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‘What do you want her to see when she looks at you?’
‘I would have her see someone who cares for her welfare and tries to do right by her.’
‘What about love? Would you have her see your love for her?’
He cleared his throat. ‘You’re assuming I know how to show such a thing.’
Maybe she was. ‘Give it time,’ she offered lightly. ‘Maybe it’ll sneak up on you.’
‘Did you love her from the start?’ he asked, and there was a question with no easy answer. She nodded and blinked sudden moisture from her eyes.
‘Did you ever not want her?’ His eyes were sharp and saw too much.
‘You have a lot of questions.’ Ragged words to cover a ragged start when it came to Anastasia’s feelings for her daughter.
He nodded, but instead of pursuing it he cleared the food away and picked up the book. ‘Will you read to me in Russian? For old times’ sake?’ he asked, and she took the book and he settled back on the rock with his head resting against the backpack and, after a moment, Ana settled down next to him with her head resting against his chest. It was firm and warm and his hand came up to smooth the hair at her temple and the delicacy of his touch made her close her eyes and long for yesteryear.
She opened the book and her eyes and began to read about a man embarking on a journey. Four pages in, she started summarising in Lithuanian and wore Casimir’s sun-spelled objections with a grin.
Ten pages in she started another story altogether. A story only she knew. An answer to his questions. She told it in Russian because it was better that way and because she’d have never been able to tell it in English.
‘I discovered I was pregnant six weeks after you left,’ she began. ‘Nineteen years old with my lover gone, a baby in my belly and all my study plans shot to hell. I couldn’t stop crying for what I’d lost and I couldn’t stop remembering what we’d found. I was so in love with you. I’d never felt that way before. I was blind with it.’
She turned a page and read the first couple of lines before continuing her own story. ‘I tried denial when it came to the baby growing inside me. Maybe it’d go away the same way you went away and I’d smile and be relieved and pretend to have no regrets. It didn’t work. My pregnancy continued. At four months I went to the doctor to start proper antenatal care. At five months I told my parents. Your name never came up. Lonely times for me, my friend. Very lonely, with no one to confide in. I think you know that feeling well. Even better than I do.’
She took a breath and turned a page. ‘You knew where I lived even if I had no idea how to contact you. You’d made me feel so loved. There was a part of me that still hoped you’d be back. How could you not be back?’
Cas shifted beneath her and Ana paused. But then he settled, his fingertips at her temple again. ‘Keep reading,’ he muttered.
‘I was nine months pregnant when I saw your picture in a newspaper and realised who you were. What you were. I was at my parents’ house for the weekend and braving their constant well-meaning interrogation. A baby due almost any day and me still refusing to name the father. I sat in the bath with my belly and my memories and cried myself a river because I knew then that you were never coming back.’
She stopped speaking then. The words on the page were too blurry to read.
‘Go on.’ His voice was rough and drowsy. Or maybe it was just rough.
‘I’m looking for the words,’ she said in English. ‘They’re hard to find.’
She turned another page and closed her eyes. ‘Hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, letting you go. Letting the thought of you go. The happy family fantasy. Some days I didn’t want to get up in the morning. Life would continue on regardless, and I didn’t want to be there. Maybe I do know how your mother felt.’
She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the gentle press of his fingertips against her hair, although the stroking had stopped. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. She switched back to English. ‘Are you still listening?’
‘I’m listening.’
More English. ‘There’s not a lot happening in this story. It’s very boring.’
