Chapter 20 Noemi
NOEMI
The chair by the balcony door has become my spot over the past two days.
It's the one place in this cramped motel room where I can sit with my journal and pretend I'm somewhere else entirely.
The fabric is scratchy and the cushion is flat from years of use, but it's got a view of the parking lot and the highway beyond and enough distance from the TV that I can almost block out the sounds of Sasha's video game—purchased by Fyodor as a consolation for losing everything.
He's been playing for three hours straight now, sprawled on the bed with the controller in his hands and his eyes glued to the screen.
Some racing game Fyodor had brought in yesterday morning.
I completely disapprove of buying a child's affection, but Sasha is suffering and he needs something good to cling to right now.
I watch him over the top of my journal and try to figure out how to break through the fog of sadness that's settled over him since we got here.
His studies have been dead in the water since we arrived.
With no books to work from, there is no structure or motivation.
I can't even get him to concentrate. I've tried to engage him a few times, suggested we do some math problems together or practice his reading with the hotel Bible sitting in the nightstand drawer, but he just shrugs and goes back to his game.
He's depressed, I know that. Still grieving his mother, still reeling from being ripped away from everything familiar, and I don't know how to motivate a ten-year-old who's drowning in sadness when I can barely keep my own head above water.
Fyodor's voice drifts in from the balcony where he's been making calls for the past hour, pacing back and forth in the cold with his phone pressed to his ear. I can't hear everything he's saying, but I catch enough to piece together what's happening.
He's talking to Lazar and asking him to bring Vasili and meet him here in Moscow. The job he told me about—killing this Marat character—can't fail and he needs backup. All I need is some peace and safety, but I doubt I'm going to get that here.
I stare down at my journal and try to make sense of the words I've written over the past few days, but they blur together until I can't read them anymore.
My life choices flash through my mind like a movie playing too fast, all the moments that led me here to this shabby motel room with a broken man and his broken son.
My life wasn't perfect but it made sense to me, and now I’m not sure which way is up because I slept with a Mafia hitman.
The thing that scares me most isn't the violence or the danger or the constant threat of men with guns showing up to kill us all.
The thing that scares me most is that I still want him.
Even knowing what he is and hearing him talk about finishing the job of killing that man, my heart still races when he walks into the room.
My body still aches for his hands on my skin.
I still catch myself watching him when he's not looking, still feel that pull toward him that I can't seem to break no matter how hard I try.
What does that make me? What kind of woman falls for a monster and can't stop falling even after she sees the teeth and the claws and everything else he's been hiding?
Sasha laughs at something on the screen and I look up, watching his face light up for a moment before it settles back into that flat expression he's been wearing since we got here.
He's so young and vulnerable, and he has no idea what his father really does for a living.
He thinks Fyodor's a businessman, maybe, or something.
He doesn't know about the blood on those hands, the bodies in the ground, the life that waits for him if he stays in this world too long.
I close my journal and set it aside, then push myself out of the chair and move toward the balcony door. Fyodor's back is to me, his shoulders tense under his jacket, and I can hear him talking to someone else now. The conversation sounds more formal, and I catch a name that makes me pause.
"I understand, Yuri," he's saying. "The job will be done soon. I just need a few more days to get everything in place."
I stand there with my hand on the door and listen to him reassure this man that everything is under control, that the hit will happen, that Marat won't live long enough to testify against anyone.
And it sickens me almost to the point that I want to throw up.
These men are playing God with someone's life, and I'm somehow a part of it and I hate it.
He ends the call and shoves the phone into his pocket, then stands there staring out at the highway with his hands gripping the rusted railing.
I can see the tension in his body, the way his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are drawn up toward his ears.
He's stressed, I know that. He's got people trying to kill him and a job he can't seem to finish and a son he doesn't know how to connect with.
But I'm stressed too. I'm scared and confused and trapped in a situation I never asked for, and I need something from him that he doesn't seem capable of giving. I don't know if he'll ever be capable of giving it.
I slide the door open and step out onto the balcony, wrapping my arms around myself against the cold. He doesn't turn around or acknowledge my presence. It's like if he takes his eyes off the horizon someone will sneak up on him and he can't let that happen. Just like last night.
"I need to ask you something," I say.
"What," he growls, and I feel my patience start to fray at the edges.
"Can we go to a store? Sasha needs clothes that actually fit him, and I'd like to get some books so I can continue his lessons. He's been staring at that game for hours and it's not good for him."
"Not today."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
I stare at the back of his head and feel something snap inside me, some thread of tolerance that's been stretched too thin for too long.
"That's not an answer, Fyodor. That's you being an ass because you're having a bad day."
He spins around on one heel, and I see the anger flashing in his eyes before he even opens his mouth.
"I'm working, Noemi. I don't have time to take you shopping."
