Still Here, page 25
Vica nodded again and started to walk away.
“Take your pie!” Tolik said.
Vica took a pie and hurried away from the hospital to the nearest coffee place. She ordered a hot tea and sat down at a corner table.
All her social media was abuzz with the news of Ethan’s death. Twitter and Facebook were bursting with stills and movie clips all featuring a handsome, lively Ethan, even as his ravaged, exhausted body was lying in the depths of Bing Ruskin’s morgue.
Vica found it insulting. But what she really hated was the speed with which some of Ethan’s fans appropriated his death. Fellow actors shared news of upcoming films featuring Ethan and themselves. Journalists jumped at the opportunity to rehash their old profiles on Ethan. Ordinary individuals dug up and posted their selfies with him. Those who didn’t have a photo to share just described their devastating sadness, all-consuming grief, and shattering despair. Come on! Vica thought. He was just an actor you saw a couple of times a year on a screen—you can’t be despairing! I actually knew him! Still, the worst was a huge portrait of a sad German shepherd with the byline: “Ethan’s costar Brunhilde mourns his death.” She wondered who had broken the news to Brunhilde. And how. Did they show her a photo of Ethan Grail and then tear it to pieces? Or did they use sign language? Vica heard that some monkeys knew how to sign, but she wasn’t so sure about dogs. If they did, they must have signed: “Guess, what, Brunhilde, your old pal Ethan just kicked the bucket.” And the dog signed back: “Fuck. This makes me sad.”
Vica felt that this absurd public outpouring stole her grief from her, cheapened it somehow, cheapened the memory of someone she might have considered a friend. She had a momentary urge to share this with Sergey. He would’ve been just as appalled at she was.
She really had to stop thinking about Sergey! He was gone. Gone, gone, gone!
Perhaps she could share this with Franc.
Vica looked at her watch—it was time to go back. She finished her meat pie, threw away her empty cup, and rushed back to Bing Ruskin.
In the elevator, everybody was discussing Ethan Grail. “Have you heard?” “Right here in the hospital!” “In this hospital? I might have seen him?” “What a loss!” “Such a talent!” “Such a handsome man!”
On the radiology floor, all the staff was talking about Ethan as well. Vica saw Santiago and Liliana by the coffee machine, both staring at their phones. Sharing the news with each other that their friends had shared on Facebook. Vica rushed past them to her room.
Eric texted her just as she was finishing with the last patient. His fat friend Gavin, whom Sergey used to call Sir Eatalot, invited him for a sleepover. Their homework was very light and there was no school the next day. “Okay,” Vica texted back, “but no junk food.” “Sure, Mom,” Eric wrote, “we’ll have a carrots ’n’ broccoli night.” She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. Her evening was suddenly free. She could spend some time with Franc. Maybe even have dinner in one of those East Village cafés near where he lived? She dialed his number. He wasn’t picking up. Perhaps he couldn’t hear the ring because of his hearing problem. She texted him. Waited for the reply. None came. She finished up at the office. Changed back into her street clothes. Poured herself some tepid coffee. Texted Franc again to see if he’d gotten her previous text. Franc hated spontaneity. He liked to arrange their dates well in advance, which made Vica a little suspicious. Made her wonder if he was seeing other women as well. Or if he wasn’t as available as he claimed to be.
Christine peeked into Vica’s room and said that Sam, a nurse from the endocrine cancers floor, was inviting everybody to her place for a makeshift Ethan Grail party. “We’ll just drink beer and watch Ethan’s comedies on Netflix.”
Getting drunk and laughing at Ethan’s antics on the very day he died?
Vica said that she had to rush home.
Soon everybody from her shift had left, but there was still no word from Franc. Vica checked her phone again. Nothing. It was stupid to hang out in the hospital waiting for him. Vica exited the building and walked toward her bus stop. The X5 bus arrived within minutes. A thin line of people formed for boarding. But what if Franc called when she was on the bus? She wouldn’t be able to get off. Vica decided to walk toward the East Village. It would take her half an hour or so. If Franc called, she would meet him; if he didn’t, she would just take the X1 bus to Staten Island, the one that stopped downtown. It was unfair that Vica worked in the city but so rarely got to enjoy it. The light had changed to that deep golden color that only came up an hour before sunset on a very bright day. The buildings were lit up as if by an invisible lamp. She had forgotten how much she loved New York, what a pleasure it was just to walk down the street, looking up, savoring the sights.
