Under the Willow Root

Chapter 4

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing a rumpled middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes and several days' worth of stubble. He looks awful, and I give him a sympathetic look as I step aside to let him off the elevator. I know, I want to say to him, and I'm sorry.

I get in the elevator and check my purse to make sure I have my iPod speakers, which I brought so I could play music for Baba Nadia. I don't know if it helps, but it can't hurt and it makes me feel like I'm doing something. The doors open again before we get to the third floor and two nurses enter, talking to each other in a low murmur.

"It's so sad," one says. "She was so sweet."

"Which one?"

"That nice Russian lady on the third floor," the first says. "You know, she used to be a famous ballerina."

"What did you say?" I demand. I grab her arm. "What are you talking about?"

The nurse gives me an odd look. "A patient died."

"Who?"

Of course I know the answer, but I need to be sure. My arms suddenly feel like they weigh a hundred pounds, and I can't breathe. I let go of the nurse's arm.

"Her name is—was—Nadia," the nurse says. "She died just a few minutes ago."

"Are...are you okay, honey?" the other nurse, asks, peering at me.

"That's my grandmother," I whisper.

They look at each other and then at me, horrified.

"Oh, sweetheart..."

They both rush to apologize, stammering and blushing. I brush it off in a daze, unable to focus. I might throw up. I lean against the doors, pressing my forehead into the cool metal. Aren't there rules against talking about stuff like that where anyone might hear? Privacy laws or something?

The elevator dings again and the nurses practically sprint into the hallway before the doors even open completely. I step off slowly, feeling like I have to make a conscious effort to move my legs. My muscles feel heavy and somehow gooey, like they're melting off my bones. I head for the circulation desk, where I'm supposed to sign in each time I visit.

"Name?" the nurse asks without looking up from the forms she's filling out.

"Sasha—Aleksandra," I tell her. "Aleksandra Nikolayeva. I'm here for my grandmother, Nadia."

The nurse's head jerks up.

"I'm so sorry," she says. "Your grandmother--"

"I know," I say dully. "I heard. Can I see her? Alone?"

"Of course," the nurse says, looking flustered. "Can I get you anything? I could call your parents..."

"My mother is dead," I say, more harshly than I intended. "It's...it's just me."

"Aleksandra, there you are." I turn to see Donna, the head nurse, striding toward me. "I was just trying to call you. Come on, then."

"What happened?" I ask hesitantly as we make our way toward Baba Nadia's room. "Was she...was anyone with her?"

"I sat with her until the end," Donna assured me. "She wasn't in any pain, and she was ready to go."

"I wish..." I press my lips tightly together, unable to get the words out.

"Don't. No matter how peaceful, I'm sure she wouldn't have wanted you to see that," Donna said firmly, patting my back. "Here we are. Take as long as you need. I've contacted the funeral home, but there are some forms you'll need to sign."

"Oh...okay. Thank you." I clear my throat and shake my head to clear it. As Donna turns away, I say, "Donna? You know, you don't have to call me Aleksandra. You can call me Sasha. If you want."

Donna smiles warmly. "Of course. Come get me when you're ready for those forms and I'll walk you through them."

I hesitate in the doorway, afraid of what I'll find. I've never seen a dead person before. I flip the light on and move slowly to the side of the bed. Someone has combed her hair and folded her hands over her stomach. I think about how books and movies always make it seem like when someone dies it's obvious that the person is gone and what's left is just an empty shell. I look at my grandmother and I don't see it. Of course it's her, I think, and reach out to touch her face. It's still warm.

Of course she doesn't look like herself. For nearly two months her body slowly deteriorated until there was practically nothing left. Her skin is drawn tightly over her bones, and her body is shrunken and skeletal. But for all that, she looks like she's sleeping. I even think I see her chest rising and falling. I know it's my brain playing tricks on me, seeing what it expects to see, but it's unnerving. I look back at her face instead.

I don't know how long I sit there. I don't know what to do, or how I should feel. I can't seem to feel anything. We said our goodbyes weeks ago, before she slipped into near-constant unconsciousness from the pain medications. It was better that way, Donna had assured me, and I agreed. I didn't want Baba Nadia to be in pain. If she could sleep through to the end, so much the better.

But whatever Donna said, I wish I could have been with her. Anger stirs sluggishly in my stomach. I can't believe I let Emily talk me into going to the beach with Melanie and Tara. I missed my grandmother's last breath by minutes because I was out getting a tan.

After a while, I force myself to get up and gather the little pillows and blankets I'd brought from the house. I reach for the pictures and then decide to come back with a box rather than risk breaking them. These were some of my grandmother's most prized possessions, the only pictures she had of her family.

Fearful for her safety, her parents arranged for her to dance in a distant relative's ballet company in Monte Carlo just weeks before the Nazis attacked. She escaped with hardly more than the clothes on her back and these few pictures...and a necklace. I touch the moonstone necklace my grandmother gave me on my fourteenth birthday. It was given to her on her fourteenth birthday, she told me, by a young soldier named Aleksander--Sasha.

At the time, I thought it was terribly romantic. But now, I imagine what my grandmother must have felt if she loved him even half as much as I loved her. I wonder how it must have torn her apart to leave him behind, knowing what might happen. What did happen. And her parents...she was all alone, just like me.

I examine the picture of my namesake, wondering what he was like, and how my life would have been different if he had lived. Would Baba Nadia have gone back instead of moving on to America? I can only remember her speaking of him that one time.

I never knew my grandfather, but I feel kind of bad for him because I know Baba Nadia can't have loved him the way she loved Sasha, if she loved him at all. The way my grandmother spoke—or rather, didn't speak—of Charles Ashley made me suspect it was something like a marriage of convenience. She never even took his name, although to be fair that probably had more to do with the fact that she was already established in her career as Nadia Nikolayeva.

I wish I had asked her about my grandfather, and about Sasha. I wish I had asked her about her parents, however painful it might have been, because now that she's gone, so are they. For all I know, Baba Nadia was the only one left to remember them. I'm suddenly afraid that I'll end up alone, that there will be no one to remember Baba Nadia when I'm gone.

I turn away abruptly and leave, shutting the door a little more forcefully than necessary, as if I can shut all those painful and entirely unproductive thoughts inside with my grandmother's body. I lean against the door and clutch the pillows against my face, feeling horribly alone.

"Bozhe, pomogi mne," I whisper, inhaling my grandmother's familiar scent. God help me.