“I’ve always thought you would be a good mother,” Nataliya whispered. She held Maryska’s face in her hands. “Do it for me. Do it for her.” There was a burning in her eyes that Maryska had never seen before, so piercing it unnerved her. “відтепер вона твоя дочка.” From now on, she is your daughter. 

          “Nataliya, I can’t,” said Maryska desperately. “It has to be you—It’s always been you, you’re the only one who could possibly ever—”

          “Thank you, Maryska. I love you,” Nataliya murmured. Gently, she lowered her hands, settling into her place on the pillows, enveloped in Maryska’s arms, cheeks wet from Maryska’s falling tears, or perhaps her own. Maryska’s eyes were too blurry to discern the difference. She was too busy watching Nataliya—lovely, clever, kind Nataliya—relax, as if sinking into a warm bath. Her eyes slid away from Maryska’s. “I love her, my sweet Iya…” Her voice broke. “Ah, I feel at ease knowing that you’ll be here for her…” Her eyelids fluttered.

          “Don’t,” Maryska cried, grasping at her wildly. “The next inventory is coming in a week, you can do it, I know you can do it—”

          “Let me go to my husband, сестра.” Sister.

          “Stay here with me,” Maryska begged. “Stay here with your daughter. We’ll raise her together.”

          “Oh, Maryska,” she whispered, fondly. “Thank you…”

          Then she went utterly still, and Maryska, a mother.

          Maryska looked at the memory with a sour taste in her mouth. She hadn’t respected her friend’s dying wishes, she realized. She’d known, of course, but seeing the memory in such vivid detail made her realize, truly realize, how poorly a job she’d done.

 

                                                            ***

 

          Despite Nataliya’s insistence, Iya was raised by Maryska’s parents for the first six years of her life. It hurt too much, and besides, she was young and unmarried, with aspirations, thus her parents couldn’t fault her for not raising Iya. Regardless, she completed her doctoral program, became a doctor, and came home so late that her conscience was eased. When Maryska did see her, during holidays or on her rare days off, their exchanges would be awkward, like that between distant relatives. She wasn’t sure what was worse—the times Iya looked nothing like Nataliya, or those where she seemed to be a precise copy. She still recalled the first time she’d made Iya laugh. It was something silly, using her hands to make it look as if one of her dolls were talking, and then Iya was laughing, laughing in that sweet, squealing way Nataliya had laughed. It was like falling into ice water. It was the last such time.

          On a merrier note, the war became nearly nonexistent briefly after Iya’s birth. So long as they lived a fair distance from the border, everything was fine. Life circled on. Iya seemed to grow taller each time Maryska took a good look at her, and her parents older. She made up for her lack of presence in Iya’s life by providing her with everything she asked for, whether a toy or new furniture for her room. The only factor holding her from becoming spoiled were her parents, instilling humility in her, as they’d done for Maryska growing up. For a long time, Maryska thought they would remain that way forever, in that bubble of unspeaking and strange arrangements that seemed to work out for everyone.

          That was until the invasion. Just four days after Iya’s seventh birthday.

          “Take her and go to Poland,” her mother told her one night, so late that Iya had been asleep for hours already. “Or further, if you have a plan for it. Just take her and go.”

          She had spoken so abruptly Maryska thought she’d misheard. She had just returned home, and was microwaving a bowl of leftovers. Her finger hovered over the ‘start’ button. 

          “Excuse me?”

          “You’ve seen the news. Our town may be caught in the crossfire, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. Anyway, this is no condition to raise a child in. What if she were to be injured? The hospital would not have enough staff, nor inventory to properly attend to her. What happened to Nataliya could—”

          “Enough,” Maryska interrupted sharply. She massaged her temples. They’d been considering the possibility of fleeing to Poland, or Germany, perhaps, for a long time, but so suddenly? “You should have told me earlier,” she said accusingly.

          Her mother ignored her reprimand. “Your father and I have already booked the flight. Pack your things. You and Iya are leaving in two weeks.”

          “What?”

          “If you are worried about your job, don’t. There are so many doctors fleeing the country, no one will blame you. Especially given that you have a young child with you. Do it for her, Maryska.”

          Do it for her. The image of caramel-blonde hair and freckles pierced her heart. Maryska quickly buried the memory, focusing instead on the topic at hand.

          “What about you and Dad?” she asked. “You’re not planning on staying here, surely.” She saw the look on her mother’s face. She recognized that firmness. “Mom, no.”

          “I cannot leave my home, Maryska.”

