Still Here

Chapter 9: Dancing Drosophilae

The flight back to New York took nine hours and fifty-five minutes, and that was exactly how long it took Regina to get her bearings. By the time the plane was approaching the fuzzy rabbit-shaped Newfoundland, she felt together enough to brush her teeth and comb her hair in the plane’s lavatory. She even thought about applying some makeup. By the time they landed, she felt almost normal. She decided that she would write Aunt Masha a letter in which she would calmly explain why she couldn’t possibly adopt a child, that while Aunt Masha had a right to suggest it, she certainly didn’t have a right to demand it from her. Even if Regina eventually decided to adopt a child, it would have to be her own decision. She couldn’t be either pressured or rushed into it. She mentally composed most of that letter while she stood in the long line at passport control. She was almost finished when the young officer stamped her papers and welcomed her back to New York. The last sentence came to her in the cab. “And even though adoption is out of the question, I want you to know that Nastya can count on our help.” Yep, that was the solution. Regina would send them money. She was sure that Bob wouldn’t mind. That would certainly make her feel less shitty. Regina wanted to send the e-mail right away but decided that typing it all out on her phone would be bothersome. She’d send it as soon as she got home. So as soon as she got there, she dropped her bags at the front door and went straight to her computer. “Your message has been sent,” Gmail informed her, and Regina felt instant relief. She took off her clothes, went to shower, fell onto her bed all clean and wrapped in two large towels, and slept. She woke up just as Bob entered the apartment after work. They ordered a square gourmet pizza and had a quiet dinner together, or rather it was Bob who was having dinner, while Regina just nibbled on his uneaten crusts. She was still jet-lagged and deaf in one ear after the flight, so Bob’s voice sounded as if it were coming from far away. He told her that she had towel marks all over her neck and the left side of her face. He said it was charming. She smiled. Then he asked her a question she couldn’t hear. “What?” she asked.

“How was your trip?” Bob asked, shaking his head because it was a pretty obvious question.

She sighed. They had Skyped every day, so there wasn’t much she could add to that except of course to tell him about Nastya.

“Exhausting,” she said. Bob saw that she was too tired to talk and started telling her about Dancing Drosophilae in more detail — they were definitely signing the deal with DigiSly. He thought of making his programmer Dev the head of the project. They would start with a very simple app. It would allow people to see how many “relatives” they had in various parts of the country, then they would expand it for different locations. It was going to be an amazing opportunity. Regina found it hard to concentrate on his words. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said, “I’m just still out of it.”

That night Regina woke up at 3:00 A.M. — 10 A.M. Moscow time — nauseous with anxiety and went to check her e-mail right away. There was no reply from Aunt Masha. She checked her sent folder to confirm that e-mail was sent. It was. She wrote another e-mail to Aunt Masha asking her to confirm that she had received the first one. Regina spent the rest of the night pacing between the living room and the kitchen, switching between the sofa and their three armchairs, trying to relax. Aunt Masha was a compulsive e-mail checker and she usually answered right away. Regina must have offended her when she offered her money. Well, the hell with her, Regina thought, even as she was physically hurting with mortification. She understood now why she couldn’t tell Bob about it last night. He would be ashamed for her if she told him. “What the hell is wrong with you, Regina?” he would say. “Masha asked you to take that child, to provide her with a family, with love, with protection, and you offered to send her a check instead? Offended her like that? Masha, the closest you yourself have to a family?”

No, no, she couldn’t bear to tell Bob. In fact, Regina found that she could hardly look at him when he woke up that morning.

“Do you want to go to Becky’s place with me?” he asked. “She wanted to show you how the renovations are going.”

Regina declined, saying that she wasn’t feeling well, but the true reason was that she didn’t think she could stomach a parent-child lovefest now.

Bob left around eleven and Regina went to check her e-mail again. Nothing. She was starting to worry that she would never hear from Aunt Masha again.

She took the suitcase with her mother’s things, put it in the middle of the living room floor, and unclasped the lock. There was an old photo album on top. Regina had seen most of the pictures many times before, but there was a thin stack of photos that she didn’t remember. Her mother was in her twenties in them. Lounging on the beach. Testing the water with her toes. Splashing. Posing with some mountains in the background. She looked like a prettier version of Regina. Actually, her mother looked like Virginia Woolf a lot. They had the same dark, deeply set eyes.

