Conquer

by Lana Sky

  “Vadim,” I rasp without turning to face her. “And I told you, he’s on business—”

  “Poppycock. He can’t spare a few hours to come to visit you? Or meet the strangers forced to accommodate his child? What kind of man is this?”

  I bite my lip. Disparaging Vadim as some kind of deadbeat, absentee father too busy for social connections could help in the long run when I later tell them that I’m co-parenting Magda and separated from him. But…

  I can’t lie about his character, not even as angry as I am.

  “He’s busy, but if I ask, I’m sure he’ll make the time,” I say, conceding the point to her.

  She nods and savors her victory by topping up her glass of wine yet again. “Well, I’ll run off and find Gwendolyn so that she can prepare a guest bedroom. I wish you would have informed us sooner. We could have prepared toys or something… Honestly, it’s as if you enjoy taunting me. I know I’ve been asking for a grandchild, but I’d prefer a teensy bit of notice.” She sniffs, takes another sip, and all is forgiven. With a wave of her hand, she clears the air. “I’ll see you at dinner, dear. Though if you want to rest, I can excuse you this once.” She hesitates and reaches out, fingering a lock of my hair. “You look exhausted, darling. Have you been moisturizing? Your skin is—”

  “I’m just tired from the flight,” I say with a forced smile. “Thanks for accommodating us on such short notice.”

  “Anything for you, dear.” She saunters off to find Gwen, our maid who’s been with the family for over a decade. In her absence, I stand and creep back to the screen partition separating this space from the outside. Magda and my father have taken a break from flowering, it seems. They sit back to back on a decorative stone stool, each tearing into a fresh orange picked from one of the trees scattered throughout the yard.

  Squaring my shoulders, I step out and join them.

  “Ah, Tiffy, just in time!” Daddy rises to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I need to go get some fertilizer from the shed. You can keep the little miss company, and both of you can prepare to get your hands dirty.” He winks and takes off in the direction of the tennis courts where the garden shed is.

  Sighing, I claim his spot on the stool and watch Magda gingerly peel her orange and take a tentative bite.

  “Good, huh?” I ask as her nose wrinkles in pleasure. “I used to love mornings here. We’d always have fresh juice for breakfast.”

  Something in my tone must make her frown, the orange paused midway to her mouth. Setting the fruit on her lap, she crosses her legs, her eyes downcast. “Are you never coming back?” I barely recognize the small voice as belonging to the same bold girl I’ve gotten to know these past few days. “Back home?”

  I stiffen, my lips parting as I fight to find the right words. In the end, all I can say is, “What makes you ask that?”

  She shoots me a funny look, her eyebrow raised defiantly. “I’m not a baby,” she declares, her tone its usual haughty cadence. “I heard you fighting.”

  “Ah…” I lean back, nudging her shoulder. “Eavesdropper. What did you hear?”

  “I know you’re angry with Vadim,” she says, resuming her inspection of the orange. “I know he made you sign legal papers, even though you didn’t want to.”

  Damn. I grit my teeth, my cheeks flaming. “So, you weren’t sleeping then, either.”

  She makes a small noise in her throat and meets my gaze. “He made you say you’ll take care of me,” she says, a childish summary of what really transpired. Still, the hurt in her voice reveals that she understood as much all the same. “You didn’t want to?”

  “Oh, no. Honey…” I turn around and grab her shoulders, forcing her to face me. “It’s not you. I will always be there for you, got it?”

  She nods, swayed by the conviction in my voice—almost as much as I am.

  “What’s happening between Vadim and me… It’s grown-up stuff, and you know better than anyone that grown-ups are stupid.”

  She cocks her head, seeming to mull it over. Then she nods and takes a bite from her orange. “Stupid,” she agrees with her mouth full.

  I chuckle and tug a lock of her hair, but her revelation as a grade-A spy leads to far more questions. The main one revolving around the fuzzy, white bear resting on the ground between her legs. I let her go and lift It by his battered body. Vadim did a careful, precise job re-stuffing him. A loving job, betraying so much care for its owner, my heart throbs in the face of it.

