2. The eyes of a stranger
TWO
THE EYES OF A STRANGER
A s I step out of Lady in White, the scent of incoming rain on the pavement assaults my senses until a waft of tobacco makes its way to my nose. Roman, Lady in White’s doorman, offers me a cigarette, but I refuse. I haven’t touched a cancer stick in over five years, ever since my wife Monica got pregnant with our son, Anton. However, I should really get into the habit of calling her my ex-wife since I signed the divorce papers this afternoon.
It’s the entire reason I’m outside the club at 3 am on a Saturday when I usually come on Sundays.
I thought I could get the numbness out of my soul for a few hours. It failed miserably, despite a willing participant calling himself Jim and a charming worker called Belle, who obeyed me perfectly.
I take a deep breath and sigh, wishing Roman a good evening. I’m ready to call it a night when my skin prickles with awareness. My eyes search my surroundings, but not for long.
Despite the cold, a woman sits on a stone pillar, eating what looks like fries from the nearby food truck. She could be mistaken for a drunken party-goer in need of sustenance before heading home, but her eyes are bright as they connect with mine.
My heart rate kicks up.
Time slows.
Her fingers are suspended mid-air in front of her full, parted lips, her cheeks rosy with the winter wind, giving her olive skin a healthy glow. Locks of wavy, dark brown hair frame her soft features, tresses falling from the messy bun on top of her head.
I look around, but there’s no one nearby. No friend or partner she can walk home with. She’s alone. She looks young enough to be my daughter or at least a younger sister, and to know she’s walking home alone makes me clench my teeth with an irrational need to offer my protection.
Before I can make my way to where she sits, she stands and almost runs away, turning the corner of the building without another look in my direction.
With a small shake of my head, I dismiss the absurd thought that I could give anyone anything, least of all protection. I’m an empty shell and today took a toll on me.
As I drive home, though, I can’t get the magnetic stranger out of my head. For the first time in months, my heart raced again—and it wasn’t because of the high I chase from sex with the Lady in White patrons and workers.
It was the inconspicuous gaze of a stranger with glistening eyes.
W hen I arrive at the gate of my home in Sant Armellu Heights, the light in the alcove is still on.
“Dammit, Mum,” I swear under my breath as I park my SUV at the side of the mansion.
This week was supposed to be Monica’s week with Anton and Livia, but she’s gone, so my mother has been staying at my place to help me take care of them both.
Livia’s only two. The soft presence of her grandmother helps when she really misses her mum.
I was expecting her to be in bed by now, but as I enter the living room, the modern lamp on the metal side table illuminates the weathered face of my sleeping mother. Her hands are laced on her stomach, just above a beige hand-woven plaid she made me buy to match the dark green sofa that occupies half the space.
The deep frown etched on her brow tells me she worries about me even in her sleep. I’d worry too if I remembered what emotions felt like.
Gently, I take her in my arms and walk upstairs to the guest room she occupies with my father when they stay. I’m surprised she doesn’t rouse at the loud snores of the man as I enter the room, but I guess after forty years together, she’s used to it. I gently deposit her onto the bed, but when I motion to leave, she clasps my wrist.
“It’s better this way, figliolu .”
I kiss her brow and disappear down the hall, opening the door to the room where my babies sleep. Anton is turned on his side, his small form facing the crib where Livia lies on her back, her tiny thumb in her mouth. A smile pulls at my lips, then quickly falls when I see Anton’s favourite teddy bear in Livia’s bed. I know he gives it to her if she can’t fall asleep and cries too loud, unconsolable, and needy for hugs and attention.
Guilt tears at my gut. I went to seek pleasure while they needed me.
I wish I could give them their mother back, but there’s no amount of threats I send Monica that seem to make her want to take our family seriously. She decided she was done and imploded our precarious equilibrium six months ago, and though we worked through a schedule to take care of Anton and Livia, she bailed more and more, until she completely left Kalliste a few days ago, saying she needed to find herself again.
I have no clue where she is, and it’s better I don’t, so then I can’t ask my boss to put a bullet through her skull. Alana would be too happy to rid me of my ex-wife; she never liked her. But I’d never do that to my kids. I’ve been miserable for years for the sake of their happiness and I’d continue to do that if it meant giving them the family they deserve.
Though I guess now they don’t even have a mother to compensate for their pathetically sad father.
I kiss my children and make my way to my bedroom, taking my clothes off slowly before popping a sleeping pill. All my movements cost me. The darkness of the night has always been my least favourite time of the day. Everything is too silent, making my thoughts louder, the gloom more visible in my mind.
