Ilya shook his head. “I don’t have an account. I checked VKontakte, but he wasn’t on there.”
Sadie logged in to her Facebook account and typed in Gabe’s name. The results loaded endlessly. There were seventy Gabe Thompsons, and again Ilya felt this lightness in his chest. It wasn’t just the possibility of all of these faces—it was Sadie’s hope too, the way it amplified his own.
They combed through the profiles one by one, eliminating anyone over forty and under eighteen, anyone who wasn’t white, anyone with brown or black hair, anyone who had been anywhere but Berlozhniki the previous year. After an hour they reached the Facebook dregs: the profiles that hadn’t been updated for years, the ones with a John Doe silhouette where a picture should be or else an anonymous, grainy shot. Of a blue sports car, in one case, and a droopy-eared dog with bloodshot eyes in the other.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She turned and faced him, leaning against the desk. They hadn’t touched since the night before at the Pound, and he had the feeling that the longer he waited, the harder it would get.
“Don’t be,” he said. This was a phrase that he’d heard her say to someone, and though he loved the quick rhythm of it, the meaning had mystified him at first. Don’t be. A command against existence.
He reached out and touched her hand, and she looked out the glass doors. They could see only one corner of the pool, and Marilee’s head rose out of it, a dark splotch, like a seal’s, above the water.
“My parents would freak out,” Sadie said.
“Because I’m Russian?”
“No,” Sadie said, “’cause of my mom. They live in fear that I’m going to have a baby any second.”
Ilya went quiet at the implication of all that pregnancy entailed, and Sadie leaned over and kissed him again. Her lips were chapped and a little rough, like winter skin.
“So we just have to be careful,” she said, “and they’ll keep assuming you have a girlfriend in Russia.” She clicked out of her account and closed the browser, and the picture of Lana was waiting there behind it, her freckles scattered across her nose like birdseed.
“Was she your girlfriend?” Sadie asked.
“No,” he said. He thought of Lana kissing him. Maybe a little part of her had wanted to, but mostly she’d been fulfilling her end of the deal with Vladimir. He’d understood that when Vladimir gave her the krokodil. “I guess I had a crush on her. She was the only one of Vladimir’s friends who was nice to me, really.”
Sadie nodded. She moved one of her legs so that it rested against his knee.
There was a knock at the glass doors, and Sadie and Ilya both whipped around. Molly was standing under the deck in her swimsuit, a pair of goggles pulled torturously tight across her eyes.
“Come swim!” she yelled. “Mom says you’re going to get vitamin deficient if you don’t get outside!”
Sadie looked at him.
“OK,” he said. He clicked the X in the top corner of the picture, but it took a second for the image to disappear, and in that second Lana’s expression seemed clouded with disappointment.
After church the next day, he and Sadie worked on the list of Gabe Thompsons, starting with Colorado and Utah, where, Sadie said, there were the most Mormons. They found two matches, and Sadie must have seen the excitement on his face because she said, “I think everyone is Mormon there. Not that one of these isn’t him, but just so you know.”
Ilya stared at the two numbers, which he’d circled in red ink. “I don’t think I can call,” he said. “My accent—I don’t want him to know I’m looking for him. Or at least not until I’m there to see his face.”
“I’ll call. What should I say?” Sadie said.
Ilya had thought of this. All those nights when he’d compiled the list, then begun crossing Gabes off it. “Say you’re calling for Mr. Gabe Thompson because he left a personal item on his flight.” Ilya was especially proud of that quintessentially American phrase, “personal item,” which had been used dozens of times on his own flight to the States.
They told the Masons that they were taking Durashka for a walk and sat on the stoop of the half-built house at the bottom of Dumaine Drive. Durashka curled at their feet resignedly, as though she’d known all along that the walk was a ruse. Sadie punched the first number into her cell and cupped the phone to her ear. Ilya was expecting to have to wait, because nothing about finding Gabe Thompson had been easy thus far, but a voice answered before the first ring had even finished.
“Howdy,” the voice said.
“Hi,” Sadie said, “I’m calling for Mr. Gabe Thompson.”
“You got him.” It wasn’t him. Ilya was almost positive. The man sounded like a cowboy, like John Wayne in the few westerns that Vladimir had allowed in his VHS collection.
“I’m calling because you left a personal item on your flight.”
“My flight?”
“Yes, sir,” Sadie looked at Ilya, eyes wide. This was as far as the script went.
“Darling,” he said, “I wish I’d been on a flight recently, but I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
Ilya shook his head, and Sadie apologized and hung up.
“OK,” she said, “take two,” and she dialed the second number they’d found.
This time the call rang and rang, the sound just like that blinking cursor. Sadie was in another of her enormous T-shirts. Her collarbone jutted through the fabric like a shelf, and he thought of his own snapping at birth, and he was suddenly terrified to let her have anything at all to do with Gabe Thompson.
“Hang up,” he said.
She shook her head.
“Please,” he said. He reached for the phone, just as the last ring was cut short by the static of a message machine: “You’ve reached Gabe Thompson. Leave a message if you’d like. Have a blessed day!”
The voice was wrong. Ancient and rickety and nothing at all like Gabe Thompson’s, which had been confident on his better days, but more often sullen and curt, as though he meant for his blessings to sting. Ilya ended the call, and Sadie looked at him.
“No?” she said.
“No,” he said.
She rubbed Durashka’s belly with the toe of her sneaker, and the dog rolled onto her back and lifted her feet up to the sky. The refinery was small on the horizon, looking, from this distance, like a castle sending out an endless smoke signal. Above them, the tarp covering the second floor ballooned with wind, then flattened again with a sigh. Somewhere inside the house, water was dripping.
“I followed you once,” Ilya said. “When you went to see your mom.”
He had been wanting to tell her this since the night at the Pound. She didn’t know everything about him—she didn’t know about the boards, didn’t know that he’d kissed Lana—but he wanted her to at least know everything he knew about her.
Sadie tucked her hair behind her ear. “So you saw her,” she said. “She’s a wreck, huh?”
“I’ve seen worse,” Ilya said. He turned and looked at her. It was almost dinnertime, and the last of the light pinked her skin. She squinted into the grass like she was looking for something in the blades. “Why do you go?” he asked. “Why do you watch her?”
She shrugged, and he thought that was it. He stood up, and Durashka did too, her collar jangling. Then Sadie said, “For the same reason you’re doing this.” She lifted the phone in her hand, but kept looking at the ground, and he realized why her room looked the way it did. Uninhabited. Like there was a suitcase just out of sight. Like she was ready for flight. She’d been the Masons’ daughter for over a decade, but she was still waiting for the moment when her mom might call, might toss a bottle at her window, might want her or, at least, need her.