  “You knew who Vadim was to you before you went to the Robinsons, didn’t you?” I ask as my fingers trace the nearly invisible row of stitches hiding beneath It’s new scarf.

  Magda takes her time peeling a fresh section of orange and takes a bite. Then she nods. “Last time I was sick…” She trails off, her nose wrinkling, and I suspect those memories aren’t ones she likes to relive. Much like her father, she compartmentalizes her emotions, preferring to maintain control over them in lieu of expressing too much. “When I woke up, one of the nurses asked me if I like the bear my Daddy left me—” she nods to It. “She had been on vacation, I think. She later came back and told me she’d made a mistake, and it had been donated, but I knew she was lying.”

  And she knew that her father had vanished after that point, leaving her alone in foster care. I can’t resist stroking my hand along one of her pigtails. Surprisingly she doesn’t cringe from the contact. “I’m so sorry, honey,” I tell her.

  I can’t imagine the pain she must have felt being so young, trying to process such conflicting emotions. But if she remembers Vadim, I have to wonder if she remembers anyone else.

  “Can I ask you another question?”

  She nods, her expression guarded.

  “Do you know anything about your mother? Your birth mother?” I’m trying my damned hardest to keep any hint of jealousy or emotion from my voice. But I must fail because she goes rigid, her tiny shoulders stiff. Frowning, I add, “Anything before you went to the—”

  “No! I don’t remember.” She turns away, crossing her arms. The reaction is so out of character for her, I’m taken aback.

  “Okay.” I can take a hint—an off-limits topic. For now. “I’m sorry if I upset you. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

  To cement our truce, I stroke her back until her posture relaxes, and she starts to kick her legs again.

  Sensing another opportunity, I decide to aim for a seemingly safer topic next. “I heard you singing a song,” I add carefully, easing my fingers through her braid. This approach seems to land with less of a defensive reaction. “Where did you learn it?”

  She shrugs and kicks her legs out before her one by one. “It was always in my head. After I woke up, I mean. It’s nice.”

  And the man who spent ten straight days singing it to her still has no clue just how much it meant to her. How much he meant to her.

  “I don’t want to come in between you and your dad,” I tell her, my voice thick. Only belatedly do I realize that it’s the first time I referred to Vadim’s identity out loud in explicit terms.

  She stiffens, but says nothing, still peeling her orange.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to pretend to be your mother, either,” I add, though I’m not sure why I feel the need to say it. Maybe for my own peace of mind? “But I’ll be here, no matter what you need from me. Always. You’re stuck with me, kiddo—” I nudge her with my elbow. “Whether you like it or not.”

  She carefully works away the last bit of her orange peel. Then she takes the sizeable remainder of fruit and shoves it into her mouth. Her cheeks bulge, barely able to contain it, and I make a show of fussing over her, swiping at her face with the end of my shirt.

  “Messy girl!”

  We break into laughter, so loud and raucous that I don’t notice my father returning until he sets a crate of ripe fertilizer right at our feet. I cringe, but Magda lurches upright, her gaze inquisitive.

  “Is that animal feces?” she
asks, with awe coloring her voice rather than the disgust I think would be standard for a girl of her age. “Like cow poop?”

  “Genuine, goddamn cow shit,” Daddy says with a chuckle. “Don’t go repeating that. This stuff we put on the flowers though, not in the vegetable garden. But it makes the flowers bloom really nice, especially those damn crotchety lilies.”

  Magda listens to him wide-eyed, absorbing every detail. When she looks up and spots my expression, she giggles. “It’s like plant food,” she explains, revealing a hint of her intellect. “It contains nutrients and microbes that help them grow.”

  “Right you are, Missy,” Daddy says. “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll sprinkle this around. Let’s let Tiffy go get some rest—” he shoots me an apologetic glance. “You look wrecked, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks, Daddy…”

  Considering that both parents have mentioned my appearance in a negative way, I decide to take the hint and enter the house, heading up for my old room. In so many ways, it’s just as I left it. Juvenile—decorated in shades of bright pink—childish, and superficial. The girl who once slept beneath this frothy, bubblegum-colored canopy spent her final nights here dreaming of what life would be like as Mrs. James Walker. Boy, what a letdown that turned out to be.

