Chapter 14Vasily
Vasily
Our son.
The words are like the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, threatening to destroy me.
Our son.
It’s impossible. We don’t have a son. I would know if I had a son. Someone would have told me. Ana would have come after me for child support or her jackass brother would have tried to sell her to me or Dima would have nabbed her and brought her right back to me.
Our son.
I would know if I had a son because I would have a son.
He would be right here, in this apartment.
Not even this apartment; this is no place to raise a child.
We’d be out in the suburbs in a big house with a giant yard and high fences at the far end of a gated community.
Or we’d be back in Flagstaff; I don’t think I’d want to raise a kid in SoCal.
I’d be overwrought with stress over just how many people are everywhere in every direction you look.
Our son.
I don’t have a son. Ana doesn’t have her memories. It doesn’t make any sense that we’d have a son, but damn if the look on her face isn’t convincing as all hell. Whether we have a son or not, she believes we do.
I hug her tightly as I whisper, “No, no, no,” to her. “I thought... I thought you were talking about Artyom, my brother. Artyom died. Not our—”
Fuck, I can’t even say it. I have to calm her down because holy shit, I did not mean to tell her our son died, but...
Holy fuck.
My hands roam across her, soothing her as well as I can, reverting to the firm petting that’s always worked on her, but I can’t help but analyze her body once again as I touch her.
Women’s bodies change when they have babies, of course.
I’m not immune to celebrity gossip, not with Kseniya forcing it on me as though punishing me for moving to California.
I see the new moms with everything tight and slim within six weeks of having their babies, but is that accurate?
Or is reality wider hips and looser skin around the belly?
Could reality be quirky little flops of tits that I adore but certainly don’t show up in R-rated Hollywood movies?
I don’t know. I really don’t. But there’s a logic in it. A slim belly stretched beyond capacity with a baby? All-but-nonexistent breasts suddenly flowing with enough milk to keep a growing baby fat and happy?
Shit .
Shit.
“Artom,” I croak out, the minor change to my brother’s name to make it easier on the American tongue now causing my stomach to go all topsy turvy. “He’s... he’s...”
He’s real.
I have a son. We have a son. And everyone kept him from me. Ana kept him from me.
“Where is he?” she pleads, and the fact she doesn’t know where her own son is— we don’t know where our own son is— is enough to remind me that this Ana is not the one who kept him from me.
That Ana was the Ana who had been rejected without explanation because I knew I wouldn’t be able to let her go if I gave her a single extra second of my time.
That Ana had streaks of tears whipped into her hairline by the fleet of helicopters surrounding us as she professed her love for me over and over again, only for me to remind her our fifteen days were up.
That Ana kept my son from me.
As did Tony, but he’s a bitch.
And Dima.
My best fucking friend, and he kept this from me for six years. Five? God, is that how old he’d be? What is that, first grade? And my best friend kept that from me.
And now I have no idea where my son is.
I told myself I was going to do everything I could not to lie to her, instead bending and omitting truth whenever possible. But I also told myself I’d do everything to keep her from hurting, and she is hurting. And if this turns out to be a false memory—
But it’s not. Fuck me, but I know it’s not.
I feel it right down in my very being, I just needed a couple seconds to come around to it.
And even if this turned out to be a false memory, it’s better for me to calm her down now and figure out the truth of it on my own than scare her by telling her I don’t know.
“He’s with my sister,” I blurt out. “The amnesia. I didn’t want to upset him. Or you. You wouldn’t want that, right? For him to be here and asking you questions and expecting you to take care of him when you don’t even know him? That sounds awful.”
That sounds like something I’m going to have to do once I track him down and get him back.
I’m going to have to figure out how to be a father to a stranger.
He’s going to have his own life, favorite people and favorite things.
There are shows he watches that I’ve never heard of, and he’s got hobbies, I’m sure.
He’ll want to talk to me, and I won’t know what to say.
Or he won’t want to talk to me, because he won’t know who I am either.
What if he calls someone else dad?
Fuck.
I’ll kill the guy, that’s my first instinct. But I remember what it was like when my dad was killed, and I can’t think of a way to make someone hate you more quickly. No, that’s not an option.
“But doesn’t he miss me?” Ana asks, frantic energy still laced into her voice. “It’s been weeks! He’s gotta be—oh God, am I an awful mother? Does he hate me?”
