Page 42 of Vasily the Hammer

I don’t have a son. Ana doesn’t have her memories. It doesn’t make any sense that we’d have a son, but damn if the look on her face isn’t convincing as all hell. Whether we have a son or not, she believes we do.

I hug her tightly as I whisper, “No, no, no,” to her. “I thought... I thought you were talking about Artyom, my brother. Artyom died. Not our—”

Fuck, I can’t even say it. I have to calm her down because holy shit, I did not mean to tell her our son died, but...

Holy fuck.

My hands roam across her, soothing her as well as I can, reverting to the firm petting that’s always worked on her, but I can’t help but analyze her body once again as I touch her.

Women’s bodies change when they have babies, of course. I’m not immune to celebrity gossip, not with Kseniya forcing it on me as though punishing me for moving to California. I see the new moms with everything tight and slim within six weeks of having their babies, but is that accurate? Or is reality wider hips and looser skin around the belly? Could reality be quirky little flops of tits that I adore but certainly don’t show up in R-rated Hollywood movies?

I don’t know. I really don’t. But there’s a logic in it. A slim belly stretched beyond capacity with a baby? All-but-nonexistent breasts suddenly flowing with enough milk to keep a growing baby fat and happy?

Shit.

Shit.

“Artom,” I croak out, the minor change to my brother’s name to make it easier on the American tongue now causing my stomach to go all topsy turvy. “He’s... he’s...”

He’s real.

I have a son. We have a son. And everyone kept him from me.Anakept him from me.

“Where is he?” she pleads, and the fact she doesn’t know where her own son is—wedon’t know whereourown son is— is enough to remind me that this Ana is not the one who kept him from me. That Ana was the Ana who had been rejected without explanation because I knew I wouldn’t be able to let her go if I gave her a single extra second of my time. That Ana had streaks of tears whipped into her hairline by the fleet of helicopters surrounding us as she professed her love for me over and over again, only for me to remind her our fifteen days were up.

That Ana kept my son from me.

As did Tony, but he’s a bitch.

And Dima.

My best fucking friend, and he kept this from me for six years. Five? God, is that how old he’d be? What is that, first grade? And my best friend kept that from me.

And now I have no idea where my son is.

I told myself I was going to do everything I could not to lie to her, instead bending and omitting truth whenever possible. But I also told myself I’d do everything to keep her from hurting, and she is hurting. And if this turns out to be a false memory—

But it’s not. Fuck me, but I know it’s not. I feel it right down in my very being, I just needed a couple seconds to come around to it. And even if this turned out to be a false memory, it’s betterfor me to calm her down now and figure out the truth of it on my own than scare her by telling her I don’t know.

“He’s with my sister,” I blurt out. “The amnesia. I didn’t want to upset him. Or you. You wouldn’t want that, right? For him to be here and asking you questions and expecting you to take care of him when you don’t even know him? That sounds awful.”

That sounds like something I’m going to have to do once I track him down and get him back. I’m going to have to figure out how to be a father to a stranger. He’s going to have his own life, favorite people and favorite things. There are shows he watches that I’ve never heard of, and he’s got hobbies, I’m sure. He’ll want to talk to me, and I won’t know what to say.

Or he won’t want to talk to me, because he won’t know who I am either.

What if he calls someone else dad?

Fuck.

I’ll kill the guy, that’s my first instinct. But I remember what it was like when my dad was killed, and I can’t think of a way to make someone hate you more quickly. No, that’s not an option.

“But doesn’t he miss me?” Ana asks, frantic energy still laced into her voice. “It’s been weeks! He’s gotta be—oh God, am I an awful mother? Does he hate me?”

I bundle her up and drag her across my lap to rock her on my chest. To calm her, yes, but I need this for me, too.

I am freaking the fuck out, and I don’t think she’ll be too happy if I start chowing down on Ativan in the bathroom.

“N-no, of course you’re great!” I stammer. “Are you kidding? He’s obsessed with you. I’ve been talking to him every day, I just told him you were having a, uhh, a mommy-cation but that you really loved all the pictures he drew.”

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