FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #3

                I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work.  The headline read “Lightning and Thunder Hits Best-seller List: Unknown Author Has Overcome the Storm.”   The article sang the praises of one Katarina Petrov,  a fledgling author from Portland whose debut novel had taken the New York Times Best-seller List by storm and was already well on its way to selling its first million copies.  Phrases such as “exhilarating prose,” “descriptive word paintings that steal away the reader’s breath” and “clever and witty dialogue” described Petrov’s new novel as a page-turning success that kept the reader hanging on until the very last page.  Alongside the text was a snapshot of the young success.  Her glossy dark hair had been pulled back into a sloppy but sporty tail, her make-up was minimal and natural and her body language spoke of a quiet discomfort in posing for the camera.  She wasn’t a classic beauty, far from it, but her smile was radiant and in her eyes there was a strength that belied the language of her limbs.

                I stared at the picture for long moments, right up until I heard my stop announced over the subway’s PA.  I hadn’t spoken to my daughter in three years.  And now she was a best-selling author.

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                Later that morning as I sat at my desk at Wheelen and Wheelen Law Firm I was simply going through the motions.  I answered the incessant ringing of the phone, made and canceled appointments, kept a fresh pot of coffee brewing every hour.  Wheelen, Sr. was in court, Wheelen, Jr. dealing with all the clients who walked in and out the door.  Both father and son had stopped by my desk earlier to exchange pleasantries—I had been the secretary for Wheelen and Wheelen for the last fifteen years so the daily chat was an expected routine—but I hadn’t really paid much attention to Sr.’s monologue on his wife Margie’s new charity project or Jr.’s replay of his son’s little league baseball game.  I had nodded dutifully and made all the polite responses but my thoughts had been two thousand miles away.  They still were.  As the phone rang once more and I recited the customary greeting of “Wheelen and Wheelen Law Firm.  How can I help you?” my thoughts drifted back to a memory that I had effectively kept suppressed for years.  They traveled back to that fateful day three years ago…to June 21, 2006…when I had made the worst mistake of my life…

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                “Mom, I’m going.  I’ve already made the down payment on the house.  And the movers will be here any minute.”  Katarina set down a taped up box that was marked Bedroom in black permanent marker on the kitchen table and turned to walk back into her bedroom. 

                Anna set down the wooden spoon she’d been using to stir her homemade spaghetti sauce, dodged the numerous boxes that were stacked in piles and followed her daughter to the back of the house.  She stood in the doorway and watched as Katarina grabbed another box, this one filled with her beloved books.

                “Katarina, be reasonable,” Anna said.  “You know no one in Oregon.  Besides, why would you want to move to such a God-forsaken place?  It’s thousands of miles away, all the way at the other end of the country.”

                “Portland is hardly God-forsaken, Mom.  It’s a city, just like New York.  And that’s exactly why I want to go—because it is all the way at the other end of the country.  Thousands of miles away from here.”  And you.  Anna could almost hear the unspoken words in the tense air between her and her daughter.  Ever since her father had died, Katarina had never seemed content in New York.  Always seeming to be on the outside, looking in, she’d never gone out with friends, never asked to have friends over.  She’d closeted herself away in her room and written, always written, immersed in the ideas of her imagination.  Anna had tried to coax her daughter out of her shell, but had always been unable, burdened by her own grief at the loss of her husband.  The gap that had always been breached by Victor, who had always understood his wife and daughter (and their differences) so well, had only widened after his death and Anna had no idea if there was now any hope of a bridge ever being built. 

                Anna sighed as Katarina brushed by her, carrying her box of books towards the kitchen.  Her daughter’s room was now bare, the clothing and trinkets and books that made up her life now reduced to the contents of a few cardboard boxes.  Shaking her head, Anna tried to think of a way to reason with her daughter, to make her see the folly of her dream.  Katarina had always talked of moving away from New York, of heading out to the West Coast where she could finally breathe and focus solely on her writing.  She had always talked of becoming an author, of having her stories printed for millions of people to read and enjoy.  But dreams like that didn’t come true.  Not for people like them. 

