ANNASOPHIA
When the kids and I walk out of Rachel’s office ninety minutes later, she stops me in the doorway. “Do you know Dr. Patel well?”
My jaw drops. I whip around to face her, catching out of the corner of my eye, the blur of Magnus and Anastaysa flying into Benazir’s open arms. “Doctor?”
“Ph.D. Psychology. Specialized in the treatment of children traumatized by war.”
“I think you’ve confused two Benazir Patels.” I switch my gaze back to the kids. Their heads touch Benazir’s like members in a secret club. “Mrs. Patel’s husband was a diplomat.”
“Indeed.” Amusement rides the single word. “Dr. Patel was a diplomat’s wife and the author of hundreds of articles in pediatric behavioral medicine.”
Uh-huh. I study Benazir, her sleek head down, her face hidden, as she listens and occasionally nods during a break in the intense whispers. “Have you ever met Dr. Patel?”
Rachel shakes her head. “I’ve seen her. Several times—many times—on TV. She delivered an amazing speech to UNICEF four years ago about the impact of war on women and children. I’m surprised you didn’t read the speech.”
Flushing, I shrug. “Four years ago I was fighting my own war.”
“A good reason for not recognizing her. I, on the other hand, will swear that woman is Dr. Benazir Patel.”
As if her ears have burned down to cinders, Benazir raises her head and smiles.
I wiggle my fingers but speak to Rachel. “Whether you’re right or mistaken, I need to get her back home. She has to be exhausted.”
“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Most of us can take large doses of adoration without wearing down. Small doses of tension, on the other hand, can leave us drained.”
Half listening to her mini-sermon, I tap my toe. Does the woman always have to drive home the obvious? Probably figures the mega-dose of tension I took in her office proves her point.
She asks, “What do you think of the idea?”
Heat scalds my ears. Zap. The temptation to pretend I heard—a form of lying—dies as the impulse flits through my brain. Instead, I flatten my hand and zoom it across the top of my head.
“Confession time. I zoned out.”
She arches a brow. “Sometimes I veer toward pontification. An occupational hazard. Zoning out, though, confirms my suspicion. You’ve reached your TQ for one day.”
She pauses—uncertain if I’ve zoned out so far I don’t understand TQ?
“Tension Quotient,” I say.
She snaps her fingers. “I suggest we forget an afternoon session with Alexandra. Let me work with her one-on-one. Come back in the morning after a good night’s sleep.”
Her suggestion leaves me lightheaded. Dizzy. Giddy as a kid after half a dozen turns on the merry-go-round. Too giddy to question her judgment. Too giddy to admit my relief.
Postpone facing Alexandra?
My wildest dream come true. Unbelievable. Mindboggling. Giddyfying.
I yip and shoot Rachel a high-five. It takes her a beat, but she raises her hand. The bittersweet joy of being alive tightens my chest. Alive. I’m alive. Alive with two kids—maybe three—who love me. Alive because of their love.
The pain for Jennifer doesn’t vanish, but the brooding stops rattling in my head for a millisecond. I’m alive. I’ve got to help the kids move on, embrace living. They’ve had too much of death. I clap, snap my fingers, and shimmy across the room.
Benazir and the kids freeze. Their mouths go slack. They stare. Benazir recovers first and gives them a little push. They follow me, the Pied Piper, out the door. My lead heart breaks into an aria.
On the twenty-minute ride home, Benazir again sits in the middle of the backseat. Why did I ever doubt—for even a moment—that she’s a psychologist? She’s either a psychologist or a magician. Her low voice flows over all of us like warm oil. And the oil seeps into the bunched muscles in my neck. A sensation of silk glides across the aches and pains. Loosens the stiffness in my joints. Lubricates the pathways to my nerves.
Her magic works on the kids, too. They cuddle next to her. I listen for purrs. Without warning, Anastaysa bursts my fantasy.
“I don’t feel like eating dinner.”
“All right.” I manage to bite my tongue. Dammit. So much for marathon head-shrinking sessions. Not that one session would wipe out the horror of Jennifer’s murder. In three hours, we’d expect her to walk through the front door with tales of her adventures. She’d pitch in to help clean away our supper things and talk about the concert she attended. Or the movie she and Rafe saw. Or relate anecdotes about street entertainers. She might solicit supper requests for tomorrow night.
