Chapter Text
Ilya’s oldest real memory was also his last truly happy memory, before the cottage.
He did have some older memories, mental snapshots of his mom dancing to a song on the radio, a birthday breakfast with blini and presents, his first day of kindergarten, but he was pretty sure they were memories of stories, borrowed from well worn tales of his childhood antics and a handful of photos he kept tucked into the battered cardboard box from his first pair of hockey skates. Borrowed memories, not really his own.
But this memory, he knew this one was real.
He was five. It was a cold, but surprisingly bright winter day; not the usual overcast gloom that segmented the long, dark Russian winter nights into days. Even in his memory, he could almost feel the bite of the frigid Moscow air on his cheeks, the way the cold tickled the inside of his nose. He was pretty sure the day was in January, after Christmas, but it might have been early February.
He woke that morning to find the whole world was covered in fresh, dry, powdery snow, perfect for skiing or sledding. The sunlight bounced off the white snow, lighting up their entire apartment with a magical glow. Maybe it was a school holiday, or perhaps it was just a weekend, those details were lost to time, but over their kitchen table breakfast of kasha with honey, his mother had gleefully declared they were all going sledding. Well, he and Alexei and his mother. His father was at work, and anyway, his father wouldn’t have been caught dead doing something as silly as sledding.
Ilya realized his mother in his memory was the same age as he was now, thirty-two. She’d been nineteen when she married his father, twenty-four years her senior. No wonder his mother had seemed carefree and childlike, he mused, compared to his dour father. Alexei had come along less than a year after their wedding; Ilya was born seven years after Alexei, completing their woeful little family of four.
They weren't miserable that morning; Ilya remembered feeling giddy with the prospect of a grand adventure.
After breakfast, they changed from pajamas into long underwear and sweaters, and then started layering on their winter gear. They added socks and scarves and mittens with a string that stretched across Ilya’s shoulders, so the mittens couldn’t get lost. Then snowsuits and boots, and hats for good measure. Even at five, Ilya could put on his own outerwear, but still, he remembered his mother kneeling before him in the foyer, gently zipping up his snowsuit and checking his boots to be sure they were tied. He wished he could remember what she said, but he remembered the warmth that enveloped him as he tugged the zipper up to his chin. A warmth that was more than just the hand-me-down snowsuit. The warmth of her love. She tugged Alexei’s hat lower, covering his ears, despite his protests. Alexei was sure he was too old for his mother’s help. His mother said he’d never be too old.
Ilya slipped from remembering the day, to feeling like he was right back in the day, seeing the scene again from his five year old eyes.
Successfully stuffed into snowsuits, he and Alexei trundled to the park, stomping their footprints into the fresh new snow. Moscow was beautiful like this, with everything blanketed in white. Soon enough, the snow would be piled high in the gutters, fading to a dingy gray, but for this morning, it was a wonderland.
His mother, warm in her elegant fur coat and shearling lined boots, dragged their red plastic sled behind them. His mother always dressed the part of the wife of an official in Internal Affairs, no matter where she was going, from an evening at the theatre to a quick run to the pharmacy. She wore expensive, if well worn coats, and classically stylish dresses or tailored pants, with her long, curly blonde hair neatly pulled away from her face. Ilya thought she was beautiful.
He remembered the sled in vivid detail, the red plastic base, big enough for two, with two sets of yellow vinyl handles riveted to the base, one handle broken from the previous winter, with the broken vinyl strap flapping as the sled bounced over the snow. The cord his mom used to drag the sled was made from cotton clothesline. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was fast and fun. Years later, when he signed his first NHL contract, he bought a bright red Lotus with a buttery camel leather interior that always reminded him of flying down hills on that red plastic sled.
Arriving at the park, his mother handed over the sled and told them to have fun. Ilya didn’t need any further urging. Chasing Alexei, they ran up the hill at full tilt, never mind the snow trying to slow them down. What could be more fun than a sled and a hill covered in fresh snow?
He and Alexei made multiple runs down the hill, starting with the more gentle slope on the near side of the hill. Alexei was 12, still young enough to play with him, as long as his friends weren’t watching. For the first few runs, he sat between Alexei’s legs, trying to steer with the cotton clothesline, but they were soon taking turns running and diving headfirst into the sled, seeing who could go the farthest and fastest. Of course, Alexei usually won, but it didn’t bother Ilya. He expected his big brother to win. Back then, he still admired his brother for being smart and strong and everything a big brother was supposed to be.
