No dinner. No dates. My office, tonight, at six.
Me
I can do that.
Silver Eyes
And bring the divorce papers. Signed.
Franky was right. I needed to respect Lauren’s wishes in this, though part of me longed to hold onto the thread we had spun in Vegas. Once it snapped, would there be any chance of repairing it? The hope I had built around this relationship was the one bright spot in my life. My father’s illness weighed on me. Once the summer was over, I wouldn’t be able to look after him—not that I was doing such a great job now.
When I couldn’t be around as much as I was now, how would he react? Would he be scared? Or would he have deteriorated so much he no longer recognized me?
I came back from a late afternoon session in the gym, ready to prepare for my “date” with Lauren. Maya had agreed to stay later, but when I stepped into the kitchen and found her sitting at the kitchen table, I knew something was wrong.
“What happened?”
“He fell and hit his head. The doctor’s been in, and he has a nasty cut, but there’s no evidence of a concussion. We’ve been monitoring him ever since.”
“But I thought you were monitoring him at all times. That is what I pay you for.”
She remained placid. No doubt she heard relatives complaining all the time.
“He was in his bedroom, and he stood on a stool to reach a box from the closet shelf. Some old newspaper clippings.”
She sounded apologetic, yet I couldn’t really blame her. My father was a stubborn man, even if he didn’t remember why. He had kept clippings of his work in a couple of shoeboxes, with the goal of digitizing it at some point. I supposed I should be glad that he still showed an interest.
“Where is he now?”
“In the living room, watching TV.”
It was Star Trek, one of the later series. He had never been a science fiction fan, but since his illness he enjoyed looking at the aliens.
“Papa?”
My father looked up. A white bandage adorned his forehead, and the makings of a good bruise highlighted his cheek. We were quite the pair.
For a moment, his eyes registered confusion before it came to him. Aloysha. My son. But each time, it seemed to take longer. More effort for him to reconstruct the bricks of his slowly crumbling world.
“Aloysha, you are here.” He gestured to me quickly. “Close the door. Quickly.”
I did as I was told and took a seat in the armchair opposite him.
“They’re here.”
“Who?”
He looked around and leaned in. “Yakunin’s men.”
Yakunin, one of the leading agents in the FSB, Russia’s Federal Security Service, had made it his mission to take down my father and all journalists who stood for dissent. The day Sasha was convicted in one of their kangaroo courts as an enemy of the state was the happiest day of the asshole’s dismal life. Seeing my father imprisoned was the culmination of his years-long campaign to suppress journalistic freedoms and human rights.
But Yakunin was no longer alive to torment my father and other so-called “extremists.” Of course, it was possible his successors were still looking for ways to destroy the lives of anyone who stood up to the old or even current regime. But it was unlikely they cared enough about my father. Since he escaped Russia twelve years ago, he had lived his life in relative peace and security. Before his illness, he had still written his op-eds, lectured on corruption and authoritarianism, had even been consulted by Western governments. At one time, his life would have been in danger, but no more.
“Yakunin died over five years ago. Even before that, he was ill for a long time, Papa. No longer capable of hurting you.”
My father looked skeptical, and surprisingly lucid. Though he was indulging in a paranoid fantasy, it was still good to hear him speak with such clarity. This was the Sasha I remembered.
“He is merely one man. The system is bigger than that. And they don’t forget.”
