36. Mikhail
MIKHAIL
It would be enough for Taylor to not drink her coffee. I know that people change. Even if it has only been less than two months in my home, Taylor is young, and I expect her to change plenty of times while I know her. But she has quit drinking it and is trying to hide that from me.
She sits across from me at breakfast with both hands wrapped around the cup, lifting it occasionally without bringing it near her mouth. I watch this happen three times before accusing her. “You are not drinking that.”
Taylor looks at the cup as though she has forgotten it exists. “I’m getting to it.”
“It is cold.”
“I like cold coffee.”
“No, you do not.”
“I didn’t realize my coffee habits were under government surveillance,” she says.
“They are not.”
“Then stop monitoring them.”
I glance at her untouched breakfast. “You are not eating either.”
“I ate.”
“You moved a strawberry.”
“It was a large strawberry.”
I stare at her, and she sighs loudly, crying out, “Oh my God, fine, here!” She grabs a handful of strawberries and shoves them into her mouth, caps and all. She chews them roughly and smiles, juice leaking down her chin. “Happy?”
My mother turns a page of her newspaper. She has been unusually quiet this morning. That is rarely a good sign.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask Taylor, confused by this display of mania, catching her wrist as she goes for another handful of strawberries. “Stop.”
Taylor’s eyes lift to mine. There are shadows beneath them. Her skin is pale, and she has tied her hair back carelessly, leaving several loose strands around her face. She looks tired. She has looked tired for days. Maybe weeks.
“Do you feel ill?”
“No.”
“You look ill.”
“Thank you.”
“It was not an insult.”
“Then you need more practice with compliments.”
She stands, carrying her cup with her.
“You used to have wine with dinner,” I say.
Taylor stops. “What?”
“You have refused it three nights in a row.”
She turns slowly. The irritation in her face is too immediate. Too defensive.
“Maybe I don’t want wine.”
“You always want wine.”
“That makes me sound like an alcoholic.”
Nikita folds the newspaper. “Mikhail,” she says.
I ignore her.
Taylor’s exhaustion may be nothing. It may also be the result of stress, poor sleep, or an illness she is attempting to conceal because she dislikes admitting weakness. She has no sense where her health is concerned. She would likely collapse in a hallway and describe it as inconvenient.
“You should see a doctor,” I say.
Taylor laughs once. “No.”
“That was not a request.”
The room goes still. My mother closes her eyes briefly.
Taylor sets the coffee cup down in the sink. “I’m sorry,” she says. “What was that?”
“I will have a doctor come to the house.”
“You will not.”
“You are sleeping constantly and barely eating.”
“I’m stressed.”
“Then a doctor can confirm you are stressed.”
“A doctor cannot confirm stress.”
“A competent one can.”
She stares at me. “You hear yourself, right?”
“Yes. And do you see yourself?”
“No, Mikhail, my eyes do not look that way.”
I grab her by the arms and drag her over to a mirror on the wall. “Look, Taylor, you are pale.”
She swats me away from her. “And you’re annoying. I guess we all have our plights.”
She walks out, and my mother lifts her cup of tea in sarcastic congratulations. “You are very skilled with women.”
I find Taylor twenty minutes later in the library. She’s curled in one of the armchairs near the window, asleep with her laptop balanced precariously across her knees. Sunlight falls across her face. Her breathing is slow and even, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.
For several seconds, I only look at her. She has made herself small inside the chair.
Taylor is rarely small. Even surrounded by men larger and more dangerous than she is, she occupies a room as if it belongs to her. She argues. She laughs too loudly. She insults my furniture. Now she looks fragile. I dislike it.
A blanket lies folded over the back of the sofa. I take the laptop before it can slide from her legs, then take the blanket and spread it over her. I set the laptop down on the table next to her. The screen wakes in front of me.
Flight schedules. Moscow to Wyoming.
My body goes cold before my thoughts catch up.
I stare at it, standing over Taylor, for long enough that she begins to stir.
Her eyes open lazily, and for one brief moment a gentle smile crosses her face before she remembers that she’s angry at me.
Then she sees the laptop in my hands, and her anger is magnified.
The smile disappears. “What are you doing?” she demands, her voice sharp and accusatory.
“I was closing it.” I hate my voice, petulant like a small boy. I can close a laptop in my own house.
“You were reading it.”
“I saw the screen when I was preventing your computer from falling on the floor.”
“So you were snooping.”
