D(e)ad

Sharp and electrifying pain climbed up and down between my wrist and elbow. I woke up hitting my hand on the wall behind me. Those crazy dreams. I tried going back to sleep and almost succeeded when the phone rang. My uncle was on the line. His Russian was picturesque in the first place—a messy patchwork of words, composed over years of reading in voluntary isolation at his mother’s house. Uncle Grisha brought the built-in mess of Russian to an actual art form. I had not spoken to him for over a decade.

"Your black-bearded father, the pen-burner, who mocks everyone and judges no one... is in the hospital."

What the hell?

"Hurry up like a guinea pig, seal a hunger, run wild, and skip the fastest wings you can find. Arrive without delay. Procrastination is not good information."

His voice became shrill and high, finishing with a small shriek like a singer from the nineties. The cut-off echoed in my aching hand. I managed to get a flight to Odessa the very next day. The flight was short and bouncy, and the pain had not left me since the phone call with Grisha.

No one picked me up from the small, smelly Ukrainian airport, and luckily, I didn’t have to wait in the luggage room. There wasn’t even a conveyor belt; the luggage was just thrown from some vehicle into a small concrete room. I caught a cab to the hospital. The driver was disappointed to find out that I was not an easy tourist to cheat. I was born and raised in this hot and humid town—I know how much any ride costs.

I arrived too late, only to see him being wheeled out of the room, feet first. Uncle Grisha was blocking the door, wearing both a grin and a small drop of sweat on the tip of his nose.

"You did not rush or run. You missed the date of the black-bearded celestial departure."

He looked just like I remembered him from the last time we saw each other in '91. How has he not changed in 12 years?

Grisha's hair started to fall out, turning into little bearded black crows. I touched my wrist, and the pain pierced my entire left side again. I hit my hand on the wall behind me and woke up. Another crazy dream.

I called my mom. She would know if "Blackbeard, Pen Burner" was dead. He was alive. She had spoken to him this month. If he died, someone would give us an update. I was considering flying there anyway, just to check with my own eyes.

The phone rang. It was my dad's wife. Surprise. I was her one allowed phone call from custody. The authorities were blaming her for his death, and she was calling to assure me she just found him like that. He had been sitting in the armchair, looking calm, almost smiling. She had prepared food for him and called him to the table. She hung up abruptly.

I managed to get a flight to Odessa the very next day. The flight was short and bouncy, and the pain in my hand had not left me since the conversation with her. This time, I was not in a hurry. The funeral date was not set because of the investigation. I was considering conducting my own investigation—it seemed too strange to me. My father was an almost-esteemed writer, almost famous, and almost wrote about important things.

I caught a cab to Uncle Grisha's house. The taxi driver was nervous. It was a long drive from the airport, and he was about to get less than he usually managed to get out of tourists. But I was no tourist. Still, the taxi felt weird, different from what I remembered from my childhood here.

Grisha opened the door for me, wrapped in his mother's pink flannel robe. My grandmother’s. He was shorter than I remembered.

"You did not rush or run. You did not jump or hurry. You have not delayed the date of the celestial departure of the old black beard and are now and forever."

I pushed him aside and tried to locate Grandpa and Grandma. They were still alive. I was assured that someone would take care of contacting me if any of them died. Their two-room apartment seemed larger to me, laden with Grisha’s surrealistic paintings and writings on the walls. I had not been there since I was 10. Grisha walked behind me, giggling and licking a greenish melon popsicle.

"You did not rush or run. You lagged behind in reaching the old black corpse."

There are no melon-flavored popsicles in Odessa, I thought, and took the popsicle from him. A strong pain woke me up. I hit my hand on the wall behind me again. Those crazy dreams.

I managed to get a flight to Odessa, and within five days, I was there. I slept through almost the entire flight. My father was alive. For another six months, he was still alive.

#FamilyDrama #SurrealStories #DreamAndReality #LossAndMemory #RussianLiterature #WritingLife #Odessa #EmotionalJourney #GriefAndMystery #CreativeNonfiction #ShortStory #WritersOfInstagram #Storytelling #IdentityAndHeritage

within five days I was there. I slept almost the entire flight.