my twin only used the language to come off as a pompous asshole. Which he is, but now as I watch Mom soften at the use of the language, I suspect he always knew she preferred it.
“Your father?”she replies in Russian.
I wave at a chair I pulled into the garage a couple of days ago. She remains standing, but there’s something less rigid about her today. I’d think it’d be the opposite, but she truly doesn’t mind the garage. I keep it clean, but by most people’s standards, mechanical shops are just dirty.
“Did you meet him before or after the marriage was announced?”I ask.
There’s no use in calling the marriage anything other than a business deal. As kids, Dad and Mom presented a united front, but we’re now fully aware it’s only ever been an arranged marriage. Dima told us it was because Dad wanted Elijah to have siblings. I wonder what it was like, though, not only being told you needed to marry someone but also raise their kid.
Dad wasn’t an absent parent by any means, but even now it feels like I’m fighting against his schedule. Mom has never been touchy-feely but there’s no denying she did the school pickups and drop-offs even if she did so in the chauffeur-driven black SUV. She forced us to do our homework as soon as we got home from school. Our house often got crowded with kids and Mom would simply inform the housekeeper to prepare snacks.
Mom hums under her breath.“He came to Russia. To meet your grandfather. Everyone knew of course what would be announced.”
“What did you think about him?”
Her face is blank but not as tight as she thinks.“I thought he was very full of himself.”
Can’t really blame her.
She takes a few steps, before balancing a heel against the concrete. I’ve never seen her fidget before.
“Your father flew into a private airfield.”For security we almost always do.“I didn’t want to wait to see him. To try to sneak a look before we met in the garden, knowing what was already to come. So I told my driver to take me the airfield. In my mind, I needed to know what he looked like coming off the plane. Your grandmother guessed my plan. I thought she’d scold me for ruining the schedule. She simply got into the car with me. We watched your father walk down the stairs of the plane. And when she asked me what I thought, that’s what I told her.”
Images of a dark airfield, the private jet, and my mom hiding in some car peering out at my dad come to mind. And I can perfectly envision the confident Lev Zimin disembarking from the plane.
“What did she say?”I ask. Grandma Petra is the most prim and proper lady I’ve ever met. She rarely came to America, but Mom talks to her nearly every day and I’ve visited her in Russia.
