The Roads We Take
by Svetlana Molchanova
It was a mistake. We should not have walked. We should have called a taxi. But the night was mild, and we were tipsy. Our blocks of flats were just fifteen minutes away. After saying goodbye to the rest of the crowd, Oxana and I strolled home at a leisurely pace, enjoying the fresh air. I did not know my companion all that well: she was a friend of a friend. But it had become a kind of tradition to return from parties together, since we lived near each other.
“What a beautiful evening,” said Oxana, surely, like me, taking in a lungful of fragrant air. “I love this season. Everything’s blooming. Nature at the peak of its beauty and vitality.”
I could not agree more. This short time was indeed a feast for all the senses, and even at night nature lavished its gifts on us. As usual, we took a shortcut through some yards and almost immediately stepped onto a muddy patch, ruining our evening shoes.
“This is the first time I’ve worn them!” exclaimed Oxana. “And now I really wonder if there is going to be a second one! They were definitely not designed for such harsh treatment. But,” she added, “there’s no going back.” And so we proceeded ahead, trying to be more careful, even if it was not that easy in the poorly lit area.
“Gimme your bag!”
I heard a coarse male voice, as someone snapped my bag from my shoulder. I let out a scream and turned back to see a hooded figure in a sweat suit. Then I rushed away. As fast as I could, my heart pounding in my chest. I heard a female voice shriek “nooo,” and then a thud. But I neither stopped nor looked back. It was as if I was acting by instinct, propelled forward. I did not see the road. I did not see anyone. In hindsight I understood that it could not have been so deserted, especially not when I shot out from the side street into the main one. But all I remember was the pavement and the turns I took. Panting, I dialed the number on the entry phone at our gate door. My hands were shaking, and my head spun. Only the third attempt was successful.
“Who’s there?” my husband asked.
“It’s me,” I said in a cracked voice, licking my chapped lips.
“Don’t you have the keys?”
“No. Oh, just buzz me in.”
“Are you at the gate door or the block entrance?”
“The gate door,” I mumbled, but I was not sure he heard me.
Damn, all this small talk. I heard the beeping sound and thrust the door open.
The block door was ajar when I reached it.
“The kids are sleeping, why haven’t you…,” were the words Egor greeted me with at the front door.
But then he broke off, “Are you ok? You look wild.”
I shook my head.
“Bring me some water, please,” were the first words I could articulate. As the regenerating liquid entered my body, I felt the anxiety lessen. Finally, I was able to speak.
“I was robbed, attacked and robbed.”
“What?” my husband’s eyes widened. “Where?”
I recounted the events of the evening. Of course, there were even more rebukes and doubts about the rationality of someone walking alone at night.
“I wasn’t alone,” I reminded him. “I was with Oxana.”
Oxana. My racing thoughts suddenly stopped and focused on her. I remembered the attack, her high-pitched voice, and then the thump. I felt a knot in my stomach.
I needed to make sure she was ok. But how? I didn’t remember her phone number and, even if I did, her phone had probably been stolen like mine. She lived in the same street in block number 22 or 24. I could not remember exactly. And, anyway, I did not know her apartment number.
Suddenly I had an idea. I asked for Egor’s phone and called a couple of my acquaintances whose numbers were in his directory. No answer. They had probably muted their phones for the night.
But the thought was nibbling at me. I was at home. I was safe. But something was definitely wrong. I could sense it.
“I’m going back. I need to make sure Oxana is okay.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized it.
“Are you nuts?” Egor looked at me closely. “Haven’t you had enough trouble for today? What you should do is block your bank card and activate this app that can help locate your phone. And first thing in the morning we’ll report the incident to the police.”
I had to admit this made sense. I blocked my plastic card and locked my phone. I was not able to locate it, as it had been turned off already. Most probably it would be disassembled and sold for parts.
Now I was ready to resume the conversation. I closed my eyes and exhaled.
