17. I hate myself for touching her. But hate isn’t numbness.
SEVENTEEN
I HATE MYSELF FOR TOUCHING HER. BUT HATE ISN’T NUMBNESS.
I clench my jaw as I listen to Vanessa’s message for the tenth time, debating what to do. She’s a grown woman who can take care of herself.
Yet, I love protecting her , my brain tells me.
Anton’s fever dropped, but he’s still sick enough that I will stay home with him again tomorrow. Taking care of him all day while supervising Livia at the same time was exhausting. And fulfilling. It was a good tiredness, the kind you only get when you do something worthy.
It’s probably selfish and awful to say that and my therapist, if I had one, should hear about it, but they kept the emptiness at bay. It was still there, hanging over my head like a cloud, but it didn’t make me want to stay in bed all day or use the ropes I play with for another purpose entirely.
Both children are now in bed and the fist not clutching the phone is clenching uselessly by my side as I debate what to do.
Vanessa has been working with us for over three months, living on the property for almost as long and I’ve never seen her go outside except for her groceries or that day she went to the beach with us. She sits inside all day on weekends and I saw the lights turn off at 10 pm on weekdays. She’s dedicated all her time to us. Well, to Anton and Livia.
I think about how lonely she must be and can’t help but grind my jaw at the image I conjure up of her small frame in bed with no comfort or help. If she’s as sick as Anton was today, she won’t even be able to get out of bed to feed herself. She probably doesn’t even have proper medicine in the bathroom cabinet.
The idea of her loneliness awakens something in me. Something I haven’t felt in years, if ever. A closeness I can’t even name. I’m a single child and I was already emotionally numb when Monica came into my life. I certainly never felt the need to protect her nor felt really close to her. We had different interests and ideals. Maybe that’s why our marriage ended the way it did. I never provided her with the comfort of my presence and the protection of my arms. I want to give that to Vanessa.
I don’t think about the repercussions of my impulsive decision when it comes to her and call my mother.
“Hi picculinu, cumu va ?” she asks, then laments as I explain the situation with Anton.
“Mamma, he’s sick, not dying.” I roll my eyes at her theatrics, but one thing about my mother is that she can’t stand to see the people she loves suffering.
“Can you come over for an hour or two to make sure the kids don’t wake up while I’m gone?” I ask.
“Lino Ange Dominique Marquesi, you are not going to work while your babies need you.”
“Mamma,” I sigh. She’s the only one who questions me. Even my father remains silent when I make a decision. But my mother? She has no such compunction. “Of course not. Vanessa caught Anton’s bug, and she’s sick too. I’m just going to bring her some medicine, but I don’t want the kids to be left by themselves, even if they’re asleep.”
“Vivi is sick?” Concern taints her voice.
“Don’t call her that. She’s my employee, not a friend.”
“Don’t be so callous, picculinu . It’s unbecoming. Vivi is an integral part of your household, whether you like it or not. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And when I get there, there’s better be soup for that poor girl. I’ll bring sage leaves from my garden for her.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose but don’t say anything. It’s no use. My mother believes a sage infusion in hot milk has magical properties, and no one can change her mind about it.
I knock on Vanessa’s door for a good ten minutes, the container of soup hot between my palms. Maybe it’s only five minutes, but it feels longer. The key to the pool house is like a brand in the pocket of my pressed grey suit pants. I’ve watched her through the cameras in my home almost every day and she has no idea. What’s one more transgression? Sweeping my morals under the rug, I pull out the small metal key and turn it into the lock.
I don’t have time to call out her name as I see her lying on the tiled bathroom floor. My eyes bulge and I spring into action, dropping the container on the kitchen counter, then running into her space and falling on my knees at her side. Fear takes hold until I feel my heart might explode.
“Vanessa?” I call for her, my hands framing her burning cheeks. Her name is barely a whisper on my lips. It’s a prayer.
She groans and smacks her lips together as though she’s parched, and I release a sigh. How long has she been lying here?
