The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

participants of the process members of a closed club, with its own champions and underdogs. And Uncle Volodya, by design, should’ve belonged among the former, should’ve proven a professional of aging—what else did he spend his life training for digging around in people’s innards, in the gaping flesh of rotten and damaged meaty fruits, where there should be no surprises left for him?
    But it didn’t work out like that: Uncle Volodya whines like a child, resenting the slightest physical discomfort; the disloyalty of his own body, which is turning into an enemy minefield—one wrong step and you’re in the ditch—is experienced by him as a personal affront, an injustice that he, of all people, most certainly does not deserve, and in which his wife appears to be somehow complicit. He hasn’t given up enough to trust that she is on his side; he still believes he can go it alone; he is still kicking, creaking along, the old stump.
    What Daryna fears and expects, with subconscious dread, to hear every time her mother calls is the news that Uncle Volodyahustled up an affair with some young nurse or assistant, his last mad love—with the packing of suitcases and, God forbid, division of property, and her mother’s tumble into the prospect of lonely old age. These things happen more often than you think; every fading man’s battle with his own body unfolds according to the same unchanging plan, and the appearance of a woman thirty or forty years his junior in it is as inevitable as menopause is for women. And when this stage of events is late in coming, you begin to worry, against your better nature—come on, already, you bastard, go ahead and do it, and get it over with! But the bastard seems to be taking his sweet time, and for today, it appears, red alert shall also be postponed. At least that’s one piece of good news in the last twenty-four hours (if one considers no news to be good news).
    Mom is babbling cheerfully as usual, rattling off drugs she’s planning to buy, and also, it seems, something’s grieving their cat (a varmit that entertains himself by leaping onto guests from the top of a wardrobe or lurching from under a couch and sinking his teeth into your leg, but Mom and Uncle Volodya fawn over him like proud parents over their firstborn). “Go have him fixed already,” Daryna drones flatly as if uttering someone else’s lines, as she always does—a certain set of phrases is repeated in every conversation with her mother as if on a recording. (Or does this also belong to the rules of aging—same words, same things, same scratchy records: avoid all changes in the environment because the ones going on inside your body are enough to drive you nuts alone?) “Cut ’im and live in peace.” Who does she have in mind when she says that: the cat, or Uncle Volodya? Or, perchance, R. and their sordid story, as a delayed reaction to what she’d heard from her boss yesterday?
    The mere memory of it is like a burn in her brain—she almost moans out loud again, you bitches!—but stops herself. She’s got it under control already; she’s awake, good morning, Ukraine. Lord, she used to be so proud to say those words on air. The last thing she needs now is to start bawling, so Daryna, teeth clenched, breatheshard through her nose, short and quick, in-out, in-out—until the stifling wave ebbs, retreats, and her eyes blink off a pair of tears that tickle her cheeks as they run down her skin. Olga Fedorivna, meanwhile, says she can’t do it—feels sorry for the living thing, meaning Barsik, the cat, what’s he done to be crippled like that?
    But she must be sensing something uncertain on the other end of the line—or maybe she’s unnerved by the pause that’s stretching too long. The boundary of acceptance—the line of demarcation plowed between mother and daughter once and forever a long time ago, the flagged strip of no-man’s-land along which they stroll, each on her side, smiling to one another from afar like border guards of friendly nations—is not something Olga Fedorivna has ever dared cross. Generally, she is not a woman who crosses lines, clinging instinctively to every chilling interaction protocol instead, as if she feared that left to her own devices she’d melt into a little puddle on the floor. Like a snowman brought indoors.
    Once when she was little, Daryna did bring one of those in—a small, doll-sized, and very dapper (as it seemed to her) snowman she made herself—and