A Kind of Happiness
Excerpted from Outside is the Ocean, published by University of Iowa Press
She takes turquoise pills — more than she should — to fall asleep. That and the wine usually allow her to make it until the alarm goes off, but today she wakes early, when the sun is just rising. She sits up in bed, letting her eyes adjust, looking out across the city, which, in the distance, resembles an illustration from a children’s book, and, beyond that, the ocean. The view is the reason she and Yuri bought the house. “I could wake up to this for three hundred years and never get sick of it,” he told her. “It’s like looking out on eternity.”
At least she still has the house.
She turns on the coffee maker, heads down the hall to Natalia’s room, opens the shades. She still does this: closes her children’s shades at night, opens them in the morning. She looks at Natalia’s bed, her pillows, the posters of men in leather pants and platform shoes, singing onstage. The day before their trip to Lake Havasu, she and Natalia had a fight about one of this band’s concerts. Natalia pleaded with Zhana to let her drive down to L.A. with a friend from school. “Seventeen is totally old enough!” Natalia shouted. “Jesus, Mom. Next year I’m going to be a senior!”
“Don’t Jesus me, young lady,” Zhana said, raising her voice, hoping Yuri would back her up. “I told you we’d talk about it on the trip. Okay? For now, though, the answer is no.” Natalia had already broken her curfew three times that month, and Zhana felt she and Yuri needed to draw clear lines.
They were flying out the next morning. Yuri had just gotten his pilot’s license, and he splurged and rented a plane, a Cessna 310 with six seats and barely enough room for the luggage. It was meant to be a family vacation, but there’d been an electrical failure at work, and Zhana needed to manually program a machine to finish the protein purification she was working on. “I’ll catch a flight later on in the afternoon,” she told them before she rushed off to the lab. “You guys can go water skiing and I’ll be there for dinner.” It was the last thing she said to them. She got in the car and backed out of the driveway without even closing the trunk properly. Five hours later she was standing in line at the FedEx in the El Paseo Shopping Center, behind a kid whose iPod was turned up so high it sounded like he was carrying a boom box, when her phone rang.
“Mrs. Smolenski?” a woman said, butchering the pronunciation. “Is this Zhana Smolenski? Are you the wife of Yuri Smolenski?”
That was four years ago, give or take — three years, eleven months and nine days; now here she is in her bedroom, putting on a yellow pantsuit that’s too tight in the hips and the thighs, looking at herself in the mirror, wishing she hadn’t said yes.
♦
When the invitation arrived two months earlier, she recognized Galina’s handwriting right away; her penmanship — if it could be called that — had always been sloppy. The paper was cheap, the geometric pattern on the cover childlike. At the bottom was a quotation from Rabindranath Tagore, along with a reference to an “elegant vegetarian potluck.” Galina and her fiancé, Adrian, were asking people to bring their favorite vegetarian entrée in lieu of a gift. The reply card had some kind of Hindu deity stamped on it, a figure sitting in the lotus position.
Zhana put the invitation and the reply card back in the envelope, telling herself she’d respond later, that she’d send Galina an email with a suitable excuse. She poured herself a glass of wine, put her feet up on Yuri’s worn ottoman, looked through the rest of the mail: bills, pleas for donations to help children with cleft palates and animals in distress. She studied the ottoman — the woven fabric, fraying at the edges; the alternating red and black diamonds. (Can an ottoman belong to a person who is no longer living? she wondered. Perhaps instead of her husband’s ottoman, the ottoman was now hers: the widow’s ottoman.)
Zhana got up and went into the kitchen to get some crackers, and then, before sitting down again, she turned on the TV. She kept the volume off but allowed herself to watch the people on the screen. These people — smiling women leaning into the camera and holding products toward her, couples in kitchens and living rooms talking to one another animatedly, distinguished-looking men with ties, behind desks, discussing important events — had become her nighttime companions.
She finished the glass of wine and poured herself another. She looked at the invitation again and decided to tell Galina that she’d be away that weekend with her closest friend, Irina, celebrating Irina’s birthday in San Francisco. Or maybe that she’d be out of the country on a business trip. That sounded better. She’d be in London for an all-hands meeting to discuss a new vaccine. Surely that sounded important enough. She’d send a nice present and wish Galina and her new husband the best of luck. Because the alternative was too much to bear. Because seeing Galina in a white dress with flowers in her hair would dredge up too many memories: of Natalia, of Matvey and Yuri. Of everything really. But especially of Natalia, because the date Galina had chosen — July 28 — fell two days shy of what would have been Natalia’s twenty-first birthday.