I bundle her up and drag her across my lap to rock her on my chest. To calm her, yes, but I need this for me, too.
I am freaking the fuck out, and I don’t think she’ll be too happy if I start chowing down on Ativan in the bathroom.
“N-no, of course you’re great!” I stammer. “Are you kidding? He’s obsessed with you. I’ve been talking to him every day, I just told him you were having a, uhh, a mommy-cation but that you really loved all the pictures he drew. ”
Fuck me if he’s not into drawing.
Wait no, it’s fine. She wouldn’t know.
She nods like this sounds good. “I want to talk to him.”
“He’s sleeping. It’s the middle of the night.”
She jabs me with the heel of her palm, and if anything, that’s a relief.
She’s calmed down. Cool. Then I can start calming myself down, too.
“Not now! But tomorrow? Or maybe when you talk to him, I can just be in the room but off-screen so I can hear him? I don’t know if it’ll trigger any memories.
This is seriously just a blip, and oh my God, it’s crazy how much he looks like you! ”
“He does?” I marvel, wishing she’d been rescued with a phone or a wallet so I could have actually seen a picture of him. Only after she gives me a funny look do I realize this was the wrong thing to say. “I just mean, I don’t really see it. I guess... he just reminds me of my brother so much.”
Ouch.
Ouuuuuuuuuuch.
And she must see my pain because she reaches up and strokes my cheek. “I bet he does. I’m sorry I scared you so much. What a terrible way for a memory to come back!”
“No, it’s okay. It’s great. I’m so happy they’re coming back.”
“Me, too . . . Vasya.”
That feels great, too. I’m glad that the first memories that come back are of me or adjacent to me. She remembers what my family calls me, and that’s a lot. That probably triggered this flash of Artom.
My chest aches as it rises and falls, and I kiss her with all the composure I have despite the way everything is reeling around me. “Rest now, zvyozdochka. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
She nods and shimmies back into her spot on my bed, but now it’s our bed. Our home. Our family .
“I can’t believe you kept this from me, you dufus,” Ana laughs as she snuggles into the duvet, everything right in her world. “I’m so excited to meet him.”
I smile and give her one last kiss good night, fluffing my pillow and sinking into my bed.
Closing my eyes and sighing.
Evening out my breath.
Waiting.
Listening.
Counting to one hundred once Ana’s breaths drop a couple gears and start to rumble lightly on the inhales.
I open my eyes and watch her, making sure she really is sound asleep. Only when I’m confident that she is do I get out of bed, grab my phone, and slip all the way out to the elevator bay.
My heart starts to pound as I finally let everything flood in.
My son is five years old. He looks like me.
That’s all I know about him. What I don’t know fills whole nightmarish volumes of my mind, and even thinking about just the topmost level, where is he, has me sliding down to my ass and clenching my fists to keep from screaming and punching everything around me.
I just need to contain the panic for a few minutes.
I need to make calls, I need to fill in blanks.
I need to find my son.
“You alright?” Ana asks as we make our way up the stairs to the roof.
I nod, doing my best to correct my grim expression. “Just don’t like you out is all. ”
Ana takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Well, I appreciate you doing this for me.”
“Seemed like a good starting point.” I’ve probably said that a dozen times today since I came up with the pitch for meeting Camilla. I told her this is her best friend of probably forever. We can see how this meeting goes and then decide what to do about Artom.
He’s still missing. The youngest person rescued from the sex traffickers was an eleven-year-old girl, according to Sasha.
I gave him a line about Ana having been visiting her cousin and how her cousin’s son is missing too, and Sasha assures me that everything happened too quickly for a young boy to have been separated from her.
They’d been in the middle of abducting her when Consummate attacked, and no one got away.
I believe him. The Consummate boys are meticulous. A shame they use their powers for good.
Kostya is as flabbergasted as I was. He had no idea about Artom, but as he reminds me, he’s rarely farther than the apartment he lives in across the street.
Benedetti isn’t surprised Ana has a kid, only that I’m calling at three in the morning to ask about Tony’s sister when I’ve never shown interest in his personal life before.
“Lacey?” she says between yawns. “Haven’t seen her in years. She moved while I was in college.”