He remembered the laughter. His mother, laughing, standing at the top of the hill, watching them fly through the snow, racing back to the top to try again. Alexei laughing, suggesting increasingly crazy configurations; a double luge, with one brother lying on the other, an attempt to surf down while standing in the sled ending in a snowy tumble. Ilya laughing, the speed, the snow, the security of the three of them laughing.
They migrated to the steeper part of the hill, where the older kids, and even some adults, were sledding. The first run down the big hill was a revelation to Ilya. It was like flying. They actually did fly off the snow ramp someone had built at the bottom of the hill, slamming down into the powder for a landing. The closest he’d come to recapturing that feeling was skating full tilt down the ice on a breakaway, just him and the puck, nothing between him and the goal. Well, at least until he met Shane. There were times, fucking Shane, that almost felt like flying, too.
They were still laughing, even as his toes went numb from the cold. He was grateful he remembered the laughter, that he had that moment to hold onto. There was so little laughter after that day.
His mother, still laughing at the top of the hill, stomped her feet to stay warm. Ilya ran back up the hill and snuggled up against his mother. The wind was picking up, and it felt good to bury his mittened hands in her fur coat.
“Are you having fun?” she asked, squeezing him closer to her.
“It’s like flying, mama,” Ilya said. “Come down with me.”
Irina laughed, her blue eyes sparkling like the sun on the snow. “I think I’m too old for that, little one.”
Ilya looked around, there were plenty of big people sledding. “Please, mama. Just once?”
“Well…”
“Alexei! Mama said she’d sled with us!” Ilya called, waving at his brother to hurry on his way up the hill.
Alexei drew close. He looked skeptical. “Really? Are you sure?”
“I suppose one run won’t hurt,” Iheir mother said, a beautiful smile spreading across her face. “Let’s do it, and then we’ll head home to warm up.”
Somehow, they managed to fit all three of them in the red plastic sled that was built for two children; his mother in the back, Iyla on her lap and Alexei in front. They counted to three and pushed off, rocketing down the hill.
Even sandwiched between his brother and his mom, Ilya could feel the wind whipping by. He couldn’t see where they were going, but he felt gravity shift when they hit the ramp of snow and the brief, perfect second of weightlessness as they shot through the sky. If only Ilya’s memories ended here, it would have been a perfect day.
They hit the ground with a jolt, Ilya landing hard on his mother, who let out a pained moan. Before he could untangle his limbs from Alexei, he heard his mother cry out in pain. Alexei leapt up and in a fluid movement, tossed Ilya off his mother, Ilya landing face first in the snow. Sputtering to clear the snow, he stood up, ready to fight his brother for the rough treatment..
“Mama, are you hurt?” Alexei asked. Ilya was instantly alert. Had he hurt his mom on the sled? He hadn’t meant to hurt his mom. His stomach flipped.
“Just a jolt, darling. I wasn’t expecting to land quite so hard. But I think we should head home now.”
His mother pushed up onto her knees, but then sat back in the snow with a loud exhale. “I might need a second,” she said, as she bent forward in pain. Alexei was right there, rubbing her back.
Ilya didn’t know what to do. He wanted to kiss her booboo and make it better, the way his mother kissed his skinned knees and scraped elbows, but Alexei was in the way. Although, he was sort of glad Alexei was there, to be the grownup, because his mom really seemed hurt.
Other sledders had started to notice and were staring at them. They were, after all, blocking the bottom of the hill. No one else could sled until they moved. Alexei was trying to pull their mother up to standing.
“Mama, come on, get up,” Alexei pleaded. Ilya could hear a small waiver in Alexei’s voice, the same waiver that sometimes slipped into his voice when their father was on a tirade. Ilya started to shiver.
“Do you need help?” a man asked. Even at five, Ilya knew that a man being nice could be a trick, but he didn’t sense a trick. This man seemed kind. He couldn’t quite define the difference between nice and kind, but he already knew there was one. His father could be nice, when he wanted to be, but he wasn’t kind.
Alexei also seemed wary, taking a protective step closer to his mother. “We’re on our way home,” he said.
“We just landed harder than expected,” his mom said. “I’ll be fine in a second. I just needed to catch my breath.”
The man held out his hand, “Can I help you up?”
His mother nodded and held out her hand. The man held her arm and guided back onto her feet. She was standing, but hunched over a bit. Ilya was afraid he’d really hurt her when they landed.
“How far away is your house?” the man asked.
