Chapter 19 #2
Bleeding through sheets. Crying from pain.
Holding onto the memory of a past I wish I could carve out of my brain forever.
I don’t want to see her right now.
Matvei is behind her, pacing on the phone.
She gentles her voice.
"I went to midwifery school," she says softly. "I know a little bit about these things. I’m not an expert, but I might be able to help. At the very least, I might know people who can."
And right in that moment, I look into the eyes of a woman I just met but have somehow known forever.
And now, I’m crying for an entirely different reason.
I swipe at my eyes and nod.
"He needs to leave," I whisper.
She looks over her shoulder and holds her head high like the queen that she is, then jerks her chin toward the door.
"Leave us alone."
"I’m not—"
"Go," she snaps at him.
Even from here, in my daze of confusion, I see the way his eyes narrow, his shoulders snap straight, and then he turns and walks away.
She’s the wife of the pakhan.
He can’t disobey her.
"There," she says with a smile that somehow makes the pain seem a little more bearable.
And then she says something else, but I don’t hear her.
The roaring in my ears drowns out everything as another spasm of pain hits.
I rock. I cry out. I grip the sheets so hard my knuckles turn white.
And it doesn’t stop.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
"Is it endometriosis?" she asks, running through a few other conditions I’ve heard mentioned before, but I don’t know for sure.
Because then, I don’t hear her voice anymore.
The wave of pain assaults me like the lash of a whip on flesh.
Raw.
Brutal.
Unforgiving.
My breath catches, and I try to hold onto the sheets, move into a fetal position, and rock back and forth, but it doesn’t work.
Polina climbs onto the bed next to me, places both hands on the small of my back, and puts firm, steady pressure.
"My god, you poor girl. I can feel the spasms in your back. Breathe, Anissa. In through your nose, out through your mouth," she says, adjusting her hands on my back in just the right way, and then she presses.
Relief.
Blissful, glorious relief.
Like my body was caught in a vise, and she just pulled the release button.
"Oh my god," I gasp. "Whatever you’re doing, that feels better. It feels so much better."
My voice is wobbly and shaky, and I’m still blinking back tears.
But at least now, I can breathe.
"Good," she says in a gentle voice that makes me want to weep.
I’m a fucking mess.
Then she raises her voice. “Matvei!”
The door immediately opens, and he stares, his eyes wide, as she rattles off a list of things that he needs to fetch for her. She tells him exactly where to get them.
"Make it fast! If I think of anything else, I’ll call you!" she yells, applying pressure to the spasm in my back.
She presses her thumbs in circular motions—one clockwise, one counterclockwise.
It feels so good.
I breathe, clutching the pillow as another spasm comes. My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I need to get cleaned up.
"We’ll get you what you need," Polina says quietly. "Let your body do what it’s meant to. This will bring relief from the pain. Just let yourself go through it. We’ll draw a bath when this subsides. I promise, it will get better. You’ll be okay. I’m so sorry."
She says it so softly.
She doesn’t ask questions.
She doesn’t pry.
And in that moment, she’s doing something that brings tears to my eyes for an entirely different reason.
She’s humming something—soft and pretty and soothing—in Russian.
Something I’ve never heard before.
Between the waves of pain, she runs her fingers through my hair, smoothing the damp strands from my forehead. She rubs my back, brings ice water to my lips, and every time the spasms start up again, she does that miraculous pressure-point massage that makes it bearable.
And she’s right.
I’m a mess, but the pain is gradually easing.
"Have you always had this intensity around your cycles?" she asks.
I shake my head. “Only recent years.” And I know exactly why but don’t want to tell her. If I tell her, and she tells Matvei…
"It’s often genetic," she says.
And before I can stop myself, I shake my head again.
No.
That’s not why.
“Surgery?”
I shake my head again. Too late, I realize I may have told her more than I meant to by default.
She’s quiet for long minutes, massaging my tense muscles.
"Someone did this to you," she says in a low voice.
And I realize, when I shake my head to deny it, it’s too late.
She knows.
When I don’t deny it, maybe it’s confirmation.
But thankfully, Polina doesn’t ask any more questions.
A heavy knock sounds on the door.
"My god," she says with a laugh. "Matvei does nothing half-assed, huh? He’s always been that way, from what I’ve heard."
"Open up!”
“You can come in."
