Christopher Chase stared at the tiny clock in the computer's taskbar. 8:45 PM. "I'm the last one again," he said aloud, the sound of his voice echoing through the old factory building. Chris regularly worked late; it was just part of the job. At the age of nineteen, with only a high school education, he felt lucky to have the job at all. Still, being a full time support technician, aside from his role as an unofficial and underpaid junior programmer, gave new meaning to the phrase "low man on the totem pole." He was more like the guy who waited on the park bench across the street from the totem pole, praying for the day they decided to make it just one face taller. That would only help him if the three guys on the bench with him would quit or drop dead before that day ever came.

        He was not just working late because his job demanded long hours, Chris was in no rush to get home tonight. He could picture the blinking red light on the answering machine. He'd listened to the message last night. He had played it again three times this morning, making him miss the early train. He'd even called home during lunch to see whether it was still there. Not once had he been able to erase the damned thing.

        Chris stared at the empty cubicles through the darkness. The motion sensor lights kicked in every night at six. He had to shuffle around in his chair every so often to keep his cubicle lighted. He realized that he must have been shuffling unconsciously for over two hours. Come to think of it, he hadn't left his desk since he got in that morning. Of course, that was what he was paid to do- answer the phones, run errands. If he were lucky, one of the programmers would toss him a few hundred lines of code to debug.

        Last week, all of it had made him happy. Sure, his life wasn't going quite as he hoped, but he had no complaints. Today was different. Today he'd realized just how insignificant he really was.

        Leaning back in his chair, Chris grabbed his cell phone off the shelf behind him and shoved it into his oversized leather jacket, the sudden motion triggering the lights again. He squinted and decided that he much preferred sitting in the dark. He slipped on his sunglasses, shut down his computer, and walked toward the back exit.

        Feeling his pockets, Chris made a last minute check to see if he had his wallet, keys, and cell phone- his end-of-work ritual. Chris didn't rate high enough in the pecking order to have an office key. If he forgot anything, it'd be locked in for the night. He felt his keys in his front pocket then wandered down the hallway. When the elevator arrived, he stepped in and his mind snapped back to the clock in his taskbar. "8:45?" he choked. "Shit! I'm going to miss the train again!"

        Chris sprinted out of the elevator and passed the guard in the front lobby. He nearly lost his footing on the icy stairs as he took off down the empty city sidewalk. The downtown crowds were thin this late at night. He ran four city blocks, weaving between a handful of businessmen in wool overcoats.

        His sneakers shimmied on frozen pavement as he rounded the corner and trampled down the stairs into the train station; the place he referred to as the "Salt Mine." It was a dreary cavern filled with magazine stands, junk food, and stale air. Flickering fluorescents illuminated the faces of tired people, making their skin look dead like ground beef that had been in the fridge one day too long.

        He hurried past them, the squeaking of his sneakers echoing off the walls. Chris stopped in front of the monitors showing departures. He clenched his fist and swung at the air. "Shit!" he growled, pacing angrily, and cursing himself for missing yet another train. There was nothing worse than missing a train by a few minutes only to be trapped in the Salt Mine for an hour.

        "I have a car," he muttered to himself, "I should just drive to work." Indeed, he did own a car, in the loosest sense of the word. It was a car, in that it had four wheels, a steering column, and you could fill it with gas. Whether it would start, or how far it would go was up for debate. Just driving it ten miles to his local station was risky. Even if he had a car that he could drive in the daylight without feeling ashamed, he could barely afford to pay for the gas and parking that driving to the city on a daily basis would require.

        With sunken shoulders, Chris resigned himself to loitering around the Salt Mine, casting about for anything to occupy him. Businessmen on the way home from late nights at the office walked back and forth and leafed through their papers, shuffling around like zombies, consuming coffee and stock reports. Chris shuffled along with them. He had nothing to read, no iPod to play, nothing to distract him. He had nothing to go home to, either.

