Chapter 41
1434words
'Thank you for having lunch with me," I say. My mother and I are sitting in a small nook split off from the main floor. I had two of the staff set up a small table with finger sandwiches, glossy eclairs, and my mother's favorite, pirozhkis stuffed with potatoes and onions.
Mom, who has taken to dressing like the house is as cold as a cellar, is wearing a fluffy blue sweater over a pair of sleek white pants. I've chosen something loose—a bishop's sleeve dress the same color as the chocolate on the eclairs.
'You say that like I wouldn't agree," she chides. 'What mother doesn't make time for her daughter?"
One who knows her daughter is trying to pry info from her … Putting on a big grin, I pick up a cucumber sandwich, taking a nibble. My stomach isn't loving any kind of food with intense flavors just yet.
My mother plucks up a pirozhki. 'Hm," she muses, judging it critically. 'Who made these?"
'Chef Danil did."
'Chef?" she mocks. 'Asher has a private chef? Well of course he does."
Scrunching her nose like she expects the food to be awful, she nibbles the edge. I watch closely as her expression transforms from disgust to surprise. Her next bite erases half the pirozhki. A few onions drop to her plate. Chewing, she dabs at her lips with a dark blue napkin.
I crane forward curiously. 'How is it?"
'Fine," she reluctantly admits. The way she inhales the rest, then a second, signals to me that they're more than fine. 'Your grandmother made the best ones. But I suppose I can settle for these."
I scrub my clammy palms on my lap. Even with that, the knife I lift to cut an eclair in two slips from my fingers. Mom squints at me. I lift the dessert with my bare hand and take a bite.
She reaches for the large pitcher of sangria in the center of the table. Condensation beads along the outside as the red liquid splashes into her glass.
'Here, wash it down with some of this."
She goes to fill my cup, but I move it out of her reach. 'No thanks." I use a different crystal pitcher nearby to add water instead, drinking it greedily. 'This is fine."
'Water?" she huffs, eyeing me in displeasure. 'No get together of importance has ever been done with water."
'This one is going to have to be."
Her eyes narrow before she sets the jug down heavily. 'If your plan is to butter me up with food and drink only to try and get me to tell you about things you know I won't, you're wasting your time."
She pushes her chair back. I swipe outward, catching her by her wrist. 'Mom, wait! It's not that!"
'Then what?" she demands, pulling from my grip.
Opening my mouth, I start to talk, then stop myself.
'It's …" I try again, but nothing comes out. My tongue is too heavy to move. I wasn't cold before, and now, I'm sweltering. Gripping my dress hem, I flap it a few times over my knees. How do I tell her?
'Camila," she warns.
'I'm pregnant!" I blurt it out unceremoniously. The instant it's in the open, my heart begins to flutter. I expected I'd freak out, but … I'm grinning ear to ear. 'Mom, can you believe it? Isn't this amazing news?"
She slides deeper into her chair. 'Well … it's news."
A cold hand wraps around my blossoming joy, suffocating it. 'I thought you'd be happy for me."
'I am, malyshka," she says lightly. Her eyes roam to mine, then flit away. She shifts in the chair like she can't find a comfortable spot. 'It's just …"
Sadness fills her eyes again.
Why is she acting like this? I wander down the dark pathways in my brain to a horrible memory. It's been flitting around in my head since the doctor told me the news. I tried to bury it in the depths of my mind. It surfaced with Asher when we made love. I hoped that was the last time, but I was wrong.
'Mom … what is it?" My palm presses to my stomach protectively.
'Nothing," she insists, looking directly at me.
'I don't understand. Tell me what's wrong."
Instead of answering, she draws in on herself. The large sweater acts like a safety blanket that she swaddles herself in. I don't see her feet from my angle, but I hear her shoe tapping restlessly. Picking up her glass of sangria, she begins to sip it. She takes her time, drawing the action out, looking for an excuse not to speak. There's no doubt in my mind that she's miserable. Her mood bleeds into mine.
My own mother isn't excited about this baby.
She sets the glass down so haphazardly it nearly spills. 'I need a cigarette," she explains, hurrying to her feet.
Yes, something is very wrong.
She normally has the grace to pretend she doesn't smoke anymore. If she's not willing to play that game, then she's definitely upset.
I watch her leave, and when she's gone, I put my head in my hands. Leaning my weight over the table on my elbows, I fight back a frustrated sob.
What is wrong with her?
Determined not to wallow in self-pity, I jump up. Mom thinks she can run away from every serious conversation. Well, not this time. Pursuing her down the hall, I catch up just in time to see her go out the front door. As she shuts it, I catch sight of the guard keeping watch. Kostya glares at me through the crack before the door closes sharply.
Making fists at my sides, I march to the window to peek out. Mom isn't being restricted the way I am. Apparently Asher didn't give instructions to his men that she wasn't allowed outside. Her special treatment makes no damn sense. Annoyed by my limitations, I try to spot her from my awkward angle.
I scan the cars, the bushes, the gates off in the distance. Finally, I see her. She's standing almost out of view, her thin arms hugging herself while a cigarette is squeezed between two fingers. She sucks the end like she's thirsty. The red tip sizzles, and smoke swirls around her.
I'm on the verge of screaming at her through the glass, but something stops me. Tears run down my mother's gaunt cheeks. I can't hear her, but I can tell she's struggling not to cry and failing horribly. Between sniffles, she takes another furious drag from the cigarette.
Her hands are shaking. I've never seen her like this before.
Backing away from the window like I've seen something I shouldn't, I fret over what I should do next. Kostya won't let me outside. Mom also doesn't want me to see her like this. As much as I ache to go and comfort her, I don't even know what I'm cheering her up for. Why is she crying? What is it about my pregnancy that's got her so distraught?
I'm about to head upstairs when the front door opens. Mom starts when she sees me. 'Camila," she says, scrubbing at her eyes. The tears are gone, but she's making sure.
I have to act like I didn't see her crying.
'Mom, are you done smoking? I'm starving and would love to finish lunch."
Her features twist in a ball of guilt. 'You don't need to wait for me, malyshka."
'Of course I do," I chuckle. Grabbing her hand, I pull her a few steps toward the hall to where we were seated. 'Do you think you raised a daughter without any manners?"
She manages a weary smile. Patting my wrist, she backs away with a shake of her head. 'I'm feeling very tired. I think I'll go lie down. You go ahead without me."
'Are you sure?" I say sadly.
'Yes. Please, malyshka."
Mom bends forward to kiss me on the cheek. It's a touch as light as a mosquito bite. I want to kiss her back, but before I do, she retreats out of range.
There's a moment where we both face each other without uttering a sound. She knows I'm dying to ask what's going on with her.
I know I won't put her in that position after seeing her crying.
We turn our backs on each other and go our separate ways.
And I can hear a choking sob tumble quietly from her lips as she turns the corner and disappears.