♦
When they were younger, Natalia and Galina had been best friends. They were in the same class in school, two grades above Matvey. (Matvey: Gift of God. What gift? she thinks to herself now, looking into the mirror, putting on lipstick and rouge to hide her ashen complexion. What kind of God gives you a son, then takes him away?)
Back then, when the house was always noisy and Zhana couldn’t wait to get home from work to help build a city out of Legos or a fort out of blankets and cardboard boxes, Galina came over frequently — for dinner and slumber parties and, a few times, water balloon fights. At first, Zhana thought nothing of it. She and Yuri always had their children’s friends over. And one couldn’t help but take pity on Galina. Her left arm disfigured at birth, raised in an orphanage in Lipetsk until the age of five, then adopted by Heike, a woman who seemed well-intentioned at first, but whom, ultimately, Zhana and Yuri could not stomach — a bulldozer, Yuri called her, a harridan who used people to her advantage.
It got to the point that they knew what to expect if they picked up the phone and heard Heike’s voice: “Al and I are going to Vegas for a few days. Would you mind watching Galina while we’re away?”
“You’ll be here in October, right? Al takes me to Germany for vacation. He’s never seen my hometown. It would mean so much to us. We’ll pay for her food.”
“I’m at my wits’ end. This child is impossible. All she does is talk back to me. Won’t you take her off our hands for the day?”
The answer, of course, was always yes. How could they say no? Heike was in over her head, too set in her ways to be a proper parent, too emotionally unstable. Her then-husband, Al, already well into his seventies, wanted nothing to do with the whole situation. Galina needed a proper family, craved the company of children her own age. Their house was big enough to let Galina stay over. Yuri had insisted on buying a place where, no matter how many kids or visitors they had, there’d always be room. Sometimes Heike offered them ten or fifteen dollars to help pay for Galina’s food, but they never accepted. Not that they were wealthy, but they knew ten dollars meant more to Heike than it did to them. Heike was a stingy person: stingy with money, stingy with favors.
The one time Zhana had needed Heike’s help, after the accident, when she herself was struggling to keep afloat, Heike hadn’t come through. Irina had asked people to bring photos to the memorial service. Photos of the children, photos of Yuri. Heike must have had some; she’d had Natalia over for Galina’s birthday on more than one occasion.
“You didn’t have a picture or two?” Irina asked Heike when she arrived. It was raining, and Heike came wearing a red raincoat and white tennis shoes.
“Oh, my goodness, the photos. Yes, we have a few, but they’re pasted into an album. I brought pie instead. I made a nice strawberry pie.”
Irina recounted the conversation to Zhana word for word. Afterwards, when everyone had left, Zhana threw the pie into the trash.
Zhana hadn’t even wanted to invite Heike, but she thought it was the right thing to do. By then, Natalia and Galina had fallen out of touch. Galina had dropped out of high school and moved down to Venice to live on the beach with a tribe of graffiti and performance artists. Occasionally, Zhana ran into Heike at Vons and they exchanged awkward sentences, Zhana always curious to know what Galina was up to but afraid to put Heike on the spot, afraid to seem too curious. She knew how touchy Heike could be. Heike had made that clear on numerous occasions over the years, calling Zhana up, accusing her of trying to steal her daughter.
Once, when she was eleven, Galina phoned Zhana, pleading with her to let her move in. “I hate it here. She’s always yelling at me. Please let me stay there for a while.” Heike showed up three days later, just after Christmas, in tears, pounding on the door, insisting that Galina pack up her things and get in the car. Natalia and Galina were out back, taping shopping bags together to make a mural, and Heike stormed through the house to the yard.
♦
Three weeks after the invitation arrived, the phone rang. Zhana was in the bedroom, folding laundry, listening to Chopin’s nocturnes. She’d gotten home late from work and hadn’t eaten dinner yet, because eating dinner alone was sometimes, still, too hard. She didn’t recognize the number and picked up.
“Zhana? It’s Galina! How are you?”
Zhana wasn’t quite sure what to say. I’m grand, Galina. Couldn’t be better!
“I’m getting married,” Galina continued, filling the silence. “Did you get the invitation? I hope you can make it. It would mean so much to both Adrian and me. It’s going to be really small — just thirty or forty people. Will you come?” She’d always spoken too quickly when she was nervous.
