Zariah
My heart is ripped to shreds. The words are lodged into my throats to tell Vassili that it's time to retire. To change his occupation. To become someone safer for our child’s sake. For us.
The second he mentioned Sergio, shame clings to me as I move closer toward the examination table. My body is weak, and I hardly have the strength, but know I must. I have to be the strength for him. Mentally, as he copes with Sergio. Physically, like the doctor told me just now. He talks of attending Sergio’s mother’s funeral, and my heart crumbles.
My hands glide through his slick waves and I kiss his forehead, softly placing my fingers along his jaw, careful not to touch one of his bruises. “No, you’re not a murderer, Vassili.”
I want to place the blame on me. Say I pushed him to it, however, my husband isn’t the type to sidestep his role in things. A thick silence ensues, and I pull the hair along his nape. “Vassili, look at me.”
His hardened features soften as his dark gaze seeks mine. “You are a good man, and I love you for it. Oh baby, we'll always have each other.”
And we that’s exactly what we do. I feel like those years before Vassili and I came back together during my undergrad prepared us. He was my rock, catapulting my confidence when I began at Spelman. Pressley Prep prepared me, but sinking my teeth into education, in a college setting, was still different. And for those first few years, I had Vassili. Can’t shake my head enough at how dumb I was for pushing him away.
So I am right at his side when we head home. I don’t think the situation’s sunk into Vassili’s mind until I pull into the driveway. Our sleeping baby is in the convertible car seat. Never in my husband’s company have I had to strap in Natasha or heft around the heavy car seat. Yet, when I get out to help her, his jaw clinches. He rubs the back of his neck, “Wish I could help.”
“It’s okay,” I mumble. It would be easier to take Natasha from the car seat, but wake her when she sleeps and heads will roll.
Over the next couple of weeks, we have our highs and lows. The good times are marked with me cleaning the house and laughing at Vassili as he wheels Natasha around, to Vassili’s Spotify which has “Tell Me When To Go” by E40. The rap song is blaring through the surround sound speakers that were installed in every room of our house, just the way Natasha likes it. Our five month old is seated in his lap, with one arm around her, Vassili tilts the wheelchair, popping wheelies in the hallway as I straighten the kitchen after breakfast.
Lord, as bougie as I was, I messed around and married a ghetto ass white boy. “Vassili, if you ‘ghostride the whip’ with my baby, I will kill you! Turn that old ass song off.” I shake my head, laughing all the way and not nearly as hard as our baby is. There’s drool dribbling down her chubby jaw.
The music cuts. I grab the copper skillet from the island and place it into the foamy dishwater. Just as D’Angelo’s “Brown Sugar” comes on. “Heyyyyy!” My hips sway as I step toward the hall again. He had to have changed the station.
“What is this?” Damned his typical-ass Russian accent, although sexy, he feigns disgusted while placing his hand over Natasha’s ears. “My baby can’t listen to this.”
She wiggles and squirms, loving the music. She loves all music.
“Humph, all the uncensored rap, and she can’t listen to one of my old favs? Whateva, Vassili, sounds like Natasha likes it. And your other baby loves it.” I walk over to them and kiss her forehead before smooching his lips. “I prefer this to gangster rap and rock music, FYI.”
The moment I start to sashay into the kitchen, the song cuts as D’Angelo croons about his eyes being the shade blood burgundy.
“You know what?” I turn around, placing my hand on my hip. Vassili smiles through his eyes as I point a stiff finger at him. “I could have you load the dishwasher, boy. You talk all that teamwork, and act like you’re my coach. So this would be a good time to assert my coaching skills, but I’ll play nice.”
That was a good day. There are many of those, which ultimately outweighed the bad, as Natasha transitions from the army crawl to hustling around like she’s training for the baby Olympics. I help Vassili get around. At least, I argue to him. “You can’t—”
“That word’s not in my vocabulary, sweetheart,” he retorts, ready to slide from the wheelchair to the plush carpet in Natasha’s playroom.