                Victor had dreamed of being an artist.  As a young child he had drawn portraits for many of the inhabitants of Zaitzev, the Russian village where he was born.  He had immigrated to the United States in 1973 at the age of eighteen, headed for New York and a bright future.  But artists in New York were a dime a dozen and Victor had barely sold enough mediocre landscapes and self-portraits to pay the rent of the small flat he lived in above a drugstore.  After struggling for two years to make ends meet, he had given up and taken the managerial position offered to him by his landlord at the store beneath his flat.

                That was where Anna had met Victor.  She’d come into the store one day for a bottle of water and a box of Band-aids.  She’d been in pursuit of her own dream at the time, headed to a dance audition at Julliard.  The water was for her warm-up, the Band-aids for the blisters she knew she would have once she took off her ballet slippers.  She’d barely noticed the handsome young man who’d asked her why she was in such a rush and only had time for a brief nod of acknowledgement when he’d wished her good luck as she walked out the door.  But she hadn’t been accepted to Julliard.  Instead she ended up the wife of the optimistic young Russian who’d slipped his phone number in with her change. 

                Anna would have been a liar if she claimed she regretted the life that she and Victor had made.  Their courtship had been a whirlwind of riotous emotions: tenderness as they held hands and strolled through the local park in spring, excitement and thrill as they’d shared stolen kisses behind the store after Victor had closed up for the night in summer, passion mixed with fear as they’d first made love in the small but soft bed in Victor’s flat in fall…and a deep and lasting love as they’d exchanged vows and rings three months later. 

                A year later Katarina had arrived and Victor had been the epitome of a proud father.  Wanting the best for his daughter he’d taken on extra hours at the store to make sure there was enough money to provide for the type of future he believed she deserved.  Soon after they’d purchased a house.  The flat, Victor said, was just not big enough for a growing family.  Content enough as a homemaker, Anna had stayed home with Katarina, watching her learn to crawl, then walk and finally run.  One of Anna’s fondest memories was watching Katarina run and leap into her father’s arms when he’d come home from a long day at work.  He’d swing her high, ‘round in circles and tell her that if only she dreamed enough, she could fly.  Always believe in your dreams, Katarina.  You can go wherever you want to go, be whatever you want to be, if only you dream.  And Katarina had believed him.  The talk of being a famous author had started early and while Anna tried to find it in herself to support her daughter’s hopes, she hesitated to encourage the child in something that most likely would never happen.  After all, what was the point of raising the girl’s hopes to only have them crashing down around her when reality stepped in?

                Once Katarina started attending school, Anna went to work part-time for Wheelen and Wheelen, thinking that it would give her something to do with her extra time and bring some extra money into the home so perhaps Victor wouldn’t have to work so hard at the drugstore.  While the work was satisfying enough in itself, Anna was never quite happy.  But she loved her family too much to admit that she felt incomplete.  She still harbored the dream of being a dancer or maybe a dance instructor now that she was getting on in years and her body bore the signs of bearing a child. 

                But fate took a nasty turn and Victor was killed in a car accident coming home from work.  The loss of her husband had devastated Anna and Katarina, who’d always been introverted and so close to her father, retreated even farther into her shell.  Anna, now the sole provider for herself and her daughter, began working full-time at the law firm and tried to move on with her life.  Every day was hard but some were worse than others and on those days, those days that were so black and cold that not even the brightest sunshine could penetrate with its light and warmth, Anna felt a despair so deep that it lodged as a dull aching pain in her chest that would not retreat.  And in the pitch recesses of her mind was a burning resentment towards the man who had left her alone with a young daughter to raise, therefore shattering any hopes she had of a future resembling the one she’d always pictured for herself.  Dreams were simply that: dreams.  Fantasies.  And they didn’t come true.  Not for the Petrovs. 

                Pulling free from her memories, Anna turned to go back to the kitchen.  As she strode down the short hallway, she was overcome by an outpour of emotions.  Loneliness…bitterness…sadness…fear.  She masked them all with anger.

                She stormed into the kitchen and began to rage at her daughter. 