        After aimlessly walking the circuit for twenty minutes, Chris surveyed the vendors on the South side of the station. Only two stores were still open; a magazine stand and the liquor store. Chris didn't think that a bag of M&M's or The Times was going to do it for him tonight. He stepped into the liquor store, hoping to buy something that would take his mind off life, or at least dull his senses to the point where he didn't care about it anymore. He realized this was a long shot, but he had time to kill and nothing to lose.

        Chris walked into the store, past a man counting money in an ancient cash register. The cashier was a tall, balding man with an angular nose and bushy eyebrows. He licked his thumb before counting each stack of bills. Chris kept his head down as he went to the refrigerators against the back wall. He watched the cashier in the reflection of the fridge door while he grabbed a bottle of beer, thinking maybe the guy would be too tired or too busy to notice that Chris was under age.

        Chris tried to keep his cool as he approached the counter. The man put down the cash and eyed Chris like a vulture looks at something that wasn't quite dead yet. "Stop right there kid-o," the cashier said with a sly smirk. "Why don't you put the beer back and go get some sodey-pop."

        "Aren't you even going to card me?" Chris mumbled.

        "Kid," replied the cashier, "Ain't nobody has to card you to know you ain't old enough to drink. Hell, you don't even look old enough to be up this late."

        "Yeah..." Chris sighed. He placed the beer on the counter then grabbed a soda out of a barrel of ice next to the register. "I'll just have a Coke."

        The cashier's snide glare faded. Obviously, life had kicked this kid while he was down and it didn't need any help finishing the job. "Hey, look ..." the cashier said as he took Chris' money, "It can't be that bad, right?"

        Chris nodded insincerely.

        The cashier flashed a yellow-toothed grin and slid a scratch-off lottery ticket across the counter. "Here, have a play. No charge."

        "Thanks, I appreciate it, but with my luck, I'll blow that too."

        The man behind the counter gave Chris a sturdy pat on the side of the shoulder. "I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you'd be surprised how fast things can change. Sometimes so fast you never even seen it coming."

        Chris nodded again and went to join the other loiterers out in the station, staring at the Coke, wondering why he'd even bought it. Looking back through the shop window, he watched the cashier flick the lights off for the night.

        With the lights extinguished, Chris saw his reflection in the front window. He was tall and lanky, like everyone on his father's side of the family. At least, that's what his mother had always told him. His blond, nearly shoulder length hair was thin and greasy, and frayed at the ends like an old broom straw. He wondered if he'd even showered that morning, but he couldn't remember. What did it even matter anyway?

        He stared into his face. Except for his height, you'd have a hard time guessing his age. He had the baby face of a sixteen-year old. In the pale light you couldn't even make out the sparse, blonde stubble on his chin. If he were lucky, they would still be carding him when he was forty. The only thing about Chris' face that looked old was his eyes. There were bags under his green eyes and his pupils were dull. Was it the endless grind? Getting home in the middle of the night and going to work before the sun came up? Or was it listening to that message over and over again?

        The whistle of a train jostled Chris out of his self pity. Pulling his jacket tightly around himself, he walked out the other side of the Salt Mine to the open platform on the harbor. The leather jacket was obviously too big for him and did little to protect him from the harsh winter wind blowing across the open water. The coat was never about keeping warm. He'd gotten it for a song, thinking it would make him look cool. As Amy had pointed out a million times, being buried in a coat three sizes too big only accentuated his thin frame.

        Chris hurried across the freezing platform and up the steep steps into the train. He walked through mostly deserted cars, finally sinking into a window seat. How much of his life, he wondered, was wasted in these in-between places? How much time wandering the Salt Mine or sitting on trains? Being stuck in the in-between places always made time drag.

        Reaching into the front of his shirt, he grabbed his necklace, clenching it tightly in his hand. It was just a small metal gear on a plain silver chain. He squeezed it until the teeth on the tiny wheel dug small indentations into his palm. This always centered him when things were out of control. He closed his eyes until he felt the train lurch forward underneath him.

        Once the train left the station, Chris tried to sleep, but it was no use; his body was spent, but his mind was overrun by rapid thoughts. He stared out the window, even though watching the passing objects made him feel a little sick. It was a kind of poor man's hypnosis; tree shapes and streetlights streaked past in the dark. Cars drove by under elevated tracks. It wasn't as good as sleeping, but it induced a sort of trance that muted the noise in his head.

