14. April

14

APRIL

They say good things come in threes. Well, apparently, they're not the only ones. Bad things arrive in nasty little triplets, too.

"Legs a little wider, please."

Bad thing number one: moving back here.

Bad thing number two: yesterday's "dinner."

Bad thing number three?—

"Like this?"

"Wider, April."

Dear God, please, let me be reborn as a yoga instructor. "I don't think they'll go any wider, Dr. Allan."

"Okay, don't sweat it. Just wanted to see how the healing was going."

I have no clue if this is Matvey's idea of a punishment or my own karma circling back to me with both middle fingers up, but it feels like retribution. Either his, or the universe's. Maybe both.

I throw a glance in Matvey's direction and find him resolutely turned the other way. Thank God. At least he isn't seeing this R-rated Cirque du Soleil audition of mine. "And…?"

"And you're very lucky. Everything appears to be in order."

"Oh, good?—"

"—despite your every attempt to self-destruct."

I make what I hope is a pleading and adorable face. Lately, my puppy eyes have been failing me. "I was fine, I swear! I just wanted to go home and?—"

"And never call again for a month?" she scolds me. "April, I nearly went to the police . The only reason I didn't was your husband talking me down."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Allan, I really—wait, my what?"

"Which is no excuse for your own recklessness, Mr. Groza," the doctor presses, raising her voice to make herself heard across the room. "You should've brought your wife in for at least a check-up! Who even leaves their hospital bed with fresh stitches? And a whole ten minutes after giving birth?!"

"First, I want to reiterate how sorry I am," I say. "Truly. Second—I'm no one's wife, thank you very much."

"Small mercies," Matvey mutters back, dripping sarcasm everywhere in a five-mile radius. Possibly on the baby in his arms, too.

"Well, uhh…" The doctor droops back uncomfortably, glancing from one "spouse" to the other in quick succession. "Marital statuses aside, you were very lucky. Sure, the scar's looking a bit wonky?—"

"That would be my fault," I interrupt. "A couple of stitches came out, so I had to put them back in myself."

"… As I was saying," Dr. Allan sighs, pretending I haven't spoken a word while presumably questioning if it's too late to switch to a less stressful career, like maybe skydiving, "despite your best efforts, nothing's broken. I'd give it a few more days to be sure, but you're pretty much back to prepartum condition. You can go back to doing everything you did before."

"Like lifting weights and signing up for yoga classes I'll never go to?"

"Yup."

"That's great, thank?—"

"And sexual activity, too."

I blanch. "By ‘sexual,' you mean…"

"The very same thing that got you into this." Dr. Allan smiles. "And hopefully back into this , if that's your wish. Weren't you telling me on our very first appointment that you wanted a big family?"

Suddenly, I understand what deer feel at the sight of headlights. My head snaps automatically towards Matvey, whose head seems to snap automatically towards me, and—wait, is he pissed off?

Is he pissed off that I can use my body again?

For some reason, that pisses me off. Big fucking time. So what if I've got the green light to mess around? Surely he isn't expecting to ever get back into my, ahem, "good graces"?

"Don't worry, Doctor," I say with my biggest smile. "That will certainly not be a problem for the time being."

"If you say so." She shrugs. "I'll just leave you a fresh prescription for birth control, then."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean?—"

But she's already writing.

On the other side of the room, Matvey's doing his best impression of a statue. Or maybe it's the three monkeys: I do not see it, I do not hear it, I do not give a damn about it.

Defeated, I accept the prescription slip. "Thanks, Doc."

"You're always very welcome."

After Dr. Allan leaves, I've barely pulled down my dress before Matvey's already shoving our baby back into my arms. In some respects, we really are just like any other couple.

Except that's where traditional behaviors end for us.

"Grisha, keep an eye on her," he calls into the hallway. "Make sure she doesn't leave."

I roll my eyes. "Gee, what now? I was just planning to go bar crawling."

"Without me?" a feminine voice calls from the hallway. "And here I thought we were friends again."

"Petra." Matvey's voice is ice. "I wasn't aware you had business here."

"Oh, you know how it is," she smiles sweetly. "Mommy Pilates got canceled. Thought I'd ditch the dolls and get some hands-on experience with the real thing. If that's okay with you, April?"

What does it say about me that I'm actually relieved to see her? "Sure. I think May needs changing anyway."

Petra's smile falters, but only for a moment. "Perfect."

Matvey frowns at our newfound friendliness. What, did he really think I'd blame the other woman?

"No leaving," he repeats to Grisha.

"Yes, pakhan ."

Then he strides out.

For a moment, we just look between the three of us. "Are you… staying for the impromptu mommy class?" I ask.

To his credit, Grisha only pales a little. "I'm afraid I have prior commitments," he politely declines. "But you two have fun. If you need anything, I'll be right outside the door."

Then he makes himself scarce, too.

Just like that, we're alone. "Thanks for the assist," I exhale.

"Sure. How's the confinement going?"

"You know, I feel like I'm learning what being a single mother in a Middle Ages convent was like."

"Does that make Grisha a nun?"

I snort. "Let's not ask him that."

God, it's the most normal interaction I've had in ages. Again, what does that say about me?

"For the record…" Petra clears her throat. "I'm not helping you change that."