          “Yes, you can! And you—How can you say so while forcing me to leave?”

          “I will not leave my hometown. I am an old woman, Maryska; I have lived my life, and lived it well. You are young, and so is Iya. There is still much of life you have not experienced. Tomorrow hand in your resignation papers. If there is a special procedure, then do it. Once you are finished, pack everything for yourself. We will handle Iya’s luggage. We have distant relatives in Poland who can help you settle into the apartment we’ve purchased for you two. They will await you at the airport.”

          “Mom, I can’t leave you and Dad here—”

          “Maryska,” said her mother scathingly, “that’s enough.”

          Her mother, traditional to the end. No amount of coaxing could convince her. Perhaps if she were the girl she was a lifetime ago, the girl who woke late and had to be roused by her best friend, the girl who would never have neglected her child on papers for seven years, she could have done it. But she was not. She woke early for her morning shift, and worked overtime just to avoid the strange child who looked like her best friend and not. For years she’d watched the love in her parents’ eyes seep away when they looked at her, and ignored it. When two weeks passed, it was only Maryska and Iya boarding the plane to Poland.

 

                                                           ***

 

          That morning, Maryska woke early and cooked breakfast; scrambled eggs with a side of blueberries, something that, apparently, Iya was fond of. She did not wake Iya. She could not bear the image of it. If it were Nataliya, she would have woken her daughter with kisses and laughter and sunshine pressing against her eyelids. If it were Nataliya, their bleak apartment would’ve been charming, filled with cheerful singing and dancing.

          Maryska was not Nataliya. She was fine with that. In the dim morning light she slid the egg onto a plate, then added several pieces of bacon to the pan, humming as she went:

          “My daughter, the problem is not that you were out all night / but why is your braid undone and why are there tears in your eyes? / but why is your braid undone and why are there tears in your eyes? / my braid has been undone by my friend / and the tears caused by my being separated from my darling / and the tears are caused by my being separated from my darling / mother, you’re already old, and I’m a young girl / I want to live, I’m in love, don’t scold your daughter / I want to live, I’m in love, don’t…”

          “Good morning,” came a small voice.

          Maryska turned. She’d taken care to manage her appearance that morning; her brown hair was braided neatly down one shoulder, her clothes ironed. She felt a bit nervous, as if she were preparing for a job interview.

          “Good morning,” said Maryska softly. She attempted a smile. “Are you hungry?”

          Iya blinked, blue eyes darting from the finished plate to Maryska. She nodded slowly, then sat and began to eat. Maryska watched her intently, her hair that wasn’t quite Nataliya’s caramel-blonde ruffled adorably from sleep. Iya seemed to notice Maryska’s staring, and actively avoided meeting her gaze.

          Maryska cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about last night. Would you like to talk about what scared you?”

Iya swallowed. “It’s okay. I found out how to defeat it.”

          “Really?”

          “Yes. I keep the light on while I sleep.”

          She’s scared of the dark, then. Maryska made a mental note to buy her a nightlight. “How clever of you.” The compliment made Iya visibly pleased, and Maryska smiled to herself. “However do you manage to go to sleep?”

          “I put my head under my blankets,” elaborated Iya proudly, like a great scholar revealing her findings. “So it’s not so scary, because I know the outside is still bright.”

          “I think I did that too, when I was your age. Very clever,” repeated Maryska, because she couldn’t think of any other compliments. “You’re very bright, aren’t you? What would you like to be when you grow up, little sun?”

          The term slipped off of her tongue by accident. It was an intimate term of endearment, something that would have been used between a parent and child; her parents had called her that in her childhood, then whenever they were truly glad to see her. It seemed to confuse Iya, however, who was undoubtedly unused to receiving attention from her ‘mother,’ so Maryska hastily mended:

          “What would you like to be when you grow up?”

          Iya recovered. “I like reading,” she said, “so maybe something like that.”

          “I see.” Maryska cleared her throat again, steeled her courage, then went out and said it. “The weather is nice. Why don’t we go on a walk and greet our new neighbors? We ought to thank them for their welcoming gift.”

          Silence. Maryska fidgeted with her hands.

          “Okay,” said Iya. “Um, we can talk while we walk?”

          “Of course. Finish your plate, then go get your coat while I clean up.”

          Iya ate with a terrifying speed, handed her the plate, then sped off to her room, where her luggages were. Maryska scrubbed the plate, trying not to let it slip from her trembling hands. She was a fraud. What was she doing, replacing what should have been Nataliya’s place? But she asked you, she reassured herself. She gave you permission.

