The Purple Mansion on Maple

CHAPTER TWELVE

Maggie hadn’t seen her mother this light in a long time. She had received the invitation to the “house warming” a week ago, and it brought to her face a smile of endearment. The invitation was handcrafted, delicately written, and showcased Lou’s artistry that Maggie had always cherished and tried to emulate. Her mother was creating again. Not for other people, not to sell things, but for the joy of sharing something beautiful. Now she stood on the doorstep, the evening before the party, ready to join in on the decorations. She knew Ellen would be here already, putting the girls to bed and aching for a break; Rachel, if she’d drug herself from Seattle, would be present, likely already discussing the source of the wine or the conditions the cows lived in to make the cheese.

She tucked her irritatingly frizzy, obnoxiously bountiful red hair back into a high, messy bun, and recalled the few times she’d interacted with the strange man in the strange house that her mother insisted had remained appropriate. The first time she met him, he seemed distant, brusque, even. He had marched through the purple mansion with purpose and precision and seemed far too competent for the meager work and pay. The second time she met him, she was complaining to Lou about the frustrating way the landlord kept trying to oust her with rent increases and refusals to fix broken pipes and failed electrical systems. It was moments like this that Maggie was endlessly grateful to Rachel, who despite her youth, was a brilliant and formidable advocate for justice--particularly regarding the Landlord-Tenant Act in Washington State and her dear older sister.

Mykhail had walked into the kitchen for a glass of water as Maggie’s mother filled her wine glass, and the air turned electric as the two crossed paths. Nothing more than “excuse me” and “oh, pardon” were exchanged between her mother and the dark and handsome Mykhail, but Maggie immediately sensed a sharp change in atmosphere with their proximity to one another. Lou had become flustered as he exited the kitchen, blinking for a moment, then turning her concern back to her middle daughter with feigned interest in Maggie’s suddenly dull problems.

“I’m so sorry, dear, yes, that is just, it’s just unconscionable,” Lou murmured kindly, sipping Maggie’s wine rather than her own. Maggie smiled a small smile.

“Yes, it is. Thank you. That’s my wine, mom. Want to share anything with me?” Maggie scooted closer to her mother, her lamentations suspended in favor of the unusual discombobulation surrounding her typically laser-sharp mother.

Lou rolled her eyes. “I...oh, I don’t know. He’s interesting, isn’t he, Mags?”

“You’re like a smitten girl, mom!” Mags hissed, and Lou shushed her with a blush and a smile.

“He asked for dinner together Friday. What do you think?” Lou was all shyness; this was new territory with her daughter but Maggie was, of course, the romantic to disclose to. Asking her for advice would be a hit-or-miss situation, but in Maggie’s 28 years she had lived infinitely more intrigues and romances than her mother had ever dreamed. Maggie squealed, and the brief interruption of consistent sawing sounds cause Lou to smack her daughter’s freckled and pale arm with a sharp warning. “Hush, you lunatic, you’ll blow my cover.”

Maggie bit her lip, wiggled her feet, and did tiny, silent handclaps. Her mother had asked her about an outfit but Maggie hadn’t heard anything after that point. That was a week ago. Now, she’d have the third interaction with this mysterious man, this man that, in her opinion, was precisely what her mother should enjoy right now. Despite Maggie’s flightiness and reckless joy in life, she understood the sacrifice and devotion her mother showed she and her sisters. It was a consistency she envied, but never believed possible for herself; she often considered the self-sacrificing line of work to be joyless and short-lived. In any event--unpleasant enough to avoid at all costs. She raised her hand to knock on the wide, impressive door that hand been repainted to a beautiful deep purple when she saw Rachel’s Uber drive up. The driver drove away with a wearily relieved expression, and Maggie chuckled to herself that he must have had a fairly burdensome trip from Seattle with his talkative, opinionated passenger.