“I have a bad feeling. I just need to make sure Oxana is okay.” Then, searching for a word that would strike a chord with my prim and proper husband, I added, “It’s my duty. If you want to, we can go together.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I definitely do not want to. But I also do not want my sons to lose their mother. Wait a minute.”
He was back in a couple of minutes, fully dressed and holding something in his hand.
“I guess you forgot about this,” he said, showing me a black canister. Tear gas spray, I guessed. A couple of years ago, Egor gave me one for March 8th and even made sure I put it into my bag. It was actually the old version of the same bag I had that night. I never took the canister out so it was bound to be in one of the compartments. I just rarely carried that bag and had forgotten about its contents. I chuckled. Yet even if I had remembered, everything happened in a split second, while it might have taken me a couple of minutes to locate the exact whereabouts of the spray.
The night air cooled me down. I could not explain even to myself why I ventured out. It made way more sense to report the incident to the police and let them handle it. But whenever this thought crossed my mind, my gut told me I had to go. I didn’t know whether the rational or irrational part of me would have won out if I had not declared my intention to Egor. I now felt that I had to stick to my resolution, however crazy it might seem. And I owed Oxana at least that. I knew it was idiotic to go back to the place of the robbery and expect Oxana to be sitting and waiting for me. Of course she was at home. Probably, fuming to her husband about our bad luck.
Then I heard a shriek. It startled me. I broke into a cold sweat; my heart leapt into my throat.
“It’s an owl hooting,” Egor explained nonchalantly. “They come from the nearby forest to hunt. For rats or small birds.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled.
But I could not return to normal. That screech had stirred up the emotions I had felt when robbed. The fear gripping me blocked out every other feeling. My heart was pounding in my chest. My hands got clammy.
I turned to the yard where it all happened and froze immediately. In the blackness of the night, my gaze immediately fell onto something luminous. It must have been Oxana’s flower hairpin. I touched Egor to draw his attention, pointing to the object. We moved closer.
She was lying on her back, arms outstretched.
“Oxana,” I shouted, my voice sounding low and strange.
Egor lifted her hand and felt her pulse.
“Is she…” My voice faded away, and I did not finish the sentence.
He was silent for what seemed like an eternity and then said in a low serious voice: “I’m afraid not. I can’t detect a pulse. I’ll call the ambulance and police.”
I suddenly felt freezing cold. I started shivering violently. “No, no, no, please, it can’t be true, it just can’t be true. Oxana, Oxana, please, open your eyes, make some movement, you are hurt, but you are alive,” I was pleading desperately inside. “You can’t be…”. I swallowed hard and could not bring myself to even think of the horrible, blood-curdling word.
I do not know how much time elapsed, but the police were the first to arrive.
“So, we have a corpse here,” one of them said matter-of-factly after a brief examination. “Tolik, seal off the area. Sanyok, start taking pictures,” he continued, addressing his co-workers.
I felt numb and strangely out of place. The three police officers were very efficient and… very detached. Were they real? Was I real?
Then the commanding officer turned and eyed me and Egor.
“I have a few questions for you,” he said. “Tell me in detail what happened.”
And so I recounted my story again.
The funeral was held on the fifth day – because of the investigation. The autopsy showed that the cause of death was a cracked skull from hitting the ground. She died instantly.
When Egor and I arrived, the yard in front of the high-rise was packed with mourners.
“So horrible. I still can’t believe it,” a mutual acquaintance touched my hand. “I remember how joyful she was at the party. And now.” She shook her head. “How are you?”
I made a noncommittal gesture by shrugging my shoulders. I really didn’t know how I was.
We went up to Oxana’s apartment. As we were taking the elevator, Egor talked about changes in tradition and how unusual it was nowadays to have the body at home.
“I wanted Oxana to be at home, if only for a few hours,” her mother explained, as if she had overheard Egor’s comments.
