Author's Note:
Hey everyone. I hope you don't hate me from dropping out of sight for the last couple months, but I'm back and writing again. Thank you so much to those who have faithfully stuck by and pestered me into starting writing again. It really helped push me to finish this chapter. I had a really bad case of writer's block and the lack of new "Alias" episodes really caused me to lose my interest in writing. But, I got inspired again when my Season One DVDs arrived and I made a BIG discovery: I actually liked Sydney during Season One, because all she's done is annoy me during Season Three. So that revelation, coupled with the amazing finale of SATC tonight has inspired me to finally finish this chapter. Also, I'm going to be trying something new with this story. My biggest problem has been the length of these chapters, cramming lots of ideas and plots into really long chapters, which is why I never finish them because I have trouble piecing things together in a way I think is good. So here's my proposal: shorter, but more frequent chapters. I think this will really help me get them out faster and also improve the quality. Hope that's okay with everyone! So enjoy this chapter and just check back a few pages on the board for a refresher. And if you requested a PM AFTER 12-31-03, let me know again. I don't have a record and I lost everything when the board died. I hope you enjoy!
Note: I've included some Russian words in this story, but since the Russian language uses the Cyrillic alphabet I've included phonetic translations in English. If anyone would prefer literal translations let me know, but I think it's easier to read this way.
~ * ~
"Got my own mind
I wanna make my own decisions
When it has to do with my life, my life
I wanna be the one in control"
- "Control," Janet Jackson
~ * ~
It takes me a moment to get ready, just a minute or two to adjust my dress, brush a layer of blush across my cheeks, spray a hint of fine French perfume across the curve of my neck. But my hair is out of control. It's long, longer than I've ever worn it, the ends nearly reaching the small of my back. It used to be short, functional, perfect for ponytails and French twists--better for tucking under wigs. But now it's long, so long--and I never wear it up anymore. I like the feel of the soft strands brushing against my skin, tickling the sensitive skin of my back. It feels so good without the tight grip of a rubberband or barrette holding it fast in place. It should feel hot, heavy, but I've never felt lighter in my life. I shake my head a little, watching sun-streaked strands spill over my shoulder. There's gold in my hair, from all the time I've spent at the beach, and it's picked up some kind of curl, because it waves where it used to be pin-straight. But either way I like it and it feels good.
Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I wonder who the girl is staring back at me. Everything is different: the hair, the perfume, the dress. The Sydney I remember would never be caught dead in something so low-cut, so exposed. It would have reminded her too much of her missions and what they made her do. The Sydney I remember favored tailored suits and knee-length skirts--conservative, constricting beneath the layers wool and silk--but the Sydney staring back at me is anything but conservative and she's nothing like the girl I remember.
I think back to those first agonizing days, after I came back from the dead, and I couldn't recognize the girl staring at me through the mirror's gaze. She was all haunted eyes and gaunt cheeks and dark brown hair that grazed her shoulders with knife-sharp edges. I don't see that anymore. There's something about this island that puts me at ease, gives me a sense of peace the Santa Monica beach never could. It scares me, that this foreign place filled with people I hate has such a calming effect.
It scares me more because I never want to leave.
I thought about it last night, and for a brief moment I was tempted to pick up and run, but then I remembered Adam and his rosy cheeks and soft curls, and knew I'd never be able to leave him again. I don't know what happened five months ago, why I woke up bruised and bloody in a Hong Kong alley, but I know I can't run again. One look in my son's blue eyes is more powerful than all the sympathy cards and special treatment I have back in LA. How could I turn that down? I might hate Sark, distrust my mother, resent that insipid nanny, but I'm not leaving my son again, not now, not when I know what it's like to look in his eyes and feel at home. I'll never let him go.
And it's time to take him back.
~ * ~
Creeping down the staircase, I'm unsure of my plan of action. I would be so easy to slam my fist into her face, watch blood creep down her chin and smirk as she clutched her mouth in pain. . .but I don't want to attack her in front of my son. It's been so long since I've seen him, felt his silky cheek against my own, and I don't want to scare him. My fingers curl into a fist at my side and I flex my wrist, feeling the power there. Reluctantly, I splay my hand flat against my hip. I'll have to put off my confrontation with Svetlana until he's safely napping.