Zhana had had a few glasses of wine (because that was something she’d become quite proficient at, having wine on her own, sometimes an entire bottle in a single evening), and before she had time to formulate an excuse, she found herself admitting that, yes, she’d be in town. “Of course I’ll be there. I’m so happy for you.”
“I can’t wait for you to meet Adrian. I think you’ll really like him. I was afraid you might not come. I was afraid you were mad at me or something. I’m sorry I’ve been so out of touch.”
There was a certain breathlessness in Galina’s voice — the sound of a girl who’d fallen in love. She was still young, her life intact. Zhana kept the conversation light. The fact was she was happy Galina had called. Why rake her over the coals for not going to the funeral, for not even sending a note? It was all water under the bridge. Wasn’t that the proper expression?
“I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Galina. It’s been so long.”
It wasn’t until Zhana hung up — when she stubbed her toe on one of the bookshelves in the hallway that she herself had insisted, against Yuri’s protestations, on having installed — that she burst into tears.
At what?
At the fact that she’d accidentally put a cotton blouse in the dryer? At the fact that Galina had been out of touch for almost five years and then expected Zhana to act like everything was okay?
One could spend one’s entire life being careful — wearing seat belts, not allowing one’s children to swim in the neighbor’s pool without adult supervision, making sure the stove was always turned off, buying organic milk — but what good did it do when a bird, a Canada goose, happened to intersect with the path of a twin-engine monoplane headed on a sunny morning from Ventana Beach, California, to Lake Havasu? The papers called it bad luck. The plane should have been able to withstand a collision with a stray bird, but something went wrong, there’d been some kind of engine failure or technical malfunction. The local paper published a photo of Yuri, which Zhana herself had taken the previous year on a family trip to Yosemite. “Yuri Smolenski, 58, Professor of Anthropology,” the caption read. Yuri was wearing a cap with a bear on it, a bear drinking a bottle of beer.
♦
The botanical garden is nicer than she remembers. She hurries past the beds of roses and petunias and flowering bushes whose names she doesn’t know, carrying a chickpea salad she picked up at the store, toward the music — a guy with a shaved head, dressed in some kind of green robe, playing a harmonium and chanting words Zhana doesn’t understand — hoping she isn’t too late. The ceremony has just started, it seems. The gathering is small: a hodgepodge of folding chairs and a few benches. She takes one of the seats at the back, next to an elderly man who’s smoking a pipe. The man turns to her and smiles, wheezing a bit as he nods. Immediately, she wishes she’d chosen a different seat; she hates smokers, despises the feel of smoke in her lungs. At least there’s a breeze. She crosses her legs, adjusts her left shoe. She hasn’t worn these pumps for years. At home, when she put them on, they also felt tight. She wonders whether she’s reached the age at which her feet have started to grow again.
She recognizes only a few people: Heike in the front row; a girl named Melissa who went to high school with Galina and Natalia (a girl Natalia hated because she tried to steal Natalia’s first boyfriend); Heike’s stepdaughter, Laurie — a vapid blond woman whom Zhana was forced to talk to last year at Al’s funeral — sitting a few feet away. There’s incense in the air. The pastor (is she a pastor?), a woman with lines of crimson paint on her nose, is wearing Birkenstocks and baggy pants that make her look like a genie. Galina has on a tie-dyed dress, and the groom, a tall, gangly man whose ear lobes have been stretched with huge piercings and whose nose has been skewered with some sort of miniature spear, is dressed in a toga. At least half of the people have shaved their heads, dyed their hair, tattooed their skin.
Zhana wonders how Heike took the news when Galina told her she was marrying Adrian. She wonders how she herself would have taken the news if Natalia had brought home someone who looked like he belonged in a circus. She knows what she would have done. She would have fallen on her knees and kissed the guy’s feet.
Body piercings? Sure. Facial tattoos? Wonderful. Dreadlocks? Of course.
The guy could have been the Son of Sam, and that would have been fine with Zhana. “Test me,” she wants to stand up and yell. “Make him my son-in-law. Make this my daughter’s wedding.”
At night, in bed, she sometimes wonders what she would give to have just one of her children back. She imagines herself talking to God, negotiating. Give me cancer, just let me have Matvey back for a day. Give me Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, yellow fever in exchange for breakfast with Natalia. Occasionally, when she’s shaving her legs, she presses the blade into her shin, feels the bite of the razor. The blood doesn’t bother her. She isn’t afraid of death. If she had some kind of guarantee that there was an afterlife, if she knew that by dying she’d see her family again, would she be here today, sitting in the sun, watching another woman’s daughter get married? Would she have gotten up this morning, taken a shower, combed her hair, and squeezed her feet into these unforgiving shoes?