There was a photo of her mother and Masha together. They stood on the beach holding hands, laughing, waving to the camera. There was a big white ship in the background. The sign in the corner read: YALTA, 1970. It was strange that her mother never mentioned that trip. Regina picked up the photo, peered at it closer. Her mother was big, dwarfing Aunt Masha, but she looked so happy. Regina couldn’t remember ever seeing her so happy. Were they lovers? Olga Zhilinskaya — straight as an arrow.

She remembered her photograph on Masha’s bookshelf. Aunt Masha didn’t just keep her mother’s photos, she kept hers too. It suddenly occurred to her that Aunt Masha was actually doing this whole adoption thing for her, Regina, not just for Nastya. Aunt Masha cared about Regina, she wanted the best for her, and she believed that the best for her was to have a child. And in return Regina offered her money…Regina felt like writing to Aunt Masha and begging her for forgiveness, except that she didn’t think she deserved it.

Regina put the album away and reached for the dresses. She recognized her mother’s favorite: a simple silk frock with an open neck. Dark brown, almost black, with a pattern of tiny flowers. Her mother had had it for as long as Regina could remember. She had worn it at Regina’s sixth birthday party. There were many guests, mostly her mother’s friends. Regina thought that her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. The tallest too. At one point Regina’s mother took Aunt Masha’s hand and whirled her in a waltz. The material of the dress seemed to move along with her mother’s movements, making all those little flowers waltz too. Of course they were lovers. Regina couldn’t understand how she hadn’t seen it before.

She saw a vivid image of her mother as she stood in front of the mirror putting the dress on. She would always furrow her brow as she adjusted it so that it looked just right. Her mother was around forty in that memory. Strong, healthy. This was the first time since her mother died that Regina was able to conjure up her younger self. She was overcome with emotions that had eluded her during the cemetery visit. This was what people who had lost someone needed instead of stupid cemeteries. Virtual Suitcase. A little nook on the Web where you could store precious memorabilia: letters, photographs, videos, playlists, maps. Where you could visit and imagine the departed at their best.

Regina really needed to talk to someone. To someone who wouldn’t be judgmental, who would understand and support her decision, who would be able to relieve her guilt. Who would agree with her that Aunt Masha’s actions were crazy and that Regina’s letter to her was the natural reaction of a sane person.

Vadik? No, not Vadik. Even if he did listen to her, he wouldn’t understand. Sergey? She had been ignoring him for so long that she didn’t feel that she had the right to involve him now. And then expecting a sane response from someone like Sergey was kind of crazy.

Her dad? Regina had been longing to talk to him ever since she got back from Russia. But in order to ask him anything, they would have to get reacquainted, really get to know each other. She would have to face some more unpleasant facts about her mother. Regina didn’t feel that she had the strength for that.

What she really needed was to talk to a woman. Vica? Vica was a mother. Regina wasn’t sure if that made her more or less capable of empathy. Would she take the child’s side or Regina’s? No, Vica wouldn’t take Regina’s side in any matter. And she was probably upset with Regina. Vica didn’t have anyone in the United States and now she was going through a separation all alone. She should have called to ask her how she was, to offer her support. Several times Regina was about to dial Vica’s number, but then changed her mind at the last moment. She was afraid that Vica might think that she was gloating, that their conversation would turn all awkward and wrong. Still she should’ve called her!

Her phone beeped. There was a message from Vadik. “Are you back? I’ve missed you like crazy!”

“Coffee?” she texted back.

They met at La Colombe on Lafayette.

“Finally!” Vadik said as soon as he walked into the place.

They settled at a tiny table, too tiny and too low for both of them, neither Vadik nor Regina could comfortably fold their legs. There was barely enough surface area for their coffee cups and their two chocolate croissants.

Vadik looked at her expectantly, obviously waiting for her to tell him about her trip.

What should I start with? Regina thought, pouring sugar into her cappuccino carefully so as not to disturb the beautiful foam heart. Russian politics? Russian TV? The dumb, angry madness that was catching on all over Russia like an infectious disease? But Vadik was so obsessed with trying to fit in as an American that he cared very little about Russia. She could just try to tell him about Nastya.

