Chapter 18
CLARA
“How did everything go?”
“It was fine, I guess.”
“You guess?” Emily asks. “Is the baby okay? You're not sure how to feel about it? What?”
“Can we stop calling it a baby? I mean, I know it’s a baby. I know an actual person is growing inside of me, but it really freaks me out. I still have no idea what to do about it. Can we just call it the bean right now?”
I’m not sure how to interpret the sound on the other side of the line.
“Okay,” Emily draws out the word. “Is the bean okay?”
“It's fine. Heartbeat is strong, development is on course, and my blood tests are normal. Everything is fine.”
“What about you? Are you fine?” she asks softly.
When the double doors slide open, I’m immediately assaulted by freezing air. The blue sky and the bright sunlight helps my mood, which swings wildly between shock, terror, and an odd feeling I didn't expect—excitement. Something approximating it, anyway.
“Honestly? I have absolutely no idea what I am.
I think I'm everything at once and sometimes nothing at all, if that makes sense.
I feel like someone's trying to pull the rug out from under me, and I can't get my footing.
Or maybe that the entire world is shifting, and I'm trying to stand up straight. You know I wanted kids eventually. Just not right now and not like this.”
“Well, considering the circumstances, that all sounds about right.” I can rely on Emily for a lot of things. Number one is telling me what I need to hear, and number two is making me laugh when she knows I need it.
“This is ridiculous, Em. None of this is supposed to be happening, none of it.
I'm so careful with my life, planning each step, making sure I don't make the wrong choices. And yet, here I am, having made multiple wrong choices, and now I’m in a huge amount of trouble, and I have no idea how to get out of it.”
I wait with the crowd at a light to cross.
“Well, the important thing to remember is that you have options. Actually, you have quite a few. If you don’t want to raise the bean, Dmitri may do it himself. Hire a full-time nanny. Goodness knows he's rich enough to give that kid a great life. You might not have to worry about it at all.”
The idea is intriguing. But I have no idea how Dmitri will react when I tell him, or if he even wants a kid after losing his wife and his first child. And do I really want to carry this child for nine months, only to give it up to a known Russian mobster?
“Your sister was great, by the way,” I quickly change the subject.
“Of course she was. She's my sister, and she loves you. Do you want me to come over later and we can talk through all the options?” Em isn’t going to let me dodge the subject that easily. “Or we could just not think about it, watch a trashy movie, and eat burgers and fries instead.”
“No burgers and fries, please.” I have to put my hand to my mouth to press back the wave of nausea at the thought. “I am so off any type of red meat right now. Even chicken is pushing it.” I swallow hard against the rising feeling in my throat.
“Okay, fine,” Emily says, and I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “I'll bring over whatever the hell you're craving, and then we can talk about it. Or do nothing. Or watch a trashy movie.”
I think about it for a second. “No, I’m fine. I really just need to not think about anything, and maybe the answer will come. Maybe I’ll go for a walk in the park.”
“Good idea. A walk might help you clear your head,” Emily agrees. “But call me if you need anything, yeah? I'm trying not to hover, but you know I'm here if you need me.”
“I know, especially since you're partially at fault for this kid,” I tease.
A gasp of outrage echoes over the line. “I cannot be held accountable for your terrible direction skills.”
“Bye, Em!” I singsong the reply, ending the call.
The light is about to turn green. I look down to stuff my phone into my purse, double-checking that my saltines are easy to reach when my morning sickness comes back. Becca, Emily's older sister, just laughed when I asked her why morning sickness doesn't only happen in the morning.
“A man must have come up with that one,” I grumble to myself. “Someone who had no idea what the hell actually goes on when you're pregnant.”
People are already packing the crosswalk when the cars at the intersection slow and then stop as the light turns red. I fall back, looking both ways before crossing, when I hear the squeal of tires, a car at the light suddenly coming fast.
My brain can't interpret what's happening fast enough as the car lurches forward, straight toward me. It happens so fast. I hear someone scream a warning as my brain catches up but hasn't yet given the order to my feet and legs to move.
My life doesn't flash before my eyes, but time slows down at the same time it speeds up.
I see everything going on around me: the people on the other side of the street just beginning to notice and point; a driver in another car with eyes as wide as dinner plates, his mouth open in a silent shout; steam coming out of the subway grate.
The signal to move finally reaches my feet, but I know it's too late, and the only other thing my brain can do is squeeze my eyes shut, as though that will block out what's about to happen.
The engine roars, someone screams, horns blare, and suddenly I'm moving, my breath knocked out of me from the impact.