But, as usual, my plans don't work out quite the way I intended.
I find Svetlana and Adam in the kitchen eating lunch. She's feeding him hamburgers and French fries, whispering soft words of encouragement with each bite the takes on his own. I struggle to hear what she's saying from my place in the doorway, but she's speaking Russian. Figures. I can speak four languages fluently and not one is my mother's native tongue. My heart flutters in my chest as Adam whispers back in Russian, his words slurred with the high pitch and excitement of two-year-old talk--and I have no idea what he's saying. He could be telling Svetlana to get lost so he can be with his real mommy and I'd have no idea. I make a mental pack to bone up on my Russian as soon as I take care of the nanny from Hell.
"Adam," she says in heavily-accented English. "One more bite, okay?" she asks and pushes a french-fry across his highchair tray. "One more bite and we'll go to the beach."
Adam responds by chucking the fry at her head. Pieces of potato catch in her blonde curls and she brushes furiously at her hair, while Adam grins sardonically. "Naughty boy," she whispers. "No throwing things at Svetlana."
I decide it's time to interrupt their little gathering. "Good Morning," I chirp. "What's for lunch?"
Svetlana sighs and puts down the spoon. She glances pointedly out the window, at the sun burning high in the sky. "It's already afternoon," she says and turns back to Adam. "Come on sweetheart," she coos. "One more bite."
"I'm Sydney Bristow," I say. "I'm Adam's mother."
She rolls her eyes. "I know who you are. You were here when Irina first found me."
It figures my mother would be involved with this. I'll have to ask her about it later.
"I can finish feeding him," I offer, but she ignores me, and my baby giggles and opens his mouth as she twirls a spoon of applesauce like an airplane.
"Good boy, dushyenka." She scoops the last spoonful and lifts her arm--until I lay a steady hand on her wrist.
"I can do that," I say stiffly, a hint of warning in my voice.
She tosses her hair over one shoulder and shakes her wrist; my grip tightens. "That's all right." And this time she says it in English so I can understand.
"Really," I assure her, my voice darkening. "I WANT to do it."
She puts down the spoon and I release her wrist. "Ms. Bristow," she says coldly. "I am employed to care for Adam. That means it is my responsibility to feed him."
"I can do it."
"I'm sure you can. But you've been gone a long time and I've been caring for him since."
"I'm here now," I say and cringe the hint of pleading in my voice. I can't believe I have to beg the hired help to let me feed my son.
She ignores me and slips the last spoonful in Adam's mouth. He laughs and she smiles at him, murmuring in Russian. She puts a cookie on his try and clears away the rest of lunch. I follow her to the sink. "Did you hear what I said?"
She rinses the dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. "Yes, I did."
"So you understand that I'm Adam's mother and I'll care for him from now on."
She turns off the water and dries her hands. "What I understand is that I work for Mr. Sark. I follow his orders, his instructions. If you have a problem, you'll have to take it up with him."
"But he's not here now. And I would like to be with my baby."
"That's not my decision."
She turns on her heel and walks to Adam. She bends down to unbuckle the highchair, but I get to her first. I grab her hair with one hand and wrap it around my wrist. She yelps sharply and pulls at her hair. Adam watches over his chocolate chip cookie and I wink at him. "Baby, watch Mama work."
"Listen to me," I hiss. "I don't care who you work for. I don't care what you think. Adam is my son, my responsibility. You're no longer needed."
She curses in Russian and twists to look at me, tears in her eyes. "Let me go. If you have a problem with my job, discuss it with Mr. Sark. Until then, I'll care for Adam."
I twister her hair around my wrist again and she cries out. "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. You're fired."
"You left him!" she says through gritted teeth. "You gave up on him--and he became mine."