  Nearly ten years later and this Tiffy has learned her lesson. Dreaming is for fools. But even as I strip my clothing, change into a nightgown, and crawl beneath my old hot pink comforter, a man sneaks into my head regardless.

  His presence is more consuming than Jim could ever hope to be.

  He’s insistent, promising me the world…

  But all I seem capable of doing is spitting onto his hand.

  Chapter Eight

  I had forgotten how hard it can be to sleep alone. To forgo the teasing warmth of another figure, their body close to yours, their touch pervasive—as if they can’t bear to let you go.

  I wake up somehow more exhausted than I was when I laid down in the first place. My nap, it seems, has stretched way beyond dinner, I realize as I scramble to my feet and view the world beyond my windows. Not only did I sleep through the evening meal, but I also tossed and turned right through the night, and it now looks to be mid-morning.

  In a daze, I stagger into my old bathroom and try to wake up with a hot shower. Afterward, I brush my teeth, blow out my hair, and skip one of my Chanel ensembles in favor of an old T-shirt and jeans fished from my closet.

  By the time I scramble downstairs, Gwen is in the kitchen preparing what looks like lunch.

  “Hello, Ms. Tiffany,” she calls as I scramble past, following the faint sounds of girlish chatter into the sunroom.

  Sure enough, Mother and Daddy are in the garden, fussing about their plants while a tiny figure races between them, carrying out various tasks with an eagerness that betrays yet another newfound interest to add to Vadim’s list. A gardener in the making, Magda beams with unabashed joy as she chases my father with a water pail before fetching a pair of pruning shears for my mother.

  And she isn’t the only one uncharacteristically animated. My mother hasn’t graced the garden with her presence in about fifteen years since one of the influential socialites in her country club declared gardening passé. Though I doubt the flowers are what drew her out into the fresh air and unfashionable sunlight.

  Magda is wearing an outfit I know for a fact I didn’t buy for her—an adorable, frilly white dress with frothy sleeves that makes her look more like a little princess than ever—even with her polka dot fanny pack strapped to her waist. Someone elaborately braided her hair as well, adorning it with flowers and an excess of yellow ribbon. In fact, she resembles a seven-year-old Tiffy—whose tortured visage could be found in one of many portraits hanging throughout the house—whose mother enjoyed dressing her up like a doll. Magda, however, doesn’t seem to mind the fuss.

  Her cheeks glow a healthy pink, her eyes shining as Daddy speaks to her, no doubt explaining gardening techniques and the process behind their actions. And while my mother appears to be pruning one of the rose bushes, I realize that more often than not, those freshly trimmed roses seem to wind up in Magda’s hair.

  When I finally leave the house and join them, my mother jumps so badly she nearly drops her shears like a criminal caught in the act.

  “Tiffy,” she says shrilly. “We thought you were still sleeping. We went ahead and had breakfast already, but I had Gwen save you a plate.”

  “We had pancakes!” Magda pitches in from across the lawn, where my father is instructing her on how to best tell if the oranges on the tree are ripe enough to pick.

  “Pancakes?” Horror constricts my voice. “Magda has diabetes—”

  “We know,” Daddy says. “Little Missy was very informative and gave us a list of her dietary restrictions, and we had Gwen whip up the best goddamn healthy nut pancakes a girl could ask for.”

  “Language, Harold,” my mother sniffs.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d sleep that long…” I falter, unsure of why I even feel the sense of guilt that I do. “It looks like you guys made out okay without me.”

  “Yes,” Daddy says in that reassuring way only he can. “We got little Missy to bed, and even made sure she got her phone call.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Phone call?”

  “With her father, darling,” Mother interjects, her tone suspicious.