Vadik took a long sip of his cappuccino. Some foam got stuck in his beard. Regina reached over the table and wiped it off with her napkin. She was about to start talking when he said, “Some crazy shit has happened while you were gone.”

“What?” she asked.

“Sergey and I aren’t speaking anymore. I threw our precious genius out!”

“You did what? Why?”

Vadik went on a long diatribe listing Sergey’s offenses, from dirty milk glasses to toilet paper to butchered Cohen lyrics.

Regina smiled. “He did that when we were dating too.”

“Yes, but Sergey and I weren’t dating!” Vadik said. “Sergey and I weren’t having sex. I had to endure all that for nothing.”

Regina shook her head in mock compassion.

It was clear to her now that they would never get to talk about her. That was Vadik for you.

But Regina wasn’t angry with him. She was rather relieved that she didn’t have to talk about Nastya.

“Was that all?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” Vadik said. “And he was Skype-fucking Sejun.”

“What?” she asked. “Your Sejun?”

Vadik nodded. He embarked on a long and pretty boring story of how he found out. Regina had to eat her chocolate croissant to keep her focus. Actually, Sergey Skype-fucking Sejun wasn’t all that shocking. She remembered how Sergey always said that he liked Sejun and how Sejun had been impressed with him and his vile Virtual Grave idea at Vadik’s housewarming.

“I mean who does that? She’s my girlfriend!”

Ex-girlfriend, Regina thought, but she hurried to agree with Vadik that there was no excuse. And it wasn’t like it was the first time! Sergey had stolen Vadik’s girlfriend before, of course: Vica. She remembered how it had taken Sergey three weeks to tell her about Vica. Three weeks! He was seeing Vica, fucking Vica, professing his love for her, while Regina, like an idiot, was making arrangements for their summer trip to Karelia!

“So you don’t think I’m an asshole, do you?” Vadik asked.

He stared at Regina, expecting an answer. It was difficult for her to talk because her mouth was full of croissant — she had finished hers and had started on Vadik’s.

She mumbled something incoherent that Vadik interpreted as “No.”

“Okay, but it gets worse. I think I might be interested in Vica a little bit.”

For this Regina had to swallow the entire soggy mass in her mouth. “What? No!”

“I know, I know,” Vadik said.

“What about Vica?”

“Oh, she doesn’t give a damn about me.”

“Good!”

He started talking about online dating and how exhausting it was, how after a while the dating pool started to seem really small, because the same women popped up over and over again. And how he imagined that the women reacted to seeing his profile in a similar way: “Oh, that guy’s still here.” And how much it depressed him.

Then he looked at her expecting words of compassion.

Regina didn’t say anything. She did feel sorry for Vadik, but she was annoyed too. What was it about Vica that made all these men crazy about her? And Vadik could’ve asked her how she was. Out of politeness if not genuine interest!

“I have to get back,” she said, standing up.

They were already at the door when Vadik squeezed her in a bear hug and said that just being near her made him feel better.

Regina smiled. She could never stay mad at Vadik for long.

“Vadik,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Do you think I could take care of a child?”

Vadik laughed. He reached over and flicked the croissant flakes off her scarf.

“If that involves eating a child — then definitely!” he said.

“Thanks a lot!” she said.

He had helped her without realizing it. He had confirmed that her decision was the right one.

What she did was actually honest, and noble in its honesty, Regina decided on the way back. Buoyed by self-admiration, she continued this train of thought. There were plenty of women who didn’t want or need children, but only a few of them were willing to admit it. She had met so many women, both in Russia and in America, who were having children not because they wanted or needed them, but simply because they didn’t want to miss out. “It’s not that I wanted to have a child, but I just really didn’t want to not have one,” a heavily pregnant niece of Bob’s told her at their Thanksgiving dinner. Well, Regina definitely didn’t want a child and refused to worry about missing out. She hated the idea that a woman couldn’t lead a fulfilling life unless she had children. She had managed to build an independent and rich life for herself. An enviable life. It was the unfortunate combination of her mother’s death, then her marriage and emigration that just derailed it a little bit. But she could always claim it back. No more Eat’n’Watch!

Later that week she wrote to Inga and begged her for an assignment. Something nobody else wanted to translate. Anything at all. She didn’t care how boring or difficult it was.