Vica got to the East Village in no time, but there was still no reply from Franc. Now she was in the midst of all those cafés with outside tables and chairs that seemed too small for the happy people occupying them. This was one of the first days of the season when it was warm enough to sit outside. The waiters hurried with their trays of steaming food. Vica was overwhelmed by all the different aromas coming at her from different directions: basil pasta, French fries, roasted meat. But it wasn’t just the smell of the food, there was also the sense of fullfillment and well-being that was emanating from the restaurants. Her stomach rumbled and she remembered that she hadn’t eaten anything today except for Tolik’s pie. Vica checked her phone again, saw that there were no messages, and decided that she didn’t need Franc to have a nice dinner in the East Village. She walked up to the hostess of the place that had the most delicious smell and asked if there was an available table. The place was crowded, so Vica expected to be turned down, but the hostess said, “Just you? I think I can squeeze you in.” Vica thought she caught the warmth of single-woman camaraderie in her expression. There was a tiny row of tables facing the sidewalk, each meant for one person. One of them was empty, and the waiter led Vica right to it, saying, “We’re having a sangria special tonight. A glass of sangria and two tapas for twenty dollars.” Vica asked for a white sangria, baked shrimp, and croquettes with ham. The waiter put a tiny plate with olives in front of her, but no bread. She ate the olives right away, then dipped her finger into the dish and licked the oil off it. Then the sangria arrived. The first sip made Vica feel fantastic. A man passing on the sidewalk smiled at her. She thought that she must have made a pretty picture right then. A young, beautiful woman enjoying a glass of sangria in this elegant, lively place. Vica pulled out her phone and took a couple of selfies, making sure to smile and get rid of that tense critical expression she so often wore. She picked the best photo and posted it on Facebook with the caption: “Enjoying sangria in the East Village. Could be worse .” Let both Franc and Sergey know that she didn’t need their company. She paused, thinking of the people from Bing Ruskin. Would they get mad that she had blown them off to hang out by herself? Should she delete the post? Vica weighed the risk of pissing off her colleagues against the pleasure of showing the world how great her life was. She decided to let the post stay.
Vica leaned back in her chair and looked out on the street as if it were TV. She had forgotten how much fun it was to people watch. There walked an old man with a mane of white hair reaching to his waist. There walked a young woman in a bright pink leather coat. There walked a woman with a double stroller with two kids who were feeding each other their toys. There was a woman in her forties standing next to a pet store across the street struggling with her cat. She had it in her arms wrapped in a sweater. The cat was wet, shivering, and trying to escape, but as soon as it was about to slip out of her grasp, the woman would push its wiggly butt up. Vica laughed so hard that she splashed her sangria. Then a man came out from the pet store, took the cat, and secured it in his arms. The man looked like Sergey. Vica sighed—she’d thought she was past mistaking strange men for Sergey. Still, she couldn’t help but look again. Could it be? Yes, it actually was Sergey. There was Sergey, and he was with a woman, and they had a cat. After the first shock of recognition, Vica felt numb. She was aware of two things though: that she shouldn’t let Sergey see her no matter what and that she should capture every detail about him and the woman so that she could come up with a clinical picture of their relationship. Vica hid her face behind the umbrella stand near her table and peered at them. Sergey was talking to the cat. Vica couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his expression was similar to the one he always wore when he reprimanded Eric. The woman was laughing while patting Sergey’s back with one hand and stroking the cat with the other. She was a tanned, husky blonde with wide shoulders and thick legs. She had long frizzy hair. She was wearing leggings and Uggs. She was taller than Sergey. She was older than Vica. She was unmistakably American. Too comfortable in her own skin, in her hideous Uggs, to be Russian. Did they live together? They must live together. They had a cat together! Did Vadik know about this? Then she remembered that Vadik and Sergey weren’t speaking. The woman looked happy. And Sergey? What about Sergey? He appeared to be perfectly at ease with her. He said something with that ironic smile on his face, and the woman laughed and kissed him on the cheek. The pain of seeing that was so great that Vica thought she might lose consciousness. She closed her eyes and grabbed onto the edge of the table to steady herself. When she opened her eyes in what seemed like a second later, Sergey and the woman were gone. She thought that maybe this had been a hallucination, but she knew that it wasn’t. The smiling waiter brought her food, but the smell of garlic made her want to vomit.
