I feel like a man who has lived two lives. There was the time before my conversion to heartless cynicism—my childhood, early career, marriage, fatherhood. For most of my life, I was a fairly normal man. I had an exciting job with the government and a wealthy family, but in the end I was just like everyone else. I believed in love and goodness and liberty, and I really thought that being a righteous person would keep bad things from happening to me.
I know better than that now.
It's been seven years since I completely sealed off my old life, closed myself off to everything that’s come before. The new Lukas Roth might as well have a completely separate name, because I’m a completely new man.
I’m a man who exists beyond the bounds of law and order. I’m a man who knows that justice has nothing to do with a fair trial or a jury of peers. I am above fairness, above goodness, above life and death. I’m above sympathy, and emotion, and most importantly, love. Strength is void of these characteristics, and that’s exactly how it must be.
While I’m on the job, hunting down my latest target, this new way of seeing the world makes sense. It’s civilian life that no longer makes sense to me. Moving through the world of taxes and parties and social engagements is a fucking struggle. Still, if the charade of normal life sustains my real way of existing, so be it. I can rub elbows with America’s elite once in a while, if that means that the rest of the world will leave me the hell alone.
Usually, when I have a long week off like this, I find ways to distract myself. I hunt, fish, hike—anything that will keep my mind active and engaged. Even a decent household project or archival endeavor will suffice, as long as it gives me enough work to do.
My mother has always been very good about delegating those sorts of tasks to me. God knows, she’s a full-time commitment, especially in these twilight days of her life. As despicable as it is to say, Mother’s decline has given me something to do. Something to think about. But I take comfort in the knowledge that she’d be happy to be so useful to me this way.
On a rational level, I know that Mother has tried very hard to support me in this second chapter of my existence. She’s tried to accept my new outlook on life, even if she’ll never be able to understand it.
We have in common our utter lack of faith in god, or the idea that good things await good people. The murder of her father was enough to convince her that the world is a cruel place. But she was so young when her misfortune occurred that she never really learned what it meant to lose everything. She still had her entire life before her once she arrived in America.
She was able to build a life for herself, even if the original foundation had been destroyed. She has no idea what it’s like to construct an entire life, to put your faith in an idea, a family, a future, only to have it snatched from your hands in an instant. She talks about love as though it’s a reasonable thing to keep in one’s life. And that is a point upon which we’ll never agree.
Now, with Mother slipping away a bit more every day, it’s more important than ever to keep my mind busy. Luckily, there’s a wonderful new distraction to focus on. Mother’s new nurse, this Hannah Levy, has been quite a welcome addition to the estate. I may think that love is an utter fallacy, but that doesn’t mean that my needs as a man have diminished in the least. I’d never cross that line with Miss Levy—she’s a member of my staff, after all—but I can appreciate her gorgeous body and sunny disposition from afar just as well.
Hannah has only been coming to the house for a few days, and already she’s staked a permanent claim in my fantasies. From her rich, honey-blonde hair, to her perfectly ripe curves, Hannah is truly the ideal female form, and her own obliviousness about how attractive she is only adds to her appeal.
Though I’m not the sentimental type, the fact that she’s bringing comfort to Mother during her final days does...endear her to me. She was a happy mistake. That much I can say without hesitation. A very happy mistake.
Chapter Eleven
-Hannah-
I spend the first few days at the Roth home simply getting used to my new environment. Even though my parents’ home was fancy and expensive, it was never as tasteful or as awe-inspiring as the Roth’s. The Tudor estate and surrounding grounds demand a certain reverence that the haunts of my upbringing never did. The house is steeped in so much history and refinement that I find myself primping and prepping every time I get ready to head on over.
Of course, the house is hardly the only reason I feel as though I need to look my best. Try as I may to tamp down my attraction to Mr. Roth, there’s nothing I can do to eliminate my own awareness of him.
Every time I drive over to McClean, a happy excitement starts to spread through me. There’s something intriguingly, erotically unattainable about Lukas that delights me. A tryst between us is impossible, so it’s perfectly alright for me to harbor a crush on him. My attraction will never be requited, so it will never be something that I need to fear.
Though I’ve been hired as a nurse for Gertrude, there isn’t a terrible amount of work for me to do while I’m at her side. There’s another nurse who takes care of Mrs. Roth while I’m not there, and for the first few days on the job I do little more than keep my patient company and administer her dialysis regimen. I’m a bit heartbroken to see up close just how little time Gertrude has left. I’d been anticipating a good month or so that we’d get to spend together, but in reality it will only be a matter of weeks before she leaves us.
Still, all the more reason to be here for her. It’s a pleasure to stay by her side, receiving her stories like so many precious pearls on a string. Gertrude has lived such a full, beautiful life, despite the hardships she’s been through. Her stories about America during the forties and fifties are bursting with fascinating details. She’s seen the country go through so many phases and shifts, from the atomic era to Vietnam, from disco to the individualistic nature of the eighties. It’s a privilege to receive so much history from such a knowledgeable and generous source.
