Page 39 of Taking A Chance
I glance aimlessly through the window, not really focusing on anything in particular, a blurred, vaguely familiar figure catches my eye. The glass is missed up from the heat inside the café, so I wipe it with my jacket sleeve. I push my face nearer to the window for a clearer view, only to find nothing. I laugh at myself, a laugh that is close to hysteria when I realise that I’m so messed up that I’m imagining things. Deciding that I really need to get my shit together. I take a great big gulp from my cup, open a newspaper that’s been left on the table, probably by a previous customer, and catch up on the latest Slovakia news.
All I seem to have done for the last 24 hours is sit in an airport, a car or a fucking plane.
After checking the flights, I’d found the next flight that I could meet would be the 13.25 flight out of Heathrow, flying via Prague. If that wasn’t bad enough, it was nearly two thousand dollars, and that was for coach. I didn’t care. Once I’d made up my mind, I wanted to get there as quickly as I could. Isaac had dropped everything and the next minute we were back in the Aston Martin, hot tailing it back to Heathrow.
So, here I am, after eventually arriving at Bratislava airport, now sat in a cab, heading to the address that Isaac had sent to my phone.
The cab pulls up outside a pale-yellow two-storey house, nestled between only a handful of other homes of various pastel colours. It’s nothing like the other characterless apartment blocks that seem to dominate the skyline. This is a much older property, undoubtedly built well before the communism era and has been well looked after. It holds a certain quaintness and charm. An antique diamond amongst the rough, hard stone of modern monstrosities.
On paying the cab with the euros I’d hurriedly exchanged before leaving London, I step out of the car and walk up to the front door.
I hesitate for a moment, a nervousness bubbling within me. Can I take another rejection? Could I live with myself if at least I don’t try? The latter being a definite no; I step forward.
I lift the ornate door knocker and bang it down, repeating the movement twice more.
I hear the muffled sound of movement behind the door, a soft recognisable voice muttering words I don’t understand, brings a hesitant grin to my face. When the door opens, it’s not Petra I see standing there, but an older woman.
“Dobry den, mozem vam pomoct (can I help you)?” I don’t understand a word that she says, so I say the only thing I can.
“Petra? I’m looking.” I point to my eyes, then realise it’s a dork move, drop my hand back to my side. “Petra?”
“Petra, ano, ano. (yes, yes)” She steps back from the door and waves me in. “American?” her eyebrows rise in question. With that reaction, I guess that she’s already aware of ‘The American’ that has been present in her daughter’s life. Which can only mean that I’m at the right place.
“Thank you,” I nod as I’m not sure what else to do, and step into the house. Closing the door, she gestures for me to follow her into the kitchen. When she points to one of the chairs tucked under a solid wood table, I pull it back and sit. Moving around the kitchen, I watch her as she fills a coffee machine with water and switches it on. It’s one of those modern espresso machines and it looks a little out of place against the other, more dated, kitchen appliances out on the countertops.
“Kavu?” she shakes her head before saying with a smile, “Coffee?” The accent is clear, and it’s apparent that her English is limited but the smile; this lady is undoubtedly Petra’s mother.
“Yes,” I nod back at her, with a grin, “Yes, please.”
No words pass between us, only smiles and gestures except for when I offer her my hand in greeting and I introduce myself as Cade.
“Anicka,” she offers in return.
After placing the small cup of black coffee in front of me, she stands for a while, smiling and observing.
“Ste velmi pekny muz (you are a very handsome man).” Her expression clearly indicating that whatever she is saying, it’s a positive comment. Before I have time to make any kind of response, not that I’d know what response to give, she walks out of the room.
Left by myself, I look around the room. It’s simple, clean and what seems to be old traditional.
At the sound of soft speaking, I turn to find Anicka walking back into the kitchen. Stood beside her is a tiny child, at a guess, by the way she is unsteady on her feet, about twelve to eighteen months old. As she gets nearer, I can see that her skin is the same olive shade as Anicka’s, her tiny full lips and nose a miniature version of Petra’s. Her hair is dark brown, but even at this distance, it looks like it’s been woven with shiny golden threads. But what stands out the most is her beautiful eyes, that are the perfect shade of blue.
“Mami (mamma),” a voice calls from the hallway. “Prepac (I am sorry).”
Completely distracted by the baby girl, I hadn’t heard the front door open.
Petra comes into the room, but is stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes flit from me, to the child, to her mother, before words rapidly fire from her mouth.
“Mami, co to do kelu robis (Mum, what the hell were you thinking)?” She steps forward and picks up the baby and holds her tightly to her chest. The baby giggles, grasping onto the fabric of Petra’s top with her tiny hands. When pushing her face into the crook of Petra’s neck, Petra places a kiss on the top of her head. The sight is a little surreal, yet it tugs on my heart as I watch her eyes close, lips lingering on the young child’s head; unconditional love at its purest.
“She’s mine, isn’t she?” I blurt without a second thought about the consequences.
For a moment, I think she’s going to deny it. The atmosphere in the room almost stifling. When she speaks, it’s clear and precise.
“Yes Cade, you’re her father.”
“What the fuck, Petra,” I shout. The chair legs scrape across the floor, making a loud irritating noise, one that I take little notice of but the baby does, and lets out a high pitch squeal before bursting into tears.
“Shh!” Petra coos, as she rocks and comforts the upset child. I take a step towards them, but the fierce shake of her head stops me dead in my tracks. “Mami, vezmi ju (Mum, take her),” she hands the baby to her mother, who then takes her out of the room. “How dare you shout and swear like that in front of my child?”