Natalia sat straight behind her desk in front of her laptop and scrolled the breaking news. Her desk was only a few feet away from Lazlo’s. It faced the wall decorated with picture frames of her childhood in Ukraine. One of the photos was a bright family reunion picture, taken in her grandfather’s backyard in summer 1996. Some stood on the benches, the older ones sat on chairs in front; the children wearing their good clothes were placed on the ground next to their mothers’ feet. She could still remember the scent of fresh grass and her worry over her dress getting stained. Two of her second cousins had climbed the trees in the background, those whose names she couldn’t remember, but she wondered if she would recognize them today, if she met them on the street? Her favorite picture was the yellowish black and white one with her parents holding her older brother as a newborn. The way they both smiled at the crying baby as if the camera didn’t exist had always startled her. In real life, as long as she could remember, they mostly appeared unsettled or absent together, living parallel lives. Her mother lived in the past and Father in a zone between this moment and all his unrealized goals.

If Natalia looked sideways toward Lazlo’s desk, positioned in front of the large window, she could have caught a glance of the apartment’s surroundings — the ocean, the trees, the sky. But she couldn’t take her eyes off her laptop. The sound of her neighbor’s daughter practicing piano and the far scent of the ocean wafting through the window contrasted with what was projected on her monitor. Her fingers barely moved over the mouse as the room light faded. When it was almost dark and quiet outside, Natalia closed her laptop to shutter the visual reports of everything failing and destroyed. She lifted her drawing desk up and pulled the thick folder of papers out, shifting her mind to the details of the design of their new project. The twenty-four-floor high-rise in Laguna was the tallest building she had ever worked on as part of its core design team. Pablo, the arrogant civil engineer, kept reminding her about her inexperience and all the details she could have missed, yet Lazlo made her more nervous, treating her like a stranger at work. Their nine-year difference in age didn’t make thing easier. Forty-five wasn’t that old but he acted like someone who had already lived a full life. Natalia only knew that his past life had been terminated abruptly when Perdita, his wife, left him. He rarely, almost never, talked about the past. The past is gone, he always said. Natalia was persuaded he wasn’t talking about his past life, but it was Lazlo’s process to forget Perdita.

Natalia looked up again at the photos above her. She had lost all the memories of her parents’ house, or the room where these photos were taken except for the noises coming from outside. The constant sound of cars honking, and Mother’s young face, her red lips and blue eye shadow no more visible in the black and white photo. In Natalia’s perception, she had a happy childhood, as her mother always reminded her. “You are so lucky,” Mother used to say when Natalia still lived with them. “We chose to leave so you would be able to continue your studies here.” Natalia never felt she had any special talent. Average in high school and average at university, but she had a good memory and no subject seemed too difficult to learn. “You can study anything and always succeed,” Mother had told her, and that’s what she did, but she never considered herself successful, except when she met Lazlo, and he complimented her on her design.

There was a buzz. A text from Lazlo. “Finally at my hotel,” it said. “All is good.”

He was away for a conference in New York. Natalia could have gone with him, but she had to stay. Not to supervise the Laguna project, but to be present for her mother’s 65^th birthday. The big surprise that she had always expected. Since Natalia’s father had retired because of the diagnosis, Mother replaced him at the family’s accounting firm. She was hardworking, well capable of taking care of herself and everyone else.

Natalia was told she was like her mother, almost perfect, and for years she had wondered why they always use “almost.”

She reopened her laptop. The sounds and images of war poured out and pulled her out of her perfect childhood.  No one could ignore the violence of a rotting corpse, she thought.

Next day.

Natalia didn’t expect to receive any other texts from Lazlo. She had taken the day off to prepare for Mother’s birthday. Her plan was to bake the Ukrainian chocolate cake with blue and yellow frosting, the Patriotic cake, she called it. Natalia had already bought birthday decorations, plus a yellow leather purse, big enough to hold Mother’s gloves, umbrella and plastic raincoat in case of a storm, things she carried along with her wallet, makeup bag, weekly dose of her pills, a silver cross, tens of pens, and a sophisticated calculator.

