29. Arsen
29
ARSEN
Laila lets out a whimper of pain as I lift her from the car and into the house. I decide I’m going to sue the stilettos off of whoever the fuck designed those damned shoes. “We’re almost there.”
“I’m not gonna make it. Just dump me on the floor. I’ll wait for it to pass.”
“I’m not?—”
“Please, Arsen. I don’t want to move anymore.”
The discomfort in her voice is almost too much for me to handle. I ditch the idea of making it up the stairs and pivot towards the living room. “I’m at least putting you on the couch.”
She winces as I lower her down, and again when I have to move her leg to prop it up on a cushion.
But finally, she sighs. “That’s better.”
“Can I get you anything?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just a waiting game now. You go upstairs. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”
I turn away from her without another word. When I come back a few minutes later with a large bowl filled with hot water and a sponge, her eyes go wide.
“Arsen, you don’t need to do this.”
“You’re not used to being looked after, are you?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The way she stiffens when I flip up her dress and expose her hip says enough.
Her scar stands out, red and angry against her pale skin.
“Is it hurting right now?”
“If I lie still, no. If I move, breathe, or even think about moving or breathing, then it’s like someone is branding me with a hot poker. So, in short… kind of.”
I apply the warm compress to her upper thigh, passing it up and over one swath of skin, then the next, then the next, working my way up to her hip. Her lips part and her eyes roll back in her head.
“Okay,” she concedes after a long sigh. “That does feel good.”
“You didn’t need to wear those shoes.” I glare at the Ferragamos I tossed on the carpet. I’m going to burn them later—and I’m going to fucking enjoy doing it.
“I wanted to. They were pretty. I’ve never had shoes that nice before.”
“If that’s all it was, you should’ve told me. I could buy you the most expensive pair of orthopedic sneakers they make.” Her glare says she doesn’t like that idea as much as I wish she did. I hate seeing her in pain. Especially when it’s my fault. “You could have at least told me about your hip bothering you. I wouldn’t have kept you on your feet so long if I’d known it would cause a problem.”
She tries to take the compress from my hands. “I’ll handle it from here, Arsen. You can go now.”
Ignoring her, I soak the compress in the bowl of warm water and reapply it. She spends the first few minutes stubbornly pretending I’m annoying her with my tender care. Then her eyes start to get heavy.
Soon, they’re closed and she’s breathing softly.
I consider moving her upstairs, but I think better of it. This is the first time she’s looked comfortable all night.
Taking the bowl of water, I go back into the kitchen. But I stop short when the fridge door clicks shut and a woman emerges from behind it. She has a bright orange scarf wrapped around her neck and a ragged scar along the left side of her face. It runs from her eye to the corner of her mouth.
“You must be Laila’s mother. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“And you must be Arsen Adamov. I’ve heard almost nothing about you. Though not for lack of trying.”
“You have your daughter’s directness.”
And her eyes, I note. As Marie steps into the light, her bright blue gaze studies me curiously.
“I just came to get myself a drink.” She tries to lift her glass of milk, but she wobbles slightly, gripping the edge of the island. Without thinking, I take her arm and help her into a barstool.
“Dominik told me you were taking my daughter out tonight,” she remarks as she settles in. Her eyes flit to the bowl of water and the sponge lying next to it. “You were gone a long time. Is she okay?”
“She’s asleep on the couch now.”
“Not a surprise.” Her lips purse. “She shouldn’t stay on her feet too long, but she’s always overdoing it. She doesn’t want to be pitied.”
“I can’t blame her for that. I’m the same way.”
What little light there is in the kitchen seems to pool in her eyes. They’re tired, but even in the gloom, they see things. Perceptive.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says after studying me for a little while.
It takes me too long to remember why she’s consoling me. Then: “Oh, yes. Thank you. Natascha’s death was a shock.”
“You seem to be handling it well.” There’s an unmistakable edge to her voice.
“I’m not sure if Laila told you, but my wife and I didn’t have the happiest marriage.”
Marie finally takes a sip of her milk. “The only thing she told me is that the two of you desperately wanted a child.”
“ I was the one who wanted a child,” I say. “My wife… not so much.”
“This is a personal question, but I’m dying, so I get to be nosey: why marry her at all?”
I hesitate. “Maybe you should talk to Laila about this.”
“I’m talking to you. I want to know. Especially since my daughter is still determined to let you adopt her baby despite all the changes. She must like you.”
That’s one word for it. If Laila were here, she’d have thousands of others to offer up instead.
“Adoption” doesn’t feel right, either. That’s not what this is. It’s too cold and bureaucratic to explain the strange feelings I have for the woman curled up on my couch. That word doesn’t cover how it felt to make that baby with her. How it feels every time my skin touches hers even now.