The reply came surprisingly fast. “Sure,” Inga wrote without so much as a greeting, “I have just the project for you.” It turned out to be a Canadian novel called Humdrum that had been published in English about two years earlier, been pronounced a cross between Proust and Munro, genius, and addictive, but had failed to attract enough readers. So Inga’s publishing house managed to acquire it for a song. It was the story of a Canadian woman who lived somewhere in the north and had to raise her three children after her husband died of cancer.

Regina felt dizzy. Children and cancer, the two subjects that made Regina sick, and Inga knew this perfectly well. She must still be really pissed at her. Well, she wouldn’t give Inga the satisfaction of knowing how much that hurt.

“Perfect!” Regina answered and immediately purchased the book on her tablet.

The narrator’s name was Cheyenne. The book started with a description of making porridge that went on for thirty pages. Eight of them were devoted to removing a bug that had gotten into the pot and drowned there. Reading the book, Regina felt as if she were the bug drowning in the pot of oatmeal, but the feeling was oddly pleasant. And then the three kids appeared. With their nasty habits, their constant illnesses, their silly words. They took up so much space, filled it with so much weight and presence, that it felt suffocating. Yet Regina felt that if she abandoned the book, her entire fantasy of a fulfilling life would crumble. She was tempted to give up, bouncing between her desk and the couch in front of the TV, mixing or sometimes supplanting work with Eat’n’Watch, but she always returned to the book.

About three weeks into Humdrum, as Regina was finishing an especially complicated passage and was about to reward herself with a new episode of Spies Are Us and some leftover chili, an e-mail from Aunt Masha popped up in her in-box. She instantly felt a terrible pressure just above her eye sockets. Her finger hovered over the Enter button, unable to go ahead and press it. Just then her microwave beeped announcing that the chili was ready. She considered going to the kitchen to retrieve her bowl first, then became appalled by her cowardice and pressed the button. The pressure in her head was so bad that she could hardly understand the words. She could see that it wasn’t aggressive though. She could tell that the overall tone was polite.

It wasn’t warm, far from it, but it was definitely civil. Regina made herself read it.

Aunt Masha appreciated Regina’s generous offer, but there was no need for it, because she had just found a very good family for Nastya. The husband was a lawyer and the wife was a high school physics teacher and a gardening nut. They had a beautiful dacha on the lake about two hours away from Moscow. They were smart, kind, wonderful people. They were as crazy about Nastya as she was about them.

What a relief. What a relief, Regina thought. I’m so happy.

The microwave beeped again, demanding her attention, but Regina ignored it. She walked into the bedroom, got into bed, turned to the wall, and started to sob.

She must have dozed off because an urgent buzzing in her pelvic area roused her. She found her phone in the pocket of her cardigan and checked the message. Her calendar app was reminding her that she had a “Dinner with Bob’s team” today. They were celebrating the official start of their Dancing Drosophilae project. Regina groaned. She could barely tolerate Bob’s team on a normal day, but today it would be torture. And she couldn’t possibly skip the dinner. It was really important to Bob that she go to these dinners, much more important than her fitting in with his family. She could kind of understand that. Bob’s team was his essence in a way that his family wasn’t. His family was a given, but it was he who had picked the team, created the team, lived and breathed with the team. Regina had never felt more alienated from Bob than she did at these dinners. It wasn’t just that the team members seemed like aliens to her and she could never find anything to talk to them about; her worst concern was that Bob would inevitably turn into a stranger. He couldn’t help but look at her through the eyes of his team, and through the eyes of his team she was a sorry sight. A gawky, homely, expensively but still unflatteringly dressed, gloomy, tongue-tied woman. Bored. That was probably the worst. Bob took it as personal affront if she looked bored when they discussed business.

She sent a quick text to Vadik to ask if he would be there tonight. She needed all the support she could get to survive the dinner. Vadik replied: Yes, of course. He was part of Bob’s team, wasn’t he?

