Natasha was picked up from the oncology ward by her cousin, Elizabeth. Elizabeth is a successful artist—open-hearted, kind, and cheerful, always candid and never hiding anything. Supporting Natasha by the arm as they walked to the car, she came straight out with it:
“Tasha, listen… well, your Vadim is living with some other woman now, but don’t worry. There’s a place for you to stay. I won’t leave you hanging; I’ll help however I can.”
After surgery and several rounds of chemo, Natasha was bald, thin, and pale. She thought about how, typically in situations like this, one might faint, cry, or tear their hair out—but she had no hair left to pull.
Of course, she could pretend to swoon and fall into a puddle, but then Elizabeth’s white coat, which she had loaned her since it was autumn and chilly, would be ruined.
The car was warm, but Elizabeth wrapped her sister in a furry blanket, buckled her in, and drove her into a new chapter of life. As they traveled, Elizabeth explained to Natasha:
“I bought the house for myself two years ago, thinking I’d live there in the summer and paint. But I tried and realized it’s not for me. I’m too used to comforts, big stores, and lots of people around.
I don’t like the silence. I was at the house yesterday; the heating works, and the water runs. The rest is up to you. There’s a little grocery store nearby, but I’ve brought you plenty of supplies. I’ll be visiting.”
In the yard sat a large, ginger dog that came bounding over to Natasha, wagging its fluffy tail wildly, and nuzzled his nose into her knee. Natasha petted the shaggy ginger head and looked at Elizabeth questioningly.
“Tasha, I picked him up from the shelter yesterday. You need a friend. How else will you cope here alone? Don’t worry—I bought enough food for him to last a month. It’s always more fun with two. His name is Johnny.”
Inside the cozy two-story cottage, boxes of canned goods, grains, pasta, flour, and biscuits filled the dining room.
“You’ll sort it out yourself, but at least you’ll know where everything is. The fridge is packed. In the wardrobe, there’s clothing for all seasons, and we wear the same size. Come on, Tasha, let’s have some tea before I go.”
As Elizabeth was putting on her coat, she approached Natasha, trying to catch her eye, but Natasha looked away.
“Tasha, this dog spent three years in a kennel. Nobody else wanted him because he’s big and not so young. I get it—you’re struggling, but you have me. And now the dog has you. You both need something to cling onto to come back to life. Forget about Vadim.
Everything’s going to be fine. And by the way, the house is yours. I’ve put it all in your name—the house, the land. The paperwork’s in the bedroom, with some money. Tasha, let’s make the most of life! I’ll be back in a week, and call if you need anything.”
Elizabeth kissed Natasha and left…
It had grown dark outside, and she still sat in her chair with her knees drawn up, her face buried in them. She wept at first, then lamented her misfortune, and finally, she scolded Elizabeth for saddling her with a dog. She thought of just lying down and dying—she had no strength left. But what about the dog? She took pity and figured she should at least feed him.
Natasha put on a jacket, looked at her reflection with her bald head, and muttered, “Don’t scare the dog—it’s not her fault,” before putting on a hat. She found the pet food, filled a bowl, and stepped outside.
Johnny gobbled up the food, licked the bowl clean, then licked the salty tears from Natasha’s face and lay beside her on the porch step, resting his head on her knees.
In the night sky, stars appeared around the bright full moon, more and more coming into view. Natasha found the Big Dipper, smiled at it, and blew a kiss. Then she hugged the dog and said, “Alright, Johnny, tomorrow I’ll make you a nice stew. With meat.”
Throughout the week, each morning Natasha would flinch at her reflection and say,
“Amelia…”
And the thought would occasionally creep in: maybe life’s not worth it. Who needs me? But then her gaze would fall on Johnny, comfortably curled up by the fireplace, and she’d decide: okay, I’ll hang on a little longer.
The turning point in this internal struggle came a week later when Elizabeth returned as promised. She walked in with a box, set it on the couch, and said:
“Tasha, what to do with these? This stray cat gave birth in the hallway, and they’re cold! I’ve brought you some food for them too.”
Inside the box was a skinny ginger cat, cradling two tiny kittens in her paws. In the evening, Elizabeth departed. She lingered at the door, silent for a moment, then pulled a slip of paper from her coat pocket and handed it to her sister:
“Tasha, your Vadim came around, asking where you’ve gone. I didn’t tell him. Here’s his new phone number. It’s up to you.”
Natasha saw Elizabeth to her car, waved as she left, then returned inside. She stroked the cat and said,
“You’ll be called Mittens. I’ll get you some milk right now. Everything will be alright.”
Passing by the fireplace, she tossed the note into the flames.