It was the second time I had met the poor lady. The first was in the morning following that awful night. There were flowers everywhere. We placed ours in the coffin and went downstairs.
Soon her body was moved to the yard and placed on two stools in front of the entrance; the flowers were put into big vases provided by the funeral home. Everything was done smoothly and efficiently, a ceremony perfected by daily practice.
“Those who are not going to the cemetery can say their farewells now. Please come to the coffin and touch the hand or kiss the forehead of the deceased. Then we will go to church for the funeral service. The final farewell will be at the cemetery before the burial,” the officiant instructed.
A line of people moved in the direction of the coffin. Sobs could be heard even in the distance.
“Oxana, look how many people have come to bid you farewell. They all love you. Why are you lying there? Get up! Come on, get up!” Her mother broke down in agony. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.
The family travelled with her body in the hearse, and we followed in the funeral bus. The first stop was the graveyard church. It was stuffy inside: incense and Church Slavonic hymns filled the air. We stood with lit candles, the crowd making me anxious I might accidentally set somebody’s clothes on fire. Luckily, there were no other victims. Thank God!
Then we went to her final resting place. It was not far from the entrance to the cemetery, where the plots were the priciest and the monuments the tallest. The grave had already been dug out. We lined up to say one final goodbye to Oxana. Her waxen face looked unfamiliar, as if it belonged to some other creature. I moved as if in a slumber, but after the coffin was closed, lowered into the grave, and everyone started throwing handfuls of soil onto it, I suddenly realized that these were the parting moments. Then it burst through. “Please, forgive me, please, please, please,” I repeated desperately to myself, tears streaming down my cheeks. I did not know if I could forgive someone who had not been there for me when I needed them.
The repast was at a café. As usual, there was plenty of food, but I could not bring myself to eat even a morsel. There were also lots of speeches in tribute to Oxana at the end of which the whole assembly wished the traditional “May the ground be like down feathers” before having a drink in memory of the deceased. At some point, a stout middle-aged woman who was Oxana’s aunt stood up to say a word.
“Oxana was cut down in her bloom. Some bastard killed her while she was returning home. She was a helpful person, but no one helped her. Her husband was away. Her companion ran away. And disaster struck.”
I blinked really hard and pursed my lips to stop them from quivering. Egor put his hand on mine. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t remember much else from the repast: everything seemed like a blur. The only other clear memory that comes through my brain fog was that of her mother. During the funeral meal, she tried hard not to break down, but eventually could bear it no longer.
“I’m too old, how will I be able to bring up Lilichka?” she sobbed, referring to Oxana’s four-year-old daughter. “She is so little, she needs care and support. And I, I don’t have the strength to raise her.” There were words of reassurance from the mourners, some offering their assistance. I took a closer look at her. She seemed to be in her seventies, but grief had probably aged her. Shriveled, forlorn and miserable it was she who needed care and support. My heart sank.
The attacker was eventually caught – although the police had nothing to do with it. He assaulted another lady who happened to be a judo athlete. She managed to immobilize the criminal by holding him down and then called the police. The mugger turned out to be a 23-year-old unemployed guy living around the corner from me. There were a number of victims. Together with other ladies, I was asked to identify the assailant. I did not remember what the attacker looked like (or rather I did not see anything apart from his shape), but I recognized his hands and voice. What’s more, DNA on Oxana’s clothes was identified as belonging to him.
I was also a witness in the court trial. Once again I had to relive the scene and describe it in detail. Then there were the questions. What did I drink at the party? How much? How drunk was Oxana? It was disgusting. It seemed like the attorney wanted to pass us off as drunks.
Only later did I understand the reason. When telling his version of the events, this scoundrel of a criminal said Oxana took a step back, stumbled over and fell, hitting her head. He had nothing to do with it. It was an accident.
