The mention of his father brings up some conflicting emotion, and I set my fork down and lean back in my chair.
"What do you think of Fyodor?" I ask, keeping my voice casual. "You've been with him for a few weeks now. How are you feeling about everything?"
Sasha's face shifts. Some of that brightness dims as he thinks about the question. He pokes at a piece of chicken and doesn't answer right away, and I can see him working through his thoughts the way he does when I give him a hard problem to solve.
"He's scary sometimes," he finally says. "The way he talks and the way he looks at people. Like at the museum when he yelled at me about the rope. I thought he was really mad."
"He wasn't mad at you. He was worried you'd get hurt,solnyshko."
"It didn't feel like worry." Sasha's voice gets quieter. "It felt like when my mom's boyfriends used to yell at me for stuff."
I picture a scared little boy dealing with a grown man who has no self-control, and I have to take a breath before I respond. "Fyodor isn't like those men, Sasha. He's still learning how to be a father. He didn't grow up with good examples of how to do it right, but he's trying. Okay?"
"I know." He looks up at me with big eyes, and he looks exactly like his father. It catches me off guard a little. "I always wanted a dad… ButMamochkasaid he wouldn't want me anyway."
"And now you know he does."
"Yeah." Sasha's head bobs, but he stares down at his plate as he responds. "It's weird, though. The real thing is different than what I imagined. It's scary and confusing…" He trails off, searching for the right word, his fork making slow circles in the gravy. "Also kind of good? Like before the museum when he was talking to me about the horses and the zoo. That was nice."
I nod and reach across the table to squeeze his hand briefly before pulling back. "He's trying, Sasha. I know it doesn't always feel like it, but he's trying really hard."
"Do you think he likes me?"
His bottom lip quivers a little as he asks me that question, and it brings tears to my eyes. How sad is it that a child his age even has to ask whether his own father likes him?
"Of course. I think he likes you very much. He's just not good at showing it yet."
Sasha seems to consider my words for a long moment. Then his face crumples slightly and he looks down at his plate again. "Mamochkaused to make me chicken like this," he says quietly.
"She sounds like she loved you very much."
"She did." His voice cracks, and I watch his eyes fill with tears that he blinks back. "Can I be done eating? I want to go read in my room."
"Of course. Go ahead."
He pushes back from the table and walks with his head down toward his bedroom, closing the door behind him. I sit there for a long moment staring at his half-finished plate, my own appetite gone, thinking about how unfair it all is, how much pain this child has already carried in his short life. I would do anything to make that pain go away for him.
I clear the dishes and stack them on the room service tray outside the door, then check on Sasha. He's curled up on his bed with a book with a dry face now but his shoulders are still hunched over. There's no way he could be reading, and it looks like he's just staring at one page, probably thinking about Murial. I leave him alone and wander back into the main room feeling restless and unsettled and not sure what to do with myself.
It's been a long day and the bed looks very inviting right now. I grab my journal from the nightstand and climb onto the mattress, pulling a pillow behind my back and tucking my legs under me. My nightly ritual feels different out on the road and not in the comfort of my own home but it grounds me in my routine and helps me remember that I'm here for Sasha, not just because of Fyodor's hasty choices.
When I'm able to refocus mentally and think about the positive reasons to continue on, the ink flows from my pen easily and I'm able to pour my heart out.
Sasha askedme tonight if I think Fyodor likes him. The question broke my heart a little because no child should have to wonder if their parent cares about them. But Sasha isn't a normal child and Fyodor isn't a normal parent and none of this is how family is supposed to work.
I want Fyodor to be the father Sasha needs. I want him to learn how to speak softly and touch gently and show affection. I want him to understand that yelling at a ten-year-old isn't discipline, it's just instilling fear, and trust isn't built on fear.
But wanting these things means I care. And caring means I've let myself get tangled up in this family that isn't mine, this mess of a situation that I was dragged into against my will and never asked for. But I find myself wanting to stay and help.
When did that happen? When did I stop being a prisoner and start being something else entirely?
I writeuntil my hand cramps and my eyes grow heavy, filling page after page with thoughts I can't organize and feelings I can't name. At some point I set the journal down on my chest andclose my eyes for a moment. The pillow still smells of Fyodor's cologne, and I let myself sink into it and drift off without meaning to.
I don't know how long I sleep before the sound of the door wakes me.
The room is dark, like someone shut off the lights because I know they were on when I dozed off. And my journal isn't on my chest anymore either, which explains the heavy footsteps stalking around the end of the bed. He thinks he’s noble for tucking me in after I've fallen asleep but he's drunk. I can tell by the uneven gait he uses and how his body sways in the limited light left streaming under the bathroom door.
I keep my eyes mostly closed and watch through my lashes as he moves through the room, shedding his coat and draping it over a chair. I can tell he's trying to be quiet so he doesn't wake me. But he's clumsy, bumping into the dresser and catching himself on the bedpost. He's not just a little drunk he's totally wasted.
