Right Where You Left Me Read online

  I pretend to stab my finger and raise it in the air. “Okay. I swear I’ll spend the weekend with you.”

  “Thank God that’s settled,” Em says. “Now we need to finish chem BECAUSE IT’S KILLING ME.”

  An old man at the counter turns and glares at us. My signal to leave.

  “Enough with the yelling,” I say. “Don’t get us kicked out of our favorite café.” I hug them both good-bye, understanding how Dad makes Mom feel: rooted and safe. I can’t imagine going through this without Emma and Isaac.

  When I get home, the door is gaping open. I inch forward and peek inside, scared. My heart beats harder when I remember that Mom isn’t supposed to be back for another hour or two, depending on bridge traffic. All of the wholesale places she and Nadine go to are in the East Bay.

  We always lock the door. Mom and Dad drilled this into me as much as they taught me to look both ways when crossing the street. We live on Clement Street in the Richmond District, which used to be unknown to tourists unless they were lost finding their way to the Golden Gate Bridge. Not anymore. A few restaurants opened. A couple of cafés. Some shops, including Green Apple, my favorite bookstore. Now everyone wants to live in one of the two-story stucco buildings painted the same pastel hues as Easter candy. Now the sidewalks are crowded and we have to pay more attention to our surroundings. In San Francisco, the more popular the neighborhood, the more break-ins.

  Then I smell Dad’s lasagna, and I convince myself that this was all a ruse. He decided to come right back home. We couldn’t reach him because he left his phone in airplane mode. He’s going to jump out and surprise me and say he discovered a punk polka band.

  I almost smile.

  Then I see Mom.

  “I thought you were going shopping,” I say. I try not to sound disappointed because I’m happy to see her, even if it’s a surprise, even if I wish it were Dad instead.

  I follow her into the kitchen. She’s made a salad and baked two different kinds of cookies.

  “Nadine went without me. I should be with you,” she says.

  “You haven’t heard anything?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I’ll tell you when I do. Obeshchaniye.” Promise. “Did he forget something and have to come back to get it?” she asks.

  I’m accustomed to not picking up after Dad when he’s traveling—which, according to superstition, only invites disaster. His sweatshirt drapes over one of the kitchen chairs and will remain until he walks through the door. It’s bad luck to return to the house if you forgot something.

  I shake my head. “No, Mom. He didn’t.” I want to reassure her that he didn’t break a mirror, sit on a table, or whistle in the house, either—actions that bring misfortune. “Everything was normal.”

  She nods. “Okay.”

  She sifts powdered sugar over a tray of Russian wedding cookies, my favorite when I was little. When she wipes hair from her face, she leaves a comet streak of sugar across her forehead. I gesture to her. “You got some on you.”

  “Let me change,” she says. “Go ahead and serve the lasagna. I thought we could watch a movie while we eat.”

  She’s cleared off the coffee table to make room for dinner. The TV is on, the news muted, jumping to the next big story. A train derailed somewhere in New Jersey. I wonder how long it will take them to forget about the quake, if Dad will be home before Ukraine fades entirely from the news.

  Mom emerges in yoga pants and one of Dad’s T-shirts, almost dress-length. It makes her look younger and a little lost. We’re used to his trips, to his prepared meals tiding us over until he’s home, but this is different. We both feel it—I can tell. We’re in limbo. I pull out my phone, but the only texts I have are from Emma and Isaac about the torture that is chemistry. I toss it onto the table.

  Mom picks up the remote. “That sci-fi movie is on, the one you wanted to see in the theater. Want to watch it?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s great.” A perfect escape. Aliens and intergalactic warfare.

  Mom’s a multitasker. When we all watch movies together, she usually has a project, paying bills or making grocery lists or looking at new recipes to attract non-Russians to the bakery. She can’t sit still, especially if she’s sitting next to me. Not tonight, though. She doesn’t busy herself with something else.

  Last summer, I had a crush on one of the actors in this film, but that wore off. The plot doesn’t absorb me like I hoped it would. I want to be swept away by action and hotness. Instead, I stifle a yawn. I know I won’t sleep. Not a chance, especially since I haven’t gone for a run since before Dad left. I’ll stay awake all night picturing him who knows where. I’ll count stars and wish him home.

