Page 84 of Maksim
“This was Anya’s mother’s garden,” Maksim says, making my eyes dart to him with surprise. I hadn’t expected him to speak.
He stares at the flowers instead of me.
“Elizabeth.” His head tilts as he looks up. I follow his gaze to the ripened peaches dangling from branches. “I planted this tree. She said she had one when she was a child, and her mother used to make the best peach pie she’d ever had. It still hadn’t produced by the time she died, but uh…” Maksim shrugs, blinking away a memory. “She liked it anyway.”
I look around, trying to picture Maksim here, but it’s hard. He said he wasn’t free when he came here. It’s impossible to picture Maksim as anything but in control.
“So this is where you grew up?” I ask, my voice low and soft, unsure if I should ask at all.
He turns with me to take in the house and nods. “Sort of. I came here when I was nine to work the farm. I stayed until I was eighteen.” Tucking his hands in his pockets, he starts out of the garden with me beside him.
“My mother was a strong woman. Not kind, but not cruel.” He rubs his chest. “Her face is foggy in my mind, but I tattooed her last words to me on my chest when I was eighteen so I’d never forget. U stra´ha glaza´ veliki´. Fear has big eyes.”
His chest is clothed, but I still find my eyes drifting to the covered tattoo. If I had known its hidden meaning, I wonder if I would have looked at it differently, looked at him differently the first time I saw it.
Fear has big eyes. It’s like what he said to me before.
Your fear has eyes like bowls but does not see a crumb.
“My father was a very wealthy man who owned a chain of supercenters in Russia. I’m the youngest of his five sons, and unfortunately, he felt he only needed three.”
“What?” I ask, stopping in my tracks. Maksim stops, but he doesn’t turn to look at me. He stands rigid, his shoulders squared, carrying himself as if this is merely a story. A memory equal to the rest instead of a trauma that shaped every facet of his life.
“I don’t know what happened to my older brother,” Maksim goes on. “But I was sent here.” He waves his hand toward the land.
“Your father sold you?” I ask, my stomach dropping. I inch toward him, wrapping my arms around myself so I won’t risk reaching out. I’m too afraid he’d pull away.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I think uh…” His eyes start to glaze. “I think it was an exchange for a favor or something. The owner of this farm had a powerful family in Russia. I wasn’t the only kid here, so there had to be some leverage… But I’ve stopped thinking too hard about it.”
No he hasn’t. No one could stop thinking about that.
I hug myself tighter. “Maksim…”
“I would never call this place my home, but it gave me Anya, so I can’t say I would trade it.” He swallows while looking off, and I follow his gaze to the barn. I believe him, but I can tell it isn’t easy. How could it be? The best thing in his life came from the worst thing he’s ever experienced.
My eyes burn.
He starts walking again, his feet aimed toward the barn, and I walk with him. He’s quiet now, but I don’t press, don’t ask anything. I’m too busy sorting through everything in my head, seeing the look of horror on my father’s face.
I get why Maksim brought me here. Get what he’s trying to say.
He’s trying to say that he understands. He can empathize. He knows what being unloved feels like. What being unwanted feels like. Except much, much worse.
My father doesn’t love me. Doesn’t want me. And it hurts. It fucking hurts.
But … at least he didn’t sell me. At least it was my own actions that led to me losing my freedom and not my parents giving me away.
But I have my freedom back now, the same as Maksim. I glance over at him, noting his stern expression. I understand him so much better now. Respect him so much more.
A week ago, I wanted him to tell me what happened to him, and when he wouldn’t, I thought he didn’t trust me enough to open himself to me. Now that he has, I don’t know what to do with it. This feels so significant. I don’t feel worthy.
“Does Anya know you aren’t blood related?” I ask, facing the barn as we approach.
“Yes. She believes I was an orphan her family took in. I haven’t had to lie to her about much. She was only three when her parents died, so for a while, I just told her they were in heaven. Eventually, I told her they died in a home invasion, which is what the papers say if she ever decides to look. She assumes that the boys she saw around were paid to work the farm… She doesn’t suspect anything nefarious, so she doesn’t usually ask questions that I can’t honestly answer.”
“Did they really die in a home invasion?”
When Maksim tenses, I flinch.