“Come on, zitella , let’s get you to bed.” I tell myself the pet name is just a consequence of adrenaline and fear. It’s a temporary lapse in judgement. And she won’t remember, anyway.
My arms snake around her back and under her knees. I scoop her up and carry her to her bed. The soft pink sheets are rumpled and thrown haphazardly around like she couldn’t decide if she was too warm or too cold. She settles on the bed, half-conscious and moaning as if she’s in pain.
“I don’t feel so good,” she complains. She down played how bad she felt in her message and it enrages me. If she were mine, she’d get the spanking of the century for not taking care of herself, for not taking this flu seriously, for not calling a doctor. For not calling me for help.
But she isn’t mine. In fact, she’s so far from being mine that it’s a joke for me to be here right now. She’s my employee, and this is crossing so many lines.
Another whimper of distress leaves her lips and I don’t question why I do anything where she’s concerned. I just act. Caring on instinct.
I walk to the kitchen and pour soup into a bowl, then come back to her and bring it to her lips, cradling her head to help her movements. She only drinks half of it, but it will have to be enough for now. She takes the anti-nausea pill I hand her with a glass of fresh water.
“No more,” she complains, and I let her go.
I stand by the bed for a few minutes, watching her breaths even out. Only they don’t. Instead, Vanessa shivers under the blanket I pulled over her.
I gave her soup, meds, I’d even make my mother’s infusion if I’d thought she could hold it down. I can’t give her anything else.
Except comfort and care.
That I can do.
Carefully, like she is something precious, I slide into the bed with her and mould my body to her back, giving her the heat of my body to settle against.
She tenses for a second then releases a breath with a contented sigh. My nose is so close to her hair that I can’t help but inhale deeply. The sweet scent of cotton candy and peonies invades my senses and I groan. This smell, it’s sunshine and spring and joy all rolled into one. Everything I’m not.
My hands lifts to caress her hair, to soothe and calm her so she can rest and get better.
“I’m too warm,” she mutters.
Then, I’m frozen in place as she moves away from me and throws off the covers before she removes her pyjama pants and t-shirt and lies in nothing but her dark cotton panties.
Jesus, help me.
If God exists, She’s testing me right now. I see no other possibility.
Olive skin that looks soft to the touch contrasts with her dark brown hair. I lock my gaze to a point past her head, my body tense and ready to snap. I don’t need to see what she looks like wrapped around me and comfortable in my arms because I can feel her breasts against my side. I’d revel in her if this wasn’t so wrong. My heart kicks a drumming beat in my chest and unfortunately, being that I’m a man who’s had no action for weeks, my dick decides to join the party.
I’m already crossing so many lines… I shouldn’t be here and certainly not like this. Besides, Vanessa doesn’t need my heat anymore.
What she needs is rest and peace and quiet.
I move to leave, but she turns to face me, her hand landing on my chest and her body pressing to the side of mine.
I suck in a fortifying breath. I’m gonna need it.
For the next two hours, I let her stay wrapped around me while I soothe her with a soft massage on her scalp. I don’t look down, focusing on the light on the ceiling. Despite myself, my mind finds the absence of stimulation relaxing. I don’t sleep or close my eyes but sensory deprivation is not numbness or void or a black pool of pain and despair, It’s light and airy and peaceful.
It’s two in the morning when Vanessa seems to be finally sleeping deeply.
Reluctantly, I extract myself from her surprisingly tight grip, trying to press my hands into the safest part of her body. Shoulders and arms mostly. But the softness of her skin is unmistakable. The way she moves where I move, it’s maddening.
I stand and walk away, intent on not looking back at her until she whispers, “Thank you.” I stop dead in my tracks but when I turn around, she’s fast asleep and there isn’t a hint that tells me she knew who held her all the night.
I watch the rise and fall of her chest, the swell of her hips and the indent her panties make against her flesh. Her forehead doesn’t shine with sweat anymore and she curls against herself. I lay the sheet back across her, hiding her body from my gaze.
I hate myself for liking what I see.
But hate is good.
Hate isn’t numbness.