Vica put twenty-five dollars under her plate, then left the restaurant and started to walk away. It was hard not to run. After a few blocks, she realized that she was going in the opposite direction from the bus stop. She was drained of strength. She couldn’t walk anymore. She stopped at the nearest town house and sat down on the stoop. Her phone beeped. For a second, Vica was terrified that it was Sergey, that he had seen her after all and had seen her run, but it was only Franc. He just got her message and would be happy to meet up. Vica thought that she had never been more uninterested in a man than she was in Franc at that moment. She texted that she was already at home. She thought about taking a taxi to the bus stop, then taking the bus home, but she couldn’t bear the thought of spending the night on her own. A man and a woman passed her by. They didn’t even look in her direction. She was completely alone here. On this stoop, in this city, in this country. Her phone beeped again. She thought it was another text from Franc and was briefly annoyed, but it was an activity Facebook notification. Vadim Kalugin commented on her photo: “Could be worse indeed!”
Vadik! she thought. She dialed his number. He answered right away. “Vadik, are you alone?” she asked. He said that he was. She made him promise that there wouldn’t be any questions, then asked if she could spend the night. A long pause ensued. Vica worried that he’d turn her down, but he said, “Of course! Absolutely!” Vica got up from the stoop to look for a taxi.
Half an hour later, she knocked on Vadik’s door. “Come on in, it’s open,” he yelled, and she entered an empty apartment. She walked in and stopped in the middle of Vadik’s elegant living room, not knowing what to do. There was a collection of bottles on the top shelf by the window and she went to inspect it: whiskey, brandy, vodka, a strange little jar whose handmade label read “For a broken heart.” How perfect, Vica thought and tried to unscrew the lid. Vadik emerged from the bathroom, wearing a nice shirt, his hair damp and freshly combed. He saw the jar in Vica’s hands and said, “No, not that! That’s some shit left over from DJ Toma.”
He took the jar away from her and poured her some brandy. Vica drank it in thirsty gulps as if it was a glass of juice. She suddenly thought about Ethan Grail. Ethan Grail died today! Seeing Sergey made her forget about it. She put her glass down and started to cry.
Vadik walked closer and took her in his arms. He had an erection. How stupid the human body is, Vica thought and moved away.
“Are you hungry?” Vadik asked. “Should we order something?”
Vica shook her head. She said she wanted to watch TV.
Doctor Who? Vadik asked.
Vica said she didn’t care.
They watched a couple of episodes of Doctor Who, then went to bed, Vadik in his room, and Vica in what used to be Sergey’s room.
She woke up in the middle of the night burning with the worst panic she had ever experienced. She was in desperate need of comfort; she felt that if she wasn’t comforted right then, she would die. She got up and walked the short distance to Vadik’s room. His door was ajar, and the room was half lit by some feeble streetlights from the outside. Vadik was lying on his back, his mouth half open. Vica slipped under the covers and moved closer to him. He was so warm and so tall. His body took up a lot of space in bed. She hugged him and he hugged her back. They rolled over together so that she was underneath him now. He felt like the warmest, largest, most wonderful blanket. And so what if the blanket had a stiff dick, and so what if that dick was entering her? They were done in minutes, and Vica fell back to sleep immediately.
In the morning she felt much better, but nauseous with hunger. She went into the kitchen, cut herself a piece of cantaloupe, ate it, and went to shower. As she lathered herself with Vadik’s stinging body wash, she had a perfect Scarlett O’Hara moment. Tomorrow was another day, and today was tomorrow, and her goal was simple and clear—she had to get Sergey back.