Matvei walks in, carrying so many bags it looks like it’s Christmas morning.
I smile, shaking my head.
"Did you buy out the store?"
He scowls. "It’s Sunday. They weren’t open. Stupid fucking laws."
I bite back a smile, even as the pain lingers.
"Do I want to ask how you got everything?" Polina asks, her eyes twinkling.
He smirks at her. "You told me to get this shit, and I got it. So, no."
"Come here, Matvei. Your hands are bigger than mine, so you’ll probably do a better job than I will. When the contractions happen, you need to put counterpressure right here."
She takes his hands, placing his fingers exactly where they need to go.
"Pressing here will help alleviate some of the pain while I get what she needs, okay?"
When his large hands take the place of hers, she’s right.
His hands are stronger.
At first, he’s tentative, as if he doesn’t want to hurt me.
"It’s okay," I whisper. "You can press harder. It feels good."
Polina is rifling through the bags, making sounds of approval.
"Oh my god. You even got the prescription meds already. Did you wake the doctor for this?"
He scowls at her. "Of course I did."
I almost smile even through my pain. I can imagine his heavy fist pounding on a door, a gun at a hapless doctor’s head.
"Of course you did," she repeats. "Just like any of you guys would have."
"You bought steak and chocolate? How many places did you go?"
"As many as I had to."
"All the years that I’ve known you, I never actually thought I’d say this—but you’re sweet. This is sweet."
I smile when he grunts.
They keep talking, but I don’t hear because the pain is rising again. I try to stifle a whimper.
It starts slow, creeping over me in waves, then—
The band around my middle tightens.
Harder.
Excruciating.
My back spasms.
I clench my teeth together.
"Breathe," Polina says, her hand in mine. "Matvei."
His huge hands span my back, pressing against the spasms.
Relief.
Blessed relief.
Polina tears through the bags, shakes pills into her hand, and presses them to my lips.
There are more than I expected.
At least four. Maybe six. I lose track.
She presses a straw to my mouth.
"Swallow. This will help."
Then something large and warm presses across my back, replacing his hands.
I miss his hands. They’re comforting.
I shiver as he lays his hands on top of it, his fingers wrapping around where the material ends and my bare skin begins.
That’s better.
"This is a heating pad. It’s going to help. Just let the heat do its magic. This will make you feel a lot better soon."
"Physical touch helps. It soothes," she says softly.
At first, he touches me as if I’m about to break—as if even the slightest contact will send me spiraling into more pain.
But it doesn’t.
It feels good.
The way he’s touching me now…
His hand on my neck, soothing, his rough fingers grazing over tender skin. He pushes damp hair off my forehead, off my neck, the same way Polina did.
But gentler.
Because it’s him.
His hands move lower, massaging the tight knots in my shoulders, the tension in my back, my arms, and the tops of my legs.
I’m no longer embarrassed by the mess I’ve made now.
The relief feels too good, and neither of them cares. So I don’t either.
"Good. Doing so good. Just like that. Just like that."
She’s talking to me in that soft, soothing voice, the kind that makes me want to weep.
She tells me about the medicine she gave me—something over the counter that actually helps staunch the flow of blood. Pain relievers.
"Water therapy will help too," she says. "Let’s get you through this next spasm. By then, the meds should start to kick in, and you’ll want to take a bath. I’ll start it."
Matvei sits with me, and we don’t speak.
I’m glad.
He wouldn’t know the questions to ask me like she does, but I’m afraid that if I speak right now, I’ll say too much.
And not just about my past.
It feels good.
I feel safe.
I love you.
No.
I can’t talk right now.
There’s something about being vulnerable—compromised—about bearing the weight of something all on your own for so long and then having someone else come in and take the other end of the yoke from your shoulders that makes a person feel even more exposed.
And I don’t do vulnerable.
"How are you doing?" Polina asks. “Scale of one to ten, where’s the pain at now?"
"Seven," I whisper.
"Good. That’s good. We’ll get you down to at least a two or three by the end of the afternoon."
"Two or three?" Matvei growls as if personally offended. "How about zero?"
"I’m not a magician," she says with a smirk. "Just a dropout midwifery student."
I smile. "You did good for a dropout."
"Thanks, sis," she says, smiling back at me. “Don’t ask me to deliver your baby.”
I look away. I’m crying over everything these days.
"Okay, let’s get you to the bath," Polina says.