Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
“It’s easier this way,” I tell her softly. “I’m going to get up, shower, and make my way over. Do you guys need anything?”
“Mom,” Natalia says, calling my mother. “You need Viktor to get anything?” I hear my mother in the background along with pots banging. “She said just her baby boy,” she groans.
“I’ll see you soon,” I tell her and then disconnect, tossing the phone on the bed and getting up. My body starts to tense just thinking of going over to my parents’ house.
When I finally walk up the steps to the house I spent maybe two years at, I don’t know whether to knock or just walk in. My hands are already clammy as I anticipate our dinner. It’s the first time I’ve seen my family face-to-face since I left rehab, actually since the day I entered rehab. The front door opens even before I decide whether to ring the bell, and my sister comes flying out the door, calling my name. She jumps into my arms, and her hair flies in my face. I laugh and catch her. “Crazy nut, I could have dropped you,” I tell her, and she moves her face back, and I see her. We do look alike in some ways. It’s mostly our eyes that are the same.
“You would never let me fall,” she says and slaps my shoulder as I let her down. “Come on. Mom has been cooking for the past two days.” She grabs my hands and pulls me inside. The smell of apples and cinnamon hits me right away.
“Mom, Dad!” Natalia yells. “He’s home; he’s here.” She pulls me through the house that still has the same décor as when I lived here. A couple more pictures have been added to the wall, but overall, it’s the same furniture. We walk past the winding staircase toward the French doors that lead to the kitchen and family room. Walking through those doors, my heart speeds up just a touch more than I want it to.
My mother stands just behind the counter, and when she spots me, she smiles, taking off the oven mitts. “There he is,” she says, coming to me and grabbing my face in her hands. “Look at you.” She looks me in the eyes, moving my face side to side. “Look at you.”
“Hi, Mom,” I tell her, taking her in my arms and smelling her. She’s always worn the same Chanel No. 5 perfume.
“Let the boy go.” My father’s voice breaks up the smile on my face. “You coddle him too much,” he says, coming over to us. He walks over, and we have the same build, and our eyes are the same. The only thing different is that his hair is now salt and pepper and his stomach a bit more protruded.
“Dad,” I say, walking to him and having the most awkward hug in my whole life. He tries to pretend, but when he taps your back like a stranger, you step away from him.
“Glad you could grace us with your presence,” my father says sarcastically. “How long has it been since you’ve come home for Christmas?” he asks me, then looks at my mother. “What is it now, five years?”
“Well, living on the West Coast, it was hard.” I try to come up with an excuse.
“Is that what you’re blaming this shit on? The West Coast? It’s ’cause you were too busy snorting shit up your nose.”
“Andrei,” my mother hisses at the same time my sister yells at him. “Dad.”
“That’s fine. You’re right. I was too busy getting high to care or come home,” I tell him, and he nods and just turns away, shaking his head.
“He doesn’t mean it,” my mother says, and I look at her.
“Yes, he does,” I say under my breath.
“Come and tell me all about New York,” she says, trying to defuse the situation.
“Yeah, tell me all about living in New York City and make me jealous,” Natalia says, and I walk over to the counter, pulling out one of the stools.
We talk about New York, and I show her some pictures of my apartment. “Betty.” My father calls her name from over his shoulder. “The Hendersons will be dropping by for a drink later.”
“Great,” my mother says and goes about getting the plates out. “Help set the table.” She smiles at me, and I grab the plates and follow her into the dining room. She puts on the same red tablecloth she uses every year.
“I’m going to go over and say Merry Christmas to Ilyana’s family. I’ll be back in an hour,” my sister says and then ducks out.
I go about setting the table the way my mother taught me when I was younger. “You look amazing,” my mother says, her voice quiet and her eyes down.
“Thank you,” I tell her, keeping my voice down as well.