Marie takes another long drink, and I can see the wheels in her head turning. As she places the glass on the counter, she makes a decision. “I know my daughter, Mr. Adamov?—”
“Arsen,” I correct. “Please.”
“I know my daughter, Arsen. Laila puts on a brave face. She always tries to do the right thing. She’s as independent as they come.”
“Believe me, I’ve noticed.”
Marie reaches up to stroke a finger over her scar. “But it’s a mask. A form of self-preservation. She’s sensitive, deeply vulnerable about her insecurities…”
“I’ve noticed that, too,” I say. “She’s ashamed of her scars even though she shouldn’t be.”
Marie tenses. “She told you about her scar?”
I’ll probably pay for this little bit of honesty later. But what the hell? We’ve come this far.
“I’ve seen it myself.”
“Hm. She’s private about her injuries. If she’s shown you, she must trust you.”
“She is giving me her baby,” I point out.
“I know why she’s doing this,” Marie scolds lightly. “She doesn’t think she can take care of me and the baby at the same time. She feels like she doesn’t have another choice.”
“Your daughter is a strong woman. She knows what she’s doing.”
“How can she? She’s never had to give up a child before. She’s mortgaging her future to take care of me for a few short, unhappy months.”
“She’s not going to regret taking care of you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I run a finger along the edge of the marble countertop. It’s cool and hard to the touch, which I’m grateful for, because nothing else in my life feels quite as solid now. “I’ve been where Laila is. I lost my mother years ago, and I never regretted anything I did for her. That’s the benefit of having a good mother: she did anything for you, so you return the favor in kind.”
Marie’s hands curl around her glass absentmindedly. “How did she pass, if I may ask?”
“Cancer.”
“Did she suffer at the end?”
“Very little. We lost her quickly.”
Marie nods, the edge of her orange scarf lolling over her collarbone. “That’s what I’m hoping for: quick and easy. I don’t want to suffer, and I don’t want Laila to watch me wither away, either.” She sighs. “I’d hoped that, after the accident, we’d hit our quota of bad luck in one lifetime. Seems not. You start to wonder if there’s an end to it or if rock bottom is just a thing people make up to comfort themselves.”
She’s quiet after that. So am I. We sit there in the darkness of the kitchen, two people who never should’ve crossed paths, breathing and brooding, both of our thoughts with the tortured woman in the living room.
“Do you have any pain the way Laila does?” I ask when it becomes clear Marie isn’t going to fill the silence.
“None at all. My scars are purely cosmetic. And I’ve learned to love them.” She touches her left cheek. “Of course, that’s easy to do, considering my scars don’t hinder my day-to-day life. But Laila… Her pain never really went away. She can’t run or be on her feet too long. I suppose that’s how she found yoga.”
“How did it happen—the accident?”
“Maybe you should ask Laila about this.”
“I’m asking you.”
Our eyes meet. If she’s surprised by my bluntness, she doesn’t show it. “We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was driving us home in the rain. It was coming down in sheets. Dogs and cats, as they say. I could barely see two feet in front of the car. Laila was begging me to pull over, and I tried to soothe her, but I was distracted. The car hydroplaned.” I tense, waiting for Marie’s eyes to clear, waiting for the memory to stop playing out in her mind. “We skidded right into an embankment and hit a tree at the bottom.”
I wince like it’s playing out in front of me. I’ve stood in torture chambers and watched men scream as they died without so much as blinking… but this? This hurts in a way I can’t quite understand.
“We woke up in the hospital in separate rooms. I couldn’t see out of one eye, and I didn’t know where Laila was. It was the most terrifying moment of my life.”
Charles’s name is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to talk about the man who abandoned Laila. I’d rather learn about the mother who is still trying to take care of her. Until the bitter end.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“It was a test we had to go through as a family. The first of many,” she murmurs.
“Am I another test?”
She doesn’t shy away from my gaze. “I don’t know yet, Arsen. But don’t be too offended either way. Some tests are meant to break us; others can make us. You may be a blessing in disguise.”
“I don’t know what I am to Laila. But I can tell you this: I’ll make sure she’s comfortable and safe. And I’ll do the same for the baby she’s carrying.”
“I suppose that’s all I can ask for.” She finishes off the last of her milk and gets to her feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to try to sleep.”
“It was nice to meet you at last, Marie.”
She offers me a smile. Whether it’s genuine or pained, suspicious or grateful, I can’t decide. Neither, it seems, can she.
The second Marie is gone, I turn to the dark doorway that leads to the living room. “You can come out now, Laila. I know you’re there.”