Milena

-1-

The rain lashes against the tinted windows of the bus as the gate rolls open, granting access to the FlyAway station. Another stop on an endless journey. Always running from, never to. The other passengers are already on their feet, eager to return to their families or begin their vacations. Such enthusiasm as Milena has never felt. Last off the bus, she pulls the hood of her dirty, red hoodie over her long, brown hair, tucking the ragged ends beneath the thick material, and steps into the rain. So much for the California sun.

Holding back as the other passengers jostle for their bags, impatiently snatching them up as soon as the driver has unloaded them from the hold, Milena glances around the station. The first people off the bus are already queueing at the ticket machine for the permit that will get them through the terminal building. She watches and learns the process ready for when it is her turn to exit. Only when her bag is sat alone alongside the bus does she approach, giving the driver a slight nod and an even slighter smile as she takes hold of the handle and heads for the ticket machine.

The first attempt to swipe her card fails. She tries again, confident that there is enough credit remaining to cover the bus ticket.

‘You need to do it quick,’ the man at the ticket machine says when the card fails for a third time. ‘First time in Van Nuys?’

Milena slides the card into the machine and yanks it back out as fast as she can. The machine confirms her payment.

‘Thanks,’ she replies, keeping her head bowed as she gives the man a nod, grabs her ticket, and heads for the building.

‘European?’ the man asks as she walks past. Milena ignores him and keeps walking.

With her ticket validated, she hurries through the terminal building to the car park, eyes seeking a white pickup truck. There are three. A boy of ten or eleven years rushes over to the nearest one, his beleaguered mother hurrying after him with a baby clutched to her chest and dragging a pair of carry-on bags determined to go in opposite directions. Milena peers at the second truck but cannot make out if there is anybody behind the wheel. She glances back at the FlyAway’s waiting area, wondering if it would be better to wait inside or stay in the car park. The ringing of her phone answers her question.

‘Milena. I thought that was you. I’ll be right over.’

She takes her phone away from her ear and watches as the second pickup truck backs out of its parking bay and circles around to the kerbside in front of her. Milena barely recognises the man that steps out and smiles at her. His tightly cropped beard is flecked with silver, as are his sideburns, and he looks smaller than Milena remembers. His eyes, however, are unmistakably those of her uncle, Michel. Filled with the world-weariness of an outcast from the Melnykovich lineage, they still manage to sparkle at the sight of her.

‘Little Lena, all grown up,’ he says as he dashes around the car and opens the back door before taking her bag. ‘Travelling light?’

Milena nods as he opens the passenger door and smiles at her.

‘It’s so good to see you again. What has it been? Ten years? More? Seems like a lifetime ago. Your father sent me your picture so I knew who to look for. I don’t think I would have recognised you if he hadn’t. You’ve changed so much.’

Milena sighs, pulling her lips into a tight, embarrassed smile as she steps towards the truck. ‘Life has a way of forcing change. You adapt or die.’

Her uncle’s face turns anxious, the sparkle in his eye vanishing as Milena climbs up into the truck and tugs at the safety belt. She struggles to discern his comment as he closes the door and heads around the front of the truck. Ignoring his judgement, Milena focuses her attention on the wing mirror, watching the bus station shrink as Michel edges the truck out of the car park and merges with the traffic.

‘Will your mother be joining you?’ Michel asks as he fidgets with the radio. ‘Yuri didn’t mention her in his message.’

‘My mother is going back to France,’ Milena replies as Michel gives up searching the stations and shuts the radio off. ‘I don’t think she liked being in America.’

Milena looks across at her uncle in time to catch his concerned expression as he turns his gaze back to the road. His lips draw tight, no doubt wondering how to raise the subject of his seventeen-year-old niece being abandoned in the United States. Turning back to the mirror, Milena brings her right foot up onto the seat and wraps her arms around her knee, the denim pulling tight against her skin.

‘I assume you don’t share your mother’s opinion?’

Milena pulls her hood back and rests her head against the window as she considers her response. ‘This is the land of opportunity. What better place is there than America for a woman looking for a fresh start? And what better city than Los Angeles?’

Michel chuckles to himself as he switches lanes. ‘You have a point. America has been good to me. Better than those assholes back in Odesa. You made the right choice coming to work for me.’

Milena smiles. The first genuine smile since…

She turns back to the mirror.

‘The office is down that street,’ says Michel, pointing down a street to their right as he slows for a stop signal. ‘You can cut through the parking lot behind the auto shop to get there from your apartment. It’s a ten-minute walk.’

Milena glances down the street but says nothing. The address for her uncle’s freight company is already saved to her phone. Taking the next right, Michel pulls up outside a block of apartments, half-hidden behind a yellow wall with a broken gate.

‘This is it,’ Michel says as he takes a set of keys from his pocket and holds them out to Milena. The note of concern in his voice is unmistakable. Milena follows his gaze to a couple of youths in baggy jeans, baseball caps and black shirts, unbuttoned to the navel, standing at the street corner. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to stay with me? Vasily would love to have someone else to talk to besides his father.’

A part of Milena’s brain wants to say yes. The same part of her brain wanted to say yes to returning to France. ‘I need to stand on my own two feet if I’m to survive in this world.’

Her uncle’s sigh as Milena takes the keys is matched by the part of her that wants to hide away from the world. Pressing a finger to the lips of the child within, Milena climbs down from the truck as Michel retrieves her luggage from the back seat.

‘I have some errands to run in the morning,’ he says as he places her bag in front of her and extends the handle. ‘Use the morning to settle in. I’ll pick you up after lunch. One o’clock?’

Milena nods. ‘One o’clock. I’ll be ready.’

Michel studies her for a moment, concern and happiness competing for control of his expression. Unable to resolve the conflict, he nods and returns to his truck, sounding the horn twice as he drives away. Alone once more, Milena lifts the broken gate away from the post and props it open against the wall before dragging her bag inside. With the gate once more pretending to serve as a barrier to entry, she looks at the number on the keyring. Twenty-two. One of the upstairs apartments.

Circling around the communal swimming pool, empty of all but dead leaves, Milena climbs the metal staircase to the second floor and scans the doors for apartment twenty-two. Throwing open the door, she drags her case inside and stares at her new home. A carpet that has seen better days stretches from the door to the opposite wall. The couch donated by Michel is unable to cover all the stains.

Milena slides the chain into the latch on the door and pushes her case over to the couch that will double as a bed until she gets new furniture. Raised voices from the apartment next door echo through the kitchen alongside the living room, welcoming her to her new life. Taking her earphones from her pocket, Milena sits on the couch and closes her eyes. Hitting play, she pulls her knees up to her chest and lets the crushing power chords drown out the screams, ignoring the world until the pain fades enough to face the challenges of another day.