        It was over an hour before he reached his station. Just another hour lost in-between. It was painful to think about it. Chris didn't really want to stay at work, but he certainly didn't want to go home either. He stepped out of the train and clung to the ice encased iron railings on the platform stairs. Chris carefully stepped down each step to the parking lot. He clutched the front of his leather jacket tightly and contemplated how it would feel to not have to go home. He fantasized about stepping outside of himself for a while. What a relief it would be to be someone else. Someone with somewhere to go home to. Someone Amy would want to be with.

        The night air nipped at his bare knuckles. Chris rubbed his hands together and reached into his pocket for the keys to his old Saab. He'd worked three summers in high school to save enough money for a used car. Someone used to love this car. For a while, he had too. Now it was just something that barely shuttled him to and from the station. The car still had salt stains on the tires from a long and punishing winter. Though there was no snow left on the ground and the beginning of spring was merely days away, the nights were still frigid.

        Chris sleepwalked through the drive home. He pulled into the frozen, dirt driveway behind his crumbling apartment building and turned off the engine. Dark silhouettes lurked in the rear view mirror. It was probably the junkies going out behind the dumpster again, or perhaps some homeless people. It didn't faze him anymore. It was the sort of thing you saw a lot of in his neighborhood.

        His place was on the outskirts of the city; too far away to be in the city, yet not far enough to be in the suburbs. It was where you went when you couldn't afford to live anywhere else. Chris locked the car, went around to the front of his apartment building, unlocked the heavy glass door, and ignored his mail box. He could still remember the first time he'd gone through those doors. It was his first apartment. He was on his own, and out from under Danny's thumb. It had made him proud, made him feel like a man.

        Once, he'd thought of the place as his castle, but today it looked more like the slum that everyone else saw when they drove by. He lugged himself up the six flights of stairs to his floor. As usual, the hallway was abandoned. There was never anyone coming or going at the hour Chris came home. His body dropped against his door as he turned the key in the lock. Pressing against the door, he stumbled forward into the living room under his own weight. The place was pitch black, punctuated only by the blinking red light of the answering machine.

         Moving groggily though the void, Chris brushed his fingers against the play button before going into his bedroom. He laid down on his bed, still dressed, and listened to her voice in the other room.

        "Chris, it's Amy. God, I really didn't want to do it this way. I wanted to tell you in person ... I guess ... I just didn't know if I could say it to your face. The thing is, I'm leaving. I'm sure this isn't a surprise. You and I ... it worked in high school, but it's just different now. We're not really the same people any more and we've been really distant lately. I know you work all the time, but it's not just that. We're in different places. I'll be done with my degree in a few years and after that I don't know ... maybe I want to see the world, or maybe just try some new things. We just don't have anything in common anymore. It's not that I don't love you anymore- it's just that we've gone about as far as we're gonna go. And you need to know that I met someone else. It's not like I planned it. I didn't go looking to start something."

        God, Chris wondered, why did it take so long for her to say she didn't want him anymore?

        "It just sort of happened. Brian's a writer too."

        Why did she have to say his name?

        "We're kinda in the same place right now and it just felt right. I never wanted to hurt you. God, I know how hypocritical that sounds when I'm dumping you on a voice mail. I guess ... I just didn't want to tell you to your face cause I know it would break my heart."

        Now she's worried about broken hearts.

        "I know that pretty much makes me a coward."

        Yes.

        "It's true. You always said I wasn't good with confrontation. That's why I've already moved my stuff out. You know what I say- just rip the Band-Aid off. It always hurts less that way in the end. Anyway ... I'm sorry. A part of me is always going to love you. I just know this is the best thing for the both of us."

        Chris pulled his pillow tightly over his head. How long had Amy been seeing this guy? Had it been right under his nose? How could he not tell something was wrong? Had he missed some sign? He ran through the last year in his mind looking for something- anything to explain it. How many times had he listened to the message? Five times? Ten? He couldn't even remember. He wasn't even sure what day it was. He had to delete the message in the morning; he couldn't take listening to that again. Of course, these were the same thoughts he had every time he heard the message. This time was just like the last time he listened to Amy dump him, except this time there was another message waiting after Amy's.