She took a shower and put on “safe” clothes that weren’t striking but never looked awful either. It was her face that was the problem. Her skin was blotchy and creased and her eyes were so puffy that she could barely open them. Cucumber mask. She had heard some women (possibly Vica) mention that it helped reduce swelling. She did a quick Google search and found a video of a Korean woman dressed in a black bra and panties grating a whole cucumber and slapping it onto another woman’s face. Regina rushed into the kitchen. Luckily there was a cucumber in the fridge. She grated it, but since there was nobody to slap it onto her face, she simply held her breath and pressed her face against the cold green mound on her cutting board. She ate the couple of cucumber shavings that got into her mouth and decided that she felt better, far from great but ready to face the team.

The restaurant that Bob chose, Borghese, was everything that Regina hated about New York restaurants. The decor resembled a library/dining room/wine cellar in a medieval castle. There were cavernous hallways, antique wine barrels, and shelves filled with old books. While Regina had to admit that it did evoke the life of medieval nobility, why would a medieval nobleman eat in a library or read in his wine cellar? The hostess led Regina through the labyrinth of tables all the way to the back. The place was nearly empty. There were just a few couples here and there, looking bored and cold. They were clearly outnumbered by the army of snotty-looking and impeccably attired waiters, eyes trained on their unprotected customers. They reminded Regina of the birds in the Hitchcock movie.

She saw Bob in the very back presiding over a long table aligned with benches rather than chairs. Across the table from him were three ethnically diverse men. Bob had told Regina that he liked to hire immigrants because they were both brave enough and naive enough to tackle impossible tasks.

Bob’s men were sitting with their backs to Regina, but it was easy to recognize them. The widest and most relaxed back with a lush silk-clad muffin top belonged to Laszlo Zelahy, Bob’s CEO, the man with whom Bob went “way back.” He didn’t have a perfect athletic body like Bob’s, but he seemed just as comfortable in his own skin. The shortest, skinniest, and tensest back belonged to Nguyen Tan, Bob’s director of marketing, who was very much into martial arts and claimed that he could break a TV with his little finger — Regina planned to take him at his word one of these days. Not now though, not while she still cherished her TV so much. The longest, slightly awkward back belonged to Dev Mazoomdar, the most brilliant of Bob’s programmers. Vadik disagreed that Dev was all that brilliant, saying that all he had was an incredible ability to focus. He burrowed into his work as if it were a tunnel. But perhaps that was what brilliant meant, Regina thought. Back when she worked in Russia, she had to have a truly amazing ability to burrow. Did that make her brilliant too?

Vadik wasn’t there yet. Regina sighed.

Bob waved her over. Regina waved back and put on a bright smile. Laszlo, Nguyen, and Dev all made an honest attempt to stand up and greet her, but since that involved moving the bench back, which required excellent coordination from the three of them, they decided not to bother. They greeted her by raising and twisting their bodies. “Hi, guys,” Regina said, making her way to Bob’s side of the table.

“Honey,” she said, but Bob raised his finger to shush her. Bob was deep in a wine list that looked as thick as Infinite Jest, and he was not to be disturbed. Bob had taken not one but three different wine classes, so he knew his wine. One of the waiters brought over the bread. Regina took a piece, dunked it into the tiny dish of olive oil, and started to chew. The bread was good, but Regina found that she couldn’t enjoy it. Something was missing and she knew exactly what that was. The TV screen. She looked around, hoping to spot ESPN at the bar — no such luck. Instead, there was a gloomy-looking pianist in the corner tapping his finger against the closed top of his instrument. Regina was itching to be entertained. She raised her eyes to the three men across the table from her. All were hopeless at conversation. Dev never spoke. She could possibly prod Nguyen to talk about martial arts, but why would she want to do that? And Laszlo was studying her himself, at a loss as to what to talk to her about. A gloomy Russian woman like her.

“Some day, huh?” he finally said. “Freezing!”

“Yeah,” Regina answered with a too-wide smile. She had had to learn how to smile when she got to the U.S., but she couldn’t calibrate her smiles yet.

Bob was now talking to the sommelier, and she knew better than to disturb him. She knew his main goal was not to pick the perfect wine for his dinner but to impress the sommelier, to make him realize that this squarely built bald man knew his wine better than most people, and definitely better than the sommelier himself. The sommelier answered with a respectful smile, but Regina couldn’t help but see some disgust underneath it. “You think I care, buddy?” he seemed to be saying from behind that mask of politeness. Regina turned away, embarrassed for Bob. The desire to watch TV was getting overwhelming.