  “Oh, right…”

  “Don’t tire yourself out too much,” she adds. “I was planning on showing Magdalene all of your old pageant dresses. Oh, I’m sure she’ll look just darling in that old blue one with the silk, and that imported bit of lace. You remember the one.”

  “I don’t think her father will be putting her in any pageants,” I point out.

  But Mother rolls her eyes. “She can use them for dress-up, darling. I’ve already offered her the pick of the lot. And she promised to take very good care of them, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Magda nods, the picture of pure charm. I realize in horror that she’s every bit as much of a social chameleon as Vadim. It’s an awe-inspiring and yet terrifying skill to witness in action. Especially considering that my mother once threatened to stab a mover who made the mistake of assuming a box of my old pageant dresses was meant for Goodwill. She clung to those damn things with such sentiment I was sure she’d insist on them all following her into the grave.

  “If you’re planning on sticking around, Tiffy, then why don’t you give us a hand?” Daddy asks. “Magdalene here wants to try whipping up her own batch of fresh OJ. You used to be a damn good little picker. Let’s see if you still got it in you.”

  I approach them warily and yet find myself biting back a smile. The cynical part of me warns that the fact that she isn’t mine by blood means I shouldn’t take such pride in watching her eyes light up with joy as she finds a ripe fruit on her first try. I shouldn’t relish how seamlessly she’s blending into my family, or that she seems to love my childhood home already.

  I shouldn’t be skipping ahead, envisioning Christmases or other holidays spent here with her. And I definitely shouldn’t be picturing another figure alongside her, imagining how he’d look with his lips wet with fresh orange juice, his dark curls filled with roses.

  But I do.

  And I am.

  And nothing I tell myself seems capable of stopping it.

  By the time night falls, Magda is the one who tires out first. She barely manages to keep her eyes open during dinner. I feel the need to take her hand once her plate is cleared away just to make sure I can get her upstairs without her falling asleep along the way.

  As we leave the dining room, my mother’s voice chases me, one of her stern reminders. “Don’t forget, Tiffy, darling! We need to meet this businessman of yours. Preferably before the end of the week. He wouldn’t want to make a bad impression, now would he?”

  I do my best to ignore her as I lead Magda into the guest bedroom and help her dress in a fresh nightgown and br
aid her hair. She’s seemingly on the verge of drifting off when suddenly she bolts upright and scrambles for something on her nightstand—her fanny pack, from which she withdraws her blue cell phone. As I watch in confusion, she dials a number and holds the receiver to her ear.

  The moment I assume someone picks up on the other end, her body relaxes, and she slumps against the pillows, It clutched in her free hand.

  “Yes, I had fun,” she says tiredly, her words slurring. But I can sense the effort she makes to keep talking, humoring the figure speaking to her in a gentle, insistent hum. But eventually, her replies come further apart until I feel the urge to gingerly pry the phone from her grasp before she nods off altogether.

  “Goodnight, ma chérie,” a gruff voice urges from the other end, so gentle and soothing I nearly break in the face of it.

  “Wait,” I croak before he can hang up.

  I hear his breath catch, and the seconds tick by as I gather up the nerve to keep speaking. “I… My parents want to meet you,” I blurt in a rush. “I think it’s best, even if… They should meet you. For Magda’s sake. Later we can come up with a lie to—” I break off, my eyes on a drowsy, barely coherent Magda. After what she overheard the last time, I’ve learned my lesson about speaking freely around her. “We can devise an explanation for how things really are,” I say, changing tact. “But not now. They deserve to at least get to know you first.”

  Silence, so thick I can feel it constricting my throat falls. Just when I’m on the verge of suffocating, his voice returns, far more cautious than the warm, honeyed tone he used with Magda.

  “I can be on the plane within the hour.”

  “Okay?” My tongue stiffens, making the word an awkward question.

  “Goodnight,” Vadim says.

  “Bye.” I hang up and drop the phone back on the nightstand as if burned. After kissing Magda on the cheek and ensuring her toys are within her reach, I creep from her room and enter mine. My mother—as knowing as she is—ensured that Magda had the suite just one door down.