        "Chris, it's your mother. Are you there? Pick up if you're there. You haven't called in months ... Dammit, you're still my son, and you won't return my calls. God! I know you enjoy hurting me, but this is just beyond. Even for you."

        This was just like every conversation Chris ever had with his mother. She was always the martyr and Chris was always the ungrateful child. He normally found this routine infuriating, but he was far too numb to take it seriously.

        "One day you're going to grow up and realize that the world doesn't revolve around you. Other people deserve happiness too. Just because you and Danny don't get along, doesn't mean you get to cut me out of your life."

        Don't get along, Chris thought. His mother had a thing for understatement.

        "I expect to hear from you tomorrow."

        Chris hadn't spoken with his mother for at least four months, and that message didn't make him want to jump out of bed and call her back. He wondered if he had been home when she called, would he have picked up? Chris didn't want to talk to his mother, but he didn't have anyone else to talk to. Amy left him, and there wasn't even anyone to tell. Chris pulled the pillow back over his head and made a mental note to erase both messages in the morning.

 

        Chris slammed the snooze button on the alarm clock for the third time. He knew that if he kept this up, he'd miss his train and be late again. He didn't need to be in trouble at work on top of everything else that was going wrong. He reasoned that if he got up and went to work, he'd at least be somewhere else. He wouldn't be in the bed that they used to sleep in together. That thought, more than the alarm clock going off again, got Chris out of bed and into the shower.

        After a quick shower, Chris tossed on some jeans and a sweatshirt and headed for the living room. Christ, had Amy owned everything? There were no pictures on the walls, no vase on the table, no plants on the windowsill. Amy had left Chris all the furniture, but all the flourishes that made the place a home were gone. Chris knew her clothes weren't in the closet anymore. Her side of the underwear drawer was empty. Her toothbrush, he realized, even her toothbrush was gone. There was nothing on the walls other than the cracks in the plaster.

        Chris left- no he fled his apartment. Other than the sound of Amy's voice playing over and over again in his head, it was a standard morning. Drive to the station. Sit on the train. Sit at his desk. How pointless it seemed. Chris tried to concentrate on work, but it was no use. He sat in his cubicle and engaged in the twenty-first century version of thumb twiddling. He skimmed news stories online. He rearranged the icons on his desktop. He even started defragmenting his hard drive. Most of it could be misconstrued as work from a distance, but Chris knew better. If he hadn't substituted caffeine for sleep all week, he might even have cared.

        "Chris," Mr Patel said as he tapped Chris on the shoulder.

        "Uh, Mr. Patel ..." Chris responded quickly enough that Mr. Patel didn't notice how little Chris was accomplishing. Mr. Patel was a distinguished looking Indian man. He wore a pressed suit every day, and he always stood up perfectly straight. Chris looked up to him. He was not only Chris' boss, he was also the co-founder of the company. It was Mr. Patel who decided to give Chris a break even though he had virtually no experience. "I didn't even realize you were back."

        "I got in late last night."

        "What can I do for you today?" Chris asked. Mr. Patel was a goal oriented man. He never stopped by to make small talk. It was one of the many things Chris admired about him.

        "Chris, Unitech just bought a license for the inventory application. They need someone on site to help them get up and running." Mr. Patel rolled a spare office chair into Chris' area and sat down. "I was thinking- you've been supporting the inventory group for a while now. You've even had your hand in the code to some extent. I think you're just the man to go out in the field and get them up to speed."

        Chris perked up. He'd never been sent out on a service call before. Usually that sort of work was reserved for someone more skilled or at least more important. "Yeah," he grinned. "I could do that. But ... doesn't Jim handle that stuff? I mean, inventory is really his project. Not that I don't want to go," he assured his boss.

        Mr. Patel lowered his voice and slid closer to Chris. "Chris, keep this to yourself ... Jim is leaving the company. He got another offer and he decided to move on."

