For a good half hour, Oresta tried to calm her mother down over the phone. Her mom begged her not to come, to find a safe place and wait it out. Eventually, it seemed like she managed to ease her fears, at least a little.
While Oresta was on the call, Arkadiy, wearing nothing but his boxers, hurriedly packed suitcases, stuffing them with clothes, documents, and essentials.
“What are you doing?” Oresta asked, her wide eyes fixed on him.
“Oresta, haven’t you figured it out yet? There’s a full-scale war breaking out in the country!” the tall, muscular blond snapped irritably. “Why are you just standing there? What are you waiting for? Maybe for a fresh batch of missiles to hit?”
She flinched at the harsh reality of his words. She’d heard it all, but accepting and processing it was another matter. Nervously, she licked her lips. She knew Arkadiy was right, but her body felt like wood, stiff and unresponsive. Terror gripped her mind. She understood that where those missiles had just struck, people had died. She needed to pack, to run, but she felt paralyzed.
She rushed to the kitchen, her hands trembling. She put the kettle on the stove, then darted back to the bedroom. Forcing herself to act, she fought against her body’s refusal to cooperate. She pulled out her favorite red suitcase and started packing the most necessary and comfortable clothes, hygiene products, money, jewelry, cards, documents, and her laptop. Arkadiy was on the phone with someone. She didn’t interrupt.
“Oresta, grab the passports. Make sure to take the international one too,” he reminded her, briefly looking up from his conversation.
She nodded obediently. “Why the international one?” she sighed. “Fine, whatever.” She tucked the passports into her bag, double-checked everything, and added a few small items she’d forgotten. That should be it.
“Oresta, the kettle!”
Arkadiy shouted from the kitchen. She sighed and trudged over to him. Her mind felt foggy, her heart seeming to beat in slow motion, tears frozen in her eyes.
The water had nearly boiled away, and steam filled the kitchen. She blinked tiredly and reached for the kettle to refill it.
“You’ll burn your hands,” Arkadiy growled, making her jump. Grabbing her by the waist, he sat her down on the soft corner seat. He reset the kettle himself and sat beside her.
“Sweetheart, everything’s gonna be okay,” he said, taking her hands in his warm ones.
She blinked at him, unconvinced by his words. She knew he was just saying them to comfort her. Leaning against him, she stayed silent with her eyes closed while he whispered sweet nothings that, right now, irritated her more than they soothed. The kettle boiled. She got up, made coffee, and prepared some sandwiches.
Arkadiy savored the coffee and sandwiches, barely looking up from his phone as he monitored the situation. The president urged everyone to seek shelter, stay calm, and avoid panic. But in her head, one word echoed like a drumbeat: “War!!!”
The coffee wouldn’t go down. In an instant, her life had shattered. A wave of emptiness and fear washed over her. She barely drank half a cup before heading to the bathroom. A cold shower didn’t help her pull herself together; it only left her shivering with fear, like a leaf trembling before a storm. She was wrapped in a towel when Arkadiy came in. Shedding his clothes, he pulled her close, trying to kiss her, but she pressed a finger to his lips, her voice breaking as she pleaded,
“Hurry up.”
Leaving her fiancé behind, she went to the bedroom. She quickly put on underwear, then a thermal suit, and topped it with a warm white tracksuit. She was ready. Arkadiy, for some reason, wasn’t rushing, even though he’d been pushing her earlier.
It took a grueling half hour before they finally got into the car. Outside, chaos reigned. Everyone was in a frenzy, lugging suitcases.
As they pulled out, they hit a traffic jam. People were on edge. The impatient ones argued. Somewhere, children were crying.
Oresta sat like a zombie, nervously biting her lip. Tears welled in her eyes. Her body rocked back and forth slightly.
She flinched when someone tapped on the window. Blinking, she lowered the tinted glass. A beautiful blonde woman stood there, her face streaked with tears, heavy makeup and long earrings framing her distraught expression. Oresta’s gaze dropped to the woman’s prominent belly protruding from under her fur coat.
“Help me!” the woman sobbed. “My water broke.” She doubled over in pain, leaning against the car, and gritted out, “And contractions…”
“I’m not an ambulance,” Arkadiy dismissed her.
“Please,” the woman begged. “My car’s over there. Just take me to the maternity hospital.” She could barely speak, gesturing weakly behind her.
Oresta grabbed her bag and, with a quick glance at her fiancé, said sharply,
“Give me the keys to your motorcycle.”
“Oresta, no,” Arkadiy snapped. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“We’ll meet in the village,” she replied coldly, stepping out of the car.
“Wait!” Arkadiy roared, and within seconds, he handed her the keys to his motorcycle.
Closing the car door, she took the blonde woman by the arm and slowly guided her along the line of idling, smoking cars toward her vehicle.
“Thank you,” the woman sniffled.
Walking slowly, she held her belly with one hand and clung tightly to Oresta with the other. The blonde moaned softly, stopping occasionally to squeeze Oresta’s hand.
They barely made it to a large black SUV. The contractions were coming more frequently, which terrified Oresta. She’d only ever seen childbirth in movies. Fear gripped her—they were already on the outskirts of the city. The maternity hospital was about two miles away, and the traffic jam stretched nearly a mile. There was no end to the line of cars in sight. Walking around the SUV, she helped the woman into the passenger seat.
“Recline the seat and lie down. You shouldn’t be sitting,” she instructed.
Closing the door, she ran around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. She glanced at the woman writhing in pain. Her heart clenched, panic taking over as she recalled a movie scene of childbirth in vivid detail.
“What’s your name?” she asked, flustered.
“Ada,” the blonde managed to gasp, turning onto her side, twisting in agony.
“Ada, breathe deeply. I’ll figure something out,” Oresta said, though she wasn’t confident in her own words. She knew she was now responsible for two lives.
She turned on the hazard lights and stared at the road in confusion. She needed to get to the other lane, and fast. Beside her was only a sidewalk and a guardrail, but the rail ended about a hundred feet ahead. She honked at the car next to her, hoping they’d move over a bit to the right, but there was no reaction.
Jumping out of the SUV, she ran to the car. A guy, maybe eighteen, rolled down his window.
“Move over a little to the right. There’s a woman in labor here,” she pleaded.
“What’s that gonna do? You still won’t fit through here,” he shot back.
“So, what, should she just give birth right there in the car? Why don’t you come deliver the baby yourself?” Her voice rose to a shout. The numbness had passed, replaced by anger at people’s indifference. “And you,” she turned to the passenger, just as young, “don’t just sit there. Go ask the other drivers to move over until the sidewalk ends.”
“Uh…” the passenger started to protest.
“Thanks!” she cut him off coldly and headed back to the SUV.