“Taste it!” Bob said when the sommelier poured a trial splash into Bob’s glass.

“Why?” Regina asked.

“Just taste it,” Bob insisted.

“I can’t even tell white from red with my eyes closed! Why would I taste it?” Regina asked.

The sommelier snickered and quickly covered it with a cough. Now it was Bob’s turn to be embarrassed. He nodded to the sommelier to fill everyone’s glasses and gave Regina a long, displeased look.

“You have something on your face,” he whispered. “On your cheek, closer to your right ear.”

Regina touched her face and found a few damp slivers of cucumber. She removed them with a furtive glance at the men. Fortunately, they were too polite to show that they’d noticed anything.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think the wine is really good,” Laszlo said and drained his entire glass. And just then the hostess appeared at the table followed by a sweaty, rumpled Vadik. Regina could never understand why seeing Vadik — simply catching a sight of him — never failed to make her feel more cheerful and relaxed.

“Vadik!” Regina exclaimed, and Bob winced. It was not that he didn’t trust Vadik and her together — it was Sergey who worried him, because Bob knew that they used to date in Russia. It was just that Regina’s friendship with Vadik made him feel left out. Bob was especially offended by the fact that Vadik and Regina couldn’t help whispering in Russian whenever they sat together at team dinner parties. “You don’t have to whisper, you know,” Bob said to her once, “I don’t understand Russian anyway.”

Vadik knew that, so he squeezed in and sat on the back bench next to Bob, not Regina.

“Sorry I’m late,” Vadik said, “I had to take care of something.”

“Girl troubles?” Bob asked.

“Something like that,” Vadik said.

The four other men sighed in support.

The food at Borghese was really exquisite — a salad of chanterelles and lamb tongues, veal brains in pistachio crust — but Regina found that she couldn’t enjoy any of it. And most of the conversation at the table was too technical for her to understand.

They had all tested their genomes with Dancing Drosophilae just to see how it worked. The results provided them with fun facts about their genetic diseases and heritages. Bob had tried to persuade Regina to get tested too, but she’d refused.

“Why do I need an app to find people with the same genome? I can just look around for people with the same nose,” Regina had said to Bob then. Now she felt compelled to repeat it for everybody at the table.

Laszlo chuckled, but Bob looked at her with displeasure.

“Regina, not everybody has a prominent nose like yours,” Vadik said.

Now it was Bob’s turn to chuckle. He slapped Vadik on the back and said, “That’s true, my friend, that’s true.”

What the hell, Vadik? Regina thought. Apparently he chose to pick his boss’s side over hers.

“Look at my forehead though,” Laszlo said. “I have an unusually low forehead, don’t you think?”

They all looked. He did have a pretty low forehead as well as a pretty heavy brow ridge that hung over his face like an awning over a terrace.

“That’s because I’m 3.1 percent Neanderthal, which is a very high percentage.”

“I’m 2.6 Neanderthal,” Bob said.

“We’re 2.8,” Nguyen and Dev chimed in.

“I’m 2.1,” Vadik said.

“So little? It’s because you’re Russian. Russians are descended from bears, not Neanderthals,” Laszlo joked.

Everybody laughed immoderately and then they turned to stare at Regina. It was her turn to share her Neanderthal percentage.

“I didn’t take the test,” she said.

“She didn’t take the test,” Bob confirmed.

“But why?” Laszlo asked.

“I didn’t want to know the results. Definitely not the medical ones.”

“Even though her mother died from a genetic disease,” Bob said.

Thank you so much, Bob! Regina thought. Let’s share my family’s medical history with your goddamn team. She had a momentary urge to get back at Bob by telling everyone about his obsession with his supposedly Tudor lineage, but she decided that that would be too mean.

They were all still looking at her expectantly.

“First of all, we are not sure if my mother’s cancer was genetic,” Regina said, her voice rising, “and even if it’s confirmed that I do carry that gene, there is only a fifty percent chance that I’ll develop that type of cancer and die. If I test positive, fifty percent is not enough to do grueling preemptive surgery, and I don’t want to walk around with the knowledge that there is a very good chance I will die the same death that my mother did. And if I test negative, imagine my shock when at some point some other horrible cancer gets me anyway. Or even the same cancer, just not the genetic form.”

