26. Sandrine
Sandrine
Aweek goes by, and I’ve found a hybrid existence between being a mother and a neurologically challenged patient. I learned the rhythm of Iron Keep, slipping into Violet’s morning routine.
Sometimes I wake her up. Sometimes she wakes me up. I help with her breakfast, but I’m still figuring out how to cook. Milia, the chef, helps me. Covers for me, really.
Kirill still brings Violet to school and picks her up. I see all the tasks he does for her are not out of duty. Nadia can technically do it all. Kirill thoroughly enjoys being a father.
When she gets home, I give her a snack and spend the rest of the afternoon with her. We play. We read. We sing.
In between, a driver brings me to Norridge. Some days, if Kirill is free, he joins me. He listens to the doctors and asks questions. He has Mid-West Iron and a brotherhood to run. He needs to know what his Madam Volkov is capable of.
My identity transition was abrupt, but the doctors are satisfied with how steady I am. The truth made me stronger, and it didn’t cripple me as previous therapists had predicted.
They’ve adjusted my medication. It keeps the pain away and steadies the storms in my head. The flashes come and go. They’re brief, shimmering fragments that slip away before I can fully grasp them.
After the evaluations, my treatment will consist of two visits per week.
Speaking to Lourdes is strained. I try to forgive her for keeping so much from me.
She didn’t know about Violet. Kirill never told Ares.
I can’t spend this new chapter of my life being angry with people who believed they were keeping me safe.
Kirill and I have not kissed since the night he showed me my paintings.
And each night after Violet goes to sleep, I find myself hoping he’ll kiss me again.
But then I see him dressed all in black, and that signals he has several hours of being pakhan with Drago, and it will be another night when the brotherhood comes first.
These thoughts pass through my mind as I stare at the ceiling. Checking the clock this morning, I see I have a few minutes to start my routine. When the door to my room creaks open, I turn my head, and my mind immediately hopes it’s Kirill. But a thin silhouette slips in through a blade of light.
“Mommy!” Violet climbs carefully onto the bed and sits on my legs.
I smile at the halo of glossy, dark, sleep-tousled curls. But she’s still in her pajamas. Alarm rushes through me.
“Why aren’t you dressed for school?” I sit up, already pushing covers away to get her moving.
She dresses herself most mornings because she wears a uniform. On Saturdays, she picks out very creative outfits, mostly pants and sweaters that don’t match.
“It’s a snow day,” she announces with her hands in the air, then stands up to spin on the mattress in a burst of energy. “Nadia said I can stay home. Come play in the snow with me.”
She reaches for my hand, five little fingers wrapped around two of mine.
“Okay,” I say and hop out of the bed.
I stop at the window and smile at everything covered in white. All the years after my accident, I watched the snowfall from a window. I never got to enjoy it. I was kept inside. Protected. Caged.
I’m free!
“You need to put on warm clothes,” I tell Violet, stepping toward my closet. “And boots.”
“Boots,” she echoes and flies from my bedroom.
In my closet, I consider what is good playing-in-the-snow clothes for me. I don’t see any ski-wear or anything waterproof. I grab a pair of thick jeans and a bulky sweater.
Violet returns wearing something that will get equally wet. Kids need to be kids and have fun. Right?
My childhood was stolen, and I look forward to replacing the lost memories with my daughter.
She grabs my hand the moment I have my boots on. “Come on, Mommy. It’s still snowing. I want to eat the snowflakes!”
We move through the house hand in hand, past a watchful presence of guards. Their smaller number means Kirill isn’t home. A bulk of his Bratva force travels with him. Did he leave early? Or did he not come home at all last night?
Icy dread pools in my stomach. I believed him when he said he hadn’t been with anyone in the five years since I’d been gone. There was no reason to lie. And there’s no reason to think he’d take a mistress now if he went through all this trouble to find me.
So, where is he?
With no answer available, I step outside, and the cold smacks me in the face. But that’s easily shelved by the delight of the falling snow. Big wet flakes land on my nose and lips.
“Taste them, Mommy!” Violet looks up and catches them on her tongue.
I do the same with my eyes closed. A memory flashes at me, the same cold, the same wet snow, the same taste on my tongue. So many memories are breaking through, it’s overwhelming.
One of the therapists at Marlowe said because I’d spent so many years in Lakeshore, hidden from the world, there was nothing to jar memories. People without brain injuries are reminded of the past all the time. I was kept locked away.
Violet doesn’t wait. She darts around cars belonging to the house staff and guards, pulling me toward the gate leading to the back of the property. She laughs with her whole body, all wild joy and pink cheeks.
When the house guards follow a few steps too close, she spins, her face frowning for the first time that I’ve seen.
“No,” she declares with surprising authority. “I’m with my mommy. She’ll protect me like Daddy.”
The guards obey like dire wolves respecting the alpha. Nodding, they step back, but don’t retreat.
I glance at the men, wanting to assure them that I can do as my daughter claimed. I doubt I can, though. I’m not armed and have never shot a gun. I think. I know I’d be useless with a knife.
The question fades as Violet tugs me toward the edge of the courtyard. The property behind the mansion stretches wide and long. Untouched snow blankets everything and feels sacred.
“What’s the matter, Mommy?”
“It’s so pretty, I hate to ruin it.”
Violet thinks about that, but then shakes her head. “It will be prettier with snow angels.”