Tears blur my eyes at her words--because she's right. I did leave my son, I did give up on him. How could I have ever been so stupid? What was so important that I could have abandoned my child? She must have seen my reaction, because she smirks at me, and my grip on her hair tightens; she yelps again. "Let go of my hair."
"I'll let you go when you agree to leave Adam alone. He doesn't need you anymore, now that I'm here." I'm shocked by how strong my voice is, considering I'm on the verge of tears.
"That's not my decision."
I grip her hair harder. "What's more important, Sark or your hair?"
"I told you, it's not up to me."
I sigh. "Svetlana, I know you're sleeping with Sark. I don't care. What I do care about is my son, and if you don't stay away from him you're going to be bald. Understand?"
"You used to care," she says softly.
"What?"
"You used to care," she repeats. "He used to matter to you."
"Who--" I start, but a shadow falls across the floor and Svetlana immediately starts crying. And I mean hysterical, shoulder-shaking sobbing. I glance up and find Sark watching us, his arms folded across his chest and look of amusement crossing his face. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I think Svetlana's just set feminism back twenty years, using tears to manipulate a man--except Sark's not an ordinary man and not easily manipulated. I glance back down at her splotchy face, wondering where this will go.
Sark tucks a finger under Svetlana's chin and examines her tear-stained face. "Bored already?" he asks and I shake my head.
"We're negotiating," I try to explain, but Svetlana interrupts with a string of angry Russian and Sark sighs.
"Sydney," he says. "Let go of her hair."
"Not until she understands."
He cups my hand in his palm, resting his fingers on top of mine. His hand is warm and large, his fingers long and tapered. In the back of my mind I remember those fingers skimming across my hips …I shake my head, remembering I have a more important task at hand. "Sydney," he says, his voice soft and slightly menacing. "Let me handle this."
"No."
"Yes." His hand tightens around mine, that familiar heat spreading across my palm. I jerk away as if I've been burned, and in a way I have. I came to this island looking for peace and quiet, and some answers, and all I've found is confusion and questions. Something happened between Sark and me, and I don't just mean Adam. Something deeper, darker happened, something that causes his eyes to flash with anger every time they meet mine and his voice to coat itself with ice. I sigh inwardly. This thing between us is just another question to add to my never-ending list of queries about what happened during the last two years. Sark looks at me intensely, waiting for a decision, and the fight just slips out of me. All I wanted when I came into the kitchen was some quality time with my son and I managed to let everything go astray. If I want to take control of my whole life, I have to start with the simple things.
"We have an understanding, da?" I ask with a slight tug on Svetlana's hair and she nods through her tears. "Good." I loosen my grip on her hair and she launches herself at Sark, burying her wet face in his $3,000.00 suit. I take the opportunity to unbuckle the high chair. "You take care of this," I say and pull Adam out of his chair. "I'm taking my son for a walk."
We're gone before Sark can protest, but it's not like he has much of an opportunity, with a sniveling Russian nanny wrapped around him like a second skin. We head to the beach, to a shady area under a palm tree I know I've been to before, in another life, when I could remember everything. "You like that, baby? You like Mama in fighting mode?" I ask, as a wave crashes just inches from my toes, but he just watches me with Sark's bright blue eyes. "Yeah," I sigh. "I know it wasn't the most mature thing to do, but she just pissed me off, you know?" Again, no reaction. "I promise Mama's gonna try harder, okay? I'm gonna make you proud, Adam. No more temper tantrums. I'm gonna figure out what happened and why I left…because it's never gonna happen again."
This time he smiles brightly, revealing a sprinkling of shiny, white teeth and reaches up to brush a lock of hair off my face. I'm startled by his reaction, but nothing could have prepared me for when he pressed his tiny palm to my cheek and said, "Love, Mama."
It literally takes my breath away. I've missed so much already: his first words, his first step. As Sark pointed out last night, I don't even know is favorite food--or I can't remember it. I want to kick myself for forgetting all those important moments, but Adam doesn't seem to mind. He just absently strokes my cheek and plays with my hair and doesn't appear to care that his mother disappeared for the last five months of his life. "Do you forgive me, baby?" I ask, but I know it's the wrong question. What I really want to know, is can I forgive myself? But that's not something I can answer, at least not today, so instead I settle Adam in my lap and wrap my arms around his soft tummy and watch the wave break against the beach.
