Page 39 of A Convenient Secret
Have you heard from Cal yet?
Saar
We’re here in the hospital. No baby yet.
Declan might join you soon.
Saar
I thought today was your last day.
It was an accident. I don’t know what to do.
Cora
Fuck, Lily, you are not joking?
Saar
Of course she is.
I have to go. I’ll fill you in later.
“Lily, you’we still hewe!” Zoya jumps from her bed right into my lap.
My limbs scream in protest after sitting up the rest of the awful night in the armchair in Zoya’s room.
I didn’t follow Declan downstairs, but I heard the murmur when the paramedics arrived. They weren’t here long, but everything after the nightmare has felt like an eternity.
Zoya yawns and snuggles against me, and my eyes mist. The bone-weary exhaustion is almost physically painful now.
I will my mind to linger on this one beautiful, innocent moment, but when I close my eyes, layers of different nightmares of the past, not so recent and very recent, form a knot in my stomach.
The knot tightens when Zoya’s small voice seeps through my consciousness. “Awe you still ouw nanny?”
Most definitely not.
“I stayed tonight because your dad needed to take care of something.” Panic whooshes through me again, and the need to tell Zoya way more than she should hear, or I should ever share, is strong.
“But he was hewe last night. We awe going to chase pigeons. He pwomised.” She looks at me with her large brown eyes, her bottom lip quivering.
“He will come soon. He might need to rest for a moment, but he will spend the weekend with you.” I don’t know that, but if Zoya starts crying I won’t be able to keep it together.
She nods and settles her head on my chest. I wrap my arms around her, stroking her back. The motion gives me a sense of peace. Like she is my lifeboat. And yes, there is a storm awaiting me, but for now, I’m safe.
“Can we make Fwench toast?”
Oh, shit. “Do you know how to make it?”
“Suwe.” She slides down from my lap. “Zach, wake up; we awe making Fwench toasts.”
Turns out the kids don’t know how to make French toast, and neither do I. I pull out a video on my phone, and we watch it together.
“You don’t know how to cook, do you?” Zach asks,matter-of-fact, hands in the pockets of a flannel housecoat more suitable for a senior than a child.
Being judged by this little dude is as effective as his father’s glower. I want to shrivel. “I know plenty.” I try to sound breezy. “Like how to use a microwave. And… how to open cereal boxes. That counts, right?”
Zoya giggles and turns off the video. “It looks easy,” she says with confidence, holding a whisk like it’s a magic wand.