The word cancer made Laszlo and Dev put their forks down and listen to her. Regina hated that. Hated the attention. She wished she had done the stupid test and could just share the amount of bear or Neanderthal in her blood so that they could move on.

“You have a dark mind, don’t you?” Laszlo asked. Bob nodded eagerly as if to say “Didn’t I tell you?”

“My father was from Eastern Europe too. Boy, was he dark!” Laszlo said.

“I guess we have to blame the bear gene for that!” Vadik said. Everybody laughed. Regina felt grateful for a moment, but Bob wasn’t giving up.

“This is not a question of darkness!” Bob said. “It’s about whether you’re willing to take charge of your life or not. By refusing the test, you’re refusing responsibility.”

“But my point is that we can’t be in charge of our lives anyway,” Regina said.

Bob just shook his head, and everybody else decided that it was wiser to leave Regina alone.

They brought in the second course. But now Regina was simultaneously too rattled and too bored to even attempt to eat. The silverware was too heavy. The act of cutting bits of food and lifting them to her mouth was exhausting.

Bob’s team continued discussing their genomes. Apparently, the shape and position of your earlobes could point to some genetic diseases. A large percentage of people with attached earlobes suffered from diabetes, while “danglers” tended to be stronger and healthier.

“I have one of each,” Nguyen said. They took turns examining his earlobes.

Regina fought the urge to yawn.

Bob gave her a look. He wasn’t stupid or insensitive. He could see how bored Regina was. So bored that she hated him a little bit. He was hurt. He was sad. He was disappointed. And not just momentarily disappointed — he was getting disappointed in their marriage. Why on earth had they ever thought that they could be happy together?

“Immortality!” Bob said suddenly. “Exactly! That’s exactly what I was talking about.”

Immortality? Regina must have missed the moment when they switched to that topic. If Vadik had been sitting next to her, she would have just asked him what was going on in a Russian whisper. She couldn’t possibly ask Bob and let him know she wasn’t listening.

Dev, who caught her puzzled expression, leaned over to explain: “We are talking about your friend’s app idea.”

“Acting from beyond the grave is bullshit,” Bob was saying. “True immortality is all about passing on your genetic material.”

Regina nodded absently, but then the meaning of his words dawned on her. She wouldn’t be able to pass on her genetic material, so according to Bob, she would be denied immortality. Now that was horribly unfair! Regina realized that she was the only one at the table who didn’t have children. Bob had his wonderful daughter. Laszlo had four children. Dev had two little boys. Nguyen’s wife was pregnant. Even Vadik had a biological child in Russia, even if he had no contact with him or her.

Regina thought of her mother sitting her at the table and showing her all those family photographs, telling her stories, teaching her how to read, teaching her to understand what she read, to feel what she read. And little Regina touching those buttons, each of which used to belong to someone in her family, so every time she pressed her finger to one it was as if she had made a momentary connection with a long-dead family member. It wasn’t her inability to pass on her genetic material that was devastating; it was her inability to pass on who she was. Then Regina thought of Nastya playing with the buttons and felt a sharp-edged lump in her throat. She had to make an effort not to cry.

Finally the dinner ended, the bill was paid, good-byes were said, and everybody was headed home. Laszlo had ordered Uber, and the car appeared instantly out of nowhere and whisked him away as if this were a spy movie. Nguyen unshackled his bike and rode off, looking small and defiant with his genetically different ears and powerful little finger. Dev and Vadik descended the steps of the nearby subway entrance. Dev was taller than Vadik, but that could’ve been because Vadik’s back was stooped. Regina thought Vadik would kiss her good-bye, but he didn’t. So now Regina and Bob were on their own.

“Shall we walk home?” Bob asked. Regina nodded. It was cold but not freezing like Laszlo said. February in New York was actually warmer than November in Moscow. They were walking in silence, but not in peace. Regina could almost hear Bob’s thoughts brewing in his head. He was mentally listing the offenses she’d made through the dinner, sorting through them, choosing which one to call up first. The indelicate pants that didn’t fit? The fact that she screamed with delight when she saw Vadik? Her yawning? Her refusal to take the test? Her haughtiness when she explained why she didn’t want to take it? Her being on the verge of tears for no reason? She walked, looking down, listening to the ringing sound her high-heeled boots made against the cobblestones, waiting to be chastised like a child.