Occasionally time passes without her. She trips, stumbles, gets left behind. Now, for example, she finds herself in front of a plate heaped high with potato salad and kale and vegetable curry, wondering for a moment where she is, where the potato salad on her plate came from. The person next to her is telling her about getting evicted. It’s Laurie, Heike’s stepdaughter, whose eyeliner is always too thick. The one who complains — perpetually, it seems — about how tough it is to meet a guy.
Zhana doesn’t know this person, not really. She doesn’t care about Heike and Laurie and Laurie’s daughter, Crystal, who wanted to come to the wedding but couldn’t because she works as a nurse in the Phoenix area, where, Laurie tells Zhana, it is much easier to find a job.
“I’m happy for her,” Laurie says. “She’s done good for herself. What else could a mother ask for?”
Zhana could take the plate of potato salad and grind it into Laurie’s face. She’d like to smear the mess into her hair. She’s not interested in hearing about Laurie’s daughter who recently bought a used Mazda. This is of no consequence to her. The fact is Zhana wants to be left alone. She wants to get up and leave these hippies with their nose rings and their harlequin outfits, the relatives from Paso Robles and Riverside with their weight problems and their boyfriend issues, and go home. She wants to lock the door, draw the drapes, pour herself a drink, and swallow a handful of rainbow-colored pills.
“Where’s Stewart?” Zhana asks, changing the subject.
“Oh, God. Heike won’t shut up about him. They had some big fight — you know him. Now he’s refusing to talk to her or something.”
Zhana perks up. She likes this. This is good. Heike’s son isn’t talking to his mother. This makes Zhana feel something — something other than sadness, a kind of happiness.
Galina rushes over and takes Zhana’s hand. “Zhana, Zhana, I’m so happy you’re here,” she says, giving her a hug. She’s wearing a necklace made out of red and white flowers. Her hair is a deep, vibrant blue, a shade or two darker than her eyes. She’s smiling, radiant, happier than Zhana has seen her in years.
“Zhana, I need to ask you a favor. Could you say a few words? We’re asking people to say something. Sort of like a toast. Is that okay?”
Zhana looks at the dimple in Galina’s chin, the silver ring in her bottom lip. The girl who pierced her nose at the age of fifteen, who dyed her hair green at sixteen, whose parents left her outside an orphanage in one of Russia’s dirtiest cities. The memories come back to her now — of Galina and Natalia giggling late into the night together, of Galina eating breakfast with them, sitting on the couch with them, eating popcorn, watching old movies.
“Of course, darling. I’d be honored.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” She grasps Zhana’s hand and squeezes. “I don’t know how to say this, but I just want to tell you how sorry I am — about everything. I know I should have called you when it happened. I was a real shit. I was just—”
“Stop, Galina. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I was dealing with a lot of crap then. I let it get in the way.” It looks like tears are forming in Galina’s eyes. “I’ve really missed you, Zhana. Are you going to be around tomorrow? I want to come by your place so we can catch up.”
Just then, a woman wearing a purple turban comes over and greets Galina, taking her hand and leading her away. They walk past the rose bushes to a shaded area under a eucalyptus tree, and the woman says something that makes Galina laugh. Sometimes Zhana wonders what it would have been like if Galina had moved into their house. For a while, she and Yuri had discussed the idea, wondered whether they should broach the topic with Heike. It was clear Heike was struggling. Yuri thought she might have some kind of psychiatric condition. One moment she’d regale you with stories about men who tried to pick her up in line at Costco, the next she’d break down in tears.
Galina told them what Heike was like — how she yelled at Al day in and day out, about getting crumbs on the couch, walking too slowly when they went out for meals, letting the faucet drip. She told them that sometimes Heike and Al went off for the night without making dinner, leaving Galina at home.
In retrospect, Zhana realizes she probably should have gotten more involved. Though what could she have done? Called Child Services? Sued Heike for custody? On what grounds? That she was a bad mother? The world is full of bad parents.
People stand up to speak one by one. The man who played the guitar during the ceremony lights a stick of incense and begins chanting:
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare Hare
People join hands, repeating the invocation. Zhana sees Heike, three chairs from Galina, staring at the spectacle, a glum expression on her face. A woman with dreadlocks recounts the time she first met Galina. “I knew from the moment we spoke that we would be friends. She emanated light and understanding. She had a kind of aura that I’d never seen before. I felt when I was around her that I was in the presence of something transcendent.”