“Mags! Hi, sister!” Shouted Rachel, yanking her backpack from the seat and rushing up the sidewalk. “Holy crap. Holy crap! This place is crazy! I mean, we’ve seen it, but it looks like a million times better. How are you? Is your landlord still an asshole? I can’t wait to tell you about my social justice in politics professor, she is amazing. She studied in India, can you imagine?” Rachel was already rapping on the front door, and Maggie secretly made a bet with herself that Rachel wouldn’t notice if she didn’t answer a single question all evening. Rachel did, however, become instantly silent as the door was opened, quite suddenly, but Mykhail. Both girls raised their eyebrows at the sight of him, rather than Lou, opening their mother’s front door.

Mykhail was aware of the awkwardness. “Please, to come in. Your mother is with Ellen, helping the onuky to sleep. The little children?” He lowered his hand to indicate Margo and Dinah’s heights as he stepped aside for the women to enter. Their jaws simultaneously dropped at the transformation of the house. The once cracked, plaster walls that were yellowed and aged were unrecognizable; they had been repaired and painted a simple grey that reminded both daughters of their mother’s eyes. The thick trim running the length of the base of the walls was glossy and white, matching the trim around door frames and windows. The floors shone with fresh luster, a rich, red-brown under their newly refinished surfaces. New light fixtures, elegant but modern chandeliers, hung in the entryway, foyer, living room, and dining area. The kitchen was sharply white, with dark blue accents and white marble tops. Mykhail, typically reserved, gestured excitedly for Lou’s daughters to come into the kitchen and wait.

He poured the obligatory glasses of wine for Maggie and Rachel. “Please, will you wait? I think your mother would like to show you her work.”

Both girls locked eyes with each other, and as Mykhail exited the kitchen, Maggie mouthed, “Her work?” silently. Rachel nodded with an incredulous shrug and whispered, “since when does he pour wine? Or think about how someone might feel about something?” They both giggled, but found the statement to be thought provoking. They soon hear Ellen and Lou coming downstairs, and both looked happy in conversation when they spotted Maggie and Rachel.

“Girls!” Lou exclaimed, and rushed to hug both in turn. Ellen raised her eyebrows and sent her two sisters a look that said, I know, right? All three felt the change in Lou.

“The house is absolutely gorgeous, mom. If we are super quiet, can we all see the upstairs? I don’t want to wake the monsters,” Ellen said.

“Yes, of course, Ellen. We’ll be quiet as mice. But the attic isn’t done yet, Mykhail will still be working on that, even if we have the party tomorrow. I didn’t want to wait and no one will see up there anyway.” Lou led the girls through each room, six months of round-the-clock repairs, and a journey through her time with Mykhail. Each room had his presence, his touch, as he brought her dreams to life with a finish or a color, a fixture or a chair. Rachel thought about how kind he was to limit their viewing without their mother--her joy at relaying all she’d wanted and seen come to fruition was delightful. She saw what he meant by her work, because while she had assisted and dug her own hands into each room, it was her vision of what it could be that Mykhail was referring to.

Ellen’s thoughts travelled to herself, and to a comparison of that self to her mother. She and Lou shared features, eye color, hair color, and discernment. They shared a desire for precision, for logic, and planning. This house was outside of that, initially, but Ellen saw now a remarkable connection between her mother and this house. It was as though Lou had paused her whole life, had done what she could after she’d done what she had to, and raised all three girls with devotion and endless love. She’d kept a small house, a small budget, adjusted her hours to accommodate school schedules, just like Ellen. She’d endured a relationship that she needed to see work, just like Ellen. Lou’s eldest daughter sighed, and thought about how Brian wouldn’t even notice they weren’t home, because he wasn’t there either. She thought about telling her mother and sisters about how Brian called from his trip last week and told her her didn’t want to take the return flight from Chicago, and how she’d hung up on him. She thought about it, but pushed it down for another time. She looked at her mother, and found hope in her new beginning, in this gigantic house full of possibility that she had made perfect for herself.

“Mom, this place was the right choice, and it’s as beautiful as you are,” Ellen found herself saying, and all four of them stopped in the moment that surprised each of them with it’s sincerity, unexpectedness, and warmth.