But I notice very early on that Gertrude’s stories and memories never approach the recent past. In the first few days we spend together, she doesn’t mention the past three decades or so. Not once. She makes no mention of her late husband’s fate, nor of Lukas’s childhood. You’d think that a wife and mother’s fondest memories would be of the years during which her child was small, her marriage new and exciting. But not a single mention of this period passes her lips. Of her almost seventy years of life, she only wants to talk about the first half.
Though I’m painfully curious, I don’t press her. I’m not here to interrogate Gertrude about the early life of her handsome son. I’m here to make sure that she has everything she needs to be comfortable and more. It’s a duty that I’m more than happy to fulfill.
I arrive for my fourth evening of work in a simple vintage day dress and flats. Gertrude has insisted that I wear “normal people” clothes, rather than my scrubs. And since I’m not really treating so much as monitoring Gertrude, that’s just fine with me.
God knows, I spend enough time in scrubs as it is.
Thomas meets me at the front door with a characteristic smile. I’ve taken a deep liking to the Roth’s butler, who seems as selfless and kind as they come. I give him a grin of my own as I hand him the keys to my Buggy. Thomas insists on parking the car in the Roth’s cavernous garage while I’m on duty, and I have to admit that the valet service makes me feel rather special.
“Good evening, Miss Levy,” Thomas says, taking my keys.
“Good evening, Thomas. Can I go right in?”
“Of course,” he says, “You should consider the Roth Estate as your home away from home.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I say. “Is Mrs. Roth awake?”
“Not at the moment, dear,” Thomas says, “She’s taking a little nap, at present. But please, see yourself inside. I’m sure the kitchen staff would be more than happy to make you a cup of coffee or a bite to eat.”
“You’re all go
ing to spoil me rotten, aren’t you?” I tease.
“That’s the intention,” Thomas winks, sliding into my Buggy.
I climb the front steps and push open the solid front door. Already, the house feels welcoming and familiar, despite its grandeur. There’s a lived-in quality about this place that my childhood home never had. You can just tell that generations of people have lived and grown here—the very walls seem to radiate joy, sorrow, and wisdom. As I make my way up the grand staircase, I say a silent prayer to the gods of Craigslist for showing me the ad for this job.
Gertrude’s door is open just a crack, the warm heat from the fire place seeping out into the hall. I open the door as quietly as I can and peek my head inside. My patient has fallen into a light slumber, as she often does. I cross the room quickly and check all of Gertrude’s vital signs. At this stage in the game, it’s a necessary precaution.
As I rest my fingers against her thin wrist, I see that the bed is covered in thick photo albums. She must have been looking through some old snapshots to pass the time. Tome after tome full of images from the past are piled on top of the handmade quilt. I’m a sucker for the past, and can’t fight the temptation to look through the albums. I’m sure that Gertrude won’t mind.
Picking up a heavy stack of albums, I settle into a well-loved rocking chair beside the fire. The flickering flame casts just enough light for me to see the aged photographs. I crack open the first volume and feel my jaw fall open. An old black-and-white portrait is the first that catches my eye. The photo features three young girls, probably between the ages of seven and ten. Each girl sports a long plait of thick, dark hair and wide, soulful eyes. The girls are clearly sisters, and I immediately recognize the smallest figure.
Seven-year-old Gertrude cradles a small black kitten against her modest dress, barely able to maintain the somber look that her sisters are affecting. Her entire body is brimming with life and vitality, so much so that she practically looks as though she’s ready to leap off the page. I glance across the room to where Gertrude now lies sleeping, patiently waiting for death to claim her. The clear and present weight of mortality comes crashing down on me. I spend every single day of my life fighting to keep death at bay, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it, in the end.
Wiping an errant tear away from my cheek, I take another album into my lap. This volume sports a crisp leather cover that still smells new. These must be more recent photographs. I open the album at random and peer down at the array of photographs. This time, I don’t recognize anyone that I see. Most of the pictures feature an adorable red-haired woman with a smattering of freckles on her nose. She looks to be Irish or Scottish—certainly not of the same German descent as the Roths.
I flip through page after page of the album, taking in the scores of photos featuring this nameless beauty. Her eyes are bright green, not too different from my own. In the earliest pictures, she seems to be in her twenties. The locations of the shots range from tropical beaches to stately manors—more than a few pictures seem to have been taken right here in this house.
My heart clenches longingly as I turn another page and find a stunning portrait of the red-haired woman in a staggeringly beautiful wedding gown. She looks just like she could be Grace Kelly’s ruby-locked sister in her long-sleeved, lacy dress. There are a dozen shots of her, looking every inch the perfect blushing bride. Who is this lovely woman? A niece, perhaps, or a family friend?
Finally, the portraits give way to pictures of the entire wedding party, including the groom. I peer eagerly down at a photograph of the happy couple and feel a twang of recognition. That twang intensifies to a pummeling blow of shock as I realize that the groom is none other than a young Lukas Roth.
