“Thirteen weeks.” My voice shakes.
“And you do not know if it is mine or his?”
“No. There is no way to know. Not until after the birth.” There is, actually, but my doctor said the procedure came with risk, and wasn’t worth it. I agreed. But I’m not about to say this.
“I don’t suppose it matters.” You turn away from me. Pace away, long quick angry steps.
And then back. Kneeling in front of me. Eyes wide, wondering. You press ten gentle fingertips to my belly. Gently, reverently.
“But... if you carried my child inside you... ?” You breathe this, as if it is too wild a notion to be believed. “Myblood, beating within you.Mybloodline, growing in your uterus.”
“Stop, Caleb,” I whisper. “Please, just . . . stop.”
“If it were mine, what then?” You stand up. Stare down into my eyes.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what then.”
“I have tried to let you go, Isabel. Time and again. I try. But I just... cannot.” You turn away again, as if ripping your gaze from me, painfully. Rub the stubble on your jaw with a palm. “I can’t. And now that you’re pregnant, now that you may have my son or daughter growing inside you—how can I let you go?”
I risk a step closer to you. “You have to, Caleb. Youmust. It is all there istodo. Find it within you, Caleb. Please.”
“I can’t!”This, desperately. Shouted, spittle flying. “Do you haveanyfucking clue what I’ve been through because of you, Isabel de la Vega?”
“No, Caleb, I do not. How could I? You’ve lied to me at every turn. Hidden the truth from me. Locked me away from myself, from my life, from my past.” I breathe out slowly, trying to regain some measure of calm. “Youknewme, didn’t you? Before the coma? Before the accident. You knew me.”
Your gaze sharpens. Slices into me. “You’ve remembered something, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“Youtellme, Caleb.”
A frustrated sigh. You turn away, snatch my robe off the floor. Bring it to me, hold it open for me. I slide my arms in, and you tie it closed, reluctantly, reverently. You have never behaved thus. As if I am something precious.
Always I felt like just... a possession. A watch you were jealous of, but that held no real emotional value to you. As if you possessed me merely so no else could. Owned, but not cherished.
This, the way you look at me now, the way you touch me now... if you’d shown this side of you all these past years, perhaps there could have been something for us, between us. But it’s too late. Too late.
You cling to the belt, the knot, for several long moments, and then, as if physically forcing yourself to do so, you release the belt. Breathe in, out, again, and again. Just staring at me. As if plumbing the depths of my soul through my eyes, seeking something.
And then you turn away, walk the many paces to the window. Assume that familiar pose, one arm barred horizontally on thewindow, your forehead resting on your arm, in the crook of your elbow. Other hand lifted to the glass, fingers tapping a rhythm. Weight on one leg, the other knee bent.
Staring into the past.
I put my back to the window a few feet away from you, sink to sit on the floor.
“You were just a girl when I first saw you. Fourteen, not yet fifteen, but nearly. You were in the process of blooming from an awkward girl into a lovely young woman. I knew, the moment I saw you, that you would be... stunning. A Helen of Troy, a woman for whom armies would go to war. But then, you were just a girl. No tits, hair in a sloppy braid, staring wide-eyed at the big bad city, this place, this modern Babylon. You were with your parents. I knew you’d be stunning, because you looked just like your mother, and holy mother of God, that woman was gorgeous. More than gorgeous. A woman to kill for, to die for. A true Spanish beauty. Long thick black hair, firm, dark, unblemished skin even at her age, forty or so. Eyelashes so thick you could almost hear them as they swept against her face. And her body, your mother, Isabel, she had the body of a goddess. Your father was a damned lucky man. He was rather handsome man, himself, however. A little older than her, I think. Forty-five, nearly fifty, perhaps? Going a little silver at the temples, but it gave him that distinguished air, you know? Tall, straight, strong. A good bit of stubble, not quite a beard. You were between them, your mother on the inside, you, and then your father nearest the street. All three of you were fresh off the boat, so to speak. You were literally clutching your visa in your hands, still. You’d gone straight to Fifth Avenue, like all the tourists do.
“I passed you. But that moment, when I first saw you, I will never forget that moment for as long as I live, Isabel. You looked at me, and you saw me. Your face told the tale. You thought I was handsome. So I smiled at you, and you ducked, looked away,blushing, giggling. I saw then how beautiful you would be. And I knew, once you came of age, that I would have to have you. But not until you were of age. I was no pedophile, no predator of young girls. In my world, I had men like that... eliminated with extreme prejudice. If a man came to me looking for young girls, he would vanish. I would see to it. I had no patience for such filth. Did not, and do not.”
You tap the window, fall silent for a while. I wait, knowing you will continue. Needing you to continue.
“I was a pimp then. There is no other word for it. But I was good to my girls. I took care of them. Kept them off drugs. Fed them, clothed them, gave them somewhere safe to do live and do business. Made sure their clients were clean, and not rough. Made sure no one abused them. And I never took advantage of their services myself. At least, not without paying for it like anyone else. I was not a good man. I am not, and never have been. Never will be. But back then? I was... bad. I was on the rise. Twenty-five years old and so very angry at everyone, at life. I was making money hand over fist. I was hungry for respect, for success. I was ruthless. If someone got in my way... well, they regretted it. But I had standards. Rules. A code. All of my girls were at least eighteen, and they knew, each and every one of them, what they were getting into. I never coerced them or forced them. I made sure they were loyal to me and only me, yes, but... they were not victims. And you... I’d never seen anyone like you. You were sweet. Innocent. Young, then, too young. But you... yousawme, Isabel. You looked right at me. And you didn’t do so with fear or disgust. Not like everyone else. You should have. And if you’d been able to see what I truly was, you would have. But I was selfish, and I liked the way you looked at me.
“I kept tabs on you, on the three of you. Nothing nefarious, I just... kept track. You went to school in Brooklyn. Yourfather worked at a jewelry store, a little place owned by a very distant cousin, I think. Or a friend of a distant cousin. I don’t remember anymore. Your mother worked for a hotel, cleaning rooms. It was demeaning work for a woman meant to be an empress, but she did it with vivacity and determination. For you. So you could have shoes and clothes and some money to spend. Your father and mother both worked very long hours to put a roof over your heads and food in your bellies, which meant you were much alone. You had no friends that I ever saw. You never left school with anyone, you never met anyone outside of school. Once school let out, you would go to the library. But you’d stop for a snack on the way, at the same bodega every time. You liked your sweets. You’d get a Coke, and a Snickers bar. I had the feeling, when I watched you, that you got these things as a form of rebellion, that your parents wouldn’t approve, which is why you did it. You’d stay at the library for long, long hours, reading. I never knew anyone to read so many books as you. You’d just sit in the stacks, nose in a book, from when school ended until late at night. Your father rarely came home before midnight, and your mother nearly that, and they’d both be gone a few hours past dawn. Seven, eight at the latest. You were... very independent. You’d take yourself to school, take yourself home. I assumed you made your own breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Always alone.”
“It sounds as if you kept very close track of me indeed, Caleb.”