In the minutes before the pill takes effect, I replay the events of the day, from waking up with Livia’s cries in my ears to my morning meeting with Alana and the higher-ups of the Moretti-Bartoli empire, right until the moment I signed the divorce papers and mailed them to Monica’s lawyer.
But it’s not my pen on the divorce papers I see just before I fall asleep. It’s bright almond-shaped eyes and a messy bun.
Saturday morning comes too quickly, but I did this to myself. I force a smile at my son, who climbs into bed with me at six in the morning like he always does on weekends.
“Slept well, picculinu ?” I ask as I press his little body to my chest for a hug.
“Yes, babbu , but Livia cried a lot last night. She asked for you, but you were gone.”
There’s no reproach in his voice, just a fact that he wants me to know. I left soon after I put them to bed. I thought she fell asleep, but she obviously woke up and needed me. The guilt morphes into a black monster inside my chest, devouring what little light I have left. I do my best to keep the darkness at bay, especially when I care for Anton and Livia, but today will be a struggle.
I’m grateful my parents have been so available for me these past few months but this situation isn’t sustainable.
“I’m here now, picculinu . Let’s go downstairs and make pancakes. It’s Babbone 's favourite. He’ll be happy when he comes down to eat breakfast with us.”
As though I’ve announced the best thing on Earth, Anton jumps on the bed with an enthusiastic laugh before leaping off and almost tripping on the soft rug in the corridor on his way down the stairs. If Mammona and Babbone aren’t awake with the loud ruckus he makes, it’ll be a miracle. God knows they need their sleep.
Almost an hour later, I can barely see the white marble countertop of the kitchen island under all the flour and eggs strewn across it, but the pancake mix is finally ready. And I don’t have to fake my smile as I watch Anton proudly laying place mats on the oak dining table for family breakfast.
“You can be so proud of yourself, picculinu . You did such a good job mixing the flour, milk and eggs. I barely had to do anything,” I tell him with pride.
My son beams at me and that soothes the ache in my chest along with the fear of never being enough, especially now that his mother has disappeared.
My parents come down with a sleepy Livia in their arms, who reaches for me straight away. She wraps her arms tight around my neck before settling her little head in the crook of my neck. She smells of sleep and baby shampoo, and I squeeze a little harder.
I know she won’t let go until she’s too hungry and can’t resist the syrup and fruits on her pancakes, but I don’t mind. Her blonde waves, so similar to her mother’s, tickle my nose as I flip the pancakes and finish cooking our meal.
When they’re done eating, I let the children watch their favourite kids’ show, while I clean up the mess we made. My father helps me with the dishes, his voice solemn as he speaks. “As much as I love those two tornados, your mother can’t be their nanny, figliolu . She will never say a thing, but these past five days have exhausted her.”
I lift my eyes to where she sits with the kids. From the stillness of her body, I bet she’s asleep. I noticed the purple shadows under her eyes this morning.
He’s right. I just don’t know if I have the strength to go through recruiting someone right now; if I have the strength of putting my kids in the hands of someone I don’t know, watching them get attached, and potentially being heartbroken.
“I can take time off,” I say.
He snorts. “How do you think that will go? Alana is a wonderful woman, but she’s still a shark.”
“I never took my paternity leave.”
“ Figliolu , don’t be ridiculous. You work for the mafia, not the French government.”
I grind my teeth. My payslip might say I’m the Chief Financial Officer of the Moretti-Bartoli Holding, but what I really am is the man who cooks the books and I’m the only one who does what I do for Alana Moretti. My absence would be noticed, and though I can probably get a couple of weeks off, that won’t be a permanent solution for my kids.
“What would you have me do?” I ask my father, who’s always been there for me and given me all the guidance I could ever ask for.
“Find a nanny. Someone who can handle two kids but is shy enough that they won’t sniff around. And someone who looks as far from their mother as possible. You don’t want them imprinting on their new caregiver or some shit.”
“Imprinting? Really, Dad? Have you been watching Twilight ?”
“I’m surprised you know of it. Your mother made me watch all the movies last month when she was sick with the flu.” He groans. “Let me tell you, that shiny motherfucker is a creep.”
I scoff, then sober as I watch Anton waking up my mother with a little shake. “Fine. I’ll find someone.”
“Tell Alana,” my father suggests. “She works with all kinds of people in her clubs. She might know someone who would rather work as a nanny than an escort.”
Later that day, I make a call to my boss and hope for the best.