        "Why would Jim leave?" Chris asked.

        "Jim left because he wanted to leave. In the meantime, we'll just have to pull some double duty until we hire someone new." Mr. Patel stood up and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm not sending you because Jim left, I want you to go because you're the man for the job. Can I count on you?"

        Chris nodded. "You got it. I know how to set up the inventory system- hell I've done it dozens of times over the phone. Doing it in person should be a breeze."

        "Excellent Chris, just excellent," grinned Mr. Patel. "I knew you'd be up for it. So I need you to spend the rest of the day making arrangements and gathering documentation."

        "Arrangements?" Chris asked.

        "Yes. Unitech is in Ardmore. It's quite a trip. I need you there on Wednesday. You can expense your gas, your hotel room ... anything you need."

        "I'll get on it right now."

        "You're helping us out more than you know," Mr. Patel said, very pleased with Chris' enthusiasm. "Take the whole week. Take your time getting there and when you're done, take some time off. You've been putting in late hours. Don't think I haven't noticed." Mr. Patel slapped Chris on the back and left him to his work.

        The disk defragmenter's status bar was only one quarter complete. Chris felt a volcanic surge of guilt and clicked the cancel button. It was true that he'd been putting in long hours all week, but he'd hardly accomplished anything. Ever since Amy's message, he'd been paralyzed. It was as if he were looking out a grime covered window in a train car- the world was far away and speeding past, and he just sat there.

        This was his chance. A whole week to get away. And it was an opportunity to move out of his nobody status at work. It was just what he needed. Maybe, if he would focus all his attention on the job, it would keep him from feeling sorry for himself. It might distract him from the thought that he should call Amy and beg her to take him back.

        Collecting all the documentation he could find, Chris spent the rest of the day organizing it. The task was so engrossing that he continued shuffling and rearranging pages on the train. Before he knew it, he was at his station and on the way home.

        Chris opened the door to his apartment and walked in with his chin held high. Amy thought he was a nobody with no future. She was wrong, he thought. This trip was going to be his ticket. Even his mother thought he was a failure. He would prove them both wrong. All that was left now was the details. He signed on to his computer and checked his bank account- more than enough money for the trip. He looked around and thought about what he needed to pack. As he scanned the apartment, he saw the flashing red light on the answering machine. He walked over to the machine and pressed play.

        "Chris it's Amy. God, I really didn't want to do it this way. I wanted to tell you in person ..."

        That was the last time he was going to hear Amy's voice. She was the one who cheated on him, he thought. He wasn't going to plead with her and he certainly wasn't going to listen to that message one more time. He hit delete and breathed a sigh of relief.

        MESSAGE DELETED.

        As the tension left his shoulders, he noticed for the first time that his jaw was sore from being continually clenched for the past week. This part of his life was over. Then he heard his mother's voice.

        "Chris, it's your mother. Are you there? Pick up if you're there."

        MESSAGE DELETED.

        The only two women in Chris' life had been nothing but trouble. Even though he hadn't actually spoken with them, deleting those messages felt as good as if he'd told them off to their faces. Some day they'd be sorry for that kind of crappy treatment.

        Chris went back to the computer and pulled up a mapping site. He searched for "Ardmore" and his jaw dropped when the results came back. "Seven-hundred miles?" he gasped. Seven-hundred miles; he did the math on his fingers. It had to be twelve hours of driving. Could he drive that far in one day? Even if he could, would his car last?' "Fuck me," he uttered.

        He scoured the travel sites looking for more information. It would work if he left on Monday; two days there, two days back. Not much of a vacation, but at least it would get him out of his apartment, he thought.

        It took a mere ten minutes to arrange for a modest hotel room in Ardmore near Unitech's headquarters. All he needed now was a place to bed down at some halfway point. The only problem was, it didn't look like there was a decent halfway point. The mapping site sent him via the most direct route- through the mountains and into the heart of the middle of nowhere. It crossed ground too remote even for the residents of East Bumblefuck. He searched for hours. There were no hotels, motels, or hostels. Not a single bed and breakfast or road house. Even the campgrounds were closed for the winter. There were plenty of places to stay just two hours north of the city, but that wasn't going to cut it. "Dammit!" Chris cursed. He wasn't going to give up that easily. He looked at the clock; it was already one in the morning. He'd just have to solve the problem tomorrow.

