“Perhaps, or perhaps it made me feel that my place in life was like it was in society. Beneath them. Not worthy. College was different. Girls acted like they wanted more, but I didn’t have it to give.”
“Why?”
“Being the best in middle and high school is far easier than it was when you’re standing next to men who were recruited for their skill and ability, and everyone was going for the same thing.”
“A shot at pros.” I nod. “You were a first-round draft.”
“I had a debt to pay. My brother sacrificed for me, and I was determined to make enough money to get him the hell out of poverty in Russia. Pay for his schooling so he could have a better life.”
“And?”
“He has a home. He’s taking correspondence courses, and with Costello’s help in finding the right official to bribe, he’s no longer on the front line of this war.”
“Will he come if he can? Leave Russia?”
“We love our country just like Americans do. And just like here, we don’t always agree with our leaders. If he comes, it’s likely he won’t be able to go back.”
“I know someone with a jet.”
“So do I, Costello. That route, he’d never be able to go back.”
“Have you gone back?”
“No,” I say. “Not since the war.”
“You haven’t seen your brother since?—”
“We met in Switzerland four years ago,” I tell her. “Geneva. Neutral ground. Russians can travel there. Americans too. Quiet. Safe.”
“You’re close.”
“We’ve… bumped heads.” She looks at me in question. “When I graduated from college, I was supposed to be part of the Russian Olympic program. Then the doping scandal broke wide enough that the whole system collapsed. Medals stripped. Flag gone. Doors closed. Fair enough. They cheated and got caught. My chance went with it. So did my brother’s, though for different reasons. Mine disappeared because I played a sport. His, because he wore the uniform they didn’t want seen anymore. I understood the first part. I never understood why there was no way back for the people who hadn’t done anything wrong.”
“So, you haven’t seen him since then?”
I scrub a hand over my face and roll my neck to release tension. “We talk once a week. But when he sold the house I bought for him, one I expected to call home at least part-time when I retire, he moved into a place that was an eighth of the size. I was a little upset. But I’d bought it for him, a gift, so I couldn’t say much. Then, when he told me he used the money to buy a place in Switzerland, I was excited. It’s beautiful, four bedrooms. He was ready to get out, or so I thought. When I made plans to come see him, he told me that our mother was living there.”
“Aleks.” She shakes her head.
“He forgave her, and that’s okay. I’m not angry, and I know she was a victim too. He’s paid for her education. She’s working on her MD.”
“Have you talked to her?” I shake my head no. “Has she reached out?”
I shake my head no again, and I grab a fork. “I’m hungry, you?”
When she doesn’t answer, I look up into eyes that hold real emotions, concern, and care. “Is that Aleks for I’m done with this conversation?”
“I’d like that.”
She moves over and sits beside me on the couch. “Let’s talk about anything else. Your choice.”
“Tell me why you’re still wearing my number.”
“Because.” She answers.
“Because,” I repeat.
“Wait,” she sits up straighter, “How did you know where I was?”
