Anna
I never took Luka to be a particularly soft or empathetic type of person, at least not in the very limited interactions I’ve had with him, but his callous exit from the house without so much as a casual greeting immediately puts a knot in my stomach.
The entire way to Rachel’s school to pick up her homework for the week, I was mentally replaying each moment of my encounter with Luka, screaming at myself internally for allowing him to enter me without any kind of protection. I haven’t had a boyfriend in over a year, so I’d quit my birth control out of complete disinterest in having any rebound sex. I thought I was doing the responsible thing.
I don’t even know Luka. Anybody can put on a show for someone, especially if they’re interested in banging them mercilessly in every position imaginable. I’d be willing to bet that Luka can pretend to be anybody he wants to be with all the money he’s got. He can be the mysterious rich stranger, the kind caretaker of displaced women and children, the bully with a secret.
I shuffle past the kitchen with Rachel as she dismisses the homework I’ve given her on the grounds that she’s ‘rich now’. Apparently, someone left her a whole bunch of stuff outside the guest house, and she assumes that means she doesn’t have to finish high school.
I thought dealing with her was going to be easier now, but I’m quickly finding out that it’s harder.
A man I’ve never seen catches my eye before I can follow Rachel back to the guest house to see her new stuff. My stomach drops, but I quickly pull myself together when he steps toward me and smiles.
“Hi, have we met before?” I ask cautiously, pulling Rachel to my side.
“No, my apologies. My name is Pavel. You’ll be seeing me around a lot. In fact, I could make a point to bring my daughter around to meet your sister. I think they would get along,” he replies in an arguably genuine manner.
I can’t trust anybody implicitly, especially not someone associated with Luka, though. None of this seems real. “Um, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I reply, feeling my face flush with embarrassment at the outright denial of such a benign request. With Rachel’s newfound interest in drugs, the last thing I need is for her to be hanging around with someone whose father makes a living off them.
“My daughter is a perfectly normal young woman,” he responds with a laugh. “I think Luka mentioned something about them spending time together. I’d hate for you two to get bored.”
Rachel lets out a loud cackle. “With all the shit I just got? No way.” “Rachel,” I warn through gritted teeth.
Pavel waves a dismissive hand. “Ah, nothing to worry about. My daughter is the same way. She thinks in-person interactions are old-fashioned. Her nose is practically flat from being pressed to her phone screen all day.”
God, she’s the same as Rachel. Why did I ever act like that? I’m really not that much older.
Rachel shrugs. “Tell her to DM me.”
Pavel nods slowly, but it looks like he has no idea what she just said.
I return to my cautious line of questioning, not wanting to get involved so quickly. “Does your daughter know what it is that you do for work?” I ask.
Pavel leans against the wall, crossing his arms. “She knows I work with product and that I’m instrumental in distributing it. She doesn’t ask questions. What sixteen-year-old gives a shit about her dad’s job?” he responds.
Again, I’m left without an argument.
“Okay, fine, Rachel could use some new friends,” I relent. “The ones from her school are brain-dead.”
Rachel laughs. “Yeah, but sixteen? You know we’ll have nothing in common.”
I sigh. At her age, every year might as well be a century, but I’m sure they’ll get along when given a chance. Anyone is better than the people she’s been hanging out with at school.
But despite Rachel’s enthusiasm, I can’t shake the feeling of guilt for giving into Luka’s plan so easily. Choosing to come here was a massive lapse in judgment, and in the event that he happens to be entitled or vindictive about offering us help that we couldn’t return, the situation could become very dangerous in ways we’d never even imagine.
Moving in with some guy is exactly how every school counselor and social worker expected me to die prematurely, crawling with roaches in a motel room off the interstate surrounded by dirty needles and empty bags of pretzels. I stubbornly avoided that prediction all my life, turning away the help of truly well-meaning men when I really needed it because I refused to be another statistic to those hateful, judgmental women.
How is it any better when the guy in question drives a Lamborghini? Money makes him a lot more powerful than me. I have no idea if he has an in with the police somehow, turning them away in the event that I call them desperately for help when his true colors show and he strikes me or sets all my clothes on fire.
One of my foster mothers relied completely on her husband for so many tasks that I’m convinced that the woman wouldn’t be able to stand up straight without him propping her back up. She didn’t know how to put air in the tires of her car, she didn’t know how to pay the energy bill or credit card bill, and she didn’t know how to maintain her lawn or fix the circuit breaker in the house when a fuse was blown.