The baking instructions were in their usual place in the kitchen drawer. Natalia checked if she had every ingredient and fetched them one by one. She sang while whisking the flour, sugar, cacao, salt, espresso, baking powder, and milk. She kept singing as she placed the cake pan in the oven and set the timer. Cooking was a ritual she enjoyed, even more than drawing a new design for a nonexistent structure. She knew she could stand in front of the oven and watch the cake slowly rising and without any intervention. The perfume of melting chocolate blended with the scent of the ocean as she wrapped her gift in blue and yellow gift paper. The cake was done before noon. She left it on the kitchen table and went to the bedroom to get ready.

Mother wasn’t home. Aunt Lidia had taken her shopping, and they wouldn’t be back before 3. When they migrated to California, they brought with them what they called pieces of home. Their house was filled with useless objects: nested dolls, bad paintings, jars of magnets, cartons full of albums of old folk music, and handmade rugs. Natalia dropped her purse on the entry table just inside. She barely had two hours to set up the dining table and hang the disco ball, paper decorations, and the giant Happy 65 banner.

Father sat in his usual rocking chair in front of the TV, his head leaning forward on his chest, softly snoring. She rushed to the kitchen, placed the cake in the fridge, and took out the dishes already prepared by Aunt Lidia. While she was looking for pots to warm them up, the loud noise of the news on TV reminded her of the days Father could give her a ride to university and they listened to the radio. It was before dementia, before the start of the war, before they stopped going to Ukraine for summer vacations. In the car, they barely talked, their gazes fixed on the road. Her laptop sat heavily on her lap. The war started not long after. It was the same year Father was diagnosed. The same year she completed her degree in architecture.

At 3:15 Mother and Aunt Lidia entered the house. Natalia was in the kitchen when she heard the short shrieking of Mother, acting surprised by birthday decorations all over the living room. Even Father wore a colorful birthday hat too small for his big head. Mother never stopped playing this role she enjoyed so much. Always the same words, Oh my God, Oh my God! What have you done? I can’t believe you remembered when I’d forgotten about it myself. Natalia went to the living room to witness her mother hugging Aunt Lidia, holding her small face tight to her big chest. Father was staring at them nodding with worry, before turning back toward the TV, still on, still loud. But not as loud as Mother’s eruptions of gratitude. And she went on and on, surprisingly without choking Aunt Lidia, until the dinner was served.

Aunt Lidia’s daughters, Tanya and Sofia, had joined them for dinner, with their husbands and three children. During the dinner, the TV was muted, but still, paraded in front of Natalia and others, the footage of hungry people in shelters and aerial shots of demolished homes created a kind of tension that spurred the guests to eat harder and faster and with more hunger, to the point where Natalia wondered if the cake was big enough for them.

Once the coverage switched to the US news, the cake was cut and distributed. The tension dissipated, and everyone relaxed, watching the report of the coming hurricane in Florida. Natalia went back to the kitchen, but one by one, her memories of the TV coverage of other hurricanes overlapped the war images she’d just viewed. All the natural catastrophes that had left ruins and so many dead, all over the world, even more than wars. She told herself that they were only flat images but they piled up in the dark side of her brain where memories get lost, and their colors and sounds neutralized each other. They formed a new kind of indifference, creating the silent movie version of a fictional reality that belonged to no one but her.

Mother came to the kitchen, looking for her cigarettes and lighter hidden in the top shelf. She looked radiant but out of breath in her dark red dress, high heel red shoes, and pearl earrings. “Thank you,” she said. “I know it’s all you. Always.”

Natalia wiped her hands on her apron. “Oh no, Aunt Lidia helped a lot.”

Mother lit her cigarette and took a deep drag. She remained silent long enough for Natalia to finish shoving the leftovers in the fridge. Tanya and Sofia had been assigned the task of washing the dishes. “Let’s go to the balcony,” Mother said, holding Natalia’s arm.