Except, it’s not the impact from the car. My brain, caught up in my impending death, doesn’t compute what’s happening until I realize I’m still standing—kind of—someone’s arms wrapped tightly around me, moving me, shielding me, saving me.
Screeching tires mix with screams, horns, and startled exclamations. An engine revs, then grows quieter as it disappears.
I don't know how long I stand there—it could be a second, could be forever—when I realize that I'm not dead. The arms around me aren't a figment of my imagination.
“Are you okay?” The voice is deep, gruff, accented, familiar. Fingers dig into my shoulders, giving me a tiny shake. “Are you hurt?”
I open my eyes to see Pavel’s face creased with anger and concern.
“Say something,” he insists, an odd edge of panic to his voice that I wouldn't expect from this man, whom I have only seen as cold, distant, and entirely calm, even in the midst of the sting operation.
“I'm fine,” I manage, trying to gain my breath back. “I'm okay. I think I'm okay. Am I okay?”
Pavel looks me over, patting my shoulders and arms. I’m suddenly aware that we're in a ring of onlookers, their expressions ranging from horror to shock to relief.
“You're fine,” Pavel says curtly, his tone furious.
“Did someone just—” I can't even say the words out loud. I don't want to. I don't want to even think about what just nearly happened.
“Come on, we need to get out of here, off the street.” Pavel takes my hand and starts pulling me away, his eyes darting everywhere as we pass through the crowd of onlookers.
He takes out his phone from his pocket, snaps a few orders in Russian, then stows it away again.
I follow him, my mind on autopilot, until he leads me into the depths of a random, smoky bar, where it's too dark to see much.
“Did someone just—” I say again, my mind still caught up on what nearly happened, still back on that street corner. “Someone almost—”
“Yes,” Pavel grits out.
“Was it an accident? Did they think it was a green light?” But even as I ask the question, I already know the answer. And from the grim look on Pavel’s face, I know I'm right. Someone just tried to run me over with their car. On purpose.
My heart is hammering in my chest, even harder than when the car was coming toward me, the residual fear and realization of how close I came to death hitting me, and I slump down on a barstool.
“Clara?” Pavel grabs my shoulders again.
“Are you okay? Do I need to take you to the hospital?” I shake my head, but my chest is too tight to get enough air out to speak.
Pavel calls the bartender over for a glass of water and shoves it into my hand, bringing it up to my lips so I have to drink.
It helps steady my nerves, and I spend the next few minutes taking full, deep breaths.
I finally look up at Pavel. In jeans, sneakers, and a black jacket, he looks like any other New Yorker, especially with the ball cap pulled down low over his forehead. It is then I know my recent suspicions are correct.
“You weren't there by chance.”
“No, I'm here to keep you safe.”
At least he’s honest. I know exactly who gave that order.
Anger and frustration well up. Dmitri didn't ask my opinion on the subject, much less ask my permission to have Pavel follow me around the city. But then again, obviously, there was a good reason for it. Things would have turned out a lot worse if Pavel hadn't been there.
Something else occurs to me.
“You've been following me everywhere?” I ask.
Pavel nods. “Did you follow me into the hospital? Up to my appointment?” The man nods again, this time more slowly, and I know that he's aware of exactly what's going on.
I don't even know how long he's been following me.
Did he see me go out and buy prenatal vitamins? Crackers?
Has he told Dmitri? Fear grips me.
“You can't tell him.” I grab his arm. “You can't. You can't tell him any of this. He's going to go nuts. You know him better than I do. If he finds out I'm pregnant and that someone just tried to run me over—”
I know I don't have to finish that sentence.
“I'm not keeping this from him on purpose, I promise. I'm just trying to figure out what to do. This is a huge surprise for me. Please don't tell him; please just give me some time. You know what he’ll do if you tell him what happened today.”
I know I'm asking this man to lie to his boss and his friend on my behalf. I know he doesn't owe me anything, and Dmitri commands all his loyalty.
But I still need time to figure out what I'm doing, what path I'm going to take, and what I want my future to look like. If Dmitri knows I’m pregnant with his child, and that someone tried to kill me because of my connection to him, I have no doubt what's going to happen.
All I can think about is what Andrey said: He went crazy after she died.
Pavel's lips compress into a thin line, his eyes troubled and steely in the dim light.
History repeating itself would be Dmitri’s worst nightmare.
Emotions flicker over the usually stoic face, from anger to reluctance to concern.
Pavel's phone lights up, and he answers in clipped Russian. After the call, he puts his phone away and takes my arm, guiding me to the door.
“Come on, I'm taking you somewhere safe.”