No, Vadik wasn’t alarmed when he woke up and didn’t find Vica there. He was disappointed but not alarmed; he knew that she had to leave early to make it to work on time. The bathroom was still misty and fragrant after her shower and he found her freshly washed underpants hanging on the edge of the sink. The mere sight of them gave him a huge hard-on.
The kitchen had some traces of Vica’s presence as well. Some coffee left for him in the coffeemaker, a recently washed coffee mug and a spoon in the rack, a dollop of yogurt on the floor by the counter. He texted her: “How are you?” She replied almost right away: “Great! Thank you so much!”
Was she thanking him for fucking her? Or choosing to ignore the fucking and thanking him for letting her spend the night?
Both versions were disconcerting and painful.
He asked if he could see her. She texted that it was crazy at work, sending him into an agony of frustration. But then an hour later she offered to see him at lunch if he could come up there. He drank his coffee and went to his office in Dumbo, which seemed especially hideous that day.
Bob’s idea had been to furnish the office in an anti-Google way. He wanted conspicuously adult furniture with a cool modern feel. He adored Herman Miller pieces, which were elegant, sturdy, and expensive to the sight and touch.
Vadik sat down in his Aeron chair, thinking how much his ass hated the subtle curves of its seat, put his elbows on his glass-top desk, and started massaging his head. When he raised his eyes, he saw two flies moving across his computer screen. He made an instinctive movement to swat at them, but then remembered that they were part of the beautiful graphic design for their new project. They were deep into their work on the Dancing Drosophilae app. The new designer they hired offered to use the images of mating drosophilae just for fun. “Or, you know, whenever you find your genetic match, there would be a fly ‘hovering’ over your profile.” Both Bob and Laszlo thought this was brilliant. Now Vadik was in charge of embedding the flies’ movements into his script. The designer, whose name was Kieran, loved to make his life difficult. “Here, I made this little animation with the two flies tap-dancing together, let’s make sure it fits.” Making flies dance meant two more days of pointless idiotic work.
“Giddy-up, kids!” Laszlo yelled from his office. With Bob gone for a few weeks, Laszlo was in charge. Actually, Bob’s sudden departure was bizarre. He said that he had some urgent family business in Russia, that he was going there with his wife. Vadik had called and texted Regina several times, but she wouldn’t respond save for a brief note to let him know she was okay. They had never had a break in communication before. Regina’d acted so strangely at that team dinner back in February. He hoped she wasn’t having a nervous breakdown.
“Time to buckle down, pal!” Laszlo yelled to Vadik from his desk. Vadik made an effort to smile and peered into his screen with an expression of great concentration. Laszlo’s idea of leadership was to shower his employees with American idioms on the subject of hard work and devotion like “buckle down” or “dig in your heels” or “paddle your own canoe” that seemed to have been lifted from some out-of-date management manual. Vadik found himself unable to buckle down and just sat there staring into his screen and counting the minutes until he had to go meet Vica at a coffee shop on Fifty-third Street.
He arrived early and sat down on one of the squishy, slippery bar stools by the window. There she was, walking fast, almost running, crossing the street on the yellow light, waving to him, then opening the heavy door of the coffee shop. Panting, puffy-eyed, but radiant.
Vadik slid off the stool to give her a proper hug, but she squeezed past him and was up on her stool before he had a chance. They did kiss, and it was her kiss that told Vadik everything. Hurried and tense and trying so hard to pass for something friendly. He found everything about her embarrassingly stirring—her damp forehead, her forced smile, her sharp hospital smell—while she obviously didn’t want him at all, not even a little bit, and that was stirring too. It was over, whatever romantic history they had had together was over now, and it was as clear as day to Vadik, although not yet as clear to his dick. Oh, give up, will you! Vadik thought, addressing his inapt erection.
“So, how are you?” Vadik asked after they got their coffee and sandwiches.
“Much, much better!” Vica answered with her mouth full, then said that she had left her panties in Vadik’s bathroom. They hadn’t been dry and she had planned to stuff them into her bag, but she’d forgotten. She gave him an embarrassed smile that made him squirm.
