trip?”
My dad puts one elbow over the back of the couch where he’s sitting, opposite me, and sighs.
“She’s gonna give me hell if she knows I told you this,” he says.
“My lips are sealed,” I say.
“This was a couple years before you were born,” he says. “We drove up to Maine from Boston for a weekend getaway, just the two of us. I pick her up outside her apartment, help her put her bags in the trunk, and when we get back in the car, she hands me a sheet of paper.”
I start giggling.
“How old were you?”
“About your age. Maybe a year or two older, twenty-six or twenty-seven,” he says.
“So she’s always been this way.”
I couldn’t be less surprised. The level of organization that my mom’s achieved has to be inborn.
“Your mother has actually loosened up some, believe it or not,” he says. “Anyway, the title of the itinerary was Relaxing Beach Vacation . Underneath that, she’d included the objective enjoy ourselves. ”
I laugh so hard I snort.
“Did you achieve the objective?” I ask, between giggles. “Did you hit all your relaxation benchmarks in a timely fashion?”
“I believe we vacationed to her satisfaction,” he says. “It helped that large chunks of each afternoon were simply scheduled as unstructured free time .”
“Oh, my God,” I say, still laughing helplessly. “God, of course they were.”
We sit there, laughing and drinking, for a few more moments. Then I remember what I wanted to ask him.
“Dad,” I say. “Quick question and you can’t tell Mom.”
“The tooth fairy isn’t real,” he says, and I roll my eyes. That’s his standard answer when I say I’ve got a question, even though it hasn’t been funny for about fifteen years.
“How illegal is pot in Sveloria?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows.
“Asking for a friend,” I say quickly.
He gives me his I-can’t-believe-you’re-asking-this look, tipping his head a little to the side and looking exasperated through his thick-frame glasses.
I smile innocently and shrug.
“I believe it’s technically illegal but not really enforced,” he says.
I nod. He looks into his wine glass.
“I’ve also gotten more than a few whiffs of it walking around outside at night,” he says.
“So, if my friend maybe accidentally found a joint in her bag, she doesn’t necessarily need to flush it down the toilet and waste perfectly good Amsterdam weed?” I ask.
“ Your friend probably doesn’t need to flush it,” he says. “Particularly if your friend can be discreet, and if she’s a guest of the crown.”
I nod.
“I’ll pass that on,” I say.
“Did your friend happen to carry this weed through customs in a dozen different countries?” he asks.
I grimace at him and shrug. He gets up and pours himself another glass of wine.
“This is why parents drink,” he says.
8
Kostya
F or the third night in a row, I’m awoken by a boom and a flash of light and I open my eyes still gasping. The screams in my ears fade, the bedsheets clenched in my fists.
I stare at the ceiling, whispering to myself.
“Summer palace, Velinsk, Western tower,” I say.
I swallow.
“Summer palace.”
Slowly, my hands unclench.
“Velinsk,” I whisper.
I take a deep breath.
“Western tower,” I say, and exhale.
It’s not always the same dream. My subconscious has plenty of horrors to choose from, but I always wake up the same way: soaked in sweat, every muscle in my body clenched tight.
It’s silly, but telling myself out loud where I am helps. It reminds me that I’m not deep in the mountains, fighting someone I can’t see. I’m safe at home: Summer palace, Velinsk, Western tower.
I walk to the big windows in just my boxers and look out, over the Black Sea. The moon is behind me, so the tower is casting a shadow to the front. It’s not more than half-full, so everything out there looks silver-blue and dreamlike.
A far cry from the vivid reds and greens of the war dreams. They’d been
My dad puts one elbow over the back of the couch where he’s sitting, opposite me, and sighs.
“She’s gonna give me hell if she knows I told you this,” he says.
“My lips are sealed,” I say.
“This was a couple years before you were born,” he says. “We drove up to Maine from Boston for a weekend getaway, just the two of us. I pick her up outside her apartment, help her put her bags in the trunk, and when we get back in the car, she hands me a sheet of paper.”
I start giggling.
“How old were you?”
“About your age. Maybe a year or two older, twenty-six or twenty-seven,” he says.
“So she’s always been this way.”
I couldn’t be less surprised. The level of organization that my mom’s achieved has to be inborn.
“Your mother has actually loosened up some, believe it or not,” he says. “Anyway, the title of the itinerary was Relaxing Beach Vacation . Underneath that, she’d included the objective enjoy ourselves. ”
I laugh so hard I snort.
“Did you achieve the objective?” I ask, between giggles. “Did you hit all your relaxation benchmarks in a timely fashion?”
“I believe we vacationed to her satisfaction,” he says. “It helped that large chunks of each afternoon were simply scheduled as unstructured free time .”
“Oh, my God,” I say, still laughing helplessly. “God, of course they were.”
We sit there, laughing and drinking, for a few more moments. Then I remember what I wanted to ask him.
“Dad,” I say. “Quick question and you can’t tell Mom.”
“The tooth fairy isn’t real,” he says, and I roll my eyes. That’s his standard answer when I say I’ve got a question, even though it hasn’t been funny for about fifteen years.
“How illegal is pot in Sveloria?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows.
“Asking for a friend,” I say quickly.
He gives me his I-can’t-believe-you’re-asking-this look, tipping his head a little to the side and looking exasperated through his thick-frame glasses.
I smile innocently and shrug.
“I believe it’s technically illegal but not really enforced,” he says.
I nod. He looks into his wine glass.
“I’ve also gotten more than a few whiffs of it walking around outside at night,” he says.
“So, if my friend maybe accidentally found a joint in her bag, she doesn’t necessarily need to flush it down the toilet and waste perfectly good Amsterdam weed?” I ask.
“ Your friend probably doesn’t need to flush it,” he says. “Particularly if your friend can be discreet, and if she’s a guest of the crown.”
I nod.
“I’ll pass that on,” I say.
“Did your friend happen to carry this weed through customs in a dozen different countries?” he asks.
I grimace at him and shrug. He gets up and pours himself another glass of wine.
“This is why parents drink,” he says.
8
Kostya
F or the third night in a row, I’m awoken by a boom and a flash of light and I open my eyes still gasping. The screams in my ears fade, the bedsheets clenched in my fists.
I stare at the ceiling, whispering to myself.
“Summer palace, Velinsk, Western tower,” I say.
I swallow.
“Summer palace.”
Slowly, my hands unclench.
“Velinsk,” I whisper.
I take a deep breath.
“Western tower,” I say, and exhale.
It’s not always the same dream. My subconscious has plenty of horrors to choose from, but I always wake up the same way: soaked in sweat, every muscle in my body clenched tight.
It’s silly, but telling myself out loud where I am helps. It reminds me that I’m not deep in the mountains, fighting someone I can’t see. I’m safe at home: Summer palace, Velinsk, Western tower.
I walk to the big windows in just my boxers and look out, over the Black Sea. The moon is behind me, so the tower is casting a shadow to the front. It’s not more than half-full, so everything out there looks silver-blue and dreamlike.
A far cry from the vivid reds and greens of the war dreams. They’d been
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