“Thank you, Ellen. Thank you,” Louise replied. She knew something was tugging at her daughter, but she let it lay. Ellen was never one to be pushed into revealing anything, much like her mother.

Maggie took the helm in the way she always did. “Tell us about the unspeakable chemistry between you and super construction Russian dude, mom,” she muttered in a sexy, conspiratorial tone. Rachel giggled and smacked Maggie lightly.

“He’s Ukrainian, you boob, that’s so offensive to call him Russian!”

Lou laughed with her daughters and whispered to them all about her idiocy with her shoe, the glass in her foot, the flowers, and the kiss that changed everything.

Later that evening, tools put away, floors cleaned, lamps switched on with a hope and a prayer about the newly revamped wiring, the five adults stood around the kitchen island. Mykhail was typically quiet, but unusually present and tuned in to the women around him. He poured their wine, remembered which prefered white or red, and stood easily and calmly next to Lou, who almost imperceptibly leaned into his presence. The comfort the two felt with one another was obvious, and all three daughters were unusually accepting rather than interrogative toward the stranger in their midst. Perhaps it was that he no longer felt like a stranger, or perhaps it was their mother’s evident happiness. Possibly it was a suspicion that he was unafraid to be honest, even if his brusqueness had been initially off-putting. It wasn’t unkind, and each woman could think of a variety of instances in which they had shown their own rough edges.

Ellen sipped her pinot noir slowly, enjoying the warmth it provided on her tongue, down her throat, and in her mind. The company was inviting and asked nothing of her, and she began to feel herself wind down slowly. She excused herself to the bathroom, and took in her sharp features, pulled severely by the precise bun at the top of her head. It didn’t match her eyes, which despite their clear grey color, were softened by the evening’s festivities and preparations. She maintained her gaze with herself in the large, simple yet elegant mirror. Her hands moved of their own accord, unpinning and untwisting until piece by piece, she took apart the austere exterior that she had pulled into existence each morning. Her hair was longer than she had had it before; it curled with deep waves as it relaxed from it’s all-day position. Her highlights curved with each lock, and when her face was framed, she looked more like her mother than she had ever noticed before, and was pleased. She walked back to the kitchen, realized she taken her wine with her, and smiled a little at how it hadn’t been out of her hand since the girls went to sleep. Brian would have commented, would have picked apart her every move, and Ellen felt familiar anxiety creep up that everyone would say something about her hair. She nearly pulled it back up until she realized how ridiculous it was to fear a comment by her family about something so personal. She didn’t miss Brian, didn’t feel the desire to question his business trips, and wondered if he truly wasn’t taking a return flight to Seattle. When she came back into the kitchen, four heads turned, took her in, and Louise saw the same little girl she’d watched endlessly as a young mother. She knew Ellen was uncomfortable being the center of attention, so she opted not to say anything.

Maggie was less subdued, however, and grinned at her older sister maniacally. “You are so fucking beautiful, Elle,” she blurted. Maggie’s mouth took a southern turn when alcohol was introduced, but her family was accustomed to it. Rachel looked up from her phone for a moment, shared Maggie’s smile, and said, “Very feminine, big sister.”

Ellen rolled her eyes and tucked some of her hair behind her ear. “Everyone shut up,” she smiled. “Mykhail, may I ask you a question?” Ellen’s grey eyes flicked up to his, and he set his glass down and nodded in agreement. “How old are you?”

“Fifty-four,” he replied. He looked younger, they thought, but felt older. He seemed heavy in times of silence, and Lou had supposed years of difficulty in his home country had weighed down his worldview. He wasn’t overly negative about things, wasn’t depressed; but a resignation about things that were continuously challenging gave him an air of weathered strength. It was very Slavic, Lou thought, in light of the few interactions and exposure to the culture she’d had.

His willingness to answer questions tipped the atmosphere from genial to inquisitive, and Lou couldn’t wait to see what came of it. She felt protective of both her daughters and Mykhail, which produced no small amount of anxiety in how things might play out. Maggie was next. “So...what did you do in Canada? How long did you live there?”

