K. Morova. Brooklyn, NY.
I knew that handwriting, though I did not know the writer herself. Had traced my finger often enough over the signature that had come back on the return receipt for the letter I had sent Kristina Morova, all those months ago.
My mother, at least in biological fact.
The woman whom I had believed, up until this moment, had no interest in meeting me.
I ignored the pulse of pure fear that constricted my throat and quickly slid the letter between the pages of a Pottery Barn catalog, as if to protect myself from its contents, then headed for the bank of elevators that flanked the lobby.
“Finally getting that nice cool weather,” came a voice, startling me out of whatever scattered thoughts I was having. I looked up to see Mrs. Brandemeyer, who lived a floor below me and had been a tenant of 122 W. 86th Street since the sixties. Her long-term residency, combined with her elderly status, seemed to give her certain inalienable rights. Like laundry room usage (you always forfeited the remaining dryer to Mrs. Brandemeyer, who was “too old to be riding up and down, up and down”) or the proprietary air she took when it came to Malakai. She had treated me rather suspiciously when I had first moved in six years earlier. “I don’t like loud music,” she proclaimed just moments after she had learned I was not only single but living in the apartment above hers. Once she discovered that I wasn’t going to be having raucous parties every weekend, she immediately bestowed upon me neighborly chatter about such subjects as the weather, the number of menus she received underneath her door on any given day or the condition of the carpeting in the hallways.
I was never one for small talk, and this evening it seemed especially burdensome, when I had something large looming between the pages of the shopping catalog I held. So I just nodded and smiled while she speculated about the sudden drop in temperatures.
“It’s going to be a cold, cold winter,” she said with satisfaction as she stepped off, leaving me to ride that last story alone.
I felt a momentary surprise when I stepped into my apartment and discovered it was exactly the same as I had left it that morning, except for the fading evening light that was now slanting through the gauzy ivory curtains. Outside the city glittered, and I took solace in the fact that regardless of whatever Kristina Morova had decided to write in her letter to me, New York City would still be just outside my window, waiting for me like an old friend.
Maybe it was that letter and its unknown contents that sent me into the next flurry of activity: putting the produce in the kitchen, hanging up my coat, straightening the stack of magazines that I had yet to review, wiping down the kitchen counters. Then curiosity must have won over the fear throbbing through me, and I found myself slipping out of my shoes, curling up on the couch and taking that letter in hand with the sense of fatalism that had been subtly stalking me ever since I had sent my own letter seven months ago.
I carefully broke the seal on the envelope, pulled out a single sheet of ivory stationery decorated with flowers at the top. My first thought was that it reminded me of the stationery my grandmother used. The second was that there was only one page of loopy scrawl. I briefly wondered at that, then settled in to read.
Dear Grace Noonan,
I thank you much for your letter some months back and I write to tell you how sorry I am that I did not make my reply sooner but so much has happened. I have news of my sister, Kristina Morova, to share, but I am so sorry to tell you it is not good. My sister died this past December, of breast cancer. I am sorry to bring you such sad news but I know my sister would want you to know.
I also write to tell you that you have a sister, Sasha, just sixteen years old. She is with me now, in Brooklyn.
I am not sure if you still want to meet with us, but I want to honor my sister’s wish and I want to invite you to come to our home. I give you my number in Brooklyn and hope to hear from you about this matter.
Sincerely,
Katerina Morova
I read the letter three times before the contents sank in. Before the cruel truth beneath that shaky cursive and stilted grammar broke through.
She was gone. Kristina Morova was gone.
I felt a momentary relief that at least there was a reason for all the silence of the past months. Followed by a disappointment so keen, tears rushed to my eyes.
Gone. Gone.
Still, no tears fell. Maybe because for me, she had never really been there. Could I really mourn someone I did not technically know?
I stood up from the couch with some idea that I should do something. But uncertain what that thing was, I walked woodenly to the kitchen, stared at the bags of produce I’d left there and, as if on autopilot, pulled out the cutting board. Grabbing a head of garlic from the bag, I peeled away the crisp outer shell on one of the cloves and began to chop, with some idea that this meal must be prepared, come hell or high water. Not that I was hungry, but I needed some sense of purpose, even if it was simply to keep this newly purchased bag of produce from rotting, neglected, in the bottom drawer of my fridge.
It wasn’t until I got to my eighth clove of garlic—about four cloves more than I actually needed—that I came out of my dense fog. And this only because I had somehow managed, in all my stoical chopping, to take a sliver off my index finger.
“Fuck!”
And then, because I felt a rush of tears that was most definitely more than this little cut could possibly provoke, I stopped, took a deep breath, and after dousing the wound with cold water, wrapped my finger in a napkin and grabbed the phone.
“Angie, it’s Grace,” I said into my best friend’s machine. When she picked up the extension, I felt a noticeable relief wash over me.
“What’s up?” she said urgently, as if she sensed some underlying emotion in the three words I’d uttered on her machine. More likely she was just surprised to hear from me. It wasn’t like me to call her on a Friday night to chat.
Then, as casually as I might convey a car accident I had witnessed from the safety of the curb, I told her everything.
“Good God, Grace, are you okay?” she sputtered. Then, “Never mind. Don’t answer that. I’m coming over.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue. Or, maybe for once I didn’t want to. Because whatever feelings I thought I should or shouldn’t be having about Kristina Morova’s death, I did at least sense that something momentous had occurred. Something that couldn’t be glossed over in my usual fashion.
And so I let Angie march into my apartment that night, even felt emotion clog my throat when she hugged me fiercely. It was this, more than anything else, that convinced me I should allow her to console me, to sit on the couch and regale me with advice because I somehow couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. And when she was done with that, to feed me.
“How can you tell if the chicken is done?” she called from the kitchen. She had insisted on finishing the meal— I think the way I sat mutely on the couch during her consolatory speech convinced her that she needed to do something for me. So I had curled up on the couch with the glass of wine she poured me, only to remember that when it came to matters of the kitchen, Angie was one who should have stayed in the living room with the glass of wine.
I felt a smile trace its way across my mouth as I uncurled myself from the couch and meandered into the kitchen. A smile I quickly lost the moment I saw the havoc Angie’s latest culinary attempt had wreaked: mutilated vegetable carcasses littered the counter while strips of what looked like chicken fat swam in an olive oil spill near the stove. The meal itself looked like a disaster in the making. The vegetables were cooking just fine—in fact, they were probably over-cooking. But the chicken was still in huge, cutlet-size hunks.
Apparently, Angie had never made stir fry before.
“Mmmm…I’m not sure it’s going to cook that way,” I said, stepping in and taking over. Once I began