"I'm not asking you to take me shopping like it's some kind of leisure activity. I'm asking you to provide basic necessities for your son, who is sitting in there wearing the same clothes he's had on for two days because we had to leave everything behind."
"He's fine."
"He's not fine. He's depressed and disconnected and you've stuck a video game in his hands like that's going to solve it. He needs structure. He needs routine. He needs his father to actually show up and be present instead of hiding out on the balcony making phone calls about killing people."
My words are hurtful and I mean every one of them. I'm so tired of walking on eggshells around him, so tired of trying to manage his moods while he does nothing to manage them himself.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he says dismissively, and his eyes refocus on the horizon.
"I know exactly what I'm talking about. I've been watching you with him for weeks now, and you still don't get it.
Even if you're having the worst day of your life, Sasha is still your child.
Even if I walk away tomorrow and never look back, he's still going to need a father.
Do you want him to grow up feeling the way you feel right now?
Do you want him to be angry all the time, biting everyone's head off because he never learned how to deal with his emotions? "
Fyodor turns to look at me with an angry glare and says, "You don't know anything about how I feel."
"I know you're miserable. I know you're scared and overwhelmed and you don't know how to ask for help because you've been trained your whole life to think that needing help makes you weak. But taking it out on me isn't going to fix anything, and taking it out on Sasha is going to destroy him."
He steps toward me, and I hold my ground, refusing to back down even when his body is close enough I can feel the heat radiating off him.
"You think you can just walk out here and tell me how to raise my son?"
"Right now? Yes. I absolutely do. That's what you brought me here for—"
"You're not his mother."
The words hit me like a slap, and I feel my eyes sting with tears I refuse to let fall. "No, I'm not. His mother is dead, Fyodor. She's gone. And you're so busy working or whatever the hell you think you're doing that you can't even see what's right in front of you."
"Get out."
His voice is so loud that it echoes off the walls of the motel, bouncing back at us from the buildings around the parking lot. I hear movement behind me and turn to see Sasha standing at the balcony door, the controller dangling from his hand, his eyes wide and scared as he looks between us.
"Papa?" His voice is small, uncertain. "What's happening?"
Fyodor doesn't answer him. He just stands there glaring at me like I'm the enemy, like I'm the one who's been making his life difficult instead of the other way around.
Something breaks inside me. The last piece of hope I've been holding onto, a foolish belief that I could reach him, or help him become the father Sasha needs.
I wanted so badly for this to work. I wanted him to like me, to trust me, to let me in.
I wanted to be the one who changed him, who softened those hard edges and showed him that there was another way to live.
But he's too far gone. The walls are too high and the damage is too deep, and I can't keep throwing myself against them hoping they'll crumble.
Those men out there, Koslov's people, they're not coming for me.
They're coming for him. And as much as I care about Sasha, as much as it kills me to leave him here with a father who doesn't know how to love him properly, I can't stay in a place where I'm treated like this.
I can't keep letting him tear me apart because he doesn't know how to handle his own pain.
I walk back into the room without looking at Fyodor. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing how badly he's hurt me, my whole body shaking with anger and heartbreak. Sasha watches me with those big, dark eyes, so much like his father's, and I have to look away before I start crying.
My purse is on the chair where I left it, my journal tucked inside along with the few things I took with me when we got breakfast. I pick it up and sling it over my shoulder, then turn to Sasha and crouch down so I'm at his level.
"Hey," I say softly. "Come here."
He steps toward me hesitantly, the controller still in his hand, and I reach out and brush the hair back from his forehead the way I've done a hundred times before.
"I have to go away for a little while," I tell him. "But I want you to know that I care about you very much, and none of this is your fault. Okay?"
His lower lip trembles. "Where are you going?"
"I don't know yet. But I need you to be brave and take care of yourself. Can you do that for me?"
He nods, but his eyes are filling with tears and I can feel my heart cracking down the middle.
I promised him I wouldn't do this and I'm doing it anyway.
Maybe I can send help, or maybe somehow, Fyodor will give up and turn Sasha in to the authorities so someone who is equipped for parenthood can love him.
I lean in and press a kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a moment to breathe him in.
But I can't stay here. I can't.
"I love you," I whisper against his hair. "Remember that."
I stand up and walk toward the door without looking back. My hand finds the handle and I pull it open, stepping out into the hallway with my purse clutched against my chest and my heart breaking into pieces that I don't know how to put back together.
The door closes behind me and I start walking.
I don't know where I'm going or what I'll do. All I know is that I can't be in that room anymore, loving a man who treats me like I'm nothing. I can't keep hoping for something that's never going to happen.
The tears come when I reach the stairwell, blurring my vision until I can barely see the steps in front of me. I hold onto the railing and make my way down, one step at a time, leaving behind the only two people in this country who mean anything to me.
It's the hardest thing I've ever done.
And I don't know if I'm making the right choice or the worst mistake of my entire life.