Alexei rolled his shoulders back, puffing out his chest trying to act like a man, “It’s not far, I can help her get home.”
“I’m sure you can, but it might go faster if I help.”
Alexiei looked the man up and down, clearly looking for the catch. Ilya chewed his lip, he didn’t like any of this. His mom was hurt. This stranger could be trouble, bratva, even. There was a lot of trouble in Moscow these days.
The day had gone from wonderful to unsettled in the brief seconds they’d flown down the sledding hill. He wanted to rewind and never suggest they all sled down the hill together. He wanted his mother to tell him everything was going to be okay.
“I think we’ll be okay,” his mother finally said. “We really don’t live far. But thank you for your help.”
“Are you sure?” The man asked, skeptically.
“I’m sure. My husband might not like having a man bring me home,” his mother said with a slight grimace. “He works in Internal Affairs, you see.”
The man nodded stiffly and stepped back. “I see. I’m sure you’re in good hands with your boys,” he said as he turned and walked away.
The wind picked up, blowing gray clouds over the sun. The bright chill from earlier was now soaking through Ilya’s winter gear and into his bones.
“Ilya, be a big boy and get the sled,” his mother said, as she leaned lightly on Alexei and started walking towards the street that would take them home. Ilya did as told, dragging the red sled behind him as he ran through the snow to catch up. His mother and Alexei weren’t moving fast.
They walked silently, a wariness enshrouding the trio, like the clouds that had blown in and were shrouding the sun. Ilya felt terrible for suggesting they sled together. It was his fault that everything was now ruined. Tears were silently leaking from his eyes, but he didn’t dare cry. Not when it was all his fault.
Icy flakes started falling from the sky, pelting their faces, making the two block walk feel longer than it should.
Half a block from home his mother stopped and grabbed a lamppost for support. Ilya and Alexei traded a look of uncertainty with each other. Someone should do something, Ilya thought. Alexei looked as uncertain as Ilya felt. Their mom was their protector; normally she would be the one doing something, but instead, she was gripping the lightpost for dear life.
“Wait a second,” his mother breathed out, bending over, hands on knees. She stayed doubled over, breathing in and blowing out. “Alexei, would you run ahead and get Valentina?”
Alexei ran for help. Ilya stood helplessly next to his mother, wishing he was big enough to help. He wanted to rub his mother’s back, like she did when he was sick, but it was his fault she was hurt, so he was also afraid to touch her.
Alexei came back, with Nikolay, building security guard, and Valentina, their housekeeper. Valentina took one look at his mother and sighed “Oh, Irina. Let’s get you inside.”
Nikolay swept his mother up into his arms and carried her towards the entrance to their building. Alexei and Valentina followed right behind.
“Ilya, come along,” Valentina said, without looking back, leaving Ilya alone on the street holding the sled. Suddenly tired, his legs like rubber from running up the sledding hill over and over again, he trudged the rest of the way home. His short legs were unable to keep up with Nikolay’s long stride, and they had all disappeared through the door by the time he reached the steps of the ornate Stalinka style building.
As he wrestled the sled, taller than him, up the stairs and into the foyer, he saw the dark red drops of blood staining the snow.
His stomach flipped over and over in his belly. His mother was bleeding? Why didn’t she say something? What if his mother was dying?
Alone in the tiled foyer, Ilya began to cry. He’d seen the blood, frozen into perfect circles in the snow. He was sure his mother was dying, and it was his fault. He abandoned the sled in the hall and ran up two flights of stairs to their apartment, the door still standing ajar. He slipped through the open door, and saw his mother’s coat and scarf tossed on the formal dining room table, mittens abandoned on the hall floor, and her boots, sitting in a puddle of melted snow, discarded a few steps farther down the tall.
He was relieved to hear his mother protest the administrations of Valentina in the bathroom. At least she was still alive.
Nikolay came out of the kitchen with a cup of hot tea and passed it through the bathroom door.
“Come on, Ilya, get yourself undressed and be a good boy and put your mother’s coat away before your father comes home and sees this mess,” Nikolay directed, patting him on the head as he passed back through the foyer. “I’m going back downstairs, but come get me if they need me.”
Ilya stood in the foyer, overwhelmed. Snippets of Valentina’s voice slipped through the bathroom door, including words like doctor and hospital.
Ilya wanted her to say yes, yes, let’s go to the hospital and let a doctor fix things. He knew his father would be furious if his mother was sick or injured and unable to keep the house as he liked. But maybe a doctor could fix things before his father even got home. Maybe his mom just needed a bandage or a pill.
