Page 14

I more tug on my hair than slide my fingers through it when I rake my hand over my head while heading for the exit. I don’t know where I’m going. My feet move, and I follow them.
After barging through a swarm of media, I walk briskly down the street that leads to Myasnikov Private Hospital. My breaths as I vie to lose the tail of a handful of media members are visible in the cool air. The city is gaining attention as rapidly as my bid for office is alive with activity. Health professionals hog most of the sidewalk, and the voices of students varying in age project out of a high-rise building that doubles as a school.
My thoughts are a whirlwind of anger and confusion, but the bustle simmers when the woman who has held my thoughts captive for the past three days re-enters the frame.
Mara is galloping down the front stairs of a school, holding the hand of a little girl who couldn’t look more like her mother if she tried, though her cheeks are far whiter.
I learn why when their hop off the final step sees the child rushing to the bushes hedging the footpath. She loses her morning tea in three stomach-churning heaves before she peers up at Mara with glistening, tear-filled eyes. “I don’t feel good.”
“I know, sweetheart. It’s okay. Mommy will make you feel better soon. We just need to get you home first.”
I’ve barely gotten over my surprise that Mara is old enough to be a mother of a child who looks around nine or ten when I’m struck down with shock for the second time.
She didn’t stutter.
Not once.
The knowledge both intrigues and concerns me.
Mara hooks her daughter’s backpack onto her shoulder, stuffs the bag she arrived at work with this morning under her arm, and then carefully pulls her daughter into her chest until the collar of her maid’s outfit catches her tears. “Let’s get you home and into bed.”
They make it halfway to the bus stop at the front of the school when Mara’s daughter is sick again. This time, the deluge is released into Mara’s oversized purse.
I would have been irreversibly scarred for such a senseless act, but Mara takes it in stride like she was born to be a mother. “It’s okay, darling. It is nothing a bit of elbow grease won’t fix.”
She hides her grimace well until the bus they’re endeavoring to reach chugs past the bus stop without stopping. With the shelter empty and the school still hours from the final bell of theday, the driver stayed in the flow of traffic instead of conducting a cautious merger.
“Shit,” Mara murmurs, glaring at the back of the dirty bus.
Humid air fills my lungs when I tip my head back to take in the clouds that announce a storm is brewing. The dark, ominous sky adds to the concern etched on Mara’s beautiful face, but she keeps her daughter unaware of her panic. She gathers her close to her side and continues toward the bus shelter without the slightest fault to her strides.
I can’t issue the same verdict when she spots me standing at the side, stalking her. Her pupils widen to the size of saucers as her clutch on her daughter’s shoulders tightens. I can’t tell if her response is frightened or excited.
If the whiteness of her daughter’s cheeks is anything to go by, I don’t have time to deliberate. She is moments from being sick again.
With the urgency of the situation in the forefront of my mind, I do something I’ve never done before.
I go against the cautions of my gut and hail a cab.
When one stops in front of me two seconds later, Mara appears relieved.
Her relief doesn’t linger for long.
After lowering her eyes to the bag concealing her daughter’s illness from the cab driver, she returns them to my face. “Thank you. Bu-but we’re okay. I can’t aff?—”
A brutal heave cuts her off and has her rushing for the cab like she’d sell a kidney to get her daughter home and tucked safely in her bed.
The gust of her brisk strides brings up the scent still embedded in the interior of my town car. It is still indescribable. It’s somewhat floral but not overpowering like most women’s perfumes. It doesn’t make me sick to my stomach.
It is an intoxicating smell that has me following her into the back of the cab without time for Mara or my head to protest.
5
MARA
Although I shouldn’t, when the cab stops at the front of my apartment building, I sigh in relief when Ark digs his hand into the back pocket of his trousers to remove his wallet. I don’t have the funds for additional fares outside of school and work commutes on my MetroCard, so I could never pull together enough funds for a sixty-dollar fare.
“Keep the change,” Ark says, tossing the driver almost double the fee.