Reunion In A Restaurant In Michigan

Ivan's Origin Story Part 1

Ivan POV

All it took was a bruise on my jaw, and there I was, a chubby fifteen year old barely proficient in English sprinting down the road in flip-flops, a T-shirt and shorts that barely fit me. I had one of those typical emo hairstyles too, bangs growing right past my eyes. My father hated it. I didn't care. In the summer heat, sweat ran down my forehead and down my face, soaking my hair in the process.

Hitting was normal in our family. Yelling and the usual kick or slap, it was part of the everyday routine. Where my parents came from, it was normal. They hadn't caught on yet that the United States didn't tolerate seeing kids with bruises and husbands striking their wives.

Papa could be gentle and loving...sometimes. If you were one of his friends from work, you saw it first. If you were me or Katyusha, you might see it when he's sober. Those occurrences were rare, especially after Mamushka and my baby sister Natalya passed away in childbirth. I was only four or five years old when that happened. My papa moved me and Katyusha to another small town to stay with my grandmother, who passed away years later when I was fifteen.

Needless to say, my childhood was rocky. Going to school was my only saving grace. But even then, I struggled to learn properly. I tried my hardest, but my father always pushed me harder. I had to be the man of the family.

Katyusha was the one who could bring the gentleness out of him. I think she reminded him of Mama. She looked so much like her, smiled like she did in those old Polaroids, even had the same laugh.

I think I reminded Papa constantly of who he used to be. I don't know. All I know is that there never seemed to be any affection left for me at the end of the day. I craved it constantly. I worked and worked at school, walking the streets asking if anyone was hiring. I began skipping English lessons to become as expert as possible in speaking both Russian and Ukrainian. I wanted to please him so badly. I tried so hard, I even made a promise to not speak English at home or even at school. The result was my English suffering terribly, my third language slipping away from me like water in my fingers.

But I failed. He never really looked at me; he stared past me, into empty space. To him, my mother lived on through Katyusha. Me? Well, I was the kid that got detention, fell asleep in church, and made consistent C's no matter how hard I tried.

The inevitable happened in eighth grade. Papa's liver, sick of putting up with forty years of drinking, gave out. He died in his sleep. The irony really, a peaceful end to a chaotic life.

That is the only funeral in which I did not cry.

When I met Alfred, he and Mattie were in a church that always had its doors open for stragglers like us. I was shy and so nervous I could barely talk properly. But Alfred and Mattie understood.

I came back to the church after that. I saw Alfred and his brother there. Very slowly, I opened up. I told Alfred about how my dad was dead now, and me and Katyusha had to live with a kind teacher at school who fosters children. My sister was technically too old to be fostered now, but Mr and Mrs. Johnson didn't want us separated.

I showed no emotion when Papa was lowered into the ground. I felt so conflicted inside. All those years of giving and giving to please him, and now he was gone. Katyusha, an endless waterfall of tears, couldn't understand my stoic demeanor. Overcome by her emotions, she smacked me. Hard. I had a mark on my cheek for two days after that.

When we drove home from the funeral, Katyusha looked at me from the passenger seat of Mrs. Johnson's car. "Ivan, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hit you."

I was so startled by her apology. No one had ever apologized for punishing me before. I had gotten the mindset that if it came from my sister, I deserved it. I thought of her that highly. "Katyusha-"