Footsteps echo behind me and I brace myself for Sark's approach. "I took care of the matter," he says and stands next to us, shading his eyes with one hand as he gazes out at the water.
"What did you say?"
"Svetlana won't be a problem anymore."
"Sent her packing, didn't you?"
"Not exactly. She's still in my employ. She'll still care for Adam, but under your direction."
"I don't want her anywhere near my son."
"OUR son. I have a say in matters too."
I want to stand and face him, glare him down the way I have so many times before, but Adam's fallen asleep in my arms and I don't want to disturb him. "Sit," I demand and pat the sand beside me.
He looks at the ground dubiously and fingers his expensive suit. "Save it, Sark. Svetlana already ruined your suit. Sit and talk with me." He looks at little surprised that I'm giving him orders, but sits beside me. I smirk as he curses under his breath about sand in his shoes. But the smirk dissolves into something entirely different as he shrugs out of his jacket and undoes the first couple buttons of his shirt, his shoulders rippling. I have to look away as he starts rolling his sleeves to his elbows. "I don't want that woman anywhere near my son."
Now it's his turn to smirk. "She's his nanny. She's been caring for him since the day he was born."
"What? Why wasn't I caring for him?"
The smirk widens for a moment ,but his face softens and the hint of a real smile appears instead. "You didn't know how to care for a child when Adam was born. Your mother hired Svetlana to help you. And when you left, he was her responsibility."
"But I'm here now."
He sighs. "I know. And I told her that you would be Adam's primary caretaker. She'll help when needed."
"Even though I almost pulled her hair out?"
He laughs and I'm so surprised he's not trying to bite my head off I laugh with him. "It's not her place to argue. She'll be fine." Adam stirs in my arms and stretches, resting his cheek on my shoulder. I glance up to find Sark watching us, his eyes hooded. "You used to come here before you left," he says and turns away to stare out at the ocean. The laughter is gone from his face, the usual blank mask in its place.
"It's beautiful here," I agree, carefully choosing my words. Sark is opening up the tiniest bit and I don't want to upset him and lose the connection.
"You were afraid Adam would get a sunburn. You thought a tree would solve the problem. You called it meer."
"Peace."
"Yes, peace."
"Who planted it?"
"I did."
I'm about to roll my eyes, considering the man is wearing a $3,000.00 suit, but he reaches up to push a curl off his face and the his forearm bunches with muscle and they have to come from somewhere, so…"You…planted the tree. Why?"
"Because you asked me to. I did it for Adam."
"For my son." I take a moment to digest the information.
"Our son," he says and I realize it's the second time this afternoon. I peek at his profile and while his face is still unreadable, but there's something gentler in his expression.
"You keep saying that," I murmur.
"You keep forgetting."
I take a deep breath. "Was it hard on you, with me gone?"
He turns to look at me, something burning darkly in his eyes. "Adam missed his mother."
"Did you miss me?"
He laughs again, but this time it's harsh and grating. "I thought I hated you, Sydney. How could I possibly miss you?"
I sigh and close my eyes. So much for choosing my words carefully. When I open my eyes his face is like stone and his defenses are back in place. "Can we not fight, please? Not with Adam here."
He pushes up from the sand and grabs his jacket. "We're not fighting, Sydney. I'm stating a fact." He checks his watch and begins unrolling his shirtsleeves. "I have a meeting with Irina now. Have Adam back within the hour. It's nearly time for his nap."
And then he's gone, his shoes kicking up sand in his wake. I wrap my arms tighter around Adam as a chill breeze blows over us. Suddenly, it's not so peaceful outside anymore. My mind may be playing tricks on me, it's more than possible these days, but sky seems to darken and I can swear I smell rain on the wind. I glance down at Adam's peaceful face and decide an hour is a long time to wait. Plus, my mother and Sark are having a meeting--and I have some eavesdropping to do.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!
