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“Hey,” Bambi breathes quietly when she walks up to me. Her eyes land on my neck and harden. “Clara? Is that?—”
“It’s nothing.” I subconsciously reach for my neck and cover the faint bruises of Demyen’s fingers with my own. “What happens in Fiji, ya know?”
She narrows her gaze at me like she thinks I’m full of shit, but she doesn’t press any further. “I see there’s a lot of changes around here. I’ve been in the city mostly, prepping for a new round of appeals. Looks like you guys moved?”
I nod. “Demyen decided we’d be better off here.”
“Did he now? Hm.”
“Yup.” I glance over at Willow, whose face has fallen back into the shadow of sadness that’s been there since the plane ride. “He’s the boss.”
“He sure is.” Bambi runs her tongue over her teeth as she stares at the pool in thought. “You know you can come to me, Clara,” she suddenly blurts. “For anything.”
Honestly, I’m not sure I can. But I smile and nod my thanks. “I appreciate it. And you.”
“Yeah.” She turns and walks over to Willow, holding her hand out. “C’mon, princess. Our chariot awaits.”
I wait until they turn the corner out of sight. Then I go inside my room, shut the door, and drop to a seat on the floor.
I’ve been sitting there ever since.
At least it’s quiet. I don’t have to hear Demyen’s voice on the phone walking by, or run into him in the kitchen. He doesn’t come out to this part of the compound much, and Gloria’s been kind enough to stock the secondary kitchen with enough for Willow and me to get by.
I feel sick.
I feel sick in so many ways.
The only other man I’ve ever been able to place my trust in, without any fear, was Michael Little. “Uncle Mike” to me. Something instinctual in me just knew that he was a good man, and he never did anything to prove me wrong.
When he saw the bruises from Dad’s treatment of me, he’d ask about them and make sure Dad knew he was concerned. Of course, Dad always played it off like I was some clumsy kid with terrible balance. It would give them both a good chuckle.
I just… I can’t remember, not clearly, that afternoon he came over for coffee with Dad. But somehow, I dreamed it like it washappening all over again? Pulling the coffee mug off the counter and walking it into the living room and handing it to Uncle Mike…
But why?
“Clar-Bear, can you grab our coffees for us?”
Dad sent me. I remember him asking me to go fetch their mugs from the kitchen. It was a matching set, one of those kinds that come with the boxes of inexpensive dish sets at the megastore.
I grabbed one and handed it to Uncle Mike. Then I went back to get the other one for Dad.
Mom wasn’t there. She was napping.
Which means…
Another wave of nausea rolls through me, and I’m barely able to make it to the toilet in time. It’s a dry heave, but it has me on my knees nonetheless. I quickly tie my hair back and cling to the edges of the porcelain bowl for dear life.
I haven’t been this sick in years. I should call someone, like Bambi or maybe even Pavel, but what am I going to tell them? It’s probably just some bug I caught after so much traveling. I hear that can happen, right?
The last time my health was like this, Martin stood over me and demanded to know what the hell was wrong with me. Like I was damaged goods he might end up returning to the seller.
His tune changed when we found out I was pregnant. Come to think of it, those were some of the best months of our relationship. He was still a monster, but a monster who valuedthe health and safety of his brood. He knew as well as I did that I would do anything to keep my baby safe, happy, and healthy.
So I did. Day after day, night after night, I bartered housekeeping and cooking and sex in exchange for better treatment.
When Willow was born, I sold myself to him more times that I could count just so he’d redirect his frustrations to me. If she cried too loud at night, I’d rock her back to sleep and placate him as best as I could. If she spilled something or broke something of his, I’d say and do anything to keep him away from our baby.
I’m willing to do it all again.