                “Yes!  It’s thousands of miles from here.  Thousands of miles from me.  That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?  To be rid of me?  Because I was never as good, as supportive, as loving as your father!”  Katarina turned and faced her, surprise and disbelief warring on her face.

                “Your father was a dreamer.  He wanted things.  For himself, for us, especially for you.  But look where his dreaming got him.  Nowhere!  He was always telling you to dream, to reach for things that you couldn’t have.  That you’ll never have.  And who are you to want those things anyway?  What is it about the life I tried to give you that just wasn’t good enough?  Do you think I’ve missed those looks of longing, of yearning on your face when you think I’m not looking?  Those looks that clearly say you can’t wait to get away from this life and move on to something bigger, something better.  I’ve worked hard all these years to try and give you the things that I know your father wanted for you.  But it was never enough, was it?  You’ve always lived in that fantasy of yours, dreaming of something more.  Well, let me tell you something, Katarina.  There’s nothing else out there.  This is it.  Dreaming gets you nowhere and nowhere’s where you’ll end up if you walk out that door and head out to the West Coast looking for fame and fortune.  Your father couldn’t be an artist, I didn’t become a dancer and you’ll never be an author!” 

                A knock on the door turned both their heads.  Katarina moved to the door in a daze and opened it.  The movers had arrived, ready to pack up her boxes and take them on their merry way to Portland.  Katarina spoke briefly with them, giving them directions as to what to take and what to leave.  Fifteen minutes later the moving truck vacated the driveway and Katarina gathered up her wallet, phone and keys and shoved them into her purse. 

                Looking at her mother she said, “All I ever wanted was your love and support, Mom.  I know you worked hard every moment of your life to try and support me and I will always be grateful for that.  But you’ve never hidden the fact that you think I’m foolish for wanting what I do.  Do you think I’ve missed the looks of resentment thrown my way when you think I’m not looking?  I’m sorry you never got be a dancer.  But I will be an author.  And if you’re too jealous of my aspirations because you were never able to achieve yours, then I don’t want any part of you.  I’ll call when I reach Portland.”

                “Don’t bother,” Anna replied coldly.  “You don’t want me.  I don’t need you.  You are your father’s daughter.  You’ll share your father’s failure.”  And she had turned and stalked out of the kitchen.  A moment later she heard the door softly click.  She never got a phone call.

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                I pulled myself back from my memories, my heart wrenching from the pain of that day.  With a start, I realized that I had tears streaming down my face.  I hurriedly wiped my eyes and cheeks and as I glanced over at the clock I realized that the work day was over and it was time to head home.  I tidied up my desk, collected my purse and coat and after a rushed goodbye to my employer, made a beeline for the door.

                The ride home was uneventful.  I tried to forget the article that had set in motion the course of the day but my daughter’s face kept arising in my mind.  She’d done it.  She’d become an author.  A best-selling author.  And I hadn’t been there for her because I’d been too stubborn and bitter…and jealous…to do what any good mother should have done.  I’d abandoned her, shunned her, shut her out.  All because she’d been strong and brave enough to face her fears and chase her dreams.  And at the end of the day, where had I ended up?  Alone.

                I exited the subway and walked the last few blocks to the house I’d never left.  Absorbed in my thoughts, I almost didn’t notice the package sitting on the front porch.  I picked it up and took it inside.  Setting down my purse and coat on the kitchen table, I looked at the return address.  It was from Portland.  Hands shaking, I opened the cardboard flaps and drew back the sheets of bubble wrap.  Revealed was a copy of Katarina’s book.  Crying openly, I reached in and reverently pulled the novel out.  Opening the front cover, I read the handwritten note my daughter had scripted:

                Three years of utter stubbornness and utter love I send to you.  They reside in the pages of this book.  See?  Dreams can come true.  I miss you, Mom.  All my love.  Katarina.

                My tears rained down on the inscription, smearing and spreading the ink.  Somehow I felt Victor’s hand on my shoulder and his words in my ear.  We have quite a daughter, my love.  She made it…for all of us.  And in that moment, the gap was bridged.  Enough was enough.

                I walked over to the phone, took a deep breath, and called my daughter.

back to Contest #3