Mykhail pulled out a stool and settled in for the line of questions. He never rushed an answer, which both drove Rachel crazy and engendered respect in her, as her own sharp wit and tongue had often produced alarming statements she wished she could retract. “I still keep a home there, in Surrey, British Columbia. I came first in 2007, and purchased the house. My family lives there. I moved them from Ukraine in 2008. My mother, my family members have health conditions that require attention. I went back to Ukraine. I had left much unfinished there, my business, my house. I had lived years on Crimean peninsula, where I built my home, other homes, in beautiful locations. It became unsafe, we had to move to Kiev, where there is more opportunity.” His voice thickened, his eyes misted, and his hands displayed a tension matching his set jaw. Louise watched the room carefully.

Rachel finally set her phone down. Ever-observant, Maggie saw she’d been reading about Ukraine before the screen darkened. Rachel never, ever wanted to engage whilst uninformed. She spoke slowly, deliberately, taking her cue from Mykhail. For all her youthful vigor and aggressive social justice mentality, Rachel was incredibly adept at reading people when she wanted to. She saw before her a landscape of triggers and passion, but she was also unwilling to simply observe. “Were you in Kiev in 2014? During that winter?”

Mykhail nodded. “I was there.”

Lou knew the Ukrainians had been attacked by their own berkut; that peaceful protests had led to bloodshed. She had read about it, conducting her own research on Ukraine, for no other reason than to learn more about Mykhail without directly asking. Rachel shook her head. “That must have been really traumatic,” she said quietly.

Mykhail surprised them all by shaking his own head. “No...it was not too unexpected by me, or by the older protestors. The younger generations were shocked, as we were a bit. But we had lived through Soviet Union. Some of them had not even been born when Ukraine won independence. Traumatic, traumatic is coming home to gather your things, and to be certain you cannot stay for even one more day.”

Rachel gaped. “They destroyed your home?”

Mykhail laughed a short, abrupt laugh. He leaned his frame over the island counter with raised eyebrows. “Not in so many words. Little Rachel, when Putin moves, he moves with precision. Sometimes is silent, sometimes is a tanker. But he moves, and he takes, and he keeps the world silent about it. Vin zly. Of course my home was destroyed, but not with so much rubble. First, Crimea is fine, is part of Ukraine but functions with independence. I wanted to remain in Ukraine, but my neighbors were for Russia. I would have fought, but Poroshenko is not the man we needed after Yanukovych. He is still weak, still won’t stand up to Russia, to Putin. I am too old to fight for the chocolate man and his evil business partner.”

Maggie looked around the heavily silenced room and asked, “The chocolate man?”

Rachel interjected, “Poroshenko, he owns Roshen Chocolates, right?”

Mykhail shrugged and nodded. “Yes. So I come here a few years ago. My family is safe, they can be healthy and live out their lives without fear.”

“Why not Europe? The UK?” Asked Rachel.

“I love the idea of America. Canada is comparable, of course, but America is what I grew up longing to be like. Soviet living is...contained. The United States were an affront to the Soviet school of thought, and it always spoke into my heart. To work, to make something, to build and fight and create your own path in life...to not have someone tell you, you are something, you can never be anything else...this is freedom to me.”

Maggie’s spirit soared. This was her heart, speaking. She walked around the kitchen island, her long skirt moving with each step. She very boldly, very sweetly, moved to Mykhail and stood facing him until he turned, quizzically. She hugged him as he sat, a full, enveloping hug, closing her eyes and squeezing with ferocious affection. Maggie style, thought Lou. Mykhail’s surprise was evident, but after a moment, he squeezed back with one arm, if for no other reason than to acknowledge Mag’s hug and encourage it’s release. Rachel snorted.

“Maggie’s ideal job description includes, “Just be yourself, at whichever self you find in the moment,” said Rachel, baiting her sister. But Maggie would not ruin the moment.

“I find your story incredible, and I love your pursuit of liberation. It’s beautiful. And I love that you facilitate it for others, too--for your family, for your country, for my mom.”

Lou was already engaged, but now on alert. “What do you mean?” She asked curiously.

