Disclaimer: I do not own anything here.
Rating: PG
Summary: One explanation for a photograph.
It's a small gravestone, but to Katya it still seems far too large for the passing that it commemorates. It seems faintly ridiculous that such a short life should merit such a costly memorial.
"It wasn't your fault."
Irina says it as if stating a fact, not to give her sibling comfort. Perhaps it's true, perhaps not. She doesn't have an answer.
Katya has realized that it is unimportant, anyway. It no longer matters that she did not want a child, that she resented her daughter from the moment she first realized she was pregnant. Nor does it matter that she wept a river when she died, suddenly and for no reason at all. It has come down to the same thing, a lump of cold stone and a few photographs she can't bear to look at.
"I have to go," Irina says, putting a hand on Katya's shoulder.
She means that she must leave the country, not that they should go in out of the cold of the cemetery. Katya would like to be angry with her sister for leaving her with nobody but Elena - nobody with any sense, anyway - at a time like this, but she knows that the work is important. If having a baby made her feel grown up, then losing her has made her ancient. Her sister could be stuck in America for years, playing the dutiful housewife of some grey CIA man, but she will manage somehow.
"I understand. I doubt the KGB would be pleased if you pulled out now because your little sister needs a shoulder to cry on."
Irina half smiles. "You must promise to be sensible while I'm away, Katya."
Katya knows what Irina means - not to get herself pregnant to any more strangers whose last names she doesn't even know - but she smiles back, for the first time in a week. "I have resolved never to be sensible again." Even a few months of motherhood gave her enough of that for one lifetime.
"I thought as much," Irina sighs.
"Don't worry for me, Irochka." Irina has somehow outgrown the diminutive, but Katya knows with certainty that she will never be staid Ekaterina, who sounds like somebody's mother, again. "I'm made of stronger stuff than you think."
"You can start again," Irina says.
Katya thinks that there will be no more children. Yelena lacks the interest, Irina the opportunity and Katya herself the nerve to go through with it again. There will only be the three of them. Perhaps she should join the KGB herself. It was what she'd wanted before, and there is nothing now to stop her from following in her sisters' footsteps.
"I will," she agrees, knowing that she doesn't mean the same thing that her sister meant.
She bends over the gravestone and kisses it, finding it even colder than the corpse of her child. If she wishes that she had something to hold her back or tie her down, that no longer matters either.
The End