Epilogue
Calliope
“ Thank you,” I say to the cheering Estonians in their own—albeit broken—language. “And please, in the future, I hope you can find it in your hearts to treat rats with kindness.”
With that, the curtain falls, and I give all my rats their treats, especially Lenin, who just executed a tight-rope walking routine almost as well as my grandmother would have.
Tovarisch, I can’t believe you brought me to a country that dares to thrive after abandoning the glory that was the Soviet Union.
Gathering my things, I head backstage, where I meet some of the VIPs and give them my autograph—something I’ve been asked for more and more as of late.
When the signings are done, I approach Michael and a group of children that he’s with, kids who are about to begin a career in a sport of their choice thanks to Michael’s ever-growing foundation.
“Children, meet my wife, Calliope,” Michael says proudly. “Calliope, meet the children.” He then presumably says the same thing in Russian, which is the most popular minority language in this country.
Using Michael as an interpreter, I learn all their names as they tell me how much they loved the show.
When the twins—a.k.a. two of my most favorite people in the whole world—join us backstage, Michael beams at them and says, “These are our children, Sasha and Filipp.” Just like earlier, he repeats the whole thing in Russian.
His protégés look at the twins with unabashed curiosity, and a girl says something to me in Russian that Michael translates to be, “You seem too young to be a mother to such big kids.”
That’s not true. The twins are nine, so I could’ve given birth to them… in theory.
Michael gives a whole monologue in Russian, one where he probably explains that Sasha and Filipp are biological brother and sister, and that we met them at a Russian orphanage and adopted them soon after.
Hopefully, he does as I asked him and skips the bit where his foundation couldn’t help the twins because they weren’t into any sport. And that their story was particularly heart wrenching: their parents were firefighters who died in the line of duty. And how the twins got bullied at the orphanage because they (mostly Sasha) had a pet rat, Lariska, who is now also part of our household.
“Mom,” Sasha says. “Can I show them our rats?”
I smile. “Of course, sweetie.”
Sasha chirps to her new friends in Russian and hurries away, her brother and the other kids on her tail.
Michael tells one of his employees to keep an eye on the kids, and then he asks me what I thought of the venue.
“It was amazing,” I say. “Tell Mason—I mean ‘Tugev’—that I owe him a huge thanks for suggesting we tour his fatherland.”
“I will do no such thing,” Michael growls. “The fucker’s ego is already gargantuan; I refuse to feed it anymore.”
Hmm. Speaking of things getting gargantuan…
“Boo,” I say tentatively. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
He cocks his head. “Does someone else in your family want to adopt?”
That’s a legit question because a number of my relatives have followed our example and given a home to some of the children Michael’s foundation wasn’t able to help. Not to mention, my family as a whole has fully adopted Michael with such enthusiasm you’d think playing hockey—or giving me orgasms—were one of the core circus skills.
“No,” I reply. “But you’re warm. This does have to do with an increase in our family.” I put my right hand over my for-now-flat belly. “I’m officially a VIP lounge for a bean-sized hybrid between a clown’s butt and a bear.”
Shit. I shouldn’t have made the bear joke at a critical moment like this. After I took the last name of Medvedev, I decreed that I’m allowed to make bear jokes in lieu of the ones about clowns and butts, and Michael has been smiling when he hears some of them, but?—
Michael grabs me in a bear-like hug and rumbles excitedly into my ear in a mixture of English and Russian.
When he finally releases me, his eyes gleam. “I didn’t think I could feel feel this happy at the news. Thank you, ptichka .”
“Thank you?” I roll my eyes. “Save the thanks for after the bean—which will be the size of a small pumpkin—comes out of my pink panther.”
He nods gravely. “I’ll thank you when that happens. And I’ll thank you now . And I’ll thank you every step of the way.”
My lips quirk. “The best thanks would be a foot massage.”
“Consider it done.”
I grin. “What about homemade vareniki with mushrooms?”
“I’ll make them anytime you have the craving,” he promises. “Other stuffings too.”
“Speaking of stuffing,” I say. “There’s one more thing.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“In one of her TMI vomits, my mom told me that all the women in our family have an increased sex drive while preggers.”
His nostrils flare. “Increased? Beyond what it is now?”
I lightly punch his chest. “If that happens, I want you to?—”
“Make you come, over and over,” he says huskily. “And then come some more.”
“That sounds good,” I say breathlessly. “Let’s shake on it.” I extend my hand.
He takes the proffered hand and gently caresses it. “I have a better idea.” He pulls me in and whispers, “How about we go to your dressing room and get the ball rolling on all this gratitude?”
I clasp his hand tightly. “I thought you’d never ask.”
With that, we seclude ourselves, shed our clothes, and Michael proceeds to demonstrate for me the kind of care I can expect for the rest of the pregnancy.
And for the rest of my life.