“If you did not want me to see that you were looking at flights, you should not be falling asleep in strange places with your laptop in your lap.” I cannot lie that I do not care she was looking them up, but I care much more that she hid it from me.
“Now you are watching me sleep too?”
“Gospodi!” Lord! “I am not watching you sleep. I just passed by the room.”
“Of course you did.”
“I am not trying to control you,” I say.
“Then stop.”
I move to sit closer to her. Her eyes narrow immediately. I stop. That reaction bothers me. Not fear. Resistance. She expects me to corner her. She feels trapped. And worse, she is. I cannot let her go. “Why do you want to leave?”
“I didn’t say I do.”
“You were checking availability.”
“I was curious.”
“About going home?” I try to keep my voice neutral, but I can hear myself failing.
“People are allowed to check things.”
“Taylor.”
“What?” There’s something strained in her voice. Something close to panic.
I lower mine. “Do not leave.” Her face changes, but it is not enough. “Please.”
Taylor looks at me as though I have struck her. The room becomes very quiet.
“I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” she says.
Before I can answer, the door opens behind me, and my mother enters. Her gaze moves from Taylor to me, then to the closed laptop. I am too panicked to stop now. “Then do nothing,” I say to Taylor, ignoring my mother.
“That isn’t an option,” Taylor says back, looking behind me at my mother.
“It is,” I beg.
“For you, maybe. Your life has stayed the same. I’m in limbo here.”
“If Taylor wants to go,” my mother says, “you must let her.”
“No.”
Taylor flinches. I hear it too late.
My mother’s face hardens. “You see?” she asks Taylor quietly.
“See what?” I demand, my voice bellowing. “She is ill. She needs a doctor, not a pilot.”
Taylor goes white. For one second, none of us move. Then she clamps a hand over her mouth and runs. I follow immediately. She barely reaches the bathroom. The door remains open as she drops to her knees in front of the toilet and vomits.
I stop behind her. Fear turns to anger so quickly they are indistinguishable. She has known she is ill. She has refused food, refused help, and concealed it while becoming progressively worse beneath my roof.
I kneel beside her. She pushes my hand away when I reach for her hair. “Don’t touch me.”
“You need a doctor.”
“No.”
“You are vomiting.”
“I noticed.”
“This is not a joke.”
“I’m not laughing.” She retches again.
My mother appears in the doorway.
I stand. “Call Arkady. Have him bring Dr. Lebedev.”
“No,” Taylor says.
I ignore her.
“Mikhail,” my mother warns.
“She has barely eaten in days.”
“I know.”
“She eats a handful of strawberries, and now she is vomiting.”
“I see that.”
“She may be dehydrated.”
“I know.”
“What is this, Taylor, some kind of strike? You want to go home so badly that you are refusing to care for yourself?”
Taylor grips the edge of the toilet and closes her eyes. “No.”
“Then you cannot leave. You will not leave until you are better, at least. I will not be responsible for you dying on a plane back to America. I am not returning you to your parents malnourished and pale faced, they will think I have tortured you!”
I realize that I am yelling at her, angry that Taylor is unwell and refusing care, angry that she is refusing my help, angry that she is allowing my mother, not me, to hold her hair for her.
My mother yells at me from the floor, “You are a very stupid, blind man.”
“What does that mean?”
She looks at Taylor. Taylor shakes her head once. The movement is small. Desperate. My attention moves between them, coursing, twitching. They know something.
“What are you hiding?”
Neither answers. I swipe everything off the sink with my arms, sending expensive crystal soap and potpourri holders careening to the floor. They shatter on the tile.
Neither of them reacts. It angers me even more. I bend down a few inches from my mother’s face. “Tell me what is going on with her. You think you can hide something from me in my own house?”
“Mikhail,” my mother says calmly, her eyes cold.
“If she is unwell, and something happens to her, I will—”
“You will what, moy syn?” she prods gently.
Taylor stands unsteadily, one hand braced against the wall. I move toward her. She recoils. “Stop.”
“You are sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“You just vomited.”
“That isn’t—” Her voice breaks. She presses both hands against her face.
My mother steps toward her, but Taylor backs away from both of us. She is trapped between the sink and the wall. I see it. I see what I have done, where I have gotten her. But I do not know how to undo it.
“Taylor,” I say more gently. “Tell me what is wrong. I want to help you, kotik.”
Her hands curl into fists. She closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she looks furious. Furious, terrified, overwhelmed, and exhausted.
“I’m pregnant.”