A few minutes later, it’s Zhana’s turn. She stands and says that she met Galina through her daughter, Natalia, when Natalia was in fifth grade, that she’d immediately been drawn to Galina’s charisma and energy, that she felt privileged to watch Galina grow up into a fine young lady, a lady whose life is full of possibility and hope. Zhana had told herself that she wasn’t going to let things get maudlin, that she wouldn’t go too deep, but here she is talking about the time that Galina came with them on a trip to Yosemite — the trip they took over spring break when Natalia was in seventh grade and Heike said she needed some peace and quiet. They rented an RV and drove up North together, Yuri and Zhana taking turns at the wheel, while the kids belted out “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and “Where the Streets Have No Name” and “Just like Heaven.” Natalia and Galina had entered the phase during which all they wore was black, and they pleaded with Zhana to let them use her eyeliner. “She and Natalia were inseparable,” Zhana says, starting to choke up. “She felt like one of us, like one of my children.”
“Yes, I know this fine young lady also,” Heike interjects, suddenly, standing up. “I am her mother. I’m the one who brought her over here to this country. Without me she wouldn’t be. Without me, there wouldn’t be this wedding here today. I paid for this all.” Heike is wearing an orange dress, which shows off her cleavage. One of the straps of her bra is exposed — a black strap.
“Mom!” Galina shouts.
“What — am I not allowed to speak at my own daughter’s wedding?”
“You said you didn’t want to. I asked you—”
“Said I didn’t want to?” Heike says, increasing her pitch. “I had no idea everyone gets up and shares their feelings this way. I had no idea you ask everyone to say something but me. I am your mother, after all, unless you forgot. I raised you!” People sit motionless, looking at Heike. Even the musicians have stopped.
“Heike,” Adrian says, standing up and taking her arm. “Thank you. Thank you for sharing. We’re all very grateful.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Heike continues. “I can see how grateful you are coming here in your T-shirts and gowns. What kind of wedding is this? Do you think God likes this kind of thing? Do you think he approves of these matches you light to make smoke?”
As Adrian tries to calm Heike down, Galina rushes away in tears, toward the parking lot.
“Galina!” Zhana calls out, hurrying after her.
“I knew it,” Galina sobs. “I knew she’d try to ruin today! She promised me she’d bite her tongue for once. She promised.”
“Please, Galina. Don’t let it get to you. You know how she can be. It was a beautiful ceremony. It’s a glorious day. Just come back and enjoy the rest of your lunch. We’re all having a good time. Adrian is talking to her. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
“Of course she’ll be fine. She’s always fine. What about me? What about Adrian? I knew she’d do this to us.”
“Deep breath,” Zhana says, giving her a hug. “You have to let it go.”
The Christmas that Galina had spent with the Smolenskis — when Heike had a kind of nervous breakdown, driving off in the night to God-knows-where — had actually been one of their best Christmases ever. They bought Pictionary as a gift for Natalia, and everyone ended up spending hours drawing telephones and carrots and witches in trees, and drinking hot chocolate and eggnog, and then, prompted by the word s’more, getting out the graham crackers and chocolate bars from the pantry and using a pitchfork from the garage to roast marshmallows.
When Heike knocked on the door, three days later — red-faced, bags under her eyes — she looked like hell. “Don’t you have enough children of your own?” she shouted at Zhana. “Why steal Galina from me? Why?” Zhana tried to calm her down, told her no one was trying to steal Galina, but Heike wasn’t in a state to be reasoned with. She barreled through the house, calling Galina’s name, and then, when she found her in the garden with Natalia, pulled the girl through the house while Galina hollered: “I hate you, Heike! I wish you were dead!”
This morning, before she went to the store to buy the chickpea salad, Zhana went into Natalia’s room to look for the charm Natalia bought Galina for her birthday when they were in eighth grade. The charm had the letters Be— Fri— inscribed on it. It was the companion portion of the Best Friends charm Natalia had saved her allowance to buy. Galina’s had the remaining letters inscribed on it. The two halves fit together to form a heart. Each pendant hung from a necklace that Natalia and Galina wore around their necks — for years — day and night.