With that, she dives into what appears to be at least eight inches of snow. A shiver of dread hits me. Is this too deep? Before I have a chance to worry more, she’s on her back, laughing and making impressions with her arms and legs waving up and down.
Smiling, I follow her. Looking at the snow, I’m not sure I want to get that wet.
“Like this, Mommy.” Violet climbs out of her white angel and jumps to another spot.
She turns and then falls backward. My heart leaps at the thought that she’ll hit her head, but the snow is so dense that it cushions her. I don’t know if it will cushion my weight the same, so I do an improvised reverse swan dive, cheating and leading with my butt.
Even with my coat, the snow feels bitterly cold, but I forget everything and let myself exist in this blissful new memory I’m sharing with my daughter.
God, I hope she never loses these moments, the way I’ve lost all mine with my mother.
“Let’s look at them.” Violet bounces up again. “So pretty!”
I stand and admire my work. The vision of the grooves in the wings stays with me. I want to paint this. The layers, the depth.
“Catch me, Mommy.” Violet attempts to run in the high drifts.
The weather has definitely taken a turn in the few minutes we’ve been out here.
“Just a few more minutes,” I say through the sharp wind and dash to chase her, much like I did that day in the parlor.
I lose track of time as we chase each other, a game invented on the fly. Violet’s laughter drowns out the whir of the falling snow.
When I catch her again, I don’t let go. I don’t remember holding her for the first time, or the sound of her crying in her crib at night. But I have this. She’s squirming and laughing. It feels so good and real that I want to cry.
Next, we’re both rolling around and laughing. The wind has picked up even more, and the flakes feel heavier, drenching my clothes.
A dark figure cuts across the white, not caring about ruining any leftover untouched perfection.
I think it’s a guard, but my joy fractures as I look up to see Kirill marching toward us.
His vibe feels dark, like that day in Arizona.
His coat flares behind him, his expression hardening with every step.
Uh oh…
His gaze sweeps over Violet, who’s sitting in the snow, creating a wall around her. Then he looks at me with stifled anger.
“What the hell are you doing?” he says, his voice cutting through the air like a sharp knife. “Violet, you’re soaked. Get in the house right now.”
His tone jolts me, another memory kicking me in the stomach. Did we have bad fights? Do I know this man?
“Daddy, no.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t give in to her. He lurches forward and lifts her effortlessly from the snowy pile.
She giggles, thinking it’s a game. “Daddy!”
He pulls off one of her gloves and glares at me. “Her fingers are frozen.”
Panic flaring, I touch her small hand, reddened and ice cold.
“She didn’t say anything,” I murmur, guilt rushing at me like a tidal wave. “I’m sorry.”
He’s already turning back toward the house, but Violet isn’t having it.
“No!” she cries, twisting in his grip, her small fists pushing against his chest. “I want Mommy!”
Kirill freezes, his world narrowing to that single plea. Caring for her overrides his anger, even if this is really my fault.
“I got this,” I say, catching up to him, my arms outstretched. “I’ll get her dry. I’ll get her warm. We were out here for ten minutes, Kirill.”
“Frostbite can happen in two minutes.”
“Daddy! I want Mommy.”
Kirill’s eyes slip closed. He brings his face to hers and whispers something. Then with a kiss to her forehead, he turns to me and slowly hands her over.
I earned my mother’s wings in that moment as she settles against me. Her arms wrap around my neck, and it feels terrifyingly, overwhelmingly right.
Climbing through the snow, I reach the gate, then cross the freshly shoveled pavers. Guards watch me, their faces grim.
The pakhan is angry. Who will he take it out on?
I carry Violet inside and go straight up the stairs. Her head rests against my shoulder as she shivers against me.
Her bedroom is warm, but I bring her into the bathroom to avoid drenching the carpet with leftover snow. I set her down and turn on the shower to fill the room with steam for relaxing warmth.
Violet has already peeled off her coat, but her little arms are stuck.
My hands tremble as I realize how soaked everything is. The cold has turned her skin into a raw red surface. Dreadful guilt hits me so hard my vision suddenly blurs.
“I didn’t realize, sweetie,” I whisper, more to myself than to her, tears spilling down my cheeks. “But I should have known.”
“Don’t cry, Mommy,” Violet says in her undies and a tank top with a little bow at the neckline. She reaches up to touch my cheek with cold fingers, making me feel worse. “I’m fine.”
Our relationship feels impossibly backward. I let out a shaky breath, forcing myself to be steady and calm. I may not remember how I became her mother. But I need to learn. She needs me.
“Here.” Kirill’s voice comes at me from behind.
It’s gentle, though. I look back to see him holding fresh clothes. Velour track pants and a thick sweater. When our eyes meet, and he sees my tears, his edge crumples.
“Thank you.” I take the clothes from him. “I wanted to get her dry first.”
As he gathers the wet jeans and puts them on the counter, he watches us.
“Daddy, I’m fine!” Violet continues to argue with him.
“You had a bad cold a few weeks ago, solnyshko. I told you no playing in the snow for a while.”
Ah ha. She didn’t tell me that. One week with a mother and father and she’s figured out how to play us against each other. I sneak a smile at the ingenuity.
“I don’t feel sick.” Her head goes into the sweater’s neck hole, and when it pops out, she opens her mouth to protest more, but instead she…
Sneezes. Violently.
Oh no.
I touch her face. She’s warm. Too warm.
Looking up at my already-angry husband, I say with dread in my voice, “She’s burning up, Kirill.”