Page 49 of Reckless Woman
He says it lightly, but his nonchalance belies the truth. He takes a sadistic pride in carrying outallof the threats he issues.
Please God, don’t let there be any more delays.I need those damn doctors here with me. I’m brave, but I’m not that brave.
When the pain eases off, I gently push his hands away. “I’m going to give Ella a quick kiss before her naptime.”
“Hmm.”
He’s busy checking a message on his cell. He raises the device to his ear as I step into the hallway. “Bring her up to the house,” he orders, following me out. “We’ll talk in my office…wait, Eve.”
I turn, and he catches my mouth in an all-consuming kiss. “This won’t take long, my angel,” he says, muffling the cell against his chest as he runs a cool finger down my cheek. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“With the doctors,” I say pointedly.
“Or dismembered feet,” he confirms grimly.
Another contraction creeps up on me as I reach the nursery door. Not wanting to scare Ella, I huff and puff it out in the hallway before entering the room.
My firstborn is sitting on the nursery rug, chewing on a toy giraffe. Our nanny, Sofía, has already changed her into a pair of clean PJs with bright yellow butterflies. The lights have been dimmed, and the curtains are closed. It’s a warm, safe cocoon that makes me feel exhausted suddenly..
“El-la,” I call out softly.
Her head turns at the sound of my voice, her black curls bouncing. She drops her giraffe in delight. Squeaking impatiently, she holds up her arms for immediate attention.
This is another reason why I love my dogmatic, murdering bastard of a husband I reflect, scooping her up into a bear hug. He gives me the most beautiful children in the world.
“How are you, señora?” asks Sofía, testing the temperature of Ella’s milk on the inside of her wrist. “How far apart are they?”
“No idea because Dante forgot to count.”
She laughs and guides me to the nursery chair. “That man…always distracted by your beautiful mama,” she coos at Ella. “Here, let me take her.”
Giving Ella the squishiest, mushiest kiss, I reluctantly hand her over. “Sweet dreams,” I whisper, overcome by that wicked tiredness again. The contractions seem to have lessened. All they’ve brought me this time is chronic back ache and fatigue.
“Close your eyes too, señora,” instructs Sofía, tucking Ella into her bed and passing her the sippy cup of warm milk. “You have a long night ahead of you. I have this covered.”
My thoughts drift to the soothing sounds of Sofía’s voice. She’s reading a silly children’s story about two tiger cubs in the jungle who won’t stop fighting, one called Devious, and the other, Trouble. I never get to hear the parable’s message because I’m fast asleep in minutes.
* * *
I haven’t dreamedabout my father in years.
I haven’t allowed it.
In truth, he doesn’t deserve it.
I didn’t shed a single tear when his body was found mutilated in a ditch outside of Houston. To me, he’d died the day he admitted trafficking my six-year-old innocence to a known Russian pedophile called Sevastien Petrov. In return, he’d stuffed his empty soul with money, and bought himself a one-way ticket to the place where pure evil burns the longest.
My mind refuses to recall a single moment of my time in Russia, and for that I’m thankful. There are barriers that not even the greatest therapy can breach, and I’m happy to fortify them every day with contentment and love.
I sometimes wish I could block out every part of my childhood in the same way. Memories come with feelings that can trip you up and hurt you when you least expect it, and I have a ton of those.
One night, not long after Dante broke the news about my father to me, I stood on the beach below the house and threw a single white rose into the water. It wasn’t to signify forgiveness. It was too late for that. Instead, I was mourning the moments in my past that were now stained with his guilt.
The birthdays.
The Christmases.
The day I graduated from college.