        Chris got dressed for bed. He took off his shirt and looked in the mirror at his bare chest where his necklace fell. He squeezed his gear necklace and promised himself that he'd find a way to make everything work, even if he wasn't sure how right now.

 

        Saturday morning came and went as Chris called around, looking for a place to stay. After lunch he decided to take a break and clean out his car. His car certainly wasn't going to make a great impression on the Unitech guys, but he wanted look as professional as he could manage. When he came back inside, the phone was ringing. Was it Amy? Chris knotted his brow and stared at the phone. If it was her, he wasn't going to pick up. No fucking way. The phone rang as though the sound constituted its end of a staring contest. Chris stared back and lost. He felt a tightness in his chest and made a mad swipe for the receiver.

        "Hello?" he stuttered.

        "Chris, it's your mother. I thought I raised you to have some manners. Apparently I left out returning phone calls."

        "Hey Mom." At least it wasn't Amy. "Look, I've been busy at work ... I've been kinda meaning to call ..."

        "Well if you're trying to hurt me mister, you're doing one hell of a job." Chris' mother held a black belt in guilt-trip-fu. She could beat a man to death in front of a cop and then convince him that she was the victim.

        "I'm sorry. So what's is it this time?"

        "As I'm sure you've forgotten, Wednesday is your stepfather's birthday. I would appreciate it if you-"

        "You're shitting me, right?"

        "Chris, don't talk to me that way."

        "Come on Mom," Chris spat, "You don't seriously think that I'm showing up for that sonofabitch?"

        "Well I thought maybe you were over your rebellious phase by now."

        "Yeah Mom, it's the same old story. You always take Danny's side and that's just all there is to it."

        "That's not fair, Chris," she responded in her best wounded voice.

        "Maybe it's not fair, but that's the way it is. You know what? I can't make it. I have a very important business trip next week."

        "A trip?" she asked.

        "Yeah. I go on business trips all the time," he gloated.

        "Where are you going?"

        "Ardmore," he answered. "I'm visiting some company you've probably never heard of."

        "They're flying you all the way to Ardmore?"

        "Well ... no," he said. "I'm driving." Chris glanced at his computer and sighed. "Actually I'm having a hard time figuring out where I'm staying on the way. I keep looking over the map and all I see are small towns like Franklin's Notch ... Waterford ... Oak Grove ... There's one place called Dover, but it's some sort of resort town. I can't afford to stay there."

        "What did you say?" Chris' mother asked.

        "Dover ... yeah I dunno. It's the biggest dot on the map."

        "No, before that."

        "What, Oak Grove?"

        "Yes ... that one ..." she said. "Why do I know that name?"

        "Look, I dunno," Chris sighed. "And frankly I need to figure this out so-"

        "I remember." Chris' mother said with a hint of melancholy. "You have cousins there."

        "Mom, I think you've flipped. We don't have any cousins."

        "Well, you do. They're distant relatives of your father's."

        It was as though she dropped an atom bomb on the conversation. "On Dad's side of the family?" he asked. Chris twisted the phone cord nervously around his fingers. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

        "I forgot. I haven't thought of it in years. Before you were born, your father started a family tree. It was this kick he got on once we were pregnant. I remember how excited he was when he found out about them. He tracked them down and sent them a letter, but I don't think they ever responded."

        "How come you never told me?" Chris interrupted, "Do you know ... who are they? Can I call them?"

        "Chris, I don't know if any of that stuff made it ... Hold on."

        Chris waited by the phone, twisting the cord around his hand so tightly that the tips of his fingers turned red.

        A few minutes later, Chris' mother returned to the phone. "I can't believe I still have it. It was in the basement with the rest of your father's things."

        "Well, is there a number?" he asked.

        "No, there's just an address for Alek and Misha- Levchenko."