          Still, she couldn’t help feeling nervous for something as simple as a walk. Iya returned, her puffy jacket making her look like a little penguin, along with Maryska’s jacket tucked under her arm.

          “Ready?” she asked, swaying on the balls of her feet.

          “Yes,” replied Maryska. She gave her a smile and took her jacket from Iya’s extended hand. “Why, thank you.”

          “You’re welcome.”

 

          Maryska worried their walk would be awkward, but in truth, Iya was brimming with things to talk about. Her hair, the birds that perched on the windowsill, the latest episode of her favorite show, Maryska’s parents, their cooking. Maryska deduced, from their conversation, that Iya seemed to know somewhat about their situation, or at least that it was complicated. She felt a tinge of guilt. No child should have to carry such a burden.

          “Iya,” she said, once she seemed to have finished chattering about a neighbor’s large beard. 

          “Mm-hm?”

          She kneeled to her level and looked her in the eyes. Felik’s eyes, those of the ice and sky. “I want to apologize to you. I know that I’ve been busy these past few years, and I’ve— I haven’t been spending enough time with you as I should have. I’m—I apologize. I’m going to try harder, I promise. You don’t have to forgive me right away, and I—I understand if you feel angry with me.”

          Iya just blinked at her, faintly puzzled. “Oh. Okay.”

          Maryska recalled, at that moment, that she was speaking to a seven-year-old. She cleared her throat. “What this means is that—Well, um—”

          “You’ll be home more often?” gasped Iya in understanding.

          “Yes,” said Maryska. God, she was horrible at this. “Yes, yes.”

          “Okay,” said Iya, happily. Something caught her eye. “Look, a squirrel!”

          “Let’s take a look,” said Maryska, rising from the ground. With her permission, Iya chased it down the sidewalk. When the squirrel successfully escaped from her, Iya waddled back to Maryska’s side and studied her for a long time. Maryska felt that she was being held before a court, the judge looking upon her guilty features and howling, a fraud! She’s a fraud! And Iya would say in disgust, ‘You’re not my mother. My mother died in a hospital bed and left me to your incompetent hands.’

          But she did not. She just asked, simply:

          “Can I call you Mama now?” Her voice was a near-whisper. She shifted from one foot to the other, seeming very nervous. A note of fragile hope was held in those syllables, and Maryska’s heart broke.

          “What?” The word came out too loud. “I mean, yes, of course. Why did you ever think you couldn’t call me..?” 

          “Um, you never corrected me, so, um… Nevermind.”

          Maryska wanted to slap herself. “Oh, I’m sorry, Iya.” She didn’t know what to say, what explanation would be adequate without revealing the truth. “I… must have been too exhausted from moving. Of course, you can call me Mama. I’d love that.”

          “Okay, Mama.” She seemed to be testing how the word felt on her tongue, whether she liked the taste or not. Maryska herself wasn’t quite sure, but when she offered her hand to Iya, she took it. Her fingers were so small, so delicate. “Just so you know, I always call you Mama when you’re not around, but Grandpa and Grandma always say that you’re very professional, so I didn’t know whether I should call you Miss Maryska or Mama…”

          Maryska couldn’t help but laugh at that. And here she thought Iya hated her or something. At the sound of Maryska’s laugh, Iya perked up more. A large grin spread across her face.

          “Do you miss anyone from back home?” Maryska asked, to continue the conversation.

          “Yes, бабуся and дідусь…” Grandma and Grandpa. “...But I can call them on my tablet when I want to.” She frowned. “I miss my friends the most.” 

          “You can’t call them?”

          “They don’t have tablets yet.” She fidgeted with her fingers. “Um, by the way, thank you for working so hard all the time for me.”

          It was very obvious that her grandmother had told her to say that; Maryska had had it drilled into her mind since her childhood that she had to be grateful for everything her parents gave her.

          “It’s what I ought to do,” said Maryska with a small smile.           “There’s no need to thank me for that, silly.”

          “Really?”

          “Yeah.” She let out a huff of laughter. “Grandma told you that, didn’t she?”

          “Yeah, she’s always saying stuff like that. She and Grandpa talk about you all the time, your job, your preferences, your childhood.” 

          Her heart squeezed. “Really?”

          “Yeah. I used to not like broccoli, but they said that you love it, so now I like it, too.”