They passed through the living room. The breaking news hadn’t silenced the children playing hide and seek. Aunt Lidia had given up on making them sit.

Outside, it was cold.

“Where is Lazlo?”

“Business trip,” Natalia said.

Mother sat on the dusty folding chair and looked around. “You are getting too old.”

The sound of a glass breaking came from inside. One of Aunt Lidia’s grandkids cried. “There are enough children in the world,” Natalia said, thinking of Lazlo. He never talked about children, but from beginning, she had assumed he wasn’t the father-figure type.

“Then there is no reason for us to stay, if you won’t have kids,” Mother said. “We came here only for you. And we will go back as soon as you don’t need us.” Natalia knew she hadn’t needed them since she made enough money to rent her own place and it was years ago. “You go back when the war is over. Right?”

“It will end soon. We are going to win,” Mother said.

 “What about Father’s condition? His doctor is here.”

Mother crushed the cigarette on the balcony railing. “Dementia is uncurable anyway.”

There was no room to argue. Not that Natalia really wanted them to stay, but as a good daughter she was supposed to argue, to beg them not to go, to show how much they meant to her. Life without them was a mystery, and unpredictable. She imagined what life would have been like if she hadn’t met Lazlo.

“Breaking news,” Aunt Lidia called them. “Come inside.”

Mother left the balcony, walking slowly in her high heels. Natalia hesitated, pulling closer the folding chair.

A police helicopter flew over the neighborhood, and a flock of birds escaped its loud noise. Natalia leaned over the railing to check the street in case there was some police activity in the vicinity. Nothing ever happened on this residential street. A tall man in a black rain jacket stood on the sidewalk, checking his phone. He reminded Natalia of Milan, the Italian lover, as he used to call himself. They had briefly met in university when she was eighteen. Milan was her big crush and big disappointment. Popular and arrogant—an impossible love. Physically, Lazlo had reminded her of Milan, the same height and built, the same curly hair, and confidence in who they were, but they were so different in everything else.

Natalia stared at the man on the sidewalk, wondering if he was going to look up at her, as if he was waiting for her. The idea of Milan coming back blossomed in her head like a poisonous flower and effaced any traces of Lazlo. Liquid thoughts went through her brain cells. They drowned her in reminiscences of the past when she was still so innocent. Milan was her first unrequited love, and her last.

It was going to be dark soon, and she had to go back inside to ease Mother’s worries over her age and all the breaking news from Ukraine, to continue her little perfect life, to pretend that Lazlo was enough. Cut off from the world, in the balcony, Natalia refused to let Milan in, knowing soon Lazlo was going to fill her up so much she’d have no room left for anyone else, not even herself.

She sat on the chair to hide behind the iron bars and grabbed the railing tight. She imagined Lazlo to appear, to sit beside her in the chair vacated by Mother. His words of love danced all around her like drifting snowflakes, like flashes of an invented life that could have never existed. As if Lazlo had transformed into Milan. That Milan-Lazlo were here to tell her they wanted her back, to ask forgiveness for not taking her to New York, for not wanting to get married or to have a child, an apology for things that would only appease Mother. She looked down. The man was gone, and Lazlo too.

Her mother summoned her inside and Natalia rushed in. She had always sought to please others, but it was exhausting. “Come in,” Mother said, out of breath. “Didn’t I tell you we are going to win?”

Natalia joined the family in the crowded room. The air was heavy, the TV too loud. The windows were all closed, and the curtains hid the light. Natalia sat on the high breakfast stool and stared at the screen like everyone else. The breaking news was about Ukraine, and the liberation of Kherson. Mother grabbed a napkin and wiped her face and forehead. Maybe she was trying to hide her tears of joy. Natalia looked at the images from the city in the south where the soldiers had won back.

“Do you remember uncle Kolya? Didn’t we visit him at Kherson?” Aunt Lidia asked Mother, and Mother nodded.

“Of course, I remember. I remember everything,” Mother said. “Natalia, you were seven, or maybe eight.”