        "Levchenko?" Chris repeated.

        "Yeah they were fresh off the boat, if you know what I mean," she sniped.

        Chris grabbed a sticky note and pen. "Mom," he demanded, "The address. What's the address?"

        "Chris, this address is twenty years old, and they never wrote back. They probably don't even live there anymore."

        Chris mumbled, "Please."

        Chris listened patiently as his mother read out the address. He scribbled it down and pressed the sticky note on the frame of his monitor.

        "Don't get your hopes up, Chris." It was meant to be the one nice thing his mother had said all night.

        "I won't. Look, I'm not going to call strangers out of the blue and crash on their couch. I just might ... I dunno ... I'll check it out if I'm in the area. I'm gonna go. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

        "Call me when you get back," Chris' mother insisted.

        "Yeah okay. Goodbye."

        Chris hung up the phone. His mother had no real expectation that Chris would call nor did he have any real intention of calling. This was the same story they'd been acting out since he left home. He didn't even feel bad about it anymore. He was, however, grateful that his mother had caught him tonight.

        Chris stared at the address on the tiny yellow paper. His father's family, he thought. He'd never met anyone from his father's side of the family. He opened a new browser window and went to a phone directory website. He typed in "Alek Levchenko" and the address. Nothing. He tried "Misha Levchenko." Still nothing. Then he tried just the last name "Levchenko" in Oak Grove. There was one listing for an "A. Levchenko." It had to be them. How many Levchenkos could there be? Taking the sticky note down, he added the phone number under the address. He then stuck it back onto the side of his monitor and stared at the ink, not knowing whether he had the courage to call.

        Leaving the computer, Chris walked into his bedroom. It looked like a laundry truck had exploded, and there were no survivors. He dipped his foot into the rising tide of dirty clothes on the floor and shifted it into two distinct piles: dirty clothes to be washed for the trip, and dirty clothes that would spend the next week still dirty.

        He'd never bought into the laundry propagandists who insisted that there was a difference between whites and colors when it came to washing clothes, so he just shoved the top of the to-be-cleaned pile into a trash bag. Standing back up, he hoisted the clothes over his shoulder. As he walked back through the living room, he eyed the sticky note. He stared at it until he closed the door on the way to the basement.

        When he returned from the downstairs laundry, his eyes again went to the yellow slip, but he walked right past the note, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He bent down and started scooping the rest of the clothes into another trash bag. Cousins, he thought. He had cousins. What were they like?

        Suddenly, doing laundry seemed like the most unimportant thing in the world. Chris went back into the living room and ripped the sticky note off the monitor. He pressed his finger against the sticky edge and pulled it off repeatedly until the glue went dry. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number.

        One ring...

        Two rings...

        Three ...

        Chris hesitated for a moment. What was he expecting? These people had no idea who he was. This was crazy. He began to put the phone back down when he heard a young girl's voice.

        "Hello?"

        Chris hesitated.

        "Hello?" she repeated.

        Chris felt his throat tighten up. He managed to speak, though nervously and somewhat under his breath. "Hi," he said. "Um ... is this the Levchenko residence?"

        "Yes ... who are you?"

        "I'm your cousin ... your cousin Chris."

        "Chris?" the girl said, "I don't remember any cousin Chris."

        "Well you wouldn't, I mean ... that is ... well, we've never met. My name is Chris Chase."

        "Chris Chase?" the girl repeated.

        "Yeah," Chris said sheepishly. Chris heard the name "Chase" repeated by an older woman in the background.

        "Nina, did you say 'Chase?'" asked the voice in the distance. He head the phone being placed down, and he heard the girl say, "Yes Mom. It's our cousin I think?" Chris heard the phone being picked up, and Nina's voice was replaced by that of a much older woman's.

        "Hello?"

        Chris had never heard such a friendly voice. It felt like the first day of Spring after a long Winter. He reflexively grinned, though his voice was still soft and shaky. "Is this Misha? My name's Chris. I'm ... that is ... my father ... Alexander Chase is my father."