  I try to quash my worry that this evening with Mom will be fleeting, a spell due to expire at midnight. As we watch the movie, I fake tiredness and rest my head on her shoulder, thrilled when she squeezes my hand and doesn’t let go. We sit for much longer than I expect. When the moment finally comes to an end, she murmurs an apology as she fetches the cookies from the kitchen.

  When she returns, she positions herself against the arm of the couch—not where she was before, not near me. I don’t accept her usual distance, not now. I scoot over and put my head in her lap. She pats my back, quick and light. I take what I can get.

  “Vsyo budet v poryadke,” she says. Everything will be okay. “He’ll be home soon.”

  I wonder if this is the price: The only way I get her affection is if Dad is gone. Not just working, but missing.

  Seven

  I wake with a jolt. It’s still dark, but when I see that it’s five o’clock in the morning, I know that Mom’s already downstairs. She’s not a natural morning person, but bakers rise before dawn in order to offer fresh, warm pastries to the world. Plus, I doubt she slept at all.

  Photos cover my walls, some framed, others tacked or taped. A giant collage. Mom and Dad and Emma and Isaac. A couple of covert ones of Josh. Snapshots and my attempt at more formal portraits. Some darkroom failures. When Dad comes home, I’ll take a picture of him every day. Mom, too, and Nadine, and my friends. I’ll shoot each person I love. I’ll immortalize—not memorialize. I’ll make sure I see them, appreciate them, and not take them for granted.

  When I open the door to the store, I’m filled with the same warmth I feel every time I work in the bakery. Tatya Nadine prepares the cases and counter as Mom preheats the last of the steel-gray ovens. I’m relieved to see Tatya even though it’s her day off. I need her, but Mom needs her even more.

  Everything about Tatya Nadine is soft: her round body and velveteen tracksuit and poufy hair, dyed magenta, the same shade she paints her nails. Her swollen toes peek out from her shimmery gold sandals. She’s taller than Mom, taller than me, and it’s a relief to be embraced by someone substantial. When I hug Mom, I’m self-conscious because of my height, only five six, but four inches taller than her. I feel like a giraffe hugging a baby bunny.

  Nadine hands me a mug of coffee and asks, “Doing okay?”

  “Yeah. Just worried.”

  “I’m here,” she says. “And remember to take care of your mama. She needs you now.”

  “I will, Tatya. Promise.” I brush a cloud of flour from her sleeve, and she gives me another hug.

  Past the long row of cases, past the cash register, is the butter-yellow kitchen. It’s small, with one wall of ovens, another of baking racks, and several metal counters and wooden butcher blocks. I pull my apron off its hook.

  Mom smiles. She and I match in our well-worn aprons. As always, the kitchen fills with quiet concentration. There’s barely room for two bodies, a constant negotiation of space. Mom nods her head to the side when she wants to slip by, a precise movement more efficient than words. I tap her shoulder instead of muttering, Excuse me. You can hear us slap dough, chop fruit, and open cans, but you rarely hear our voices. We communicate through food and with our bodies, by pointing to a pan, by passing flour, sugar, and butter.

  We begin with the d
elicate pastries first, the thin layered dough, before moving on to the savory. We fill the shelves with loaves of bread, mainly light and dark rye. My favorite is kalach, a round loaf that looks like a dish with two handles. By seven o’clock, the glass cases teem with ornate layer cakes and a pastel rainbow of meringues. We cater to Russians, Ukrainians, and Poles, but we make sure we have wider appeal. Last year, I trained Nadine on the new espresso machine, and she serves a decent latte to the college students up the hill. Mom makes the best apple turnovers in San Francisco, or so states the faded “Cheap Eats” review posted in the front window, which praises her flaky crust and gleaming sugar crystals.

  Mom and I labor over the crown jewel of Russian cakes: Bird’s Milk, Ptichye Moloko, a white crème soufflé cake covered with chocolate. We have a saying, “You have everything but Bird’s Milk.” Meaning, if you have everything but the cake, you have it all. Eartha Kitt has a song that talks about feeding her lover Bird’s Milk. Dad sings it whenever he eats a slice. As I bake alongside Mom, safe and warm in the confines of the kitchen, tears fill my eyes. If Dad were here, all of us together, the saying would be true for me.