“So you’d rather fall onto your ass.” My toe snaps the wheel into lock.
He grunts his appreciation.
“Hey, we’re running low on food.” I shoot a thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll go stock up on groceries.” Our subzero refrigerator and pantry were stock full before the fight. The two of us always do the big grocery shopping together, when not having a taste for this ice cream or that glass of wine.
He glances around, the hopeless feeling weighing to his broad shoulders. “I’ll just get Natasha tired out for the night.”
I nod and smile. We haven’t screwed since Louie Gotti became champ. Either I’ve tried to give Vassili head and he would have just taken his pain medication, which causes drowsiness. Or I’m running after Natasha, which causes an equal amount of drowsiness.
###
At Whole Foods I speak with a representative about the grocery delivery service. The prices are ridiculous. Though we have more than enough money in the bank and The Red Door is a consistent stream of income, I wouldn’t feel comfortable paying for such a luxury until I start working again.
I find myself meandering down each isle, slurping a green smoothie, and talking to rich old white ladies who either visit the grocery store—donning every sparkling diamond they own—out of loneliness or for the samples. After learning about a pink-haired woman’s villa in Italy, where she plans to spend Christmas this year, I learn that the holidays are right around the corner, with all the cranberry sauce out. I head up the wine aisle. Damn, I don’t wanna go home yet… The only time I leave the house these days are to transport Vassili to rehab and a few ‘mommy and me’ classes.
While scanning the red wines, I notice a pale blond. We hardly glance each other’s way, but this is Beverly Hills, everyone is a tad nicer than the rest of the Los Angelenos. Her smile is pathetic, mine is as well. She places a bottle into a cart.
“Are those on sale?” I ask, since the cart is full to the brim with bottles. We have a wine pantry that needs filling.
“No.” she says in a thick Russian accent. I turn to give her more attention. “These are all mine.” Her thin lips rise once more in another wry grin.
“You look familiar.” The words creep out of my mouth just as I think of them. Vivid images of a horse galloping down the passageway and scaring everyone half to death take over. “Are you Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Were you in Moscow about a year ago? Um, I’m sorry,” I run my fingers through my wavy hair. “It’s just that the last time I was in Russia, I was almost run down by a horse. And a woman, who I swear looks like the spitting image of you, pulled me to safety.” Shit, now I know some folks say ‘all black people look alike’ but damn. I wait for her to confirm my notion.
The lady huffs. “Couldn’t have been me. I haven’t gone home in years and there’s nothing in Russia for me. Albeit, there’s nothing at my current home for me. Hence, all the wine. Helps me cope with marriage.” She cocks her head to the cart.
A lump of embarrassment slides down my throat. I glance at the sorrow on her face, it makes me want to bow out of this entire aisle.
“My name is Danushka Molotov.” We shake hands.
“Zariah, Zariah Resnov. I’m actually married to a Russian.”
“Well, good luck with that. Shit, was that too blunt?” She sighs, “I just, I’m a jaded wife. I wish to God I could leave my husband, he can have all the money. I shouldn’t be telling you all of this. This isn’t your problem.”
I start to dig into my purse. “No, I came over and bothered you. Danush…”
“Danny, call me Danny.”
“Okay, Danny. I’d like to give you my card. I’m actually on baby bonding at the moment. But, If you ever need an attorney.” I hand it over. “Look, you’re dressed for the cover of Vogue magazine, I’m sure you can afford the best Beverly Hills has to offer, but if you need genuine help, Billingsley Law will do everything they can. I might not be in if or when you call, but I work with a stellar team.”
“Thank you.” She clutches the card close.
I grab a bottle of Pinot Noir and head toward the checkout line. I’ve been gone long enough. When I glance back toward the wine section, Danushka is gone. My eyebrows crinkle in confusion. She’d left the cart, which had thousands of dollars worth of wine in it.