“He’s married...?” I mutter, staring down at the image. How is that possible? Gertrude has told me time and again that Lukas is the only family she has. I made damn certain to check for a wedding band on my employer’s finger before I even starting fantasizing about him. Maybe there was a brutal divorce? That would explain some of his gruffness. I flip through page after page of wedding photos, honeymoon shots taken around the world, a record of the early years of Lukas’s marriage. He and his wife look perfectly happy—elated, even—in every single shot I stumble upon. What in the hell gives?
“Oh my God...” I whisper, as the next page reveals itself to me. For a second, I wonder if my eyes are playing tricks on me, but there’s no mistaking what’s right there on the page. I spent enough time around the labor and delivery units to have any doubt of what I’m seeing.
It’s a sonogram. Of...twins.
With confusion mounting inside of me, I fervidly flip through the pages. There’s the red-haired woman, increasingly pregnant in each shot. Pictures of Lukas cradling new born babies in pink and blue hospital caps. Portraits of infants, then toddlers, taken right in the foyer of this house. The children grow older with each passing page, through birthdays and holidays, first steps and baby teeth.
I finally come to the last page of the album and see a simple candid snapshot of Lukas with his wife and children. They’re loading a bunch of luggage into the trunk of a town car, while a younger version of Thomas lends a hand. Gertrude herself must have taken the picture. The three adults and little boy are all occupied with their own tasks in the photo, but the little girl is looking over her shoulder, straight into the camera. Her eyes are the same brilliantly deep blue as Lukas’s. The children look to be about three years old. They’re absolutely stunning, with curly chestnut hair and serious expressions. And from the look of their parents clothes, this photo was taken several years ago.
Quietly, I pick myself up out of the fireside chair and pad over to Gertrude’s bedside. I peer through the remaining albums, looking for further evidence of Lukas’s family. But there are no other pictures to be found of the twins or Lukas’s red-haired wife. It’s as though they’ve been relegated to the past, captured forever as toddlers and a young mother. I return to the fireside and look once more at that last photograph.
Whatever happened between Lukas and his family, it much have been terrible. A falling out that caused his wife to take his children away, no doubt. It’s no small wonder that he seems like such an angry man. To have your children snatched away from you must be the hardest thing in the world to handle. I wonder where they’re living now, or when Lukas saw them last? I feel myself growing irrationally angry with my employers fiery ex-wife. I know a little something about toxic exes, after all.
Heavy footsteps on the staircase set my heart rattling against my ribcage. I spring up from my seat and hurl myself across the room. I do my best to look busy, tinkering with and checking the dialysis equipment, as I hear the door ease open.
“Sleeping is she?” Lukas whispers, stepping lightly over the threshold.
I smile sheepishly as he makes his way forward. “Just a little nap,” I reply.
“It seems like that’s all she does anymore,” Lukas sighs, tucking his hands into his front pockets.
His biceps flex under the thin cotton of his button down shirt, taunting me from across the room.
His dark blue eyes are almost black in the dim light of Gertrude’s bedroom. As Lukas gazes down at his mother’s sleeping form, a look of concern passes over his features. It’s the most engaged and unguarded I’ve ever seen him. My heart writhes in sympathetic agony. The man has already lost his wife and children to a nasty divorce, and now his mother is slowly slipping away from him as well. I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to call my parents and tell them that I love them, despite our differences. But even Lukas’s touching concern for his mother won’t be enough to make me bridge that chasm.
“She was looking at old pictures,” I tell him, forcing a lighthearted smile onto my face.
Lukas glances around at the volumes of photographs scattered around the bed. I hold my breath as he glances toward the fireside. His eyes rest heavily on the leather album, the tome that houses his own family's pictures. Lukas opens his mouth, as if t
o inquire about the book, but snaps it shut again without saying a word. Instead he turns amicably toward me, his features wrestled into a look of vague interest and passive goodwill. It’s not exactly the passionate, affectionate look I dream of inspiring from him, but it will do.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“A little,” I admit. “I didn’t have time to grab something at the hospital.”
“Come on then,” he says, reaching a hand toward me. I stare at his proffered touch, struck dumb by the sudden gesture. He grins mischievously at me in the dim light. “I was going to go rustle up a bite in the kitchen. Join me.”
It isn’t a request, it’s a command. I hope that he can’t hear the blood rushing torrentially through my veins as I take his hand and allow him to help me up from my seat.
“Will she be OK on her own?” I ask, as Lukas’s fingers entwine with mine.
“She’ll be asleep for a while yet,” he says, towing me across the warm, darkened room. “It’s fine. You have my permission. Can’t have you passing out from hunger while you’re trying to tend to my mother, after all.”
He has a point. I let my fingers tighten around his as we step out into the hallway. His touch is authoritative and firm, but not at all grappling or clumsy. Even after he’s released my hand from his and started down the stairs, my skin prickles with the echoes of his touch. God, he barely needs to do anything to make me feel flustered. I wonder if he has any idea the effect his tiniest grazing touch has on me?
I wonder if his beautiful ex wife was as susceptible to his smallest display of affection. A surge of unbidden jealousy rises within me as I imagine the raw, carnal power that Lukas must have unleashed on her while they were still together. What I wouldn’t give to know just a fraction of what she must've known.
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