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She massaged her belly in fluid, soothing, circular movements. On one thing, they did agree. Babies were supposed to be born of love. She knew that how she felt while her son was in her womb would have a lifelong impact on him. Her baby would develop in a peaceful, nurturing environment if she felt happy and calm. So that meant what? Forgiveness? Absolution? Exoneration?
Should she try and forgive Anwar? Should she refuse to look back in anger? Should she fake it until she makes it—learning to love Anwar and her time of captivity? If not for her, then for her son to ensure he had the best possible start and an enduring future?
CHAPTERTWELVE
He spent a good deal of time researching narcissistic abuse survivor syndrome to try to understand better Lucy's scars. As far as he could tell, being emotionally abused by a narcissist leads a person down either of two paths. They either adopted narcissistic traits themselves, or they were a survivor who made the world a better place with love, compassion and kindness. Lucy had proven she was no liar, and he decided he would make it up to her.
He had discovered that the best way to help someone recovering from narcissistic abuse syndrome was to encourage self-care. This was essential for their healing and well-being. One of the best cures was encouraging a person in recovery to engage in activities they love and that bring them joy. Lucy loved to paint, and they both knew the healing that art could bring. While he was no painter, Lucy was, and he gained unexpected happiness knowing he had found the perfect way to encourage her to paint her way to healing.
She looked like someone releasing her inner firepower, Anwar thought as he watched her in the studio several days later.
Her red silk kaftan flowed around her like rivulets of molten lava as she hurled paint at the canvas. She was clearly impatient to unleash whatever emotions were pent inside. She didn’t bend her concern to the expensive dress he had purchased for her, or care whether it was splattered with paint. The dress was one of many clothing items he had procured for her since she arrived. Whatever made her happy, he mused, cognisant she was in the last trimester of her pregnancy.
Sprays of color infused the image like clouds blowing steam and vapor, rising from the sea like molten hot lava contacting the water. Anwar scratched his head. What was she painting? Was Lucy channeling the volcaniceruption In New Zealand that she had told him had nearly claimed her friend Kate Millar’s life one Christmas? Or was she painting the vibrant fireworks displayed when Kate and her lover Gianni Romano married on the volcanic island of Stromboli? Whatever the motivation, Lucy’s passions were aroused.
What is soft is strong, Anwar mused as he watched whirls of water-infused paint create crashing waves on the giant canvas. Lucy thrust a sizeable flat paintbrush into a bucket of paint at her feet, then gripping the handle tightly, thrust the brush in rapid staccato movements toward the painting.
Arms outstretched, Lucy continued splashing paint around as the volcano erupted in the distance. The expression on her face was strong, unsmiling, and somewhat stern.
In the foreground, he could see an abstract rendering of the oasis of lush palm trees and tropical flowers flourishing in Avana’s hot and humid environment. Three falcons swooped down from overhead, their fanned feathers catching glints of gold from the volcanic eruption in the distance and the radiant rays of the falling sun.
It was as though she was also imagining herself on a tropical island, looking out to sea. Is that where she yearned to be, he wondered, not here with me? Was Lucy freeing trapped emotions arising from her resentment of him that she wanted to release?
The painting was allowing all Lucy’s repressed feelings to surface, Anwar decided as he continued to watch her, entranced by her passion. She summoned her breath from the depths of her lungs and exhaled quickly as though she was breathing out red-hot dragon fire. Anwar couldn’t escape the thought that she was thinking of him and all the unresolved anger she felt towards her captor.
Or was she releasing her red, hot anger and transforming it into a willingness to love and forgive? Anwar found himself wishing it was the latter. He didn’t want them to be at war. He wanted to live and love in peace.
Love?Was that what he wanted, he realized with a shock.
If he and Lucy remained distant, what future did they have? He didn’t want a loveless marriage like his parents, he conceded, as he watched her.
Lucy stood back and gazed at the painting for a few minutes, then settled on the ground before the canvas and closed her eyes.
Perhaps they would find a peaceful solution to their disagreement. He knew that when people suppress their feelings instead of calmly and firmly stating their needs, emotions can become pent up and blast out like an uncontrollable ball of fire. Or, worse, unexpressed feelings develop into physical issues and illness.
Hadn’t he repressed his emotions all his life? He needed to take his time and think things through before reacting. He needed to try harder not to hold onto disagreements and practice forgiveness for himself and others.
Perhaps Lucy was right when she accused him of too readily believing the worst of her.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
“Have you ever been in love, Anwar?” Lucy asked hopefully, one evening as they sat under a canopy of stars outside her studio.
“I don’t need love. I have Zephyr,” Anwar said.
“Zephyr is a bird.”
“He has been a more loyal friend to me than anyone who professed their love.” Anwar’s legs spread wide, staking his claim.
“A better companion than all those women you bedded?”
“Yes,” Anwar confided. “All of them.”
“That’s because, unlike your other birds, your feathered friend doesn’t talk back, and he doesn’t make demands,” Lucy said.
“Why are you criticizing me?”
“I’m not. I get it. That’s what I’m saying.”