Natalia wasn’t sure. Nothing looked familiar.

Father nodded too. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I remember the Black Sea.”

Natalia watched her father’s expression of joy. Did he remember this trip through his own memories, or because of her mother’s constant reminders? Sometimes they’d visited uncle Kolya in the spring of the year the river Dnipro flooded, and sometimes it was winter and their car had gotten stuck in snow. Each time Mother’s narrative took a new direction with a different ending, almost like taking a new trip and visiting a new city. At some point Natalia had already forgotten the original story. So what if Father didn’t remember things correctly? Who was she to tell him he was mistaken, that those memories weren’t his? Would everyone, no matter who they were, lose slowly their remembrances (their very selves) like Father? Did people remember the actual events or just the emotions they evoked, as if everything else gets built around it, like a foundation-less high-rise, about to crumble to ruins by every change of heart?

“I only remember uncle Kolya and his backyard. We climbed the trees and ate cherries,” Natalia said.

Mother didn’t pause. She started sharing the details of a trip Natalia didn’t want to take anymore. This time the trip was in autumn and the tree leaves had transformed into their most spectacular colors. The rain and mud had made the trip difficult, but the beauty of nature had made it worthwhile. Mother sighed and swooned over her homeland, its coldness and its people’s warmth, the abundance of its flowers and trees, its culture and its resilience, and cursed the Russians.

Natalia wished Mother was more like Lazlo. Quiet, even detached. But she remembered Lazlo’s sadness, which she had never comprehended, and wished Lazlo could be a bit more like Mother, only maybe not quite as verbose, but more optimistic despite everything. Nobody was perfect, Natalia thought. She shouldn’t complain. Lazlo had so many admirable qualities. She especially appreciated that Lazlo rarely watched TV or followed world news. He didn’t have any story to tell or any opinion to fight for. He didn’t even share his fiction with her. Sometimes, he seemed like a man without any past, but it suited her because Natalia didn’t know what would have happened if Lazlo invited her into his past and required her to care what had happened to him. She only knew his first wife’s name: Perdita. Was it a real name or the name he had invented since she had left him? 

Natalia’s phone flashed a text. It was Lazlo. “I might stay here longer. Some complications.”

She replied to reassure Lazlo she would be fine even though he didn’t seem concerned about her. “I’m doing fine, no worries,” Natalia texted, knowing she could live without him. Loneliness appeared even attractive while Mother kept on talking and remembering, sometimes tearing up with joy or longing. Or guilt. The usual immigrant guilt over their survival. Like any other immigrant from a war zone, Mother used to have nightmares over the fact that she hadn’t experienced the war herself, that she lived in a warm and comfortable house, that she didn’t share with her countrymen the fear of getting hungry or displaced, or worse, dead.

Natalia didn’t feel any guilt over her desire to be alone, away from all the noises and people she had to please. To experience a solitary life where she could choose to reinvent herself. Like Perdita, she wanted to disappear, like a loss, a void in one’s heart, to become a single memory, vague, redefined at every recalling, and transformed into a new story.

Natalia got up and went to fetch her purse.

“It’s getting late,” she announced, but she wasn’t sure anymore if she wanted to go back home or to her birth country, or even get lost in New York. Only one thing was certain. She couldn’t stay here to listen to Mother’s rambling and watch TV’s wars. Natalia couldn’t stand the nostalgia, the melancholy of regrets, the wounds that weren’t even hers. Lazlo wasn’t coming back soon. Milan had long gone. She had to leave.

Aunt Lidia turned off the TV.

The silence woke up Father, who was sleeping in the middle of all the noises. He looked around. “Is it time?” he asked. “Are we going?”

Natalia nodded. “Yes,” she murmured, looking around to see where her jacket was. “Yes, yes, I am,” she said.

Mother looked at Father. “Not yet. We still must wait. But we’re almost there.”

Aunt Lidia turned on the TV and Father looked back at the screen, tearing up, and as Natalia was saying her goodbyes, he was falling asleep.