The King and the Courtesan (54 page)

I gave him the address, my new cellphone number, and directions. After that, I wasn’t sure how to leave gracefully. I wanted to stay longer, but for some reason, seeing Roger like this made me awkward. He wasn’t different, and yet he was.

“So, the baby,” Roger said. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy,” I replied.

“Have you thought of a name yet?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

I nodded.

“Right. You need to get going. I’ll let you go. It was really nice seeing you again, Melissa. I was worried about you.”

“Same here. I’m glad to see you well.” I pointed to a dirty plate on the nightstand. “Though you could benefit from getting a maid.”

“Aha, well, I’m not the neatest guy. Most of that was a front for Ezekiel’s sake.”

I didn’t know what to do, so I gave Roger another one-armed hug. He patted me lightly on the back, clearly unsure on how to proceed. I turned and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before darting away, blushing. While sexual intimacy was old hat for me, friendly intimacy was still alien.

“See you soon, Roger,” I said over my shoulder. “Make good on that promise to visit.”

“I will.”

I left his house smiling.

* * *

The baby cared naught for schedules. Two days after my visit with Roger, I went into labor. The doctors could only be glad he was coming a month ahead of schedule, instead of four. They didn’t predict many complications, though they certainly took enough precautions and decided on a C-section.

Since I had an epidural, I was awake to see him arrive. I never considered newborn children to be especially cute, but I thought he was beautiful. Even screaming, pink, and coated with a thin sheen of blood, he was beautiful. I wanted to hold him, but they told me the nurses had to clean him up, and I needed stitches. So I rested and waited until, at last, they gave him to me, placing him gently in my arms as if he were made of porcelain. He was bundled in a thick fleece blanket, so small and delicate that he took my breath away.

Motherhood is a very strange thing, and the feelings it brings are only attainable by those who have lived it. I couldn’t have understood this feeling before I became pregnant—I wouldn’t have believed it. I would’ve looked at this tiny ball of flesh and winced at its ugliness, its vulnerability. I would have wanted no part. But now…
now
all I could see was purity and joy and love. Oh, I wanted to clutch him to me and protect him forever. He was beautiful. So beautiful.

However, looking at him, I thought of how much he would rely on me and my strength. The powerful and confident mother he needed was not the person I was, and I knew that. I had come so far throughout rehab and afterward, but there was a huge chasm I still needed to cross. Could I do that while also worrying about the well-being and health of someone so dependent upon me?

Right now the most hopeful future I’d had since birth was before me: a chance to leave my past behind and start anew. My time with Ezekiel was one of my most traumatizing experiences, and while I saw this boy as the only good thing to come of it, should I tether myself to its reminder? What if I made the same mistakes my mother made? What if I relapsed and dragged this boy down with me? There was
so much
I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure how much I could learn when I was responsible for more than myself.

Later, I told Rika to bring her husband. They were going to take him home.

* * *

Floyd called for a car to take me home from the hospital. Imagine my surprise when Roger pulled up.

“I was hired,” he told me, rounding the car to stand in front of me. He was smiling, and he looked more like the Roger I knew, groomed and looking flashy in his sleek, black suit. However, his expression was light, his eyes brighter.

“I’m so happy for you,” I told him with a grin. I gave him another hug. “I knew you’d manage. You’re too cool not to.”

“Floyd wanted me to tell you that you can start your new job as soon as you feel up to it.”

After all that happened—detox, rehab, my pregnancy, and the birth of my now-adopted baby boy—I wondered if I’d ever feel “up to it.” But I was hopeful at the same time, and while Floyd and I had not yet talked about my salary, his treatment of me so far hinted it would be abnormally generous.

The ride home was pleasant and peaceful. Roger and I didn’t talk much, but I knew we’d see plenty of one another in the future. For now, it was enough to be in the presence of a friend and know there were future conversations to look forward to.

After Roger dropped me off, Mimi gave me a big hug at the door, telling me to rest before she cooked me dinner. My relationship with my sister was still improving, and while we weren’t exactly the bosom buddies I’d always wanted, we were doing better now than we had in a long time. We could even talk about Mom and our good memories of her without feeling weighed down by her death.

* * *

As much as I recognized the importance of rest, Ezekiel haunted my dreams, the cries of a newborn baby lingering in the background. Because of this, I slept little and wept a lot. I tried to keep it quiet, in fear of Mimi coming in and finding me in such a pathetic state. She wouldn’t understand. I didn’t think anyone could.

One morning not long after the birth and adoption, Mimi made breakfast for me. She was already dressed in her waitress uniform, so I was touched she’d taken the time to feed me before running out. When she saw me, she turned and smiled.

“Hey, sis,” she said. “How are you feeling today?”

I sank into a seat and stared at the tablecloth. “I’m good, I guess.”

She rounded the table and draped her arms over my shoulders, pressing a big kiss to my temple. “Oh, Missy, you aren’t fooling anyone.”

“Can I get a hug?”

“Sure thing, hon.”

We hugged for a long time. We didn’t talk. I felt sorry that I had ever spoken badly of my sister. She had her flaws and her problems, but she was here when I needed her, and this was clearly a milestone in our relationship. Never had I felt so close to her, and vice versa. We were finally the sisters we should be. Would it last? Who knew. But all I cared about was that right now, we were there for each other.

* * *

That Saturday was my birthday. I invited everyone, including Floyd, Roger, and even Juri. Floyd was unable to attend due to obligations, and obviously, Rika and Wes were busy with their new baby. However, everyone else was able to attend.

“I’m so proud of you,” Yogi told me. Everyone had been hugging me all night, and she was no exception. Her hair had grown longer, and she looked more feminine every day. It seemed my life was not the only one finally working itself out. “Do you know that?”