Now, nothing will change the fact she won’t come home tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or the next. The rain has stopped, but I turn on the wipers and drive at a snail’s pace. No one else slows for the slick streets. No one else imagines death slamming into them with no regard for expectations of a long life.
“What about you, Magnus?” I stop at a traffic light, the red corona fuzzy from the afternoon’s downpour. Perfect weather for a huge pot of pasta. “You hungry?”
Personally, I think I can eat a ton of pasta and garlic bread. Bring on the carbs.
Magnus hesitates, juts his chin at Anastaysa, and says—with an edge of defiance, “I’m starved.”
“You’ve already forgotten Jenn, haven’t you?” Anastaysa’s tone would chill a rattler’s blood.
Inside my skull, my own blood jumps from a simmer to a boil. Magnus sobs as if accused of hurting Molly.
“Dammit, Anastaysa.” I yank the wheel and slide to a stop at the curb.
“Sorry, Magnus.”
My gut clenches, and I open my mouth.
Magnus speaks before I get my thoughts—and emotions—under control. “No, you’re not.”
Anastaysa sits forward, stretching her seat belt to its max. “Are you calling me a liar?”
The catch in her voice overrides her words. She’s hurt and confused and terrified to admit her darker feelings. Easier to puff up with anger—her father’s model. I turn off the ignition and reach between the front seats, squeezing her knee.
Give me patience to be a better mother.
“Staysa, I don’t think Magnus was calling you a liar. He’s tired. You’re tired. Can you both take a timeout until we get home?”
She averts her face, and I swivel my gaze toward Benazir. Jump in anytime, Doc.
Magnus hiccoughs.
“All right.” If Anastaysa’s suffering-nun tone lacks an undernote of graciousness, at least it contains no overt hostility.
Without comment, Magnus shifts his weight in his booster seat.
Benazir pats his shoulder and pulls Anastaysa closer. “Shall I tell you a story set in India about a sister and brother whose favorite companion was an elephant?”
Her magic works again. The rise and fall of her voice cuts off further arguments. I start the car and ease into traffic. Whatever Benazir’s powers, they lack sway over the weather. In minutes, the mist has thickened. Visions of Jennifer explode. I grind my teeth. Her headless image flickers, fading into the think-about-that-tomorrow pit right below my heart.
Concentrate. I have to concentrate on driving.
Watch out for drivers who have no business behind the wheel in this weather.
Or drivers with me as a target.
Stop being paranoid. I clench my jaw. With Jennifer’s hit-and-run killer free to strike again, I trust my paranoia.
Fifteen minutes later, we approach the house. Satish, parked at the curb, blinks his headlights. The weight across my shoulders lightens. Safe. God. I got us home . For the first time since Satish took Molly’s bunny this morning, I feel safe.
Please let Anastaysa give him a chance.
“You don’t have to leave right away, do you?” Anastaysa asks Benazir.
A tap on the remote sends the garage door upward, and I drive inside, echoing Anastaysa’s hope in a high, breathy question. “You and Satish will stay for dinner, I hope?”
Anastaysa says, “Please. I’ll cook my signature dish.”
Left unsaid: Mamá’s cooking sucks, but if you stay, I’ll cook.
Molly’s barks and yips mingle with Magnus yelling her name. Both kids talk—shout—over each other. The dog howls. The car engine vibrates like a 737. Or maybe that’s my head. I cut the engine. Chaos still reigns as Satish strolls into the garage and opens Magnus’s door.
Sweat dots my forehead. God, what I’d give to race to his car and take off for an hour. Or two. Or three …
With or without Satish?
Magnus’s exuberance greeting his hero brings me back to earth, but a moan from Molly grabs her master’s attention. As soon as Satish releases the seat belt, Magnus charges toward the house.
“If only we could bottle boys’ energy,” Benazir says.
Satish laughs, removes the car seat, and helps her step onto the floor. “A sexist comment, Mère?”
“Is it sexist for you to help me out of the car?”
He opens my door, offers his hand, and transforms the boulder in my stomach to dust with a fleeting wink. “You, Mère, can hold the door into the kitchen for me.”
“Humph. First, you must kiss your aged mother.” She arches a brow at me. “Someday he will get married, and his wife will remind him of our Indian traditions.”
Her indulgent tone inflicts no pain, but her unspoken message bangs my skull like a cast-iron skillet. Flirt all I want, but remember I come with too much baggage for a permanent place in Satish’s life.