I felt the least safe in that house as I ever have anywhere. When the woman’s husband was gone, I would go through the myriad tragic possibilities in my head that could lead to a trip to the hospital or an explosion in the kitchen. I told myself I would never allow myself to become so helpless that my world would stop on its axis if my husband left for the night.
Yet here I am, without a job, relying solely on this stranger for my livelihood.
I feel like a fraud, but at least he isn’t my husband.
Pavel cocks his head to the side at my long spell of drawn-out silence. “I’ll let you two go on your way. I hope Rachel enjoys her new things.”
Rachel tugs at my arms to leave, and I shoot Pavel an apologetic smile before continuing down the hallway.
Luka doesn’t return for hours, and the sun sets without so much as a text from him regarding his whereabouts. As much as the uncertainty bothers me, I’m relieved to have the house to myself to truly get in touch with my emotions and intentions with him.
He’s clearly very, very dangerous. While I feel that his anger at Alexei was justified, it horrifies me to consider just how little he values human life. What’s the lowest bar for his wrath? What would I have to do to incur that kind of punishment? Would he show me mercy by keeping me alive and chopping off one of my fingers with a hedge trimmer?
I know that if I continue dwelling on this, it’ll just drive me crazy. I bid Rachel goodnight before treading back into the main house.
When I peer between the blinds at her brightly-lit patio, I see her sitting curled up in a chair with her phone inches from her face. She must really feel like a queen out there, and I hate to say that I can only thank Luka for that. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen her in months.
I sigh heavily to myself. If she’s happy here, truly happy, who am I to take that from her? What if my history of abandonment and trauma is being loudly projected into my decision-making skills?
I can’t give her a life like this, not even close. I’ve worked three jobs at once to keep a roof over our heads, sacrificing any chance of bonding with her just to make sure she has food to eat and hot water to bathe with.
If there’s the potential to see Rachel really thrive for the first time, I’d feel like a monster telling her that this is all tentative based purely on my feelings about some guy.
I have to make sure there isn’t an element of jealousy in my decision. If she had even the slightest indication that I was taking her away from this because it was something I never had, she would probably refuse to speak to me for months.
Am I really going to let my pride rip this from her?
She needs stability, and if I’m able to stay home and be present with her, how am I supposed to go back to a life of glorified slavery in kitchens and bars? How can I take that away when I could be giving her a chance to feel supported and held instead of fending for herself?
This might have to be a loss that I take. I have to be at peace with that.
I decide to head to bed, secretly looking forward to my first night in a bed that isn’t older than I am. The excitement feels dirty, as if I’m already allowing my resolve to slip for something as frivolous as a fancy bed in a properly insulated bedroom with blackout curtains. The only thing I can hear is the sound of the central heating kicking on, lulling me in and out of the deepest pre-sleep I’ve ever experienced.
Goddamn it.
I slip out of my jeans and unclasp my bra, wriggling out of it and tossing it into the corner of the room where it lies limp and out of place amidst the obsessively maintained atmosphere of luxury.
When I feel the silk sheets against my skin, I immediately bury my face in them, inhaling the intoxicating scent of truly clean bedding that hasn’t been washed in a communal washing machine. I never knew that laundry could actually smell like the soap you use to wash it.
Not only are the sheets clean, but everything is so clean that I feel like I leave a layer of grime everywhere I touch. I’m so used to seeing the state of nearly condemned inner-city buildings that the idea of an all-white bathroom is a complete nightmare to me. It’s almost sterile. I feel filthy just by contrast alone.
My legs get tangled in the blankets, and my body automatically aligns itself as if I were expecting to sink into the middle of the mattress like I would in my bed back at our old house.
I listen closely, expecting the howling of desperate sirens, domestic disputes, and barking dogs that would regularly fill the space above my head while I attempted to grasp at a few hours of sleep.
Nothing.
There’s nothing to hear at all beyond the heaters. The silence is so pervasive that it is nearly deafening, emphasizing the steady, unrelenting hum in my brain that is always there but is never given the opportunity to really sing for me. It’s always drowned out by something, and I never knew how constant it truly was until right now.
Is the silence a blessing or a curse?
Without my familiar nighttime annoyances, I’m forced to breathe deeply in order to relax my mind and body enough to sleep properly. When I find the right rhythm, though, I feel weightless, more serene than I ever have in my life.
Luka really lives like this all the time?