“I think so?”

Yogi laughed and kissed my cheek. “My mother always used to say that there are no mistakes, only detours. I think yours finally ended. You’re back on the main road now.”

“Maybe. Let’s not get our hopes up. I haven’t even started my new job yet. Hopefully, I’ll be as good at this job as I was the last one, eh?”

Yogi shook her head. “I’ve never met this Floyd character, but if you trust him, then I have to be happy for you.”

“He’s been very kind so far. I’m pretty good at reading people, and I haven’t read any dark vibes.”

Yogi had made a cake, and Juri and Ace decimated it. I think they were on their fourth pieces, not counting all the icing I scraped off for Ace’s enjoyment. Everyone was hugging me but him. We were still a bit cautious of each other, not sure what to think. I knew he had a crush, but I wasn’t quite ready for any sort of romantic affection.

Besides, I was still trying to figure out if I had a thing for Roger. Even if I did, what did it matter? His wife recently died, and no one would expect him to get over it that quickly. Yet, the possibility that I could harbor affection for a man was a step in the right direction, considering it hadn’t happened yet in my life. I was slowly beginning to trust certain men. I was in absolutely no hurry to figure it all out now. I had plenty of time.

I was still depressed over the baby—his parents named him Melbourne Milford-Crowley. His nickname was Mel. Rika mentioned the nickname had been an intentional homage to his birth mother, which made me cry a bit. These days, all I did was cry. Despite my depression, I found a way to trudge on. I knew that if I gave up now, it was all over. I still had a hill to climb, and I really wanted to see the view from the top.

With all my friends at my birthday party, I was reminded that Cordelia wasn’t here to celebrate. I told Yogi and Mimi about it, and we mourned her together.

Halfway into the night, Rika’s friend Stefany made a surprise visit. She was dressed with the girlish flair I remembered, wearing a white and blue dress and ribbons in her curls. She gave me an enormous hug that practically lifted me off my feet, rambling on about how amazingly brave I was for going through all that I had. She then thanked me for the gift I’d given Rika and Wes.

“I know you’ve told them you don’t want visitation for now, but they’d love to send pictures, if you wouldn’t mind.”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see pictures of the child I couldn’t have, but I told her I’d like that, just because I wanted to know so badly that he was as happy with his new parents as I’d hoped. Would he have my freckles and hazel eyes? Or would he resemble Ezekiel more? That is what terrified me most—that he’d be a clone of his father.

“He’s healthy, though,” she told me. “I know the doctors were worried about heart problems or low birth weight, and yes, he was small, but that’s just because he was a bit premature. His heart seems good. Everything’s been going well.”

“Are you a mother?” I asked.

“I have an eight-year-old daughter. Kora.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I know there will never be a replacement for your son, but you always have time to be a mother.”

I didn’t want to simply be a mother. I wanted to be
Mel’s
mother. It was too late now, though. I had to realize that if I’d brought my son home it would have been hard—I started a new job next week and was living with my sister. Mel would have been more stress on top of what I already had. In a strange way, I was relieved. As Stefany said, I had time. Time to make my life better. Time to heal after years of pain.

* * *

Late that night, I went out to get some toilet paper from the nearby twenty-four hour convenience store, as we were close to running out and I didn’t want any lingering guests to be left with nothing. Normally I would have been scared of these streets at midnight, but with all my trouble came new bravery. I survived Ezekiel—I could survive anything.

I stopped at the corner when I saw a sleek black sedan waiting in the dark. For a moment, I was terrified Ezekiel had been following me all this time: he wasn’t
really
gone; it had all been some elaborate setup he orchestrated…

But then I saw a large suited man I didn’t recognize appear from an alley, carrying someone with a bag over their head. They were here for someone else, not to stalk me. At least, that’s what I hoped.

I couldn’t help but stare. The back door of the sedan opened, and a woman emerged, dressed in a pinstriped suit and wearing sensible flats. Despite her diminutive figure, she oozed authority from her austere bun to her makeup-free face. Her bodyguard yanked the trunk open and shoved the body in, though it still struggled and protested. He slammed the trunk door down and exchanged some words with his superior. Then she turned and looked straight at me.

She had to be looking at me—there was no one else on the street. I stood in the light of the convenience store, wearing a worn winter coat and my oldest, most comfortable sneakers. I looked nothing like the perfect woman Ezekiel created, and, despite my paranoia, I knew there was no way this new drug lord would see me as anything but Metro scum, easily manipulated and frightened.

The woman didn’t look at me for long. She lifted a finger to her lips to signal silence, but she knew I wouldn’t talk. This was business as usual. In Metro, where the police were even worse than the drug lords, you kept your head down.

Finally she ducked into the car, her bodyguard following. Then the sedan squealed away from the curb, its lights vanishing around the corner.

I stared after the car, though it was no longer in sight. My attempt at silence and obedience hadn’t worked with Ezekiel—he tried to kill me anyway. I wasn’t much of a hero, and I didn’t
want
to be, but the status quo had to change. Someone had to be brave enough to risk it. Metro kept waiting for a savior from the outside, but it could only save itself.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Floyd Milford’s number. Perhaps he knew who this woman was, and had ideas about how to keep her from becoming Metro’s new royalty. As I put the phone to my ear, I noticed winter’s first snowfall drifting down in the night. Tomorrow, it would be brown slush in the gutters, but for now it was white—
pure
.

Angela Walker started writing when she was eight years old and hasn’t stopped since. She received her B.A. in English Writing and Studio Arts from the University of Pittsburgh. When she’s not writing, she’s an artist, daydreamer, and chronic internet surfer. Sometimes she leaves the house, but only when her refrigerator is empty.

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