        "Goodness!" Misha exclaimed. "Alexander Chase! That is a name I have not heard in a very long time." She had a distinct Russian accent. "What was your name again, dear?"

        "Chris," he repeated in a small voice. Chris wanted to relax, but he was too excited to be speaking with someone who perhaps knew his father.

        "Alexander, he wrote us so long ago, but we haven't heard anything in years."

        "Did you know him?"

        "We never met. There was just the letter."

        "Oh," Chris said dejectedly.

        "But what a good surprise to hear from you, child! Tell me, why did you call?"

        "I just wanted to get in touch ... that and ... well, I'm embarrassed to even ask ... I ..." Chris tried to find the words to ask this complete stranger to let him into her home.

        "What is it, dear?" she asked.

        "I ..." Chris struggled.

        "You should come and visit." It was as though the older woman was reading Chris' mind. "We'd love to hear all about you and your family. You are our only relatives in this country."

        "Actually, the reason I was calling- I'm driving all the way from the city to Ardmore on Monday, and I'll be passing by Oak Grove ... I was wondering, if it wasn't an inconvenience ... if I could-"

        "Inconvenience?" Misha interrupted. "No, no! You MUST stay here."

        "It would only just be for one night," Chris blurted, "I don't want to impose ..."

        "Nonsense!" Misha beamed. "We would love to have you as our guest. We have a spare room- I'll start making it up right now."

        Chris could hear Nina's voice in the background again. "Someone's coming to visit?" She sounded very excited.

        "Thank you, it would really help me out." Chris paused for a moment then added, "And I would really like to meet you."

        "You must tell me all about yourself. How old are you? What is your father doing these days? There's so much to know!" Misha was genuinely excited. It was more than Chris could have hoped for.

        "Well, I'm nineteen, and ..." As much as Chris was excited to talk with this woman, he felt very uncomfortable talking about his father.

        "Listen to me dear," Misha said, sensing Chris' reluctance, "It is very late and I am asking you so many questions. We shall have time to talk when you get here."

        Chris quickly exchanged some information with his cousin. He jotted down directions to her house, and he gave her his cell phone number. Chris mapped the path to Oak Grove on the computer and concluded that it would take around eight hours to get there. It was more driving than he wanted to do in one day, but it was better than sleeping in his car.

        "Ok, so, I should be there around seven or eight o'clock at night, if there's no traffic." Chris said.

         "That late?" Misha asked.

        "I'll try to get there earlier but-"

        "No," Misha interrupted, "Take all the time you need, we will wait up for you."

        "Thank you." Chris' face was covered by a goofy grin. "I guess I should go. I'm still packing ...."

        "Of course," Misha said. "Call us if you get lost or need anything. Goodnight child."

        "Goodnight."

        Somehow, Misha's goodnight made him feel as though she'd reached through the phone and given him a hug. Chris wondered what she looked like. He wondered, did she look like his father? Was she even directly related, or was it her husband Alek? And Nina; Chris had a cousin named Nina. How old was she?

        Chris printed out all the directions for his trip and went to bed. He couldn't stop thinking about meeting his relatives. He wished that he had the entire week to get to know them, not just one night. Still, even one night was something. As of yesterday, he didn't know he had cousins. On Monday, he was going to meet them.

 

        Chris had spent all of Sunday washing clothes and packing. He wanted to make a good impression on the people at Unitech, but more importantly, he wanted to make a good impression on his cousin Misha. When Monday morning came around, he was exhausted. His excitement over his trip and meeting his cousins had kept him awake all night. Even with his lack of sleep, he got up early. There was no way he was going to start his trip one minute later than he'd planned.

        After Chris called Mr. Patel, he carried his suitcase downstairs to his car, took off his jacket and threw it in the back seat. It was still chilly out, but he was going to spend hours on end in a heated car. The jacket was just too large to be comfortable for driving. He put his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and threw his suitcase into the back seat with his jacket.

        After shutting the back door, Chris slid into the driver's seat. He had his maps, his phone, and a full tank of gas. All that was left now was a lot of driving.

---

Thanks to Holly H. Hart and Tiffany Jean for editing help with this chapter!