Still Here (26 page)

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.

“Get up,” Vica said and patted Eric on his warm, sticky shoulder.

He moaned and turned away from her. It had become such a pain to wake him up in the morning. There was a Three Musketeers wrapper stuck in his blanket and a Nintendo DS under his pillow. He must have been up half the night playing and munching. Vica suspected that it was Sergey's mom, Mira, who had supplied the candy. It used to be Sergey's job to control his mother's whimsical grandparenting. Now Vica couldn't complain to Sergey anymore. She couldn't say anything to Mira either, because she relied so heavily on her help.

Mira would arrive at 7:00
A.M.
every day so that she could feed Eric breakfast and walk him to the school bus, then she would wait for him to come home to feed him her elaborate meals. Mira wasn't very good at being neat. There would be a small pile of dirty dishes in the sink, puddles of compote on the floor, and grease splattered on the stove. Mira wasn't very good at overseeing homework either—Vica would come home and find none of Eric's assignments completed. She was almost grateful now that Eric hadn't taken the test to get into the Castle—he barely managed the workload of his public school.

“Get up!” Vica repeated, and this time Eric raised his head off the pillow and opened his eyes. Light brown and perfectly round. The eyes of a frightened cat.

“Grandma here?” he asked.

“Any minute now.”

Vica learned to time her departure with Mira's arrival to avoid her mother-in-law's incredulous look, meant to convey that Vica's decision to separate from Sergey was shocking at best, criminal at worst.

So as soon as Mira entered, Vica was at the door and rushing to the express bus stop. She had exactly one second to say hello and not a second more to hear Mira's reply.

Vica made it to the stop just as the bus was pulling in with its wheezing, groaning, and farting noises. She paid her fare and went straight to the middle to take her favorite seat on the right side by the window. Vica loved the hour-long bus ride. The seats were high and stately. The microclimate was always perfect, it was never too hot or too cold, even in the worst weather. And this was the place where Vica could have her precious alone time, where she could work on Virtual Grave and dream and plan her life undisturbed.

So much has changed in these last few months, Vica thought while applying mascara. She had to acquire the skill of putting on her makeup on the bus to save time. First of all, she had finally stopped thinking about Sergey all the time. She no longer had recurring dreams about him. She no longer mistook strange men on a street for Sergey. She no longer tortured herself with regret. She still wasn't one hundred percent sure that separation was the right thing to do, but what was done was done. She had consulted with a mediator about their separation agreement. The mediator had advised her to just get it over with. She had accepted her upcoming divorce as a fact. And she had made a profile for herself on Hello, Love!

Online dating was interesting, very different from what she used to know. Back when Vica last dated, the process was dreamily slow, like a Victorian novel. Vica would fantasize meeting a romantic stranger, she would wait and hope and look for him at a party, on a street, on a subway, in a cafeteria, in a college library. Then just as she stopped dreaming and waiting she would meet somebody. And then there would be a hopeful anxiety, and anticipation, and more dreams now centered around that particular man. And then her favorite part—trying to solve the puzzle of that man's feelings and thoughts, reading letters, analyzing words, interpreting stares, reliving touches.

Now the slow Victorian-novel part was out. If anything, dating resembled a TV series, the stupid kind that Regina liked to watch. The plot was fast-paced but predictable; there wasn't enough time to explore interesting situations or to properly develop the characters.

Online men came in packs of three or four or more. She would plan a date with one of them, while answering a message from another, while browsing to find somebody better. There always was somebody who seemed better even though Vica wouldn't have been able to explain what “better” even meant. A better human being? A better lover? A better fit? It was the seeming endlessness of choices that filled Vica with panic. Thankfully, she had her two dating coaches: Vadik and pretty Liliana from work. When she found a guy she thought she liked, she ran his profile by her coaches. Both Liliana and Vadik warned her not to get too attached. “Because, you know,” Liliana said, “he's on Hello, Love!, so he is seeing other women too.”

The most recent guy's name was Franc. He was thin, wiry, French Canadian, with those European movie-star features that Vica liked so much. He said that he worked as a freelance architect, but he wouldn't tell Vica what his current project was. That was okay—she didn't tell him where she worked either. The mention of a cancer hospital wouldn't put anybody in the mood for love. Franc's only apparent flaw was that he was deaf in one ear—the effect of a mysterious autoimmune disease triggered by stress. But that was just a charming detail, not a real problem, especially in light of how attractive he was. They went to bed after the first date. Well, actually, Vica wasn't sure that it had been the right thing to do.