Hey everyone. I hope you don't hate me from dropping out of sight for the last couple months, but I'm back and writing again. Thank you so much to those who have faithfully stuck by and pestered me into starting writing again. It really helped push me to finish this chapter. I had a really bad case of writer's block and the lack of new "Alias" episodes really caused me to lose my interest in writing. But, I got inspired again when my Season One DVDs arrived and I made a BIG discovery: I actually liked Sydney during Season One, because all she's done is annoy me during Season Three. So that revelation, coupled with the amazing finale of SATC tonight has inspired me to finally finish this chapter. Also, I'm going to be trying something new with this story. My biggest problem has been the length of these chapters, cramming lots of ideas and plots into really long chapters, which is why I never finish them because I have trouble piecing things together in a way I think is good. So here's my proposal: shorter, but more frequent chapters. I think this will really help me get them out faster and also improve the quality. Hope that's okay with everyone! So enjoy this chapter and just check back a few pages on the board for a refresher. And if you requested a PM AFTER 12-31-03, let me know again. I don't have a record and I lost everything when the board died. I hope you enjoy!
Note: I've included some Russian words in this story, but since the Russian language uses the Cyrillic alphabet I've included phonetic translations in English. If anyone would prefer literal translations let me know, but I think it's easier to read this way.
~ * ~
"Got my own mind
I wanna make my own decisions
When it has to do with my life, my life
I wanna be the one in control"
- "Control," Janet Jackson
~ * ~
It takes me a moment to get ready, just a minute or two to adjust my dress, brush a layer of blush across my cheeks, spray a hint of fine French perfume across the curve of my neck. But my hair is out of control. It's long, longer than I've ever worn it, the ends nearly reaching the small of my back. It used to be short, functional, perfect for ponytails and French twists--better for tucking under wigs. But now it's long, so long--and I never wear it up anymore. I like the feel of the soft strands brushing against my skin, tickling the sensitive skin of my back. It feels so good without the tight grip of a rubberband or barrette holding it fast in place. It should feel hot, heavy, but I've never felt lighter in my life. I shake my head a little, watching sun-streaked strands spill over my shoulder. There's gold in my hair, from all the time I've spent at the beach, and it's picked up some kind of curl, because it waves where it used to be pin-straight. But either way I like it and it feels good.
Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I wonder who the girl is staring back at me. Everything is different: the hair, the perfume, the dress. The Sydney I remember would never be caught dead in something so low-cut, so exposed. It would have reminded her too much of her missions and what they made her do. The Sydney I remember favored tailored suits and knee-length skirts--conservative, constricting beneath the layers wool and silk--but the Sydney staring back at me is anything but conservative and she's nothing like the girl I remember.
I think back to those first agonizing days, after I came back from the dead, and I couldn't recognize the girl staring at me through the mirror's gaze. She was all haunted eyes and gaunt cheeks and dark brown hair that grazed her shoulders with knife-sharp edges. I don't see that anymore. There's something about this island that puts me at ease, gives me a sense of peace the Santa Monica beach never could. It scares me, that this foreign place filled with people I hate has such a calming effect.
It scares me more because I never want to leave.
I thought about it last night, and for a brief moment I was tempted to pick up and run, but then I remembered Adam and his rosy cheeks and soft curls, and knew I'd never be able to leave him again. I don't know what happened five months ago, why I woke up bruised and bloody in a Hong Kong alley, but I know I can't run again. One look in my son's blue eyes is more powerful than all the sympathy cards and special treatment I have back in LA. How could I turn that down? I might hate Sark, distrust my mother, resent that insipid nanny, but I'm not leaving my son again, not now, not when I know what it's like to look in his eyes and feel at home. I'll never let him go.
And it's time to take him back.
~ * ~
Creeping down the staircase, I'm unsure of my plan of action. I would be so easy to slam my fist into her face, watch blood creep down her chin and smirk as she clutched her mouth in pain. . .but I don't want to attack her in front of my son. It's been so long since I've seen him, felt his silky cheek against my own, and I don't want to scare him. My fingers curl into a fist at my side and I flex my wrist, feeling the power there. Reluctantly, I splay my hand flat against my hip. I'll have to put off my confrontation with Svetlana until he's safely napping.
