At school, we were getting ready for Thanksgiving. We drew turkeys, talked about the Pilgrims and got an assignment to ask our parents what they were thankful for and to report the next day at school.

“What are you thankful for?” I asked Mama as soon as I stepped off the bus.

“Oh, my little guy!” She leaned close and I could smell her breath. It was unfamiliar, pungent, and fruity.

“I’m grateful for you, Rodion!” Mama took my hand into hers. She refused to call me Ryder. She and Sergei called me Rodion. “And you know what? You’re going to be meet your grandmother soon.”

“My grandmother? Babushka?” My mouth gaped open. Babushka was Mama’s mother, and she was dead.

“Well, you have two babushkas. My mom and Papa’s mom.” Mama clutched my hand, as if for safety. “Papa’s mother is coming to visit us. For Thanksgiving.”

“Where is she now?” I asked. I immediately pictured a fairy tale granny, like the Little Red Riding Hood’s, somewhere in the forest.

“She lives right here, in Pittsburgh, but she was busy and couldn’t come meet you before.” Mama averted her eyes.

Ahead of the visit, Mama started acting strangely. Rushing around the house with a rag, she wiped non-existent specs of dust from all surfaces. She sent Sergei to the store to get mayo, then forgot about it and sent him again and teared up when he confronted her. She set out two china sets on the kitchen table, staring at them for hours, trying to pick the right one for the dinner. All of her conversations focused on the menu for Thanksgiving. She’d speak to no one in particular, not expecting an answer.

“ I should make the Olivier salad, and then piroshki? With meat or potatoes. Or both?” The challenge, of course, was the turkey. We’d never made it in Russia. For advice, Mama called Vlada. They spent over an hour going over how to prepare a turkey, which, Vlada assured, was the best adaptation of the American traditional recipe.

Papa came home early that afternoon, carrying a bouquet of orange roses. He handed the bouquet to Mama. She moved her finger across the petals, her eyes sparkling.

“Thank you, Philip. You shouldn’t have.”

“It’s for Mother.” Papa said. “I am about to go pick her up now.”

***

Grandma Oxana was a short, stout woman with hair dyed jet-black. Her beady, assessing eyes took in our place and settled on me. I immediately hid behind the couch. She hummed and raised her eyebrows, then announced,

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“I gotta take my boots off.”

“Mother, one moment.” Papa fussed, arms flailing. He let out a yelp and ran to the kitchen, appearing a moment later with a chair. He positioned it by the front door and led Grandma Oxana to it. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Grandma sat down and Papa kneeled next to her, unzipping her long boots all the way up her shins.

“Ooh, that feels good.” Grandma wiggled her toes. Through her stockings, I could see the curved nail of her big toe and it made me gag.

“The slippers! Where are Mother’s slippers?” Papa turned his head widely. “The furry ones.” When no one answered, Papa reached for the shoe rack and scanned it for the right pair. “Here you go, Mother, I’ve got them right here!” A radiant smile crossed his face. He put the slippers on Grandma’s feet.

“I’m just like Cinderella.” The old woman giggled. “My prince!” She threw an adoring look at her son. “Well, show me what you’ve been up to.” Grandma rose from the chair and put her hands on her hips.

“This is Lydia, mother.” Papa pointed to Mama, who came out from the kitchen, an aloof look on her face. Mama was wearing her best sweater, the one Auntie Lena had given her before we left for America. It was beige with sparkles sewn onto it, and Auntie Lena told Mama it made her hair stand out and was ‘tasteful.’

“Nice to meet you.” Grandma said, walking over to Mama. “And this is the boy?” Grandma fixed her gaze on me again and I had no choice but leave my hiding spot from behind the couch. “Rodion?” Grandma squinted at me, then turned to Mama. “Well, hello there, Rodion.”

I didn’t respond, so petrified I was with fear. I even forgot to say my new name. Ryder.

“Is the boy mute?” Grandma raised her eyebrows.

“No, no, he’s just shy.” Papa stepped in to defend me. “Let’s have lunch, Mother.”

“I’d like to wash my hands.” Granda Oxana said and retreated to the bathroom.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Papa slapped his forehead so hard that a red mark appeared. “I can’t believe I forgot!” He ran to the kitchen and grabbed the roses from the vase, still dripping water. Papa wiped the stems on his shirt and took a position by the bathroom door like a soldier standing guard:

“Mother, I’m sorry. I forgot to give these to you sooner. My fault. But we got you this bouquet.” He said solemnly as soon as Grandma walked out of the bathroom.

“Thank you, Philip, my boy.” Grandma Oxana took the bouquet, then paused and started counting. “One, two, three,” her face went pale. “Twelve? Did you get me twelve roses?”

“Yes, I suppose it’s a dozen.” Philip mumbled, scratching his forehead, the red mark fading slightly.

“Did you do this on purpose? Do you want me dead?” Grandma pushed the flowers at Papa with such force that he stumbled back.

“Mother, that’s how they sell them here, it’s a dozen roses.”

“You know we get even numbers for the dead! Why did you get me these flowers? Is it her?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at Mama. “It was her? Tell me! I know it was! I should have never agreed to meet her.”

Grandmother huffed and rushed out of the house, slamming the front door.

“Mother, please, it’s just a misunderstanding.” Papa ran after her. From the outside, we could hear shouting, the sound of the car door slamming shut.

“Lydia, you’ll need to apologize to Mother.” Papa said when he came back that evening, looking gaunt.

“Apologize for what?” Mama threw her hands up in protest.

“For the flowers.”

“I wasn’t the one who got her the flowers.” Mama’s voice sounded shrill. “You got them, you apologize.”

“I already did.” Papa shook his head. “Mother is very sensitive. Why didn’t you count the roses? Now she doesn’t want to come back. And it took me months to convince her to meet you.”

“Good riddance.” Mama mumbled quietly, so Papa wouldn’t hear.

But I did.