5. Mara
5
MARA
A lthough I shouldn’t, when the cab stops at the front of my apartment building, I sigh in relief when Ark digs his hand into the back pocket of his trousers to remove his wallet. I don’t have the funds for additional fares outside of school and work commutes on my MetroCard, so I could never pull together enough funds for a sixty-dollar fare.
“Keep the change,” Ark says, tossing the driver almost double the fee.
His generosity is surprising but not unexpected. Tillie was sick again during the drive to the other side of town, and although the cab’s floor remains spotless, the smell blooming from my handbag and hair is atrocious.
My hair caught what my bag missed, and when I throw open the cab door to exit, the quickest whiff announces the cabbie will need more than a tree-shaped air freshener to convince his next rider to switch on the meter.
“I’ll take her,” Ark offers when I almost slip while struggling to maintain my grip on Tillie’s school backpack, my vomit-filled handbag, and a child who looks deathly lethargic.
I’m not given the chance to deny his offer. In a swift pluck-and-sweep maneuver, Ark pulls Tillie into his arms and exits the cab from the opposite side.
My panic is so high that I trip over my feet while racing for the sidewalk Ark is commanding like a business mogul would a boardroom. Women slow their steps to admire him, and even a handful of men turn their heads and gawk.
Although I understand their wish to drink in the beautiful specimen in front of them, it does little to settle my panic. “I sh-should take her. She’s not well. I don’t want you to get s-sick.”
“I’ll be fine,” Ark replies as if accustomed to dealing with vomit.
Fear tears me in two when he walks toward my building like he’s been here before. The positioning of his hands as he carries Tillie into our building is nowhere close to inappropriate, and Tillie doesn’t seem the slightest bit fazed she is being carried like a child half her age, but I learned the hard way what happens when you accept help from men you assume are meant to protect you.
“Come, Mara.” Ark’s bark snaps me out of a fear that has rendered me motionless. “You’ll catch pneumonia if you remain standing in the rain.”
I stare at him in bewilderment. That’s how heated my blood is. I had no clue it was raining, even with fat droplets rolling down my cheeks. I assumed they were tears.
I fall into step behind Ark and Tillie just as another brutal heave leaves Tillie’s tiny frame. She was born on her due date, but teen pregnancies have multiple disadvantages—the primary: underweight infants. Tillie has always been a head shorter than her peers and several pounds lighter.
When Ark reaches the stoop of the stairs and peers up, I almost tell him that I can take it from here, but the gawk of the building supervisor stops me. Eduard gives me the creeps, and although I’ve known him a lot longer than I have Ark, there’s no doubt who I trust more.
“We’re on the fi-fifth floor.” When Ark’s eyes sling to me, shame overtakes some of the anxiety hammering my voice. “And the elevator is out of order.”
His smile lessens my shakes further. “I guess it’s lucky I skipped cardio this morning.”
An unexpected giggle leaves Tillie’s mouth when Ark gallops up the first flight of stairs like she doesn’t weigh a thing. I did the same when she was a toddler, but as the years passed and her height crept closer to mine, my back started acting as if it were as old as our building.
Once we reach the fifth floor, Ark steps to the side so I can lead our walk. The minimal floor space means I usually close the gap in eight solid strides, but it takes double that amount this time.
It’s hard moving forward when your eyes are constantly darting backward.
My keys clang when I stuff one into the deadbolt I installed against Eduard’s wishes, and I crank open the lock.
When Tillie nuzzles into Ark’s chest before telling him that her bedroom is the third door on the left, a knot forms in my stomach
We’ve never invited a member of the opposite sex into our apartment. Not even Tillie’s close male friends she’s known since kindergarten have crossed the threshold of our front door.
Some of the tension swallowing me whole becomes manageable when Ark seeks my permission to enter my home before doing so. Not a lot, just enough that I stray my eyes to the kitchen at the front of my apartment for only the quickest second before shadowing his walk.
The knife block is full, but the knives aren’t overly sharp. They’d barely cause a scratch.
As Ark walks down the long hallway, he takes in my apartment as if it’s not a dime a dozen around these parts, his expression neither disgusted nor impressed.
Years of practice allow me to slip my keys out of the lock and wedge the longest between my middle and index fingers without making a sound.
I don’t feel the need to protect myself, more that I don’t want my daughter to walk down the same scary corridor I was forced to walk in my youth.
Tillie looks so calm when Ark places her on her bed. She doesn’t even flinch when he tugs up the covers on her bed like she isn’t wearing shoes.
I’m not surprised he’s missed them. Her gym shoes are so soleless that she may as well not be wearing any.
“Do you have a bucket? Or are you happy for her to continue using your purse?”
When Ark spins around to witness my response to his witty comment, his eyes lower to the key I’m clutching as a makeshift shiv before they lift to my face. His lips arch at one side as if he’s happy I’ve prepared for a battle, before he glances past me.
“The bathroom is close, but you’d rather be safe than sorry. It isn’t hard to remove vomit from carpet, but the smell takes ages to go away.” He sounds as if he is speaking from experience, and it eases my hesitation by a smidge.