  The cake requires intense concentration. Once the soufflé sets and the cake has cooled, I watch Mom coat it with a thick layer of chocolate ganache, not a fingerprint or smudge anywhere. My hands tremble as I add a flourish of roses in pink icing. The cake serves thirty, and we’ll sell out by the end of the day, each slice so otherworldly, so perfect.

  “You’ve gotten good at decorating,” Mom says. “You can always work here more. I bet you could be as good as me in no time.”

  I look at Mom and then the cake. Mom’s first language is Russian, then food, and third is English. I feel like she’s inviting me into her world. I’d be tempted to quit cross-country if she really wants me here more. I’d exchange running for her in a heartbeat.

  “Maybe,” I say, worried she’ll take it back or forget or never invite me again.

  The door creaks open, and in her smoker’s voice, Nadine welcomes a customer. It’s Boris, a man who resembles an emaciated goldfish, complete with bulging googly eyes. He owns the watch repair shop across the street and always comes about this time for piroshki. They talk about the neighborhood, whether or not they will add more buses to the crowded 38 line, and they muse about the fog. They’ve had the same conversation for years. Boris pays and Tatya Nadine chimes, “Prijatnogo appétit.” Bon appétit.

  After two hours, Mom withdraws her last pan from the oven, an apricot strudel. We tidy up after our morning’s work in order to prepare for the next day. Nadine is scared of heights, so I join her behind the counter and climb up the ladder to change the sign with wobbly chalk, listing tomorrow’s specials.

  Mom and Tatya Nadine free me after the morning rush. I return to our apartment upstairs and change into running shorts. I have time for a long run down the beach and back—usually my favorite way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Running and taking pictures. After grabbing my camera and stretching, I go downstairs to pick up the bank deposit. When Nadine hands it to me, it feels heavy, the satisfying result of a busy morning. She wraps her arms around me, holding tight. “Try not to worry too much,” she says. “He’ll come home soon.”

  Mom emerges from the kitchen and takes my hand. “She’s right, Charlotte. It’s going to be okay. Poka.” Bye for now.

  When I glance back at the store, Mom and Tatya Nadine are standing at the counter, looking more like mother and daughter than ever. They’ll spend the rest of the afternoon in the bakery, quietly reading the newspaper, pausing to nibble from the day-old basket. When I was little, I would snuggle between them, not caring that their attention was on the news. Tatya Nadine would stroke my hair and I would lean closer to Mom, yearning for her to do the same, happy when I felt her fingers brush my scalp. Gestures can be more important than words.

  I inhale the smell of steamed dumplings and nearly collide with Bobby Zhou, our neighbor who graduated from my school last year. We ran cross-country together. “Watch it, Charlotte.” A giant take-out order fills his arms. “I’ve got to get this to the senior center.”

  I don’t want to be rude, so I say, “I’ll walk with you. Need help?”

  “I got it.”

  I eye Bobby, who has an aspiring Goth style including a long black trench coat and asymmetrical hair that drapes over his left eye. Ever the rebel, Bobby quit working at his family’s restaurant and accepted a position at the Sanrio store across the street. To meet girls, he insisted. There, he sat behind the register in the center of an impressive Hello Kitty spiral. Oversized plush Hello Kitty dolls next to winking Hello Kitty backpacks, and a multitude of Hello Kitty school supplies. Bobby guarded the key to the pricey things displayed in the glass case—alarm clocks and watches and pendants. He was unaware of how his delicate features blended in with the sweet figurines, how his pout only made him more appropriate for the job.

  I wanted to take his picture and make him a sign: look at me: i’m the portrait of irony.

  Last month, he made manager and then abruptly quit. No one knows why he returned to pushing dim sum carts.

  “Later,” he says.

  “Bye. And, Bobby?”

  “What?”

  “You may want to change your clothes before you go back. You reek of pot.”

  He looks startled. “I thought the kitchen covered up the smell.”

  “Not unless you’re making weed dumplings.”

  “Crap,” Bobby says. “Thanks.”