          Maryska thought for a long moment. After everything, it was still the greatest relief to know that her parents cared about her, thought of her. If they’d shed their stubborn nature and emigrated with them, perhaps then all four of them could’ve…but no. If not for their absence, she and Iya wouldn’t even be having this conversation. The sudden burst of guilt made her tighten her grip on Iya’s hand. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for her and Iya’s relationship, yet still, if it had been Nataliya in her stead…

          “I do miss one of my friends,” murmured Maryska. “She was my best friend, actually.”

          “Can you call her?”

          Maryska laughed; the pain eased somewhat. “No.”

          “Why? Do her parents not have enough money to buy her a tablet?”

          “No. She just lives too far away.” She tapped Iya’s little nose. “Don’t look so worried. When they do get phones or tablets of their own, you’ll be able to call your friends from here, don’t worry. Do you know their parents’ phone numbers?”

          “I think Grandma does.”

          “Perfect. Why don’t we set up a call with them tonight?”

          “Okay!” Iya squeezed her hand, and a burst of warmth bloomed in Maryska’s chest. When a neighbor waved at them, they waved back.

          “What’s your best friend’s name?” asked Iya in the silence that followed.

          Maryska felt an overwhelming urge to shove Iya away from her and violently vomit. She was in that awful room again, the smell of chemicals mingling repulsively with the scent of Nataliya’s vanilla shampoo. The light was leaving Nataliya’s lovely oak-brown eyes, and there was blood. So much blood.

          Yet Iya was looking up at her, waiting. Her tiny fingers were warm against her chilled skin. It anchored her.

Maryska smiled, feeling guilty. “Nataliya,” she said, softly.

          And there it was. That name.

           Maryska wondered if her parents had ever told Iya anything about her, or if this was the first time she was hearing those syllables. If it would be like inputting the keyword into a computer system, something that would resonate with Iya immediately. If the muttering of that name would, like in the folk stories, raise her from the dead.

          As Maryska sweated, Iya thought for a moment, then exclaimed, “Hey, my name’s in there!”

          “Why, it seems that it is!” Maryska said with all the cheer she could muster.

          It was silent between them, and Maryska abruptly remembered how awkward she felt when her parents would speak about their personal lives, ones that they knew they wouldn’t be allowed to know about yet at the same time were expected to listen to excerpts of. She changed the topic. “By the way, I want to congratulate you for always getting such good marks in school. I’m very proud of you, Iya. Do you want to get some ice cream? Cake?”

          Iya grinned. “I like strawberry shortcake. It really wasn’t that hard, though. It’s really easy for me,” she bragged. “Sometimes I feel like everyone around me doesn't really have brains.” Maryska giggled out of sheer surprise, and Iya continued, feeling encouraged. “Really, though, ask me anything, and I know the answer.”

          Maryska did, and found, quickly, that Iya hadn’t been lying—she needed to teach her to be a bit more mild with her choice of words, however she was sure that she was only saying so because she was glad to have her mother’s attention. But besides that, the girl truly was bright. So much so, in fact, that Maryska wondered how old she’d be when she finally began suspecting that Maryska wasn’t her true mother. She wondered if she already suspected something.

They talked all the way to the nearby plaza, where they found what looked to be a cake shop. The employees were very friendly, and used a translator to speak to them. When they discovered the nature of their immigration, they even included an additional, small cake, free of charge. 

          As she listened to Iya talk, it dawned on her, quite stupidly, like a fish realizing that it was swimming in water, that she loved Iya. She loved when she called her Mama, when she clutched her fingers with her little hand, and looked at her like she’d hung the stars. She wanted her to be happy, to enjoy the fruits of life and all its golden splendor. Was this how Nataliya had felt, looking upon her daughter, as blood pooled around her thighs?

          It must have been, Maryska thought. She took Iya’s hand.

 

          The mother and daughter walked home. The sun lifted the gray sky into a light, cloudless blue, kissed their chilled cheeks, and lit their way home. Onlookers assumed that the girl must have taken completely after her father, as she looked nothing like the woman who gazed at her with an old fondness. The daughter, fair-haired and rosy-cheeked, wiggled the tip of her mother’s brown braid, appearing to be asking how she managed to braid her hair so neatly. 

          “It takes practice,” replied her mother. “Let’s go home and eat cake while I teach you.”

          “Did your mom teach you, too, Mama?”

          The mother laughed. “She tried, but my fingers were always too slow for her liking. It was always faster for her to do it herself. No, sonechko, it was my best friend.”

          “Ooh.” The daughter’s face scrunched in her endeavour. “…Nataliya?”

          “Yes. She reciprocated her daughter’s smile. “Nataliya.”

 

THE END