Push Me
RECOMMENDED TRACK: Sombr – Wish I Knew How To Quit You
At first I was buoyed by how the party went. Becka—the date I had asked Monty to bring, which he minded far less than he pretended—not only posted the hoped-for group selfie but apparently spread far and wide that Emma and I were “such a cute couple.” It was so easy I felt uncomfortable, like perhaps I was more my father’s son than I thought.
I chose not to focus on that, thinking instead of Emma melted in my arms, of the pride on her face—I drank it in so deeply that I failed to notice the faint note of unease beneath it.
Stupid. Of course she would put two and two together and come out realizing my father was not your average corporate leader.
“They seemed really interested in him,” she said a couple of days later as we lounged one afternoon, her laying on the couch and massaging my scalp as I sat on the floor beneath her practically wanting to purr, until she brought him up. She was using that gentle, tentative voice, the one where she does not want to push too hard but cannot not ask. “What does he actually do?”
My insides froze. If I told her about him, I would have to tell her everything. About the deal with the devil I had made for these years in America. About the clock ticking down to May. About the life that waited for me in Moscow, the one that would reject her outright—if she didn’t reject it first. I needed to tell her and I knew it. But I was not ready. I still had no plan, no way to make it an if instead of a when. And I had just put us on solid ground. It was only right to give her, give us a little time before blowing it up, right?
So I covered my hesitation by reaching up for her hand, the one in my hair, and pulling it to my lips. “Just boring business things. I hate to pay attention to it.”
She noticed the pause. I am sure she did. But she did not press, and I was grateful and unhappy about it at the same time. Push me, I almost wanted to tell her. You deserve a better answer than that.
She spent the first week of winter break with me, then went home to her family outside of Boston, with a plan to return a week before classes resumed. It was generous for a boyfriend of only two months, and I didn’t ask for more.
Even though graduation was suddenly looking much, much closer.
She left, and a few days later, I received an unexpected phone call from my father.
“Your grades are better, Mikhail,” he said without preamble. The improvement was a natural side effect of spending all my time with an ambitious, bookish little queen. “I’m pleased to see it.”
He did not sound pleased. He did not sound anything. But then, he rarely did.
“Good,” I said tersely. “Is that why you called?”
He paused, not to think about what to say but to make me sweat, I thought. “No. I wanted you to know I plan to get you a flat downtown, close to the office, when you return.”
I ran my hand through my hair, stifling an impatient huff. No point getting him more agitated than necessary. “I’d rather stay at home in Rublyovka to start,” I said, pushing back more out of habit than anything. But if I could not stay here with Emma, I at least wanted to stay with Dasha. Wanted some semblance of control over my life. “I’d like to see flats for myself before picking one.”
“I see,” he said evenly. I could hear the sound of his pen scratching over the phone. He did not trust digital communication any more than he had to.
“How is Dariya?” I asked. It might be stupid to remind him about what I really cared about in that house, but it’s not like he ever forgets, either.
“Your sister is well,” he answered as if by rote. “She has a recital next week.”
Which means he’d barely seen her. She would be practicing, and he did not care about practice, only results.
“Ah,” I said. “Give her my love.”
“Of course,” he replied, knowing he would not. “And you, Mikhail? You are well?”
That was not a question he usually asked, which meant it was a test. Or a trap. “Well enough,” I said carefully. “Just enjoying the time I have left here.”
“I see,” he said again. “Just don’t enjoy it too much,” he said, and it was with a lilt that made me wonder how much he knew. It had always been a possibility that he would find out about Emma, especially after the party. After “making it official.” Hands off was our deal while I was in America, but that did not mean he was not keeping an eye on me.
But he said nothing more, and accepted whatever excuse I made up to get off the phone. He’d gotten whatever he was after.
Of the next forty-eight hours, I spent a solid ten at the gym. The owner complained he’d have to buy a new heavy bag.
I had continued thinking about what I could do to convince my father to let me stay, of course, but I had come up with nothing. By Christmas day I was feeling hopeless as I walked to Nana’s.
Christmas at Nana’s had become a tradition since I first stumbled into her restaurant as a freshman. I know Americans like their Chinese restaurants that stay open on Christian holy days, but they’re missing out on restaurants from Orthodox countries. We celebrate Christmas in January and laugh at them in December from behind our plates of khachapuri, or varenyky, or stroganoff.
Nana was in fine form that day, babbling to me in Russian about her grand-niece who was getting married soon. “She is such a sweet girl. She would have been good for you. Too bad only Emmiko can deal with you,” she sassed me, holding one hand up to stop me from arguing. “And the man my Mariam is marrying will treat her well. I have no complaints.”
“That’s rare,” I teased her as she set a plate of khinkali—meat dumplings—in front of me.
“Bah,” she said, snapping a hand towel in my direction. “You’re so rude. I don’t know why such a smart girl puts up with you.”
I sank back in my chair—no Emma, no booth—and sighed. “Me either.”
Nana glared at me suspiciously, then dragged over another chair and sat down. “That was a big sigh, even for a big man. Tell me what you screwed up.”
“Nothing!” I scowled. “Or…well, not yet. Maybe.” I could not tell Nana the details any more than Emma. How could I? She came to America forty years ago because Gorbachev’s Russia was strangling her homeland, part of a centuries-long tension that has not eased. Tell her that my father is one of Moscow’s fattest cats? Never.
“Hmm,” Nana said, unaware of that particular dilemma. “Okay, what did you not screw up yet?”
I felt my scowl deepen as I considered if there was a version I could tell her. “My friend has this dog,” I said at last. “But he uses a choke chain on him. So I feel bad for the dog. Why not let him do what he wants? He didn’t ask to be my friend’s pet.”
“A dog. Sure,” Nana snorted skeptically. In fairness, it was a stupid metaphor. She sat back in her chair and bounced her knee, humming a few notes to herself in thought. “The funny thing about dogs,” she said at last. “Owners always think the leash gives them control. But you know,” she leaned forward, one elbow on the table as she pointed directly in my face. “My grandmother once told me, ‘My little Nana, never forget a dog’s leash is attached on both sides.’ A big, strong dog? He can pull back very hard.”
She patted my hand and got up to her feet, her knees creaking at an alarming volume before she toddled back into the kitchen without another word.
Normally I treated her sayings with showy contempt. This time, I tried thinking it through. Could I get strong enough to pull back on my father’s leash? Find some kind of leverage, something bigger than the hold he had on me?
I could not picture it. Oh, I had no doubt there were many skeletons in my father’s closet, but that closet might as well be locked up with the treasury’s gold reserves for all the access I had to it.
For the first time, I regretted resisting his efforts to initiate me into his world. Maybe I would have learned something useful about him, something I could have built a plan around. Instead, I spent the days hitting a leather bag and running through the same useless ideas like I was on a treadmill until Emma finally returned.
It was January. Four months to graduation. One hundred twenty-five short days to figure out how to strong-arm a man who had been working the levers of Russia’s unforgiving business scene for nearly thirty years.
Emma was worth it. The time apart had put it in stark relief, that I felt simply less without her.
But I still had no idea how to pull this off without drawing Dasha’s dreams into the crosshairs. Or Emma’s.
Author’s Note
B-Side Track: Alex Warren – Chasing Shadows
Poor Misha. He was so sure this wouldn’t last, even when he was fighting to keep it. Then he was so sure he could find a way, and now he’s running out of time.
FUN FACT:
The more I have read about Georgian cuisine the more I think I need to go there on an eating tour. Also, have you ever seen the skyline of Batoumi? That place looks incredible.
Alright folks, see you Tuesday! Unless…