Snowed-over streets throw your own sounds back to you. Last night there was a party for the host families. My feet dragged to go in. Outside are night fields with skeletal grasses. Rooms inside are yellow-lit and smell warm but I am antsy in them, always moving my hands and leaning against things trying to look casual.
But I like my hands when they go orange and black-nailed from peeling carrots. Nadja and I have been cooking together. We even made eclairs, so delicate, and squeezed them full of cream. She fears I will starve when I live alone.
No one thinks Americans have life skills. Once a teacher asked us what we can cook, and scoffed dismissively when we said, “Pasta, stir fry…” Then she held up her baby at us – “And when will you have this?” Probably around the same time I start loving these mayonnaise-saturated salads that are only one color.
At the party, all the mothers asked us women, “Maybe you’ll marry Ukrainian boys?” Uncomfortable mumbling. But then one woman said she sees me walking down the street every day, very fast, and I whip around all the men without seeing them. She can’t realize – that made me feel so capable, for once, like Kathryn Hepburn.
Still, I will wear my long underwear. If I don’t, I won’t be able to have babies, says Nadja, and don’t I want to have a little Nastia of my own? (Can ovaries freeze over?) As I’m writing this, the baby is hiding under my bed and whispering, “How-how, how-how,” like a puppy. I lean my face on the bed and so does she. We blow raspberries at each other for a long time. I don’t even care that her spit gets in my eyes.
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