Ilya wiped his wool mitten across his face, coming away covered in tears and snot, and realized he still needed to undress. Slipping his hands out of the mittens, he left them to dangle from the string that attached them to his snowsuit. He unwound the scarf from his neck and hung it on the hook in the closet, then followed it with his hat. He remembered that hat so vividly, black and white striped with a black yarn pompom on the top. He was pretty sure Valentina had knit it for him, to keep him warm in the long Moscow winters. Kicking off his boots and leaving them on the shoe rug, he unzipped his snowsuit and stepped out of it. He’d never hung it up by himself before; he wasn’t quite tall enough to reach the closet rod.
But he was a big boy now, big enough to sled down the big hill. Big enough to hurt his mother, the way his father hurt her. Big enough to make her bleed. Therefore, he concluded, he was big enough to hang up the coats. If he stood on his tip toes, he could reach the hangers, pulling two down. He wrangled the snowsuit onto the hanger and jumped to hook it back on the rod.
His mother’s fur coat was heavy, so much heavier than his snowsuit. But he managed to get it onto a hanger and after multiple attempts, hung the hanger back on the rod. Ilya picked up her boots and mitten and put them back in their place, too.
Looking around, he saw the puddle in the hallway from where his mother’s boots had landed. His father would be furious if he came home and stepped in it. Outside shoes were for outside. Ilya was pretty sure even an emergency like this one wouldn’t excuse walking past the foyer with boots on. He didn’t want to interrupt Valentina, who was still taking care of his mother, so he pulled his sweatshirt off and used it to mop up the dirty water off the parquet floor.
By the time he was done putting everything away, the noises from the bathroom had calmed to a low murmur. He could hear his mother softly crying and Valentina shushing her.
Ilya looked around the graceful entryway of the apartment, again. Everything was back in its place. Checking the living room, it looked like nothing had disturbed the stately velvet curtains and brocade chairs. He headed down the hallway to the bedroom he shared with Alexei, surprised to find the room empty, and crawled under his twin bed with his favorite blanket to hide. He knew he should be punished for hurting his mother, and he was afraid to find out what his father would do. He wanted to stay hidden under the bed forever.
He stayed under the bed, hidden by the thick plaid coverlet that hung down, nearly to the floor. The gray light slouching through the tall windows grew dim and then dark, but Ilya stayed. He was hungry, but afraid to leave the safety of his hiding place. He wanted his mother to come find him, coax him out, wrap him in her warm arms and show him that everything was okay. That they’d be alright. Or Valentina could find him, offering warm drinks and softness to soothe the awfulness of the day.
His father arrived home, loud and demanding as always. Valentina explained the events of the day in a low voice, Ilya catching phrases like ‘bedrest’ and ‘several months’. Ilya wondered if the quiet voice was to keep his father calm or because what happened was too terrible to speak about. Either way, he knew the horrible events of the day were all his fault; he wished he could rewind the day and start over. This time, he wouldn’t ask his mother to sled down the hill.
Eventually, the door cracked open and Alexei poked his head in. “Ilya? It’s dinner time. You’d better come out. Papa will be mad if you aren’t at the table.”
Ilya lay still under the bed. He was sure Alexei couldn’t see him there, although Alexei did know it was one of Ilya’s favorite hiding spots. It was hard to hide these things when they shared a bedroom.
“Ilya,” Alexei said, more demandingly. “You’ve caused enough trouble today. If you’re not at the table in three minutes, I’m telling Papa where you are and letting him come get you.”
Ilya crawled out from under the bed. He was sure nothing good could come from Alexei telling their father he was under the bed. Rozanovs were strong and important. Rozanovs did not hide under beds. If they were to be punished, they stood up and took the spanking.
“Go wash your face. And comb your hair. Don’t let Papa see that you were crying. And get your butt to the table,” Alexei ordered, clearly annoyed that his brother was acting like a baby.
Ilya cleaned up as best he could in the bathroom and joined his father and brother at the table, where Valentina served a full dinner. On a night like tonight, with his mother sick, and maybe dying, it seemed wrong to eat mince dumplings and potatoes like there was nothing wrong. He picked at his dinner, expecting his father to yell at him for wasting food at any moment.