But, as usual, my plans don't work out quite the way I intended.
I find Svetlana and Adam in the kitchen eating lunch. She's feeding him hamburgers and French fries, whispering soft words of encouragement with each bite the takes on his own. I struggle to hear what she's saying from my place in the doorway, but she's speaking Russian. Figures. I can speak four languages fluently and not one is my mother's native tongue. My heart flutters in my chest as Adam whispers back in Russian, his words slurred with the high pitch and excitement of two-year-old talk--and I have no idea what he's saying. He could be telling Svetlana to get lost so he can be with his real mommy and I'd have no idea. I make a mental pack to bone up on my Russian as soon as I take care of the nanny from Hell.
"Adam," she says in heavily-accented English. "One more bite, okay?" she asks and pushes a french-fry across his highchair tray. "One more bite and we'll go to the beach."
Adam responds by chucking the fry at her head. Pieces of potato catch in her blonde curls and she brushes furiously at her hair, while Adam grins sardonically. "Naughty boy," she whispers. "No throwing things at Svetlana."
I decide it's time to interrupt their little gathering. "Good Morning," I chirp. "What's for lunch?"
Svetlana sighs and puts down the spoon. She glances pointedly out the window, at the sun burning high in the sky. "It's already afternoon," she says and turns back to Adam. "Come on sweetheart," she coos. "One more bite."
"I'm Sydney Bristow," I say. "I'm Adam's mother."
She rolls her eyes. "I know who you are. You were here when Irina first found me."
It figures my mother would be involved with this. I'll have to ask her about it later.
"I can finish feeding him," I offer, but she ignores me, and my baby giggles and opens his mouth as she twirls a spoon of applesauce like an airplane.
"Good boy, dushyenka." She scoops the last spoonful and lifts her arm--until I lay a steady hand on her wrist.
"I can do that," I say stiffly, a hint of warning in my voice.
She tosses her hair over one shoulder and shakes her wrist; my grip tightens. "That's all right." And this time she says it in English so I can understand.
"Really," I assure her, my voice darkening. "I WANT to do it."
She puts down the spoon and I release her wrist. "Ms. Bristow," she says coldly. "I am employed to care for Adam. That means it is my responsibility to feed him."
"I can do it."
"I'm sure you can. But you've been gone a long time and I've been caring for him since."
"I'm here now," I say and cringe the hint of pleading in my voice. I can't believe I have to beg the hired help to let me feed my son.
She ignores me and slips the last spoonful in Adam's mouth. He laughs and she smiles at him, murmuring in Russian. She puts a cookie on his try and clears away the rest of lunch. I follow her to the sink. "Did you hear what I said?"
She rinses the dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. "Yes, I did."
"So you understand that I'm Adam's mother and I'll care for him from now on."
She turns off the water and dries her hands. "What I understand is that I work for Mr. Sark. I follow his orders, his instructions. If you have a problem, you'll have to take it up with him."
"But he's not here now. And I would like to be with my baby."
"That's not my decision."
She turns on her heel and walks to Adam. She bends down to unbuckle the highchair, but I get to her first. I grab her hair with one hand and wrap it around my wrist. She yelps sharply and pulls at her hair. Adam watches over his chocolate chip cookie and I wink at him. "Baby, watch Mama work."
"Listen to me," I hiss. "I don't care who you work for. I don't care what you think. Adam is my son, my responsibility. You're no longer needed."
She curses in Russian and twists to look at me, tears in her eyes. "Let me go. If you have a problem with my job, discuss it with Mr. Sark. Until then, I'll care for Adam."
I twister her hair around my wrist again and she cries out. "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. You're fired."
"You left him!" she says through gritted teeth. "You gave up on him--and he became mine."
Tears blur my eyes at her words--because she's right. I did leave my son, I did give up on him. How could I have ever been so stupid? What was so important that I could have abandoned my child? She must have seen my reaction, because she smirks at me, and my grip on her hair tightens; she yelps again. "Let go of my hair."