  I jog down Clement Street, dodging shoppers browsing the Chinese markets’ produce stands. When I reach Golden Gate Park, I start to run in earnest, cruising up to the luminescent Conservatory of Flowers, slowing down to admire the Victorian structure and its delicate glass panes. I struggle to leave the treasured view behind as I continue up the path.

  I travel past the congested areas of the park and into the meadows. This is my favorite part of the city, the long stretch of green ending at the ocean. I let the breeze carry me, racing the seagulls. I pass Stow Lake, with its rented paddleboats, and Strawberry Hill, the island of my lost virginity. His name is Kyle. He was a mistake. I reach Chain of Lakes, and I don’t pause until I’m near the end of the park, at the Dutch Windmill and Queen Wilhelmina Tulip Garden.

  This is Dad’s favorite spot in the park, especially when the feathery parrot tulips are in full bloom, just a few weeks from now. We walk here often, standing beneath the windmill, giant and hovering at the very end of the garden. I don’t know how to occupy a city of memories: his favorite views and restaurants and bookstores. It’s one thing to navigate the apartment and see his things. It’s another to venture into the world and still have everything remind me of him.

  It hits me again, the full force of our situation. That he’s missing. That I don’t know when we’ll see him again. All I want is to walk through the front door and find him stretched out in his favorite chair, exhausted from his trip and happy to be home. When will that happen? Will it happen? I feel pain in my side, but it’s not a stitch from running. It’s panic, and the only way I know how to deal with it is to run harder.

  I sprint directly into the wind and endure the sand in my face. The highway curves and disappears into Lands End, the most accurately named place in the world. I gaze at the Golden Gate Bridge below and the soft hills in the distance. I turn to look out at the ocean, a wide expanse of shimmering blue, and remember Megan’s words. Stay positive. No news is good news. I try to outrun worry. Outrun fear.

  When I reach the water, I face the Pacific and feel the waves spray my face. My skin and clothes absorb the salt water, and the sensation is an unexpected relief. We Russians have stories about water spirits that bless those who wade into pure and sacred water, so powerful that it protects from evil spirits, heals the sick, and resurrects the dead. I need to remember Dad’s strength, his height and sense of humor and the crafty way he can get anyone to talk.

  My mind fills with a mantra, a plea: Vozvrashchat’sy
a. Vozvrashchat’sya. Vozvrashchat’sya. Come back.

  Eight

  We stand before a three-story Victorian in the Mission District, a hipster neighborhood where bookstores and cafés nestle between taquerias and Mexican grocers. Music blares through the open windows upstairs. Silhouettes of people fill a rounded room that reminds me of a castle turret. This is my most difficult moment, right before I walk into a party.

  “Come on,” Emma says. “You’ll be fine after a beer.” We climb the stairs. A step wobbles under my weight. The sign taped to the front door instructs us to go to the third floor.

  To my relief, we find Isaac in the kitchen. “About time,” he says. “Get a beverage from the cooler.”

  I reach into the melting ice and grab a beer for Em and a Sprite for me. The last thing I want is to feel foggy or cotton-headed. My heart feels a little shaky, and I don’t want to risk bursting into tears in the middle of a party. They say alcohol is an acquired taste, and I have yet to develop a desire for it. Maybe in college. Maybe never.

  “Hand it over.” Isaac takes Emma’s bottle, wedges it under a kitchen drawer handle, and snaps off the cap. “I love multipurpose cabinetry.”

  I look around the room full of strangers. I don’t recognize anyone, a relief. Tonight, I prefer anonymity.

  Everyone seems older, graduates, free from high school. They’re tattooed and pierced and liberated. I look down at my skirt and wonder if they can tell that I’m not one of them. Highly likely.

  Em blends in. Isaac can talk to anybody, make anybody laugh and spill their secrets. He’s more like Dad than me that way. A natural.

  I miss my camera.

  I don’t know if Josh was already here or just arrived. He stands there looking at me. I feel that pull again, like my feet will walk over before my brain commands them to move. He nods to the door, one I hadn’t noticed. When he pulls it open, I tell Em and Isaac that I’ll be back and leave before they have the opportunity to give me hell about my taste in boys.