But it was Ellen that answered. “This house. It’s freed you, mom. You did something scary, and had a dream about what it could be without being certain of the details. You jumped, and then Mykhail helped sort out those details. This work isn’t ten hours a week, mom. Mykhail, you put soul into this, didn’t you?” Ellen was full of surprises tonight, full of insights and queries that threw her predictability out the window for her family. Mykhail’s large hand moved, covering Lou’s, and he looked into her eyes with a certainty and kindness that erased the strain of the memories from the last few minutes almost completely.

“I put soul, and I put heart into it,” he said, and Lou could have been alone on a mountaintop in space with him in that moment; the girls, the kitchen, the mansion itself--they faded in light of his heartfelt, public statement. “But--” he said, moving them suddenly back to the present, “she has put in blood. I have seen it.”

They all chuckled, and Lou blushed and grinned at the memory of her cut up foot, as well as the many instances of scrapes, burns, tumbles, and minor injuries Lou had sustained while taking on tasks throughout the remodel. She’d lost a little weight in the work, and possibly a pint of blood in the process over the last seven or so months. There was still a good five or six months of finish and outdoor work to complete, but the essence of the mansion was intact. And the fireplaces would work, which was crucial as it turned colder.

“We’re ready to have our friends and family tomorrow, right?” Asked Lou.

“Right,” they chorused. But they each struggled with their smiles, with the exception of Louise.

Rachel couldn’t stop thinking about how even Ansel had called her “too much”, and how now he didn’t answer her texts. How her scholarship wasn’t granted yet because she’d forgotten a stack of papers. How she’d been sleeping at his place until today because her dorm was conditional on tuition payment. She smiled brightly, but seriously considered how shamed she’d feel if she had to ask for help sorting out something like paperwork when she was supposed to be the prodigious, upward bound attorney she identified herself as.

Maggie’s smile masked her financial ruin after funding her own show and having zero sales. How her Volvo was miles from it’s final stopping point, and how she didn’t feel inspired to do anything besides sleep in her little place that was increasingly the only place she wanted to be.

Ellen’s face, always the mask of togetherness, couldn’t admit to her failed marriage. To her husband of eight years being happily away, and likely never returning from Chicago. And how she didn’t really blame him, because she’d controlled everything about the girls to the point where he started picking on her ruthlessly, exerting control over something that eventually became hurtful to everyone. She spent her time ensuring she was perfect, and he spent his time insisting she wasn’t and trying to escape their house.

Even Mykhail, never one to feign anything, had a point of contention in his mind that he knew he couldn’t push down forever. That eventually, would come up, and could ruin absolutely everything. It weighed on him, as each day he grew more and more connected and entangled with Louise and the purple mansion. Each day the house and it’s owner felt more like home, and Mykhail knew it was past a point of forgetfulness or omission; at this point, Louise would know he had been hiding something all along. I have to tell her. He thought. I might lose her, he responded to himself, hating his inability to be certain about anything since entering the house. But if you don’t, you will lose everything all over again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The guests included Marcy, three of her friends, colleagues from Lou’s work, Rachel’s three classmate friends, Maggie’s friend Adrienne (apparently the tiff was over), and fourteen of the neighbors from between Lou’s old house and new. It was lively, beautiful, and Lou was a consummate host, relying on Maggie and Rachel for the playlist filling each room with engaging, diverse sets of music. Ellen refilled glasses and enlisted the help of Margo and Dinah in offering hors devours and taking out garbage and recycling. The little girls were pleased to be dressed in matching dark blue “princess dresses”, a little sparkle in the soft layers of fabric to compliment the sparkles in their dancing eyes. They flitted around the crowd, delighting with their giggles and polite inquiries of “cheese puff?” and “may I take that for you?”. With the holidays over and the new year well under way, it was lovely to take a moment to simply enjoy the restoration of spirit that the house had given. No gifts, no hurry; no rush, no worry. Just talk, and dance, and indulge a little. It seemed to be Lou’s motto since finding Mykhail in her life.

