Vassili
While Zariah is at the grocery store, I tire Natasha out as much as I can for an afternoon nap. She has a colorful play mat gym where she tinkers a rattle-like contraption and other toy compartments hanging from a dome like structure in the shape of a turtle. While she plays, I wheel out of the room, place up the fencing so she can’t crawl out and navigate as fast as I can to the master suite. Zariah had just washed clothes. There are a few piles on the bed. I fold one set of piles of Natasha’s clothing. Finished with that I pause, looking at the time. The baby monitor registers that Natasha’s laughing at something. Good. I start with Zariah’s undergarments which are next, fold those and place them away. Then I glance at the clock. Shit, I want this room chill but the time is moving too fast.
I shove my mixed-matched socks into the bottom dresser drawer. Grab a few candles off the top, while listening to the baby monitor. It’s silent. Matches, where are matches.
I used to keep a pack of matches in my pocket with my freshly rolled cigarettes, but Zariah wouldn’t have it. I place the candles back, and decide to turn the radio on to Zariah’s favorite R&B station, isolating the surround sound to just this room, so she’ll be surprised when she comes upstairs. By now, I’m wheeling around like crazy, drawing a steamy bath. Pulling out massage oils and my biceps are warmly conditioned as I return to the Jacuzzi and turn off the water before the suds can overflow.
Then I head to the playroom. First thing I see amongst the play-mats is Natasha’s bubble shaped pamper in the air. Shit, I should have changed her diaper first. I wheel over as close as I can get to the mat without dragging the wheelchair over to it, reach down and scoop her up as slowly as possible. She coos against my chest while I hold her with one hand and wheel out of her playroom and to her nursery.
Inside, I head toward the cherry wood baby changing table. My mouth tenses as I glance up at how high it is. There’s no way I can do this while seated.
Downstairs, we have a convertible station, which isn’t nearly as tall. These days, Zariah has changed most of the diapers, and I feel like shit for it. I’m a man, no bitching out. Cradling her in the football position, I kick up the foot rest and favor my right foot. Don’t apply pressure to the left, you idiot!
I arise slowly, placing Natasha onto the changing mat. The moment she’s freed from my hand, I accidentally apply pressure to my left leg and fire shoots through my knee. “FUCK!”
Natasha’s plump arms and legs jerk, stiffening, and she cries.
“I’m sorry, beautiful.” I stay standing, taking the excruciating pain. No teeth, all lungs, she cries her little heart out. “I’m a mudak, baby, I’m sorry. Just let Daddy change your diaper.”
No amount of coaxing or blowing raspberries against her belly will stop her. By now I take the pain like the dick I am, changing her as swiftly as possible. “Natasha, sweetheart, you gotta stop crying, you’re making my head hurt. You’re probably making your head hurt.” Can babies get headaches?
I grit my teeth, sinking down to the wheelchair with her in my arms, in a fresh diaper and a Thanksgiving onesie. As Natasha cries, I hold her out before me cradled in my forearms. “Listen, sweetheart, Daddy screwed up. But you are my world, I would never hurt you or scare you intentionally.” And then I proceed to have a conversation with Natasha about the bullshit reason why I’m not dancing around with her while walking. “Damn, sweetheart, I used to be the life of your party. I’d do bar lifts and you’d be seated on the floor laughing your little ass off, until you fell back into scattered pillows. About a month ago, I made the biggest mistake of my life, Natasha.”
Her crying wanes, big brown eyes locked onto mine.
“You still mad at me? Because your mom is angry with me. Zar tries not to let it show—and nobody in this world takes care of you and I like she does. But I fucked up. All because I love to fight. Now, I love you and your mom the most.” she smiles, and I nod. “That’s right, sweetheart. You and mommy are untouchable, my favorite people in the whole world—okay, so daddy don’t like too many people, but you two are at the tippy top of the people I like and love. Then there’s MMA. I told you about it before, do you remember.”
With my hand at the back of Natasha’s head, I make her nod a little, though she appears to be listening intently. “So last month I messed up. I had this guy right where I wanted him, beating the snot outta him. Baby, I had it set up to annihilate him, no sweat off my back. Then I screwed up.”
“Coooo.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll get my belt back. When I do, I’m gonna sweep Mommy off her feet, plant kisses on her face… and do things that you are never to learn about. Got that?” I grin. She laughs. “Then I’ll be back at the top. The king of the cage—welterweight class, but the king, baby, nonetheless.”