“How soon should I sleep with a guy?” she had asked Liliana.

“If you like him?” Liliana asked.

“Of course, if I like him! Why would I sleep with him if I didn't?”

“Oh, many reasons, many reasons,” Liliana said.

“So when is it okay to sleep with a guy I like?” Vica asked again.

“Third date, I guess. If you do it on the second date, you would seem too eager. On the first date, you'd be a huge slut. And if you wait past the third date, there won't be a fourth one.”

Vadik had a conflicting opinion. “If there is anything that guys hate it's when women are too calculating. I want a woman to come to bed with me because we're crazy about each other, because we both are dying to fuck, not because today happens to be the right date. And another thing that guys hate is when women present sex as this favor to a guy. There is nothing more off-putting.”

So Vica decided to go with her own intuition. She went to bed with Franc on their first date. It was awkward, but it was fun. She didn't find seeing and touching a strange dick as repulsive as she'd feared. And soon she and Franc started seeing each other a couple of times a week, usually on weekends, sometimes after work, usually at his place.

Vica let out a little moan thinking of the weight of Franc's body on hers, of going under, disappearing beneath him. A woman who sat across the aisle from her eyed her suspiciously. Vica straightened her back and turned away toward the window.

Vica even told her mother about the really nice man she was seeing. He gave her a La Perla slip for her birthday. She'd been dreaming of a La Perla slip for ages! It must have cost at least two hundred dollars, unless he had gotten it on sale. He said he wanted their relationship to be serious. He was eager to meet Eric. Vica meant to reassure her mother, she meant to show her that she was okay, that her life was good and only getting better, but her mother, usually so tough, started to cry.

As if to banish her mother from her thoughts, Vica took a small leather notebook out of her bag and started to work on her Virtual Grave proposal. She had so many ideas. If only she could have some real time to work on them. Vica did wonder if what she was doing was wrong. Virtual Grave was Sergey's idea after all. It belonged to him even if he wasn't doing anything about it. She had tried to talk to Vadik about it, but Vadik had tensed and said that Sergey had moved out and they weren't speaking. He refused to tell her why. She decided that she'd talk to Sergey once the proposal was ready.

“Better protection for your social media accounts after you die,” she wrote. “Nobody should be allowed to post anything under your name.”

Her approach to this app was so much better than Sergey's. In her version, customers would work on their own posthumous online presence while they were still here. They would be able to prepare for the time when they no longer would be. Having to work on that would actually help to prepare them for death itself. Alleviate some of the fear. She wondered what Ethan would think about that. Perhaps she could ask him that when he stopped to chat with her next time. Vica wondered if he had an appointment today. Last week he'd tweeted:

“Ultrasound technician,” Vica mentally corrected him.

She really wanted to talk to him about Virtual Grave. Her app was supposed to help people prepare. That was exactly what Ethan wanted. A thought about Ethan's money crept through Vica's mind like an ugly slug. What if he liked the idea so much that he offered to invest in it? He would be the ideal investor. He was both wealthy and high profile. Vica imagined the headline: Ethan Grail Invests in an App That Grants You Virtual Immortality on the Brink of His Own Death.

The shame of having thought about that made Vica wince. She put her notebook down and looked out the window.

Staten Island seen from the bridge was at its most beautiful. Gone from view were the car dealerships, run-down storefronts, and stretches of cemeteries; all you could see were the magnificent green hills, the stretches of sand, the ocean, and the gentle contours of the Manhattan skyline on the horizon. The city looked pale, ethereal, and seemingly unreachable, yet Vica knew that in a mere forty minutes the bus would be right in the middle of it, squeezing down the loud, jam-packed streets between the looming robust buildings that were actually anything but ethereal.

The Bing Ruskin Cancer Center took up several blocks and was growing with impressive speed. There were three new construction sites visible from the bus stop. There were several hotels for patients and their families who came for treatments. There was a huge medical-supply store that sold everything from wheelchairs to chemo hats. There was even a grocery store that specialized in whatever items were touted as cancer fighting at the moment. This rampant capitalist ingenuity filled Vica with both disgust and awe. No commercial possibilities of sickness and death were overlooked there. The only thing that was missing was posthumous care. She thought that if she ever succeeded in creating her version of Virtual Grave, Bing Ruskin would be the very place to market it. Right now its services ended when its patients' lives did, but it didn't have to stop there. Why not keep making money off patients even after they were dead?