“I have a bucket.” I nudge my head to the bathroom he referenced. “It is above the w-washing machine.” The broken washing machine.
Ark moves forward too quickly for my stunned head.
I flinch, and I hate myself for it.
The devastation in his eyes cuts like a knife, as does the sheer actuality beaming from them when he says, “I won’t hurt you, Mara.”
I know sits on the tip of my tongue, but it remains entombed in my throat no matter how often I try to fire it off. It could be because my fear doesn’t center around myself. Stopping Tillie from facing the demons of my past is the only thing of importance to me right now.
As if he heard my silent pledge that this isn’t about him or me, Ark dips his chin in understanding before he slips past me.
The hairs on my nape prickle when he murmurs, “I will leave the bucket by the door before waiting for you in the kitchen. That way, none of the exits are blocked.”
I should tell him to leave, to let us be, but instead, my lungs inhale a shaky breath before I nod. I don’t want him to leave any more than I wish I were brave enough not to run from him Friday night.
Even with Tillie sitting between us, sick and clammy, the crackling of energy was undeniable during our cab ride across Myasnikov. Even Tillie’s dour mood perked up a smidge after feeding off it.
I can’t see Ark’s face since my eyes are locked on the emergency escape exit hidden behind tattered curtains. I don’t need to. The warmth of his grin makes heating unnecessary. It dots my nape with sweat and has me concerned Tillie’s stomach issues are more sinister than her enjoying too many sugary treats.
Her cheeks are the color of beets.
I learn why when a second after Ark exits her room, partly closing the door behind him, she jackknifes into a half-seated position and adopts a look of shock. She did the same thing when John Pearce replaced the previous Purple Wiggle.
The Wiggles are an Australian children’s program that Tillie fell in love with several years ago. When I announced the reason behind her Australian name, she became Aussie-obsessed. At the start, she watched shows like The Wiggles and Bluey . Now, she devours daytime soaps with Mrs. Lichard every afternoon after school.
Although she outgrew her Wiggles hysteria three years ago, her fascination with John has yet to release its hold.
She is too young to have a boyfriend, so I’ve never discouraged her crush.
I may regret that decision now.
John lives in Australia.
Ark, on the other hand, is only a handful of miles away.
This crush will be more difficult to deter, and I’m not entirely sure I am the right woman for the job. I hardly know the man rummaging through my limited bathroom supplies, yet panic isn’t the only thing slicking my skin with sweat. Excitement is there as well.
After placing my keys on a chest of drawers near Tillie’s door—and having a stern talking-to myself to get with the program—I walk to her bedside. She’s staring at her bedroom door with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. If we were a cartoon, love hearts would be bouncing from her eyes.
“Tillie Malenkov. If Mrs. Pasnov finds out you were pretending to be sick to get an early mark from school, you’ll get detention for a week.”
Her mouth falls open before it snaps shut. “I’m not pretending.” Her voice relays the honesty of her reply, much less the greening of her gills. “I’ve had a sore stomach all day.” Her lovey-dovey expression is back, though not as strong as it was in the cab. “But not even the worst tummy ache would have me missing how pretty he is.”
“Men are not pretty. They’re handsome.”
I unknowingly walk straight into her trap. “So you did notice how handsome he is.”
Embarrassed that I’m such an awkward gawker that my ten-year-old noticed, I ruffle her hair before endeavoring to keep my focus on the cause of her stomachache. “Your tummy is sore because you ate birthday cake for breakfast.” I push back her curls and check her for a temperature to be sure a gluttonous diet is the cause of her sickness. Her forehead feels warm but not scorching hot. “I told you too much sugar is bad for you.”
She folds her arms in front of her chest and huffs. “Mrs. Lichard said the same thing when I packed leftover cake for lunch.”
“Tillie…”
“It was fresher than the bread, and I didn’t want it to go to waste.” Portions of the child I raised hide behind the glint of indulgence in her eyes when she adds, “I know how much you spent on it. I saw the price list at the bakery last week when Mrs. Lichard paid the final payment for you.” Her chin balances on her chest, her loved-up gleam nowhere to be seen. “You shouldn’t have spent so much on me.”
Her quivering bottom lip breaks my heart. “But you loved that cake.”
“I did…” She grips her stomach as the color her cheeks have held for only half a minute drains. “But it doesn’t taste as good coming up as it did going down.”
When she rapidly swallows, I race for the door, snatch up the bucket Ark left there, and then bolt back to her bed with only half a second to spare.
“Mo-Mommy,” Tillie cries through a hiccup when the brutal heaves surging through her body spring tears into her eyes. She hates being sick almost as much as she hates when I am right. “I shouldn’t have eaten so much cake.”
“You’re okay, sweetheart. Mommy is right here.” I gesture for her to scoot over before joining her on her bed, completely forgetting that I have an unexpected visitor waiting for me in my kitchen.
Desperate to take Tillie’s focus off the mess in the bucket, I ask, “What will John think when he finds out you went and got yourself a new crush?”
“I think he’ll be okay,” she replies through a yawn. “Because I don’t want Ark to be my boyfriend…” Her eyes express the words she’s too afraid to speak.
I want him to be yours.