Instead his father ate silently, tossing back a shot of vodka after every few bites, slumping further down into his chair with each drink. Ilya wasn’t sure what to make of this version of his father. He was used to the stern, bombastic version that expected perfection, from his food, his home, his wife and his children and yelled until he received it. He was used to the father who could slyly turn information into currency, using it to cling to his spot in the post-Soviet hierarchy. He was used to the drunk father, who occasionally came home singing old Russian drinking songs. He was not used to this quiet, maybe even sad, version of his father.
The three Rozanov men sat in silence, until Valentina quietly cleared the table and sent Ilya to the bath. He kept expecting someone to yell at him. To spank him. To hurt him, the way he hurt his mother. To Ilya’s unending surprise, he wasn’t punished that night, although he heard his father barking at Alexei for being irresponsible while he was in the bath.
It was almost scary, the unexpected reprieve. After his bath, he brushed his teeth and put on his pajamas, and tiptoed quietly down the hall. His father was sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the TV. His father wasn’t affectionate, but sometimes, after his bath Ilya was allowed to sit on his father’s lap and watch the news with him, as long as he stayed still and quiet. He wished he could climb into his father’s lap tonight and let his father’s strength protect him, but he didn’t trust the reprieve to last.
Instead he slowly cracked open the door to his parents room, wanting to see his mother, to see for himself that she was still alive.
His mother was tucked in bed, pale and sad, but still alive. She beckoned Ilya into the bedroom. Reluctantly, he slipped inside and hovered near the door. He was afraid to get closer. Was she mad at him? Would he accidentally hurt her more if he ran to her and buried his face in her shoulder, like he wanted to?
“Ilya, my little bunny, come give me a kiss,” his mother coaxed, reaching out her hand to him.
Ilya took a few steps towards the bed, his fear softening at the sound of his mother’s voice and the familiar endearment.
“Ilyaushka,” she said again, patting the edge of the mattress, inviting him into bed with her. Ilya carefully climbed up into the heavy four poster bed, sliding into the warmth beneath the covers. His mother nuzzled the top of his head. They lay there together, not talking, Ilya soaking in his mother’s presence until Valentina brought his mother some medication and sent Ilya to bed.
Ilya tucked himself into bed all by himself, with no one to read him a story or tuck his blanket in next to him. He wanted to cry, but knew no one would come, so what was the point? The only person that might have come was sick in bed down the hall. Biting his bottom lip to stop its quivering, he lay in the dark, scared and lonely, eventually falling asleep.
*****
His mother stayed in bed for weeks, the curtains drawn, crying again and again. She’d invite Ilya in to cuddle and, eventually, he started to believe she loved him again. But after that day, he knew he could hurt the people he loved, just by being Ilya. He was dangerous. He needed to be more careful with the people he loved.
Eventually, though, his mother emerged from her bedroom. Her laugh was a little quieter, at first. She moved with more care through the house, as if the time in bed turned her into glass. But as the days lengthened towards summer, her vibrancy returned.
She stopped sending Valentina to pick up Ilya after kindergarten and started waiting at the gate herself. They’d walk home through the park, or stop to pick up food for dinner, and then snuggle on the couch, watching American soap operas so Ilya could learn English. As she grew stronger, they wandered farther in the bright, warm Moscow summer. His favorite memory of those afternoons was the day she took him to McDonald’s for the first time. They sat in the hard plastic booths, sharing the red cardboard sleeve of crispy, salty fries and an icy cold Coke in a waxy paper cup with a yellow and red striped straw. McDonald’s always made him think of that afternoon with his mother.
While he could look back now and know that she didn’t die that day, part of him still felt like that was the day she started dying. Every memory that came after was tainted with the knowledge that she was slowly leaving him, the sadness of those weeks ebbing and flowing, but never entirely leaving her.
He was eleven before he really understood what happened that day, when Svetlana explained periods and pregnancy and what a miscarriage was and Ilya put the pieces together. He wondered what it would be like to have a little sister. He was sure the baby would have been a girl. A little blonde Rozanova to dilute the tempers of the Rozanov men.
He wondered if his mother was with his sister in heaven. He didn’t really believe in God. After his mother died, how could he? But he also couldn’t believe his mother and his unborn sister were just dead. Buried. Decomposing. No, somewhere out there, his mother was waiting for him.
In hindsight, Ilya wondered about the seven year age gap between him and his brother. Were there other miscarriages? Did they struggle with infertility? Or was Ilya an accident, the result of a rare conjugial visit between spouses who often slept in separate bedrooms. Did his father have someone he preferred on the side?
There was so much he wished he could ask his mother as an adult. So many things he didn’t know, and never would know.