He shook his head. “No. I don’t want you seeing this. It’s no place for you.”
Exactly. Bluntly, I asked, “Do you plan to hurt him while you question him?”
His nostrils flared as he took a slow, deep breath in through his nose, eyes like granite. “Beth, I don’t want to say anything unkind or rude to you right now, so I’m going to walk away, and you’re going to go with your papa while Kirill, Grigori, and I go talk with this man.” He paused, leaning down to eye level with me. “This is one of those times you need to be quiet and just do as I ask.”
Time went hazy at the sound of his brutal, condescending tone.
Instant. Intense. Pissed. The. Fuck. Off. Fury. “I am not a fucking servant.” I slammed his chest with my palms, ignoring that it didn’t move him at all. “Or a goddamn child.” I slammed him again. “Or a little fucking barefoot wife.” Another slam. “I am a grown woman with her own damn mind and thoughts and ideas. I will do as I goddamn please without a fucking dictator ordering me around! This is fucking America if you’ve forgotten, and I have the fucking right to my free-fucking-will and free-fucking-dom. Do. You. Fucking. Get. Me?”
And…then…I burst into tears, which I really hoped it didn’t ruin the effect of what I had just said.
Daniil…just…stared at me, looking a little surprised. Well, more than a little surprised I guess since his eyes were huge and his jaw had dropped a little.
“Sweetie, I’m going to ignore how many time you just dropped the f-bomb in your patriotic speech,” Dad said quickly, walking up beside Daniil. He took my arm and pulling me down next to him, he wrapped his comforting arms around me as I continued to bawl. He whispered over my head, “I’m going to take her to her mom. She handles pregnant woman better than I do. And apparently, you, too.”
I pushed out of his hold furious and upset all at once, yelling, “I’m not acting this way because I’m pregnant! I just want to be there to keep that man alive!”
Dad blinked, and then glanced over my shoulder worriedly. “Maybe I should go get Frankie.”
Dad’s obvious worry, well, it made me blink. And the hazy furious venom rushed out of me. And my breath caught. Unconsciously, I placed a hand on my lower stomach. And started bawling even more, making both Daniil and my dad look almost freaked out. Quickly, I started mumbling, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Tonight, I’ve pulled a knife on you,” I stepped forward and started patting Daniil’s pecs were I had hit him, “and shoved you. I’m turning into a fucking crazy pregnant woman.” I cried harder. “Pregnancy doesn’t like me.” I sobbed. It hurt my heart that I was acting this way.
“Beth…” Daniil purred softly, coming out of his stupor, his hands rising to my hips.
But my dad pulled me back putting his arm around my shoulder and began leading me away. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go talk to your mother.” He pulled me in close, kissing the top of my head. “Daniil’s right. Let him take care of this right now. Besides, he said you would have the final say,” he glanced over our shoulders to where Daniil stood, “and I’m sure he will keep him alive so you can have it.”
I hiccupped and nodded. Daniil wouldn’t go back on his word. What was one punch or two to the man’s face? Hell, I wouldn’t mind doing that myself. “O-O-Okay.” The tears wouldn’t stop coming and Dad continued hushing me as he took me in the direction my mom had gone. I didn’t even notice the others around us as. I knew they were there, but they were so silent, they didn’t even register on my radar.
Dad led me to the kitchen, and I smelled fresh bread being made and heard the clang of dishes being cleaned from our dinner. Mom was sitting at the island bar flipping through a cookbook and taking notes when we entered. She looked like home to me sitting there making out lists to give to Ms. York, a new single mom at Dad’s church who Mom was trying to teach to cook. For the past few months, Mom had been giving her simple recipes that would be cheap on the budget. It looked like she had raided their cooking books with at least six piled to the left of the one she was going through.
“Mom,” I blubbered, pushing out of Dad’s hold and rushing to her. Her head snapped up and she jumped from her chair, catching me against her. Motherly arms surrounded me, her hands immediately starting to rub my back soothingly. “I’m one of those scary pregnant freaks you see in the movies.” I hiccupped, burying my wet face in her neck. “Forget Jekyll and Hyde. They’ve got nothing on me.”
She crooned softly, hushing me, even as she managed to get the story from Dad of what happened in the short period of time since she had left. Petting my hair, she placed me on a bar stool when my sobs quieted. My damn contacts were horribly dry and scratchy now, and a little irritated. I took them out right then and there. I had worn them a week longer than I was supposed to anyway.
Staring down at the translucent spheres, watching them dry up on the counter, Mom ordered Dad to go find my glasses for me before sitting down next to me. She cleared her throat, and said, “When I was pregnant with you,” she cleared her throat again, “I not-so-accidently rammed my car into the car of the woman who had cut me off in the check-out line at Walmart.”
My head snapped up, and I gawked at my mom. My supposedly non-violent mom.
She grinned. And it looked satisfied. “I crunched her bumpergood.”
“Mom!” I gasped, completely dumbfounded.
Still smiling, she began wiping my face off, studying me. “You know, sweetie, there are some downfalls of pregnancy. Emotional disturbance is one of them.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “And you’re having triplets. I’m sure that’s going to make it worse for you.” My shoulders slumped as that reasoning made sense. She kept going, though. “But do you want to know a trick I learned after that whole bashing-the-wenches-car-thing?”
I nodded.
“The trick is when you start to feel,” she paused, clicking her tongue, “overly emotional, like really sad or happy or furious…stop. Just stop whatever you’re about to do or say. Close your eyes, think of a peaceful place and take in a deep calming breath, and then count to ten.” She paused, chuckling. “Sometimes twenty.” She brushed curls behind my ear that had escaped my ponytail. “When you open your eyes, try to think rationally and calmly. It won’t always work because sometimes pregnancy tends to just take over, but it does help.”
I nodded. That sounded reasonable. Something I could handle.
Mom cocked her head and said, “Now that you know how I got through my pregnancy, I want to ask you a question.” I nodded again, staying mute, and she asked slowly, “I know your generation is different from mine, but personally, in here,” Mom placed her hand over my heart, “who do you believe runs a household? The man or the woman?”
That gave me pause, and I thought about it while Mom took her hand back, patiently waiting for my answer. I was an extremely independent woman. I believed in women’s lib, and all that. And ever since I had been on my own, a free adult so to speak, I had become even more independent. But…
Down deep, my family roots were buried in my heart, not just in my head where the independent part of me lived strong. My parents had raised me with Christian values. I had grown up in a loving, truly happy home where my dad was the head, my mom the neck. That part of me was just too engrained to come up with anything different.
I stated, “The man.” I held up my hand when Mom started to speak. “But I firmly believe it should be a partnership. Not one cowering behind the other. The man and woman should have the same say,” I sighed, “but, in the end, I do believe the man is the protector and has the final say.”
Mom’s lips twitched. “Your generation has so many problems. And I believe this to be the starting point.” She sighed. “Sweetie, in a nutshell, you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.” I blinked at her, and she placed a hand on my cheek. “A committed relationship, any type of committed relationship, is hard. It’s constant work once those sweet feelings of first love vanish and reality sets in. You state the man is the head of the household but say you want a partnership.” She tapped my forehead. “You’re confusing yourself. Yes, a committed relationship is a partnership of sorts. The man and the woman should always have communication between them. And no one should ever cower behind the other, but you have to have a leader in the household. Be it man or woman, there has to be a leader. If you have two leaders constantly battling it out about everything, it doesn’t make for a contented relationship. It just makes for a lot of small fights, which could possibly end up as one huge one.”