Zhana found the necklace in a box in Natalia’s dresser, tucked between two layers of cotton. The charm is thin as a stamp. Zhana studied it, then placed it back in its box, and returned the box to the top drawer of Natalia’s desk. Now, she wishes she’d brought it along. It might have cheered Galina up, though already her spirits seem to be lifting. Adrian has come over and taken her in his arms, and here he is rubbing her back, nuzzling her ear. Zhana feels out of place. Across the lawn, near a fountain, she sees Heike sitting on a bench, alone, looking at the water.
“I’m going to get myself another drink,” Zhana says. Galina looks up at her and smiles and mouths the words thank you, reaching out to touch Zhana’s shoulder. Zhana walks across the grass toward the woman in the orange dress — the dress that calls too much attention to itself, that shows too much sun-damaged skin — the woman whose last husband died eleven months ago and who now lives alone.
“Hi, there,” Zhana says.
Heike looks up, surprised.
“How are you doing?” Zhana asks, almost awkwardly.
“Okay, I guess. Just watching these little ducks.” Heike points to a family of mallards bathing in the fountain. “Look how happy they are playing together.”
Zhana takes the spot on the bench next to Heike. “You know, you raised a fine young woman. You should be proud.”
“What means proud? My daughter is like a stranger to me. I have nothing in common with her whatsoever. She might as well be from another planet.”
“She’s still young. Children evolve. Be patient.” Zhana wonders if she should say more, if she should tell Heike that she should be grateful for the things she does have and stop feeling sorry for herself all the time. So her daughter turned out to be a bit of a rebel; at least she’s alive. Zhana notices that Heike’s stockings have a run in them and a hole in the toe.
Heike stands up and announces she’s had enough and is going home. “They don’t need me here. They won’t even notice I’ve left. They’re off dancing up a storm over there. Look at them.”
Zhana has seen this side of Heike before — petulant, self-absorbed. “No, Heike, you should stay. This is your daughter’s wedding.” Zhana can see tears in Heike’s eyes. “Sit down here with me. I want to talk to you.”
Heike sits down again and gets a Kleenex from her handbag. “What is it? What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to clear the air. I know it’s not my place to give you advice, but we’ve known each other a long time.”
“I don’t need advice,” Heike says, crying now. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re upset.”
“Of course, I’m upset. You see how they treat me. I’m an afterthought here. Galina doesn’t want me as a mother. I’m not the kind of parent she wants. She wishes she could have been part of your family, not mine.”
“I know you think that, Heike, but lots of kids wish their parents were different. You think Natalia and I didn’t have our issues? The night before she died, she and I had a fight. She wanted to go to a concert down in L.A. and I said no and she slammed her door in my face. How about that?”
Heike studies Zhana, then puts her hand on Zhana’s knee. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.” For a minute, they’re both silent. They look at the grass and the fountain and the rows of rose bushes, then Heike says, “I was always so jealous of you. I always wished I could be more like you.”
“I wasn’t a perfect mother. I made my share of mistakes. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re the one who went over to Russia and adopted Galina. You’re the one who picked her up from the orphanage.”
“Yeah, but she never gives me any credit.”
“Kids always take their parents for granted. She knows what you did for her. She knows you love her.” In the sunlight, the ducks’ feathers look iridescent and one of the ducklings is dunking its head in the water. “Come on,” Zhana says. “Let’s go join them.”
Heike gives her a suspicious look. She blows her nose and looks at the people dancing on the grass in the sun — barefoot, dresses twirling, hair flying.
“It’ll be fun,” Zhana says, taking off her shoes. She reaches out and takes Heike’s hand in her own. Heike’s hand feels small. Zhana holds on tight, leading her from the fountain, around the rose bushes, over to the people who are twirling and clapping. The grass is cool on her feet. She leads Heike toward the woman with the tambourine and the man playing the drums and the sound of the sitar. Then she lifts her arm, still holding Heike’s palm in her own, toward the sky. The sun is bright and she closes her eyes, focusing on the music, the rhythm and sound of the notes.
Matthew Lansburgh's collection of linked stories, Outside Is the Ocean, won the Iowa Short Fiction Award and was a finalist for the 30th Annual Lambda Literary Award and the Ferro-Grumley Award for LGBTQ Fiction. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as One Story, New England Review, Glimmer Train, Ecotone, Epoch, Alaska Quarterly Review, Electric Literature, Shenandoah, StoryQuarterly, Columbia Journal, The Florida Review, Guernica, and Michigan Quarterly Review, and has been shortlisted in the Best American Short Stories series.