"I'll let you go when you agree to leave Adam alone. He doesn't need you anymore, now that I'm here." I'm shocked by how strong my voice is, considering I'm on the verge of tears.
"That's not my decision."
I grip her hair harder. "What's more important, Sark or your hair?"
"I told you, it's not up to me."
I sigh. "Svetlana, I know you're sleeping with Sark. I don't care. What I do care about is my son, and if you don't stay away from him you're going to be bald. Understand?"
"You used to care," she says softly.
"What?"
"You used to care," she repeats. "He used to matter to you."
"Who--" I start, but a shadow falls across the floor and Svetlana immediately starts crying. And I mean hysterical, shoulder-shaking sobbing. I glance up and find Sark watching us, his arms folded across his chest and look of amusement crossing his face. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I think Svetlana's just set feminism back twenty years, using tears to manipulate a man--except Sark's not an ordinary man and not easily manipulated. I glance back down at her splotchy face, wondering where this will go.
Sark tucks a finger under Svetlana's chin and examines her tear-stained face. "Bored already?" he asks and I shake my head.
"We're negotiating," I try to explain, but Svetlana interrupts with a string of angry Russian and Sark sighs.
"Sydney," he says. "Let go of her hair."
"Not until she understands."
He cups my hand in his palm, resting his fingers on top of mine. His hand is warm and large, his fingers long and tapered. In the back of my mind I remember those fingers skimming across my hips …I shake my head, remembering I have a more important task at hand. "Sydney," he says, his voice soft and slightly menacing. "Let me handle this."
"No."
"Yes." His hand tightens around mine, that familiar heat spreading across my palm. I jerk away as if I've been burned, and in a way I have. I came to this island looking for peace and quiet, and some answers, and all I've found is confusion and questions. Something happened between Sark and me, and I don't just mean Adam. Something deeper, darker happened, something that causes his eyes to flash with anger every time they meet mine and his voice to coat itself with ice. I sigh inwardly. This thing between us is just another question to add to my never-ending list of queries about what happened during the last two years. Sark looks at me intensely, waiting for a decision, and the fight just slips out of me. All I wanted when I came into the kitchen was some quality time with my son and I managed to let everything go astray. If I want to take control of my whole life, I have to start with the simple things.
"We have an understanding, da?" I ask with a slight tug on Svetlana's hair and she nods through her tears. "Good." I loosen my grip on her hair and she launches herself at Sark, burying her wet face in his $3,000.00 suit. I take the opportunity to unbuckle the high chair. "You take care of this," I say and pull Adam out of his chair. "I'm taking my son for a walk."
We're gone before Sark can protest, but it's not like he has much of an opportunity, with a sniveling Russian nanny wrapped around him like a second skin. We head to the beach, to a shady area under a palm tree I know I've been to before, in another life, when I could remember everything. "You like that, baby? You like Mama in fighting mode?" I ask, as a wave crashes just inches from my toes, but he just watches me with Sark's bright blue eyes. "Yeah," I sigh. "I know it wasn't the most mature thing to do, but she just pissed me off, you know?" Again, no reaction. "I promise Mama's gonna try harder, okay? I'm gonna make you proud, Adam. No more temper tantrums. I'm gonna figure out what happened and why I left…because it's never gonna happen again."
This time he smiles brightly, revealing a sprinkling of shiny, white teeth and reaches up to brush a lock of hair off my face. I'm startled by his reaction, but nothing could have prepared me for when he pressed his tiny palm to my cheek and said, "Love, Mama."
It literally takes my breath away. I've missed so much already: his first words, his first step. As Sark pointed out last night, I don't even know is favorite food--or I can't remember it. I want to kick myself for forgetting all those important moments, but Adam doesn't seem to mind. He just absently strokes my cheek and plays with my hair and doesn't appear to care that his mother disappeared for the last five months of his life. "Do you forgive me, baby?" I ask, but I know it's the wrong question. What I really want to know, is can I forgive myself? But that's not something I can answer, at least not today, so instead I settle Adam in my lap and wrap my arms around his soft tummy and watch the wave break against the beach.