I find myself snickering. "You're gonna have to learn at some point, Mommy-In-Waiting."

"I'll have nannies for that."

I shake my head sadly. "You're actually freaking out about it, aren't you? Motherhood?"

I put May down in her crib and start moving around the kitchen to make tea. Petra leans against the back of the couch, inspecting her nails with a carefully casual air. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, you do. All the lying awake at night, the sneaking suspicion that you should've splurged for therapy while you still had the chance."

"Therapy is for cheerleaders."

"… staring at the ceiling and wondering just how hard it's going to be…"

A shrug. "Can't be too hard if you're doing it."

"Ouch." I fake-stab myself. "Really hurt my feelings there, Petya. "

Ah-ha. I knew that nickname would be the ace up my sleeve. Her face burning like a stoplight is all the confirmation I needed. "Shut up."

"Why? It's so sweet."

"It's just Yuri being informal."

"Oh, is that what we're calling pet names now?"

Before I know it, the water's boiling. I pour us two cups and set some cookies in the middle of the table. "C'mon. Don't pretend you're not starving."

"I hate you," Petra mumbles around a mouthful. "You're just trying to fatten me up."

"And make you gain another half - size? Heaven forbid."

"You say that now, but I'd like to see you without your emergency living mannequi—WAH!"

My head snaps towards the sound. At first I think Petra's burned herself with the tea, but then I follow her line of sight straight into her lap and?—

"Oh, you've met Buttons!"

"What is this thing?" Petra panics. "Why is it sniffing at me— bozhe moy , is that an eyepatch?!"

I try to hide my snickering, but fail. "Oh my God, your face . "

" My face?" she balks. "How about his face?!"

"He's a Persian mix." I shrug. "That's just how they look."

"He looks like his mother had an affair with a pug and a weedeater, in that order."

I can't help it then: I laugh. Worse—I fall over the table and just honest-to-God lose it.

Petra watches me with her trademark RBF. "Ha-ha, very funny. Yuk it up."

"I can't…!"

"Your cat is a scurvy-riddled pirate, but somehow, I'm the ridiculous one."

"Help…! Help…! " It's a good handful of minutes before I manage to collect myself. "Sorry," I wheeze at last, drying literal tears from my eyes. "I think I needed that."

Petra's face softens then. Her manicured hand reaches for mine over the table, the other scratching idly behind Buttons's half-bitten ear. "April… how are you holding up, really?"

My first impulse is to deny: Everything's fine. I'm okay. Just haven't been sleeping that well.

But just thinking about it is exhausting. I'm so tired of it. Tired of lying, of hiding, of this web of deception we ended up weaving around each other.

For once, I just want truth.

"I have no idea," I answer honestly. "Last night, I finally slept in a real bed."

"That must've been nice."

"It was. There were no bedfeatures."

"Sorry, what?"

I ignore Petra's confusion and press on. "We had dinner in silence. Again."

"April…"

"He won't talk to me. Hell, he barely looks at me. We were so happy before, and now—" Suddenly, I realize what I'm saying. I gaze up and find Petra's eyes on mine, her expression crestfallen. "Sorry, I…"

"You don't have to apologize." She shakes her head. "Not in the slightest, April."

"It's not your fault," I blurt out. "I didn't want to make it out like…"

"It kind of is, though."

"No, I'm serious. I… I used to blame you," I mutter. "Blame you and him. But now, I know the truth."

"What truth is that?" she asks, coaxing my feelings out. My true feelings.

"I know that he lied to me," I rasp. "That he chose to."

"Maybe he didn't want to."

But I shake my head at that. "Petra, tell me honestly: when was the last time Matvey did something he didn't choose to do?"

That stumps her for a while. "He didn't want to get married," she answers finally. "I can tell you that with certainty."

"Right. But it was still his choice."

For a long moment, we're quiet. It's a different kind of silence—the kind that doesn't hurt, but only because there's nothing left to wound. Because everything's already out in the open, all the blood and guts.

Then I hear my own voice breaking it.

It's too quiet, though: barely a mumble. Petra frowns and leans in. "Sorry, what was that?"

"He said he'd do it all over again," I rasp out through a shaking voice. "Lying to me. Pushing me away."

"He can't have said that. No. No way. April, it's his biggest regret."

"I heard it with my own two ears. He hates me, Petra."

"He doesn't?—"

"And he's right, isn't he?" I finally break. "I took his kid away. I did that. I knew how important she was to him, and I still…"

My words are cut off halfway. Before I realize it, there's something warm around me that wasn't there before.

Arms, holding me.

"Shut up, koshka. "

"But…"

"Just shut up. You're hurting. Stop torturing yourself even more."

Buttons paws at my leg, as if agreeing with her. I've never felt more like an impostor—like a thief stealing love she doesn't deserve. "I…"

"When's the last time you cried, April?"

I try to answer… and then I realize that I don't know. I've teared up in fights. I've feared for my life and nearly cried there. But I can't remember when I last did this.

So I let it happen: I cry. I sob all over Petra's pristine white shirt and then some. I fall over the precipice of the breakdown I've been tiptoeing around all this time, these four weeks of nothing.

I cry until I have nothing left to give.

And then, just to be sure, I cry a little bit more.