“Why did you have to climb, you silly girl?” He chuckles.
I squeeze the pen.
“We’ll ask her mother for more details, all right?” says Yulia sweetly. I sense controlled irritation. “I need your phone number, please.”
I write it down.
Yulia makes to take the notebook from me.
Anton stops her. “Hold on, hold on. One more thing, if I may. Irina, tell us. What made you hit that unfortunate young man?”
“He hurt me,” I write.
“You knew him?”
“Hurt you how?” says Yulia.
Ever had horseflies bite your cunt?
I slam the pen down and race out of the kitchen and into Pavlik’s room. I fall onto his bed and bury my head under the pillow, sobbing into the sheets until I’m barren.
. . .
Yulia’s voice comes through the door. “Irina?”
I sit up. I must have dozed off.
“Get dressed, we’re leaving.”
Right now?
I brush off my clothes, fix the bed, and walk out.
Yulia sits on the sofa, dialing the phone number from my notebook. She looks up at me with her green eyes. “Hello?”
“Who is this?”
The voice is so loud that I can hear it.
Yulia winces, looks at the receiver, puts it back to her ear at a distance. “Yes. This is Yulia Davydovna—”
“Who?” yells the voice. “Kesha, get off me, you dumb bitch. Say again?” There is muffled barking.
Hey, Grandma, it’s so nice to hear you.
“One more time, my name is Baboch, Yulia Davydovna. I have your Irina, Irina Myshko. She’s been living with us for a couple months now.”
“Who? Irkadura? Where?”
Yulia recoils at my nickname and gives me a questioning look. “Yes, she is sitting right here, in front of me.”
“Marina, it’s your Irka! Quick!”
There is a short pause, then mama’s voice shouts. “Hello? Hello? Who is this? Hello?”
“Yes?”
“Where is my daughter?”
Yulia holds the receiver away from her face, staring at it with aversion. The corners of her lips turn down. She gives me another questioning look.
I don’t move.
“Where is my daughter? Give me back my daughter! Who are you? I’m asking, who are you, huh? What a nightmare! I went through such a nightmare! I thought she got shot by the White House! Can you hear me? Hello? Hello?”
Get a grip, Mama. Yet I like it. I revel in her reaction. It seems as though she actually cares.
Yulia consults the notebook. “Marina Viktorovna—”
“What?”
“I said, Marina Viktorovna!”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“Please, calm down. Your daughter is fine.” Yulia waves me off.
My legs are suddenly full of water. I tread to the hallway and slowly pull on my boots, put on my coat, button it up with unbending fingers, sit down on the little stool by the door, and wait.
YOU ARE READING
Irkadura
Fantasy"My mama became a catfish when I was two, on the day I stopped talking." Neglected since birth by her mother, Irina Myshko hasn't spoken a word for most of her short Soviet life. Outcast as a mute idiot and abused by her mother's boyfriends, she esc...
Chapter 17. Owl
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