Footsteps echo behind me and I brace myself for Sark's approach. "I took care of the matter," he says and stands next to us, shading his eyes with one hand as he gazes out at the water.
"What did you say?"
"Svetlana won't be a problem anymore."
"Sent her packing, didn't you?"
"Not exactly. She's still in my employ. She'll still care for Adam, but under your direction."
"I don't want her anywhere near my son."
"OUR son. I have a say in matters too."
I want to stand and face him, glare him down the way I have so many times before, but Adam's fallen asleep in my arms and I don't want to disturb him. "Sit," I demand and pat the sand beside me.
He looks at the ground dubiously and fingers his expensive suit. "Save it, Sark. Svetlana already ruined your suit. Sit and talk with me." He looks at little surprised that I'm giving him orders, but sits beside me. I smirk as he curses under his breath about sand in his shoes. But the smirk dissolves into something entirely different as he shrugs out of his jacket and undoes the first couple buttons of his shirt, his shoulders rippling. I have to look away as he starts rolling his sleeves to his elbows. "I don't want that woman anywhere near my son."
Now it's his turn to smirk. "She's his nanny. She's been caring for him since the day he was born."
"What? Why wasn't I caring for him?"
The smirk widens for a moment ,but his face softens and the hint of a real smile appears instead. "You didn't know how to care for a child when Adam was born. Your mother hired Svetlana to help you. And when you left, he was her responsibility."
"But I'm here now."
He sighs. "I know. And I told her that you would be Adam's primary caretaker. She'll help when needed."
"Even though I almost pulled her hair out?"
He laughs and I'm so surprised he's not trying to bite my head off I laugh with him. "It's not her place to argue. She'll be fine." Adam stirs in my arms and stretches, resting his cheek on my shoulder. I glance up to find Sark watching us, his eyes hooded. "You used to come here before you left," he says and turns away to stare out at the ocean. The laughter is gone from his face, the usual blank mask in its place.
"It's beautiful here," I agree, carefully choosing my words. Sark is opening up the tiniest bit and I don't want to upset him and lose the connection.
"You were afraid Adam would get a sunburn. You thought a tree would solve the problem. You called it meer."
"Peace."
"Yes, peace."
"Who planted it?"
"I did."
I'm about to roll my eyes, considering the man is wearing a $3,000.00 suit, but he reaches up to push a curl off his face and the his forearm bunches with muscle and they have to come from somewhere, so…"You…planted the tree. Why?"
"Because you asked me to. I did it for Adam."
"For my son." I take a moment to digest the information.
"Our son," he says and I realize it's the second time this afternoon. I peek at his profile and while his face is still unreadable, but there's something gentler in his expression.
"You keep saying that," I murmur.
"You keep forgetting."
I take a deep breath. "Was it hard on you, with me gone?"
He turns to look at me, something burning darkly in his eyes. "Adam missed his mother."
"Did you miss me?"
He laughs again, but this time it's harsh and grating. "I thought I hated you, Sydney. How could I possibly miss you?"
I sigh and close my eyes. So much for choosing my words carefully. When I open my eyes his face is like stone and his defenses are back in place. "Can we not fight, please? Not with Adam here."
He pushes up from the sand and grabs his jacket. "We're not fighting, Sydney. I'm stating a fact." He checks his watch and begins unrolling his shirtsleeves. "I have a meeting with Irina now. Have Adam back within the hour. It's nearly time for his nap."
And then he's gone, his shoes kicking up sand in his wake. I wrap my arms tighter around Adam as a chill breeze blows over us. Suddenly, it's not so peaceful outside anymore. My mind may be playing tricks on me, it's more than possible these days, but sky seems to darken and I can swear I smell rain on the wind. I glance down at Adam's peaceful face and decide an hour is a long time to wait. Plus, my mother and Sark are having a meeting--and I have some eavesdropping to do.
~ * ~
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