"It was a long time ago," Kirill says.
"Not that long. I don't understand why you refuse to do theater since we moved here."
"I'm not interested anymore," Kirill says, but it's not very convincing. Kirill's annoyance seems to be masking something else. Other than being embarrassed, he looks a little sad.
"I don't believe that," his father says. "You were so passionate about it for many years."
"Now I'm not." Kirill stands up and grabs a couple of the plates. "Let's clean up."
Once everything has been washed and put away, Kirill's father declares that he needs to take a birthday nap and disappears into his bedroom.
"He doesn't get enough sleep," Kirill tells you. "Lobstermen work strange hours."
Up in Kirill's room, Kirill still can't seem to shake off his performance. His cheeks are still pink, and he can't look you in the eye.
A strange feeling pokes at you, one that's been trying to get your attention since you met Mr. Sorokin. You never had the opportunity to feel embarrassed of your dad in this way. Ashamed, yes, and resentful, of course. But he never embarrassed you by being overly proud of you. You're not sure if what you're feeling is envy, anger, grief, or just confusion, but you can't imagine a world in which it was just you and your dad. Kirill's family life seems almost fantastical to you.
As you sit down at Kirill's desk, you notice something odd on top of it. There are about six pages of loose leaf paper with scribbles all over them. You don't read Russian, but you've seen it enough times that you know this isn't it. This doesn't look like any language.
"What is this?" you ask.
"Ah, that," Kirill says, his face reddening even more. "It's nothing."
You look over at him, and after a moment, he relents.
"It's automatic writing. Or it was supposed to be. It's when you try writing while asking a spirit to communicate through you, and they use your hand to write their words. As you can see, it didn't work."
"Who were you trying to talk to?" you ask. "Not something having to do with the fog, right?"
"No," he says. "My mom."
On his desk, there's a picture of a little boy and a smiling woman. That must be her.
Damn. You hadn't realized his mom was no longer around. Nobody ever mentioned it. Now his enthusiasm for all things afterlife-related makes more sense.