“Regina,” Bob finally said. That alone showed how pissed he was, because he never, ever addressed her by her name unless he was really angry. “Have you ever asked yourself why I take you to these dinners?”

“Yes, I have. Actually, I was just asking myself that earlier tonight,” Regina replied.

“And what was your conclusion?”

“I don’t know why.”

They stopped walking and were standing in the middle of the sidewalk facing each other.

“So you think this is some sort of punishment, right? Making you sit through a boring dinner like this?”

“Punishment? I’m not a child.”

“Then stop behaving like one! You kept rolling your eyes like an angry teenager. My daughter used to do that when she was fourteen. Fourteen, Regina! You’re thirty-nine.”

“I’m aware of how old I am, but thank you.”

They both looked and sounded like actors in a play. Standing in the middle of this clean dark street. In the light of the streetlamp. Fighting. Regina imagined Bob wearing a beard and a hat à la Henry the Eighth. She snickered.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Bob said. “You roll your eyes and you laugh! I take you to these dinners to bring us closer, damn it! To help you understand what I do, to get you excited by what I do. I’m clearly failing to excite you. I thought maybe if my guys talked about our projects, you would find it more stimulating.”

Bob did sound like an actor onstage, but he was also sincere; Regina knew that he was. And he was right on a lot of counts.

He did try to bring them closer. He did try to understand her friends, to read her favorite books. He even took some Russian lessons. He stopped with his Russian though, because Regina kept laughing every time he said spasibo. She couldn’t help it. He pronounced it as “spasybo,” which came out strangely soft and touchingly funny.

“You know my therapist tells me to bury my father,” Bob said.

Regina groaned.

“Yes, I know, I know. You hate therapy. Therapy is self-indulgent. It’s for dumb Americans, right? Russians are so far above it, right?”

“I just don’t see the use. How can anybody know me better than I know myself?”

“The point of therapy is to make you do the job of knowing yourself. It’s your responsibility to know yourself, but you do have to work at that.”

“And I don’t?”

“You don’t. You’re still wallowing in your mother’s death. Look at you, Regina. Ever since you came back from Russia, you spend your days looking through your mother’s things. You started working, that’s great. Let’s hope it lasts. But you barely pay attention to anything else. Your mother died two years ago! It’s time to get over it. Regina, you need to bury your mother. Bury your mother and get on with your life.”

Regina looked up, imagining huge billboards in front of them, rising up, getting closer, all with the words: BURY YOUR MOTHER!

Something in her expression seemed to alarm Bob.

“Honey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He put his arms around her as if shielding her from pain. It always amazed Regina how much physical touch mattered. Bob felt warm, Bob felt big, Bob felt kind. Perhaps she did love him after all.

—

“Bobcat,” she said later, when they were getting ready for bed.

“Yes, baby.”

“I need to tell you something. It’s about Russia.”

Bob tensed. He asked her to wait, then went to the living room. He returned wearing his eyeglasses and carrying two tumblers of whiskey. He didn’t get into bed but sat down in an armchair and handed one of the tumblers to her. Regina had to sit up and cover herself too.

“Go on,” he said, staring into his drink.

Shit! Regina thought. The way she said it must have made him think that she had had an affair.

“No, no, it’s not that!” she hurried to say. “It’s about this little girl I met there.”

Bob took a big swig and looked at her curiously.

Regina told him the whole story about Aunt Masha and Nastya.

Bob listened patiently, not uttering a word except to exclaim “Oh, Regina!” when she told him that she had offered Aunt Masha money.

“But she is bluffing, right?” he asked after Regina finished the story.

“What do you mean?”

He swirled his empty glass, making the remaining ice cubes clink. Regina took a long sip of hers.

“Your Aunt Masha. She couldn’t have possibly found another family that fast.”

This hadn’t even occurred to Regina.

“She couldn’t?” she asked. She felt insanely relieved.

“Of course not,” Bob said. “Let’s go to sleep now. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Honey,” she whispered.

“Yes, baby.”

“Could you please say ‘spasibo’?”

Bob sighed.

“Please?”

“Spa-sy-bo.”

And Regina laughed, kissed Bob on the neck, and turned to her side of the bed.