Freedom is when everyone can do whatever they want with their own behind.
F. G. Ranevskaya
I raced through the polished corridors of the upscale private clinic like a bloodhound hot on a trail. I’m gonna kill Nata. Once I figure out what’s going on with her, bam, I’ll slam her into the pavement. Caught up in my emotions, I sprinted past the room number I was looking for. Biting my lip in frustration, I doubled back and, slower this time, found the right door. I pushed it open with confidence, making it clear to Nata—she can’t get rid of me. I’d dig her out from under the earth if I had to.
My best friend shot me a brown-eyed glance, pain lurking in its depths. I didn’t let it sway me. I know that look. Innocent little lamb. Whatever she’s hiding, I’ll sniff it out. She’s the only one like this in my life. More than a sister, who abandoned me, more than just a friend… I never thought a bond this deep could exist. We’re like twins who can feel each other even from miles apart.
“What’s wrong with you?” I snapped, my tone sharp as I recalled our phone call where Nata tried to convince me she was at work. Yeah, right, sweetheart, I know you inside and out. I pushed, and the truth came spilling out. Nata could never keep anything from me.
“Nothing,” she said, adjusting her already flawless hairstyle, holding her light-blonde hair in her hand. Bad sign. She only touches it like that when she’s really anxious.
Without waiting for an invitation, I plopped down on the edge of her bed. I studied her familiar features. She’d gone pale. She looked away, staring at the big flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Not good. Nata doesn’t look away! She’s like the Titanic—full steam ahead, and an iceberg might as well be a saddle on a cow for all she cares.
“So, what are you doing here?” I asked, glancing around the spacious white room where sunlight streamed in, casting little rays that danced a party on the blue sheet covering Nata’s legs.
“Gonna judge me?” she mouthed, barely audible.
My heart pounded in my ears. What had she done? Sold a kidney, donated bone marrow, got a boob job? My eyes drifted lower. Under the greenish hospital gown she wore, there were no new, bigger curves to be seen.
“Spill it,” I barked sternly.
“Abortion,” Nata said, her stubborn gaze unwavering. Those warm brown eyes, usually so full of life, now burned with the icy finality of her decision. It was her choice. Her life. And no one could tell her otherwise.
“Why?” I wanted to cry.
“What kind of mother would I be?” she scoffed dismissively, and it felt like a knife to my temples. I wanted to scream through this nauseatingly pristine clinic, “The best! The best!”
“You adore Darynka. We’re raising her together…”
“Judging me?” she cut off my verbal diarrhea.
I shook my head no. Never! Not in a million years!
“I’ve got your back. Always.”
I scooted closer, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face in her expertly dyed hair—courtesy of Ira—and inhaling the familiar scent of citrus with a hint of quiet despair. I didn’t ask who the father was. It was obvious. As much as I disapproved of her relationship with a married man, even that couldn’t sway Nata’s decision about the baby. If she’d wanted to, she would’ve kept it. His status as a politician meant nothing to her.
I gently pulled back, studying her familiar face. Right now, lying before me wasn’t the arrogant, stuck-up woman the world saw, but a girl abandoned by her own parents, who’d fought tooth and nail for everything in life. A total hard-ass to the world, but a kindred spirit to me.
“I’m not you,” Nata said, turning to look out the window. “I can’t throw myself on the barricades.”
Oh, the same old tune. She’s always poking at me for carrying the weight of the house, work, Darynka, and my clueless husband on my shoulders. Trying to shift the focus onto me. Nice try! Not gonna work.
“Don’t change the subject. You supported me when I decided to have Darynka. Who am I to judge you?” I fired back, irritated. “How long are you here for?”
“Until tonight,” she said, turning back to me, her eyes piercing straight into my soul, twisting it with the regret hidden deep in her familiar gaze. She felt sorry for what she’d done, but there was no going back. We’re the sum of our deliberate and impulsive choices.
I glanced at the watch on my wrist. Lunch break was almost over. I still had a meeting scheduled with a potential client, then I’d pick up Nata, grab Darynka, and spend the evening with my girls.
“Alright,” I said, standing up from the bed, holding her hand. I’m her only family, her only support, and family sticks together. “I’ll be here at five, then we’ll pick up Darynka from daycare and head home.”
“Come to my place,” she pleaded, her face twisting. She didn’t like Paul, and he didn’t like her.
“Fine,” I agreed without hesitation. “That’s even better.”
I kissed her on the cheek and bolted out of the hospital. I hate these places. Then again, who doesn’t? They’re hubs of pain and despair. To me, hospitals mean death. They took my sister and my dad.
Outside, the July heat was suffocating, sticky and heavy. The hospital smell clung to my blouse and hair. I was trembling slightly. A nauseating lump sat in my throat, one I couldn’t swallow. Back in the day, I made a different choice. When I heard my baby’s heartbeat on the ultrasound, I was pulled out of reality. I told Paul flat-out, whether he liked it or not, I was having this baby. The idea of fatherhood didn’t thrill him. He floundered in a haze of doubt but eventually decided to step up. And me, naive fool that I was, I hoped for a happy, strong family like my parents had. Mom supported our decision, helped us buy a place of our own so our young family wouldn’t be crammed into rented apartments. Sergey Petrovich, Paul’s dad, didn’t stand on the sidelines either, even though they weren’t on speaking terms. He helped with the apartment, both financially and legally, to spare me the hassle. I could’ve handled it myself—I’m a lawyer by training—but the future grandpa insisted. Speaking of which, he adores Darynka. My mother-in-law, on the other hand, once declared she wasn’t sure Paul was the father because Darynka didn’t look like him at all. I was speechless in that moment. She said it in front of Paul on purpose, and he didn’t even object. That’s when I understood why Sergey Petrovich only lived with her for a year and cut off contact. I never imagined my relationship with my mother-in-law would play out like a bad movie. She jabs, I snap back. Thank God we live separately. Paul turned out to be weak, unambitious, a slacker with a fancy economics degree who drove a Mercedes for a successful banker and had no desire to change a thing. And somehow, according to my mother-in-law, I was to blame. Apparently, I got pregnant on purpose, forcing her precious son to find any job just to feed us. No, Paul wasn’t a jerk. He didn’t drink, didn’t pick fights over nothing, didn’t hit me or Darynka. He was just comfortable and indifferent. The apartment’s clean, clothes are washed, fridge is full—what more could you need for happiness? And no one, except my mom and Nata, cared that I had to go back to work when Darynka was only six months old because a driver’s salary barely covered the basics. Mom and Nata, who became Darynka’s godmother, took care of her, and later Ira pitched in, but not her own father or grandmother. I didn’t hold it against them. You get what you sign up for, so deal with it. Should’ve known better than to get knocked up in my fifth year of college. Slowly, my relationship with my husband fizzled out. I can’t even remember the last time we were intimate. Recently, he came home with lipstick on his shirt cuff and the faint scent of someone else’s perfume. God, what a cliché! That’s when I knew it was time to let go of our failed marriage. We’d be better off apart. I’ve already prepared the papers. I haven’t told anyone about my decision, not even Paul. I need to figure out what to do with the apartment. Ideally, I’d like to keep it for myself and Darynka and pay Paul his share. As Nata would say, “You’re a genius idiot!” because she’d have taken him for everything, down to his last pair of boxers.