I know exactly how I can be of use. I can keep him strong.
‘ I’ll do it,’ I say, and I open the fridge door and rummage around. The chef has left some lamb chops wrapped in cling film.
‘ Would you like me to make you a meal, madam?’ Rita, my housekeeper, asks from the doorway. She has curly hair and wears glasses. Usually she spends her nights at her daughter’s house in Surrey. She must be staying over because of the situation with Sorab.
‘ Thank you, Rita, but I can manage.’
‘ It’s no problem.’
‘ No, I’d like to keep busy.’
She nods and disappears.
I find some broccoli and carrots to go with the chops. There is also mint sauce and some parsnip mash in a covered dish. Blake sits on an island stool while I prepare his meal for him. We do not speak.
He stares at me while I move around, but I know he is not really watching me. He is laying his plans. Once he expels his breath and says, ‘OK, OK.’
I say nothing. I know he is not talking to me.
Quietly, I work. It is therapeutic. When I put his food in front of him, he picks up his knife and fork and eats automatically. There is no enjoyment or sign that he is even tasting the food. Once or twice, he frowns. Halfway through his meal he stops eating, looks at me, smiles faintly and says, ‘Sometime ago I had my soul put in a box and delivered to you.’
I sit with my hands clasped on the counter.
At the end of it all, he gazes down as if perplexed at his empty plate. ‘Will you be all right if I leave you alone for a couple of hours?’
I nod.
Sixteen
I wake up suddenly from a restless sleep full of strange dreams and there is no moment of forgetfulness or mercy. Of slowly facing up to the day. The knowledge is instant and burning: my greatest enemy has my son. I close my eyes and wish again for sleep. But sleep does not come.
Instead I am filled with the terrible pain of knowing she has him. That we won’t be able to simply buy our way out of this nightmare. Whether he lives or dies lies at the whim of a mad, vindictive woman. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Stare with bewilderment at my darkness. I am so lost and frustrated I want to scream, but I can’t.
I honestly feel as if I am losing it, going insane.
If only I had not gone to the theater. If only I had not asked Blake for more protection. If only he had not hired more men. If only I had just trusted Brian and let things be.
My head starts to ache.
Blake’s hand is heavy on my stomach. Carefully I move out from under the weight. Quietly, I fumble around, locate my alarm clock and depress the light button. Two a.m.
I sit up and press my throbbing temples. God, how I long for just one minute of forgetfulness from this insistent guilt and pain. Silently, I leave the bed and go toward Sorab’s room. For a long while I simply stand at the entrance looking at the empty cot. My heart is very loud in my chest. Ever since Sorab was taken I haven’t dared go into the nursery. I am almost afraid of it. I press my lips together and cast my eyes along the painted walls of fluffy clouds and stars.
My gaze grazes his toys. The sight of them hurts my eyes. I cover my mouth with my hand and move my eyes away quickly to the rack of CDs. There with all his nursery rhymes is Mozart. I bought Mozart for him because I read somewhere that listening to Mozart makes an infant more intelligent. The stupid things I concentrated on. A sob rises in my throat.
Be brave, be brave, I tell myself, and close my eyes. But immediately memories start crowding into my head.
I see it again as clear as day—sitting at the table with Billie in our little kitchen. That time when I had gone to the bank to get a loan and Blake had been waiting for me. I remember that wooden table. She warned me. But I didn’t listen. I was so in love, so crazy for any crumbs from Blake’s table that I was blind to the danger. I traced the scratches on the table and naïvely told Billie nothing bad was
‘ I’ll do it,’ I say, and I open the fridge door and rummage around. The chef has left some lamb chops wrapped in cling film.
‘ Would you like me to make you a meal, madam?’ Rita, my housekeeper, asks from the doorway. She has curly hair and wears glasses. Usually she spends her nights at her daughter’s house in Surrey. She must be staying over because of the situation with Sorab.
‘ Thank you, Rita, but I can manage.’
‘ It’s no problem.’
‘ No, I’d like to keep busy.’
She nods and disappears.
I find some broccoli and carrots to go with the chops. There is also mint sauce and some parsnip mash in a covered dish. Blake sits on an island stool while I prepare his meal for him. We do not speak.
He stares at me while I move around, but I know he is not really watching me. He is laying his plans. Once he expels his breath and says, ‘OK, OK.’
I say nothing. I know he is not talking to me.
Quietly, I work. It is therapeutic. When I put his food in front of him, he picks up his knife and fork and eats automatically. There is no enjoyment or sign that he is even tasting the food. Once or twice, he frowns. Halfway through his meal he stops eating, looks at me, smiles faintly and says, ‘Sometime ago I had my soul put in a box and delivered to you.’
I sit with my hands clasped on the counter.
At the end of it all, he gazes down as if perplexed at his empty plate. ‘Will you be all right if I leave you alone for a couple of hours?’
I nod.
Sixteen
I wake up suddenly from a restless sleep full of strange dreams and there is no moment of forgetfulness or mercy. Of slowly facing up to the day. The knowledge is instant and burning: my greatest enemy has my son. I close my eyes and wish again for sleep. But sleep does not come.
Instead I am filled with the terrible pain of knowing she has him. That we won’t be able to simply buy our way out of this nightmare. Whether he lives or dies lies at the whim of a mad, vindictive woman. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Stare with bewilderment at my darkness. I am so lost and frustrated I want to scream, but I can’t.
I honestly feel as if I am losing it, going insane.
If only I had not gone to the theater. If only I had not asked Blake for more protection. If only he had not hired more men. If only I had just trusted Brian and let things be.
My head starts to ache.
Blake’s hand is heavy on my stomach. Carefully I move out from under the weight. Quietly, I fumble around, locate my alarm clock and depress the light button. Two a.m.
I sit up and press my throbbing temples. God, how I long for just one minute of forgetfulness from this insistent guilt and pain. Silently, I leave the bed and go toward Sorab’s room. For a long while I simply stand at the entrance looking at the empty cot. My heart is very loud in my chest. Ever since Sorab was taken I haven’t dared go into the nursery. I am almost afraid of it. I press my lips together and cast my eyes along the painted walls of fluffy clouds and stars.
My gaze grazes his toys. The sight of them hurts my eyes. I cover my mouth with my hand and move my eyes away quickly to the rack of CDs. There with all his nursery rhymes is Mozart. I bought Mozart for him because I read somewhere that listening to Mozart makes an infant more intelligent. The stupid things I concentrated on. A sob rises in my throat.
Be brave, be brave, I tell myself, and close my eyes. But immediately memories start crowding into my head.
I see it again as clear as day—sitting at the table with Billie in our little kitchen. That time when I had gone to the bank to get a loan and Blake had been waiting for me. I remember that wooden table. She warned me. But I didn’t listen. I was so in love, so crazy for any crumbs from Blake’s table that I was blind to the danger. I traced the scratches on the table and naïvely told Billie nothing bad was
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