Page 56 of Vasily the Hammer

“Oh fuck, I’ve got this shit mascara on!” she hisses as she plants the heel of one hand right between her eyelashes, blotting tearsaway. Her other arm goes around me, and two smaller arms join in.

“Mommy’s home,” Artom says right to my butt, and he hugs me so much more tightly than Camilla and her kids that I’m crying now, too.

“I can’t believe I spent the day baking when there was a pool this entire time,” I mutter as I fuss with my too-small bikini. It’s not anything inappropriate, it’s just for a smaller version of me that didn’t have stretch marks on a wobbly belly and didn’t need anything to lift my boobs.

Camilla smacks my hand away, but she’s looking just unfairly hot despite having four-year-old twins. How did that happen? How does she have a flat stomach and perfect boobs and a big butt and hips but in the best way possible, all gravity defying and cellulose free? This is ridiculous.

As if reading my mind, Camilla says, “Gino got me a BBL for Christmas.”

“A BBL?”

“Brazilian butt lift. And every time I see you, I try to talk you into microdermabrasion. You always say no, it’s your mommy stripes, so that’s on you.”

I look down at my tummy and try ‘mommy stripes’ on. I like it, actually. I wish my bathing suit was a size up, but I guess I’m okay. And we’re not even outside. The pool is one of those set-ups where half is outside and half is in a sun room, perfect for this time of year when even Phoenix gets a little chilly.

The twins, Luca and Luna, come skittering in behind us— I guess that’s just the one speed they have, skitter— with Artom, kicking off their flip flops and ditching their shirts before belly flopping into the pool. Artom runs to the edge of the pool, and I yell, “Wait, wait, wait!”

He freezes comically, with one foot up in the air.

“Can you swim?”

Camilla snorts, and I’m pretty sure the truest sign of friendship is getting laughed at instead of coddled for my amnesia.

“Mommy, I was born swimming,” Artom says sternly. “I swimmed in your belly.”

Did I have a water birth? That doesn’t sound like me either. But kids say weird things. “Okay. Just... make me feel like a good, responsible mommy and go down these stairs this time, just so I can see, okay?”

He shrugs. “Okay, but you’re the best mommy.”

The good news is I don’t have to worry about my mascara running. I’m not wearing any.

“You kind of are the best mommy,” Camilla confirms.

“He’s the only one I’ve remembered so far,” I say, dodging more intense emotions. “Not an actual memory or anything, but I just suddenly remembered that I have a son, and I remembered his face and his name, and then it turned out—” I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Camilla’s hand squeezes mine. She’s got this big, glamorous, larger than life personality, it comes out every time she talks to Luca and Luna and when she literally greeted Tony with, “‘Sup, dicknuts? Stay the hell out of the solarium,” but she’s kept herself quiet with me. It’s a comfortable quiet. I wonder if I’ve always been the quiettype or if she knows that right now, I don’t need conversation. I need support.

She gave me about three seconds of privacy to change into the ill-fitting bikini, though, and then her hand was back on mine, just casually holding it.

Squeezing it when I need it.

She watches with me as Artom barrels down those steps as quickly as possible, only going down two before his tiny body can no longer touch the step and he plunges in.

My breath catches. I have to take care of him. He’s all I have.

But he doesn’t even go underwater, not at first. He does a little paddle that’s somewhere in between a doggy paddle and an elementary stroke, but he’s clearly not having any issues keeping afloat.

“See, Mommy?” he yells.

“Yeah, baby. You’re doing really well.”

“I’m taking swim lessons this summer, too! I’m enrolled and everything.”

Oh, no. I would love to say that yes, absolutely, in a couple months, we’ll be returning home and he’ll be in those swim lessons this summer, but I don’t see it happening. I’ve done a little research, as much as I could handle before I got myself upset, and the longer it takes for memories to come back, the less likely they will. Even if they don’t, I know I’ll one day be fully functional and independent again, but I can’t move back to Florida until then.

If ever.

For lots of reasons.

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