As the guests filing out, finding their own groups and rides home, Mykhail sought out Louise in the kitchen. Ellen was busy staying busy--hair still more relaxed than usual--with a dark red dress similar to her mother’s own deep wine-colored choice. Mykhail slid his hand into Lou’s for the second time in as many days, and it startled Lou pleasantly. “May I take you for a moment?” Ellen smiled along with Lou, both knowing he meant borrow you, but neither said anything. In Lou’s mind, he was well on his way to taking her--sweeping her, well off her feet, and to wherever he might want to go.

Mykhail wore a dark blue, long sleeved shirt of crisp linen material. Minimally adorned, it still boasted an impressive embroidered design in grey down the front, splitting at the neck for a few inches, revealing once more the strength of his chest, if only a miniscule peek. Darker in complexion than Lou, his ruddiness never paled, but had lightened from it’s summer and autumn tan. Each hair on his face, his chest, and his arms were more visible as the contrast between his hair and skin increased. Mykhail in winter, Lou thought, as though he were a subject of a painting series changed each season. It suited him, she thought--the cold made him seem warmer, somehow, but then she had believed him unduly fresh and vibrant in the autumn. It might just be love, she mentioned, offhand, to herself. She blinked a little, startling herself with her thoughts, before realizing of course it was true. She wanted for his happiness, respected his work, his ethos; she delighted in his laughter and wanted his opinion, perspective, and advice. She trusted him. Almost implicitly--which for Louise Chapman was an unfamiliar, unsettling feeling. She was accustomed to male integrity being a thing of old Hollywood scripts.

He walked in his surefooted, methodical gait, slowed and shortened for Lou’s ease of movement in her elegant dress. She’d long since abandon her shoes, causing him to smile at her ability to retain a queenlike posture and grace while padding about barefoot under a floor-length gown. Her upswept hair was simple, and incredibly beautiful. He found himself staring at her once more, taking in her features--high cheekbones, ivory with a light rose hue that spread as she talked about art, writing, design; about faith, or war; about her daughters, about her past. Mykhail loved that even the smallest idea, the simplest concept could ignite her, inspire her. An open space with old hardwood floors could elicit delight and imagination.

He continued to hold her hand, the longest they’d remained physically connected since their unrepeated kiss in the kitchen. She hadn’t pressed him, but she’d been curious about his restraint following it. Louise didn’t know if it was age, maturation, or simply trust in him that caused her to live with certainty in his affections; she didn’t fret. She was comfortable in their dynamic, comfortable in herself, and felt no rush toward anything other than understanding how he worked and showing him the same.

They walked, silently, each in their own thoughts, up the second staircase to the unfinished top floor. “The Space” as they’d been referring to it; it had no purpose but to exist as beautiful, open, and full of potential. As they reached the top of the stairs, the music could be heard through the floorboards, a serene choice that Lou loved, and guessed was Maggie’s. When Mykhail bent to plug in the orange extension cord that had snaked up the stairs, the room illuminated, showing what appeared to be directly from Lou’s unconscious dreams of the place. A small gasp escaped her as she walked to the middle of the floor.

Strings of round, white lights had been draped from the ceiling, creating an expansive sky of indoor stars. The wiring was unfinished on this floor; but the power tools had been put away, leaving the cord for nothing but the magical moment Louise found herself in. Mykhail hung back, giving Louise that space, but also dreading the next moments. “Louise,” he said softly. She turned to him, the softness of her dress, her skin, her expression all enhanced by the serene light display that all three girls had helped him with in secret. He hadn’t told them he was going to ruin everything; he couldn’t bare it. The night prior, he had simply said, “Will you help me to talk to your mother?” and they’d run the other direction.

“She loves lights,” said Rachel.

“She would love this song,” said Maggie.

“She’d want to see The Space empty and finished,” said Ellen.