“You killed my daughter, you, hellspawn. She was a healthy, cheerful creature. And now she is no more.” It was Oxana’s mother choking on her words (oh, why on earth did she come here?!). “And you say you had nothing to do with it, you son of a bitch.” She was obviously gasping at this point, as if out of breath, and suddenly collapsed on the chair, her hand on her chest. Paramedics were called and diagnosed her with a myocardial infarction.
The criminal was eventually sentenced to nine years in prison for murder, robbery and mugging. Ultimately, he failed in his attempt to play the ‘not-guilty-of-death’ card. I guess I mostly felt relieved because I no longer had to follow the trial. For the more-than-a-year that the investigation and proceedings were underway, it seemed that a day did not go by without someone either updating me on the situation or asking for an update. And all I wanted was to push that awful night out of my mind.
Easier said than done. Long ago I had stopped walking outside when it was dark. The first time I had to return home late after work I had a panic attack. It was as if someone pressed a button in my head. The assault, the cry, my running away unfolded in my mind’s eye. There was no way I could put a stop to it.
Infrequent nights out lost their appeal and became drudgery. I started to avoid get-togethers with the same crowd that had waved good-bye to me and Oxana that night. Partying felt wrong. And I felt out of place at gatherings.
I often met Oxana’s mother with her granddaughter at the playground in our local park when I went there with my younger son. Whenever I saw the old lady I felt uneasy, as if sorry for being around, although she never blamed me for anything. During our meetings, I also came to understand that the girl had moved in with her grandmother.
“Her dad is not to be trusted,” she explained. “His job is the only thing on his mind. He might drive out of town and forget to pick up Lilia from kindergarten. And he feeds her sausages and potato chips.” I also learned that Lilia refused to fall asleep with the lights off and regressed to bedwetting because she was afraid to get out of bed at night. “Even though we sleep together and I can accompany her to the bathroom, Lilia never asks me. She just wakes up and pees. And when I want to get her changed and put on fresh sheets, she absolutely refuses to leave the bed. It seems like it’s the only safe place for her at night,” the poor lady added.
I looked up at an active and cute girl on the jungle gym. She was no different from other kids in the playground. One could not imagine what she went through just by looking at her. But then, my outward life also had not changed much since the assault. Every day I went to work, cooked meals and scrubbed the flat on the weekends. I guess the major difference was that I became more absorbed in my thoughts. When someone addressed me, they often had to repeat themselves before I fully grasped the meaning of their speech. Egor even started imitating me by saying “What” to every phrase meant for me.
But, life goes on. Time does not heal all the wounds, but it scabs them over. The events of that night will always stay with me. Like a chronic disease. Most of the time I am my normal self again – I can be cheerful and enjoy life. And then something happens, bringing back all the pain, despair or terror.
One day I was returning home with my younger son from his friend’s birthday party. He was all thrilled and elated and begged for a themed party for his approaching birthday. We would have to fork out quite a bit for this, but seeing him so delighted filled my heart with warmth and tenderness. I guessed making your child happy was really worth it.
Egor met us with a concerned and preoccupied look and the words: “There is something I need to tell you, Katia. In private.”
“Is everything, okay?” I asked, before realizing how dumb the question sounded.
Egor exhaled noisily and said he would wait for me in the kitchen.
Having given the boy a tablet to keep him busy with video games, I followed my husband. “Has anyone fallen severely ill? Has Egor lost his job? Crashed the car?” – those were the scenarios running through my mind.
“What’s happened?” I looked him straight in the eyes.
“Vasiliev is back.”
My apprehension and anxiety turned to sickening horror as images of the mugging surfaced in my memory.
“But he was sentenced to nine years. Not even a year has passed,” I was barely able to articulate.
Egor nodded. “A friend of mine saw him in the local supermarket. He asked around and found out that he was released because he was in Ukraine. He’s a hero now,” Egor added, curling his lips bitterly.
I buried my face in my hands, unable to bear the sheer terror.
“No, this just can’t be happening. This. Can’t. Be. Happening.”