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like.”
    Anna didn’t look worried anymore.

5
    D ID YOU BRING the wine?” Grandma asks hopefully as soon as he’s closed the door.
    She looks as if she’s shrunken in just one day, dignified and nullified at the same time, like an absurd accessory that’s gone out of style. Her eyes, deep in their sockets, like a starved animal—a raccoon, or a panda. Hair in a wisp.
    She called just as Anna was leaving her apartment. She was whispering, and Anna could tell she was keeping the call secret from Grandpa. There’s one more thing that I want, she said. Anna had imagined an escape to a carnival, a joy ride in the car, a train trip to Moscow. But she wanted some wine.
    â€œSyrah—good choice,” she says. “Let’s have a shindig. Let’s go out and sit on the swing.”
    â€œMom wouldn’t like it if she knew.”
    Grandma flutters a dismissive hand in the air.
    â€œThat’s to be expected. Mothers become children to their daughters, and daughters turn maternal. When you get to a certain age, you end up doing things behind your children’s backs. But you know what? I intend to drink a few glasses of wine, regardless of what your mother thinks.”
    She tilts her head back and lets out a little titter.
    â€œIt’ll be a death sentence for me,” Anna hears herself say. It makes her smile.
    Grandma is unfazed. “Only if your mother finds out.”
    Anna puts her bag down. She can let go of her uneasiness, loosen up. Grandma doesn’t seem tired.
    â€œWe can have a proper talk,” Grandma says. “Woman to woman, you know? Like they do in movies. Talk it all out. Since we have so little time left.”
    She takes the bottle and disappears momentarily into the kitchen.
    Anna looks at the living room and library, lingers for a moment at the door to her mother’s old room.
    Molla is in her cradle dreaming endless dreams with one eye closed. When did she lose that eye? Was it torn off?
    The dollhouse is in its usual place. It was a stage for hopes and dreams when she was a child. The woman of the house is sitting in front of a teeny tiny piano as if she’s about to play it. Somewhere, maybe in the cradle, out of sight, is a baby doll. The larger child is deep asleep in the nursery next to the doll piano room.
    The familiar joy of childhood comes over Anna. She would close the door to the world and get down on her knees, imagining a whole new reality. Sometimes when she stayed at her grandma’s house she would wake up at night and play with the dolls. Night bent the rules, broke the firm boundaries of day, and the dolls seemed alive.
    Maria would be sleeping on the mattress, snuffling, Anna careful not to wake her, wanting to play by herself.
    As long as the game was hers and no one knew about it, anything was possible. There was no time. There were no hours. No room, no bed. No rocking horse in the corner. Even she herself wasn’t really there. She melted into the shadows of the miniature rooms and was nothing but will, molding itself to fit the life of the dolls. Sometimes she was the mother’s voice, sometimes the child’s, sometimes the father’s.
    The only thing that bothered her was that Molla was too big for this little world. But she still brought Molla along to play sometimes. She would look at the life of the little house through the windows with her one eye. The effect was more fearsome than benevolent—Anna understood that even as a child.
    She takes Molla from her bed, rocks her in her arms. The doll smiles, an ancient scar on her lip—it got torn at some time during play and was sewn back together. Nevertheless, Molla is happy and trusting: there’s nothing to be afraid of!
    â€œREMEMBER WHEN YOU stole Molla?” Grandma asks.
    Anna gives a start. She didn’t hear her come to the door.
    â€œI remember. I hid her for a week. I don’t know why I was so attached to