Mykhail had agreed, and didn’t follow up. He’d never experienced such unity with the girls, but it all centered on their mother. He could understand why they’d want to delight her. As they stapled light strands in shifts and covertly distracted Lou in teams, The Space had revealed itself as profoundly beautiful. The hardwood floors, cleaned, repaired, and now polished were the centerpiece; with the lights, they shone brilliantly. The windows, replaced just weeks prior, had finished frames and fresh paint surrounding them. The slanted roof was cleaned, the mess of the sanding and finishing cleared; the banisters were rebuilt, stained, and stable. They assured him she’d love it, and it was his maniacal hope it would be enough to preserve what had built between them.

“It’s beautiful, it’s perfect, you did it. Did the girls help with the lights?” Lou asked, and as he met her in the middle of the floor, she audaciously tugged the sides of his shirt to move him closer to her. She could see them in her mind’s eye; her, in her wine colored dress, barefoot; him, his dark, embroidered shirt, open necked, and his linen pants. His soft, leather shoes careful not to step on her toes. She tipped her head up, taking him in, and he bent his down, his eyes brimming with anxiety. “What is it?” Louise asked. She didn’t step back, didn’t let go of his shirt.

Mykhail shook his head slightly. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed. His mouth, set in the darkness of his beard, was a grim line. “Louise,” he said, “I have more to say, I don’t know what to do, I should have said long ago.”

Louise considered, rapid-fire, what weighed Mykhail down so. Was he sick? Here illegally? Leaving? Her stomach lurched at the thought of him leaving. The silence, the pause, was maddening. “Don’t leave me with my thoughts, Mykhail, what?”

He sighed. He held her arms, just like the kitchen, just like before their kiss, and Lou dared to hope for one moment it was something solvable. Something simply requiring work, or reassurance, or certainty. She could do those things. His gaze was embedded with fear, deeply strained.

“Louise...I am married. It is difficult to tell, to describe the situation. But I am, I am married. She needs me, and we must stay married. I am--”

Louise shook her head. She couldn’t stop shaking it. “No, no, no. This isn’t. No.” She kept shaking her head, mouth pursed, nostrils flared, eyes hot and looking past Mykhail to the stairs. Ten feet. Ten feet to be away from him.

She backed up, breaking his fingers’ hold on her arms, and strode quickly to the stairs. “Louise,” his voice cracked, but his feet remained rooted. She looked at him before descending the stairs. Her eyes shone, but didn’t flood. Her cheeks pinked, but didn’t redden. She was regal, even when confronted with betrayal.

“NO.” She said. Her lip trembled, but her voice did not. “You lied. Not overtly, but insidiously through omission after omission. You have been here with me nine months and never breathed a word about her. Where is she? Ukraine? B.C.? Forgotten for nine months? Is that what you do? Work away from her, lie to her, not tell her things? I thought you were honorable, Mykhail Korotsyupenko. You’re not.” Mykhail closed his eyes, repeated his name on her lips, obviously practiced and now used to elicit further regret that darkened and weighed his heart to his stomach. She thundered down the stairs, as fast as she could, and rushed through the house, now empty save the girls, who finished up clearing the dishes as Rachel and Maggie collected plates and cups. Mykhail knew it would be only moments before three sets of feet thundered back up, so he sat down in the middle of the floor. He waited for the calvary, and wanted to show as much peace as possible in his posture when all hell broke loose.

Rachel was first in the room. “What the hell happened? What did you do?” she demanded. Maggie was hot on her tail in pursuit.

“Listen, you asshole, why is our mom crying her eyes out down there? She won’t even let Ellen in, what happened?!” They both stood over him, Rachel’s steely eyes fixed with the resolve and aggression he knew would serve her as an attorney; Maggie, with her mane of red hair, surrounding her face, pinked with worry and suspicion. Ellen’s arrival was the death knell, her cool gaze and calm steps the marker of her steadfast nature.

“What did you tell her, Mykhail?” She asked. She sat, across from him, separated by a few feet at most. Her sisters followed suit, and the room became cooler, the atmosphere minutely more receptive.

“I’d like to tell you, I should have told your mother the story first, but I could not be silent. It weighs on me.”

“Just fucken tell us, dude,” blurted Mags, once more abrupt and devoid of further patience.

So he did.