It was yet another humdrum cold winter morning in CSKA Moscow, but not to Natasha Orlova. Her hands, tucked in the pockets of her black leather hoodie, shivered, her teeth rattled, and her stride down the narrow alley; broke into a trot. Her shoulders were hunched against the prevailing chilling wind - she felt was against her - as she advanced; hoping that the heat generated by her body from her little exercise of trotting would fortify her against the vicious attack of the cold.
She cursed herself for listening to the cabman who had dropped her at the mouth of the alley.
“Miss, you seem to be in a hurry.” He had said. “This is the shortest cut. Through this alley, then to your right and there,” he pointed, “you have the hospital.”
She dropped and paid him. She could still remember his broad, slick smile, as he pocketed the bill, made a U-turn, and drove away with the stream of traffic, going into the city. It wasn't until she advanced into the alley that she felt the full impact of the cold.
Never has the winter been this bad in Russia, or maybe five years spent in the comparatively warm climate of America, has reduced my resistance to the Russian winter, she thought as she trotted along.
She paused at the end of the alley and looked to her right. She saw the two-story hospital building, adorned with lights. An ambulance was parked outside the hospital; a few yards from the gate. She hurried along the street to the hospital, nodded to the security guard, as she passed through the gate; reached the double glass doors of the hospital, pushed the right door in, and stepped into the reception room.
Her hunched shoulders eased, and she let out a sigh of relief as the heated air of the hospital enveloped her.
She sniffed the hospital’s air, which she considered depressing, and sighed again.
Well, circumstances had given her no choice but to be here. She dropped the hood of her jacket, releasing her long ash-blonde hair. Her fingers caressed her hair as she brought it across her shoulders and over her heavy breasts.
She looked around the small, neat reception room. To her left was the waiting room. Three benches were arranged in a row, with three or four couples occupying them. To her right was a hallway that led to the rooms of the hospital. Directly opposite her loomed an impressive curved reception desk. But it was empty.
As she approached an old man, seated among the couples in the waiting room, the door behind the reception desk opened, and an old lady, dressed in light blue scrubs, appeared.
Dr. Elena Brik owned and managed the hospital. Elena was large, or rather, heavyset, with short red hair.
A rosary necklace hung on her neck, with its cross, finding rest in between her enormous floppy bosoms, which were held in place by a crop-top, under the light material of her uniform.
She regarded Natasha with disapproval. To Elena, the hood jacket which was tight around her chest, the tight-fitting leather pants which stressed her heavily curved hips, and the long slimly built legs were deliberate temptations to the Catholic man.
“Would you exercise a little more patience, Mister,” she said in a voice that conveyed much authority to the old man, who on sighting her, had pushed past Natasha, rushing up to her, and inquiring about his wife.
Natasha, a woman of high status and power, perceived with admiration; the air of confidence and authority wielded by this woman, who Natasha was certain was the chief physician of the hospital. Natasha always felt a sense of connection when she saw women in positions of power. She watched the man trudge back to his seat.
“What can I do for you, Miss?” asked Dr. Elena, in her ever intimidating and commanding voice, but this time with a note of distaste.
Natasha spun her head to find the heavy-set woman, standing right in front of her, and dwarfing her.
Natasha opened her mouth, but closed it, as she found her mind blank. She realized in anger how intimidated she felt in the dominating presence of this large woman.
Dr. Elena's face relaxed, and she smiled. Her smile looked cunning, Natasha mused. To Natasha, it seemed Elena knew the effect, and power she had over her, through intimidation by her size, and the power she had acquired over the years.
“On the 27th, you got a call, requesting your presence, but you chose to come on the 29th.” Dr. Elena accused, as she strode down the hallway on the first floor.
Natasha, who was behind her, was surprised that a woman of Dr. Elena's bulk could move that fast, struggled to keep up with Elena’s pace.
“I came as early as I could. My flight was delayed.” Natasha paused as her eyes searched the face of the large woman. But she picked nothing from the expressionless face. “How is she?”
“Where were you all this while she was suffering from breast cancer?”
Dr. Elena stopped in her stride, turned, and looked at Natasha. Her eyes showed no mercy.
Natasha stopped, too.
“Cancer? Was suffering?” She paused, then went on. “What are you talking about?” Her voice was suddenly hard.
“Well, it appears you never had much use for your mother. Now, she's gone!” Dr. Elena turned to the door by her side, pressed down the handle, and pushed the door open. “There she is. You can go in and see her,” she said, and turned back with her purposeful stride, walked away.
Too stunned to utter a word, too shocked to move, Natasha stood transfixed, watching the back of the large woman walk down the hallway and disappear into a corner.
Her eyes moved from the now empty hallway to the room that now stood open before her.
At the center of the small room, she saw a body under a light blue sheet on the trolley. As if under a spell, she trudged towards it. By the time she reached the trolley, she was shaking from head to toe.
She heaved a long sigh to steady her shaking hands as she clutched the corner of the sheet and lifted it.
Although she had steeled herself for the sight. The pain still struck her with the sharpness of a bite of grit in a mouthful of food.
Tears rolled down her face; at the memories of the once fat woman, who was now reduced to a skeletal figure, in the painful embrace of death.
“I'm sorry, Mother,” she said in a voice that was far from steady.
She knew she had wronged her mother, but now it was too late to ask for forgiveness.
Five years ago, at nineteen, and full of ambition, she had left Russia and her mother, who she regarded as a failure to the golden land of opportunity, America. Like many other young girls migrating to the United States, she had dived into the adult industry in search of a living. Her break came two years later; when an American businessman took enough interest in her to marry her. Still following the Machiavellian principles that took her to the top, she stayed away from her mother, who she deemed unlucky. However, she had provided her with just enough money to live the way she liked to live.
Her eyes moved to a small rectangular brown envelope by her mother's head, and she picked it up.
It was sealed.
She turned the envelope in her hand.
Written in her mother's handwriting, on the other face of the white paper, was; “To Natasha Orlova.”
Her breath came out in quick gasps, as her fingers; instinctively tightened their hold on the envelope, knowing whatever was written in it were her mother's last words to her.