“Cooo… gaaa. Dadaaaa…”
“You are so smart, Natasha. You are right, again. Dada will get into the octagon. I’ll probably do a few TKOs first, just to get into the swing of things, then back to my submissions. Killing ‘em softly, I always say. There’s a delicacy about it, not everybody can place someone into submission. Shit, not everybody can knock a fighter out in one hit, either. It was 2014 and the man’s nose was big, so I had to correct that shit, baby.”
Natasha laughs. I start to tell her about another fight. “Seems to me you prefer a good knock out to submission. One day, I’ll teach you, Natasha, you’re young now, so everybody loves the brutal, cocky way when young. There’s just something about that damn cage, sweetheart…”
“Are you serious?” Zariah stands at the nursery door, hands on her thick hips. “You’re glorifying and telling our daughter how awesome the UFC world is, right now? At this instant while sitting in a goddamn wheelchair—damn, I just took the Lord’s name in vain. Never have I ever! My shoulders hurt, my feet hurt. And to top it all off, I met a woman about an hour ago—after placing a mountain of groceries in the trunk and the backseat mind you because there weren’t enough workers at the store to come out and help. Oh, about the woman, her name was Dana… Danas… Danny!” She grumbles. “She made me realize how much I miss working.”
“Okay, then you should go back to work.” My tone is calming as Natasha turns her head and wiggles around in my lap to see her mom. Our baby is all smiles, but Zariah is seething.
“Go back to work? How? I have to help you, Vassili.”
I laugh softly. “Nyet, you don’t have to help me, sweetheart. I’m not an invalid.”
“Humph! Whateva, Vassili. Whatever you say. I bet the moment you finish rehab it’s back to the ring. Is it back to the ring?”
“Nyet, it’s the cage. And yes, I’ll return.”
“Good for you.” She turns in her heels and struts away.
“Come back here. We need to talk,” I call out. Inside venom courses through my veins. I can’t stand up, grab her, and take her over my knee! With Natasha in my lap, I wheel like crazy to our room. “Da! We need to talk, Zariah!”
She’s turning up the music and changing it to a more upbeat pop song.
My pupils almost pop out of my motherfucking eyes. “Zar, Zariah…”
She starts for the bathroom, kicking off her shoes, and unbuttoning her blouse. “Guess I should thank you for drawing me a bath. I just dragged in a thousand bags while you’re chatting happily about MMA! You are so in love with that game aren’t you? I could understand if you got into a car accident, Vassili, but you’re going to be in a wheelchair during Natasha’s first portraits for Christmas, all because of a game. It’s a game!”
I push forward before she can step inside the bathroom and shut the double doors. My right toe swipes inside of her calf. That’s good enough. She stops and turns around.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I mouth quietly. “When it’s that time of the month—I take that shit, because … because you cop an attitude once a month. But, you need to calm down.”
“Or what,” she reaches forward and places her hands over Natasha’s ears. Our baby wiggles, and tries to paw her away. “Will you screw the anger out of me? We haven’t screwed in a month, Vassili. It would’ve been nice. Thanks for the bath, but after hearing you so jovial in your talk about fighting, I just can’t. Not tonight. So again, I appreciate the bath.”
I grab her wrist. “I am going to return to the cage, Zariah. Maybe not tomorrow, but that shit is inevitable, and I know that you know that.”
“I have sat back and taken you to the doctors. I know you’re preparing for rehab, but … but I can’t. I swear to you, I can’t, Vassili. Yuri had to stop me the other day from getting onto social media because of your name being on some list. Later on, I went back and I looked at the damn list. It was of fighters with the top ten worst MMA leg injuries. The sight was gruesome. I know you break a finger and a damn toe after every other damn fight, but… that list. Vassili you made top eight. The worst ones, I can’t see that happen to you. I refuse.”
“Oh, don’t give me that shit. So you saw some dude with a broken fibula or tibula or something.”
“Yes! And I won’t see it happen to you.”
“And it won’t! Zar. You are too sheltered, sweetheart. Shit is gonna happen but I won’t top that list, okay?”
She straightens up. “I refuse to see you top that list. How about this. It’s Natasha and I, or the cage. You choose.”
“Zariah, really, sweetheart? Don't do that. Don't fucking do that.” I glance down at our baby, who is excitedly eyeing us both. “I can’t even believe you’d say these things while I’m holding Natasha! Natasha is my princess. You're my queen, so you know that the answer will always be the two of you!”
“Somehow,” she mumbles. “I doubt it.”
Zariah walks into the bathroom and pushes both doors closed in our faces. My eyes are burning.
“Baabaa, daadaadaaaa.”
I can’t even offer my child a smile. “Listen, Mommy is angry with Daddy. I won’t let her go, sweetheart. I know what it feels like to be brought up in a broken home. And that shit won’t happen. I will not allow it.”