The Long Road to Recovery

The streetlights bathed his face in their orange glow. One by one, they grazed across his facade as he pressed it against the cool window. He made sure not to press too hard, in case she looked over and thought he might be bored. In all honesty, he was not. It had been a blissful experience at the party, and though the experience slipped by rather quickly, it still lingered in his mind as a thought he could not tame.

“Geno,” she asked, glancing over at him. He turned toward her, mumbling an “hmm” in a quiet tone.

“I was just checking to see if you were awake. I thought you had fallen asleep.” Her eyes turned back to the road. She moved her right hand from the steering wheel and laid it on the cushioned center between the two seats.

“I…not asleep,” he uttered in his thick accent. “Just thinking.”

“About what, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Nothing important. Just about…different things,” Geno said, turning his eyes back to watch the passing streetlights. He could not concentrate on many things. His mind buzzed in silence, calling out to him to respond to her in a slight way, a way that would let her know how he felt without scaring her. All of his thoughts were in Russian, though. And saying them to her would be as if he were speaking to a deaf person. Instead, he kept quiet and to himself.

They reached the brick manor that was his home. The windows were darkened, the porch light the only source of illumination on the entire front of the house. She pulled the car along the unpaved driveway, stopping just in front of his doorstep.

“Here we are,” she declared in a near-silent mumble. Geno peered at the bright light above the front door. In the back of his mind, he wondered where Oksana was; he found himself, however, not especially worried about her.

“You…like to come in,” he inquired, looking nervously at her. She turned to gaze at the front door, as if pondering her next words carefully.

“What about…” her voice trailed. “What about her?”

Geno peered out the windshield, then through his window. A pair of lights moved rather quickly through the street, stopping to turn into his driveway. His ponderings over Oksana had been answered. Her Mercedes pulled gradually up the driveway. He heard the gravel crack under the tires as the silver car drove alongside his doctor’s parked automobile. The engine died, the lights in the neighboring car flicked on. Oksana’s blonde-top figure, dressed in clinging top and tight jeans, opened the driver’s door and stepped out.

Strutting the few steps to his position, she kneeled down and peered into the window. Geno gave a half-smile and opened the door.

“I tried calling you. Where have you been,” she asked with a calm demeanor in almost-perfect English.

“I…help my doctor out,” he said, pointing at her. She smiled and waved trying to feign collectedness. In reality, he nerves were firing as if she were in danger.

“Nice to meet you,” Oksana said, reaching her arm across Geno to shake the doctor’s hand. The doctor obliged.

“I’m tired, Geno. Let’s go to bed,” she uttered, shooting a less-than-sincere smile to the other woman. Casually, he stood from the vehicle. Turning, he wished his doctor a good night. She responded with a similar sentiment. He shut the door and, stepping away from the car, heard her start it up. In silence, Oksana and Geno watched the black Lexus drive away into the night.

Oksana said nothing, walking quietly to the door, letting the gravel crunch beneath her high heels. Geno followed suit, listening to the sound his footsteps made. He knew anger was boiling in her. He knew that as soon as the door closed, she would let a tantrum loose. Instead, after the closing of the door, all he got was a lull. She had already made it to the kitchen by the time he stood in the foyer. He heard the ice maker turn on, the refrigerator door open. The mechanical hum of the machine danced on his ears.

Trekking into the kitchen, Geno saw her pouring a glass of vodka. She slammed the bottle down once finished. For the first time since walking in, she spoke, asking him who the woman really was, in Russian. His response was the same as it had been in the car. This seemed to anger her as she sipped the last remaining drops out of the glass before tossing it into the sink. He was surprised it did not break from the force at which it was thrown. She uttered “bullshit” in Russian, angrily storming out of the kitchen.

“What did you helped her with? Dressed like that…” Oksana asked, sarcastically. Geno looked down at his suit. He did not want to lie to her: it would not have been a good lie, anyway.

“I…was guest at…a dinner,” he responded, pulling off his jacket and tossing it on the table. His wallet fell out of the pocket, the leather slapping the floor as if it, too, were angry at him.

She spoke in muttered Russian. He did not get the entirety of what he had said. After her rambling, she only spoke the words “I bet.” Pointing at him, she unleashed the brunt of her anger:

“I came here for you Evgeni! You told me how you could not stand being alone here! So I dropped everything and moved here.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Why do you treat me this way?”

Geno moved a chair from the table, sitting his massive figure in it. Placing his elbows on his lap, he let his face rest against his hands.

“I..don’t want…lie to you. I…don’t love you…anymore, Oksana,” he announced with a muffled mouth. She stared at him, tears building up in her eyes, her bottom lip beginning to shake.

“What,” she asked, her voice quivering.

“Not anymore…” he responded, shaking his head delicately.

“You fucking…” she tried to find her words. Tears began to stream down her cheeks, lightly hitting the hardwood of the steps on which she stood. “You bastard,” she uttered in still disbelief.

Unhurriedly, Oksana turned on the stairs and continued her trip up them. Geno sighed, placing his face in his palms. Although he felt guilty, a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had slept, breathed, and ate for months with quiet desperation, waiting for a moment of freedom. Even though he knew his words were crass, this moment was pure liberation.

From their bedroom, he heard a shattering echo down the hall to fill his ears. Undoubtedly, it was the lamp on their bed-stand, a victim of Oksana’s rage. He could hear her move from one end of the room to the next. Standing, he pushed the chair back under the table. Silently, he ascended the stairs, treading lightly so not to disturb her spell.

The bedroom door was ajar. The light from the bathroom shined into the hallway through the sliver of open space. A shadow moved in the backroom, throwing balled clothes into a few open suitcases. Geno walked over and nudged the door open. Oksana had moved back to the closet, bent down over a row of shoes. Deciding she could not take them all, she carefully picked which pairs she wanted with her at the present moment. He crept on the carpet, not making a single sound. Not stirring from her position, she continued selecting her shoes in a heated daze of sadness. Geno listened to her breathing: it was stricken with gentle sobs every once in a while. Her tears had not ceased the whole time.

“Oksana…” he said, as if to ask her a question. He did not have a question to ask her. She responded with a harsh “what” in Russian, dropping a shoe from her clutches.

“I…am sorry,” Geno mustered out, sighing.

In Russian, she barked that she did not want to hear it, that he had made up his mind. Standing, she held five pairs of shoes in her arms. Oksana walked to one of her bags, letting the shoes fall all at once into its opening. She tied the bag closed and zipped up the two suitcases on the bed. Grabbing a jacket from the closet, she struggled to put it on. Geno walked over and, with his strong hands, helped her wrap the jacket around her shoulders. Nothing was said.

Taking the bags in her grasps, Oksana strolled out of the bedroom, down the hall, and descended the stairs. Geno followed the upset figure, her sobbing finally halting. Putting the bags down, her shaking hand opened the door. He stood at the bottom of the stares, watching her in an attentive gaze. Once again taking her bags, she turned to him and looked him over:

“I hope you find what you’re looking for in her,” she expressed. He said nothing, watching her withdraw from the foyer into the driveway. The same crackling of gravel touched his ears again. He thought maybe he ought to have stopped her from doing this. He considered the idea of asking her forgiveness, possibly calling out to her from the stairs, begging her if he had to. She would drop her bags and run back to him, planting a kiss on his soft lips. He thought these things, and did nothing more with them. In the cool breeze whisping past the open door, he stared at her as she started the car, as she put it in drive. He peered, unmoved, until the rear lights escaped his view.