The Willful
Lauren Nicolle Taylor
Clean Teen Publishing
For the people I love, who’ve put up with my crazy all these years.
Contents
Content Disclosure
Also by Lauren Nicolle Taylor
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Afterword
Also by Lauren Nicolle Taylor
About the Author
Afterword
Nora & Kettle
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
For more information about our content disclosure, please utilize the QR code above with your smart phone or visit us at www.CleanTeenPublishing.com.
Also by Lauren Nicolle Taylor
The Woodlands Series:
The Woodlands, Book 1
The Wall, Book 2
The Wounded, Book 3
The Wanted, Book 4
The Willful: Novella, Book 5
Paper Stars Novels:
Nora & Kettle, Book 1
Hiro & Kite, Book 2
Breaker & the Sun, Book 3
THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors' imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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The Willful
Copyright ©2014 Lauren Nicolle Taylor
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by: Marya Heidel
Typography by: Courtney Knight
Editing by: Cynthia Shepp
Chapter One
I’m the moon, and he is the sun. I’m cool, quiet, and uniformly gray. He is a blast, a flare of fire. I circle around the earth, trying to find him. I never will. We’re not supposed to exist in the same time.
I don’t know how I came to love him but now that I do, it feels like I’m too late, running behind, throwing my hands at a rope that’s being dragged away.
My eyes follow him as he paces the beige-colored room, his arms jerking out as he talks. His flash of color and energy stands out too much against the peachy, peeling paint, and it worries me. His temper is building and I’m almost sucked into his stress, into his dramatic world so deeply, I forget I’m trying to give birth. To his child.
But then pain comes hard and fast, twisting and turning around my stomach like an ever-tightening cloth. My heels dig into the mattress, and the rickety bed frame shudders. I grip my middle and try to speak, “Pelo, please…”
He comes to a halt, his eyes searching the window, his expression… fascinating. And fascinated by something other than me. “Look, darling, look at that bird.” He points listlessly at the glass. His arm drops like a drawbridge, and I can tell he’s sinking into a place I won’t be able to reach. “Utterly free. Look at it swaying on the branch. Uh, there it goes, destined to fly over places we will never see.” He sighs theatrically, his shoulders slumping.
A nurse bustles in and grabs the sheet that’s been scurrying out of the machine for so long it’s folded over onto the floor. I gaze down at the ripples of paper and wonder what they mean.
“Mr. Bianca, you need to leave,” she says crossly, folding her arms over her chest and scowling. “And you haven’t filled in your paperwork yet.”
Pelo pulls away from the window with effort. He turns slowly, as if he can’t bear to look away from the sky, and seems to notice me for the first time. My heart jumps and the monitor scribbles. He focuses on my face, ignoring the aggravated nurse tugging on his sleeve. I blink and smile. Those eyes. So wrong and so beautiful.
He connects with me and says, “I’m not going anywhere.” Grabbing a chair, he slaps it down angrily by my side. This is a willful exercise. I want to believe it’s because he wants to stay with me. I decide I will believe that for now. I need him.
Pain grips me again, and I search for him. He takes my hand in his, and I release an almighty scream.
The nurse clamps a sweaty palm over my shoulder and whispers tersely in my ear, “Control yourself.”
I take in sharp, hiccup-like breaths and try not to make any noise, but it’s pressing out of me from all angles. How do I do this quietly?
On the next pain, I shuffle my legs backwards like I can escape it somehow, my bare feet slipping on the sheets. I put my fist to my mouth and bite down. It’s too much. Too hard. They never explained to me how hard this would be.
Pelo pulls my fist from my mouth and covers it with his steady hand. “Esther, look at me.” I close my eyes, swaying my head from side to side. Every sound is amplified and irritating, his voice like hot nails piercing my eardrum. I want to scream, and I want everyone else to be quiet.
“No.” I grimace and keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to hear him say it will all be fine because it won’t. Things with him are never fine.
I feel each bead of sweat as it trickles across my hairline and down my jaw. I focus on that. It’s tracking a path down my throat now, rolling towards my heart.
Pelo releases my hand and yells long and loud, howling at the ceiling like a deranged wolf. My eyes snap open, my breath shallow. Is he trying to shock the baby out of me?
“You scream as loud as you want, darling,” he says, waggling his dark eyebrows.
My eyes swing to the nurse, who is now pressed against the wall, her hand millimeters from the red call button. She is frozen in pure astonishment, her grey hair frizzed like he actually electrocuted her.
The contraction settles for just a moment, and I manage to insert a laugh into this horrible experience. Pelo puts his hand up to the nurse and chuckles. We exchange a glance heated with love and admiration.
And then I remember.
He makes me laugh. In this cruel, grey world, he is the only one that can make me smile.
On the next contraction, I scream so loud, my frantic eyes sway to the windows, expecting them to shatter.
The nurse wakes up from her coma and lunges towards me, clapping a hand over my mouth. “If you won’t do as you’re told, I’m afraid we’ll have to sedate you and deliver this child by caesarian,” she whispers.
I nod. I know this is supposed to be better, healthier. Natural. So I purse my lips and suffer through quietly, my arms taut at my sides, my stomach rolling like a wave. Even Pelo plays along. His full attention is on me now, and I can’t help but bask in it.
Sweat drips off the end of my nose, and he dabs it with a cool flannel.
“I’ve called the doctor,” the nurse says. “You’re ready to push, but you have to wait for him to arrive.” I snort and then try to cover it, but the nurse hears and glowers, deepening the already cavernous furrows in her brow. “You wait,” she urges, holding up her hand like a stop sign, before exiting the room.
The need to push is burning a line from my legs to my mouth, and I can’t control it. “I can’t wait, Pelo,” I whisper desperately, my hand pressed to his shirt. “I can’t…” I grab at his buttons, thinking I might pull them off. Feeling as if I am stronger than a bear right now.
He smooths my hair from my eyes and leans down, kissing me passionately, inappropriately. When he draws back, I am out of breath. Every breath has fluttered from my chest and flown out the window with that bird.
“Then don’t,” he says plainly. “Do what you feel you must.”
I nod and let him decide for me. He slides his arms behind my back and eases me up to sitting. My body takes over. It knows what to do, and it just starts doing it. I take a breath and push just as the doctor stumbles into the room.
The nurse huffs at my impatience. “I told her to wait.”
The doctor seems unperturbed and makes his way to me, snapping his gloves on as he walks. “Let’s see to the child,” he mutters.
Pelo has jumped up and, even though I asked him not to, he’s peering between my legs, captivated by what I can only imagine is a horror beyond words. Because I feel like I’m made of paper and I’ve been split open, torn end to end.
“Pelo, no, please don’t,” I try, but I know he won’t listen.
The doctor frowns and turns to Pelo, their heads almost touching. “Young man, you are not supposed to be in here,” he says to Pelo, and then to me, “One more push, Mrs. Bianca.” His bushy eyebrows are pulled together in concentration, and I suddenly worry that something is wrong. I put my energy into this one last push. The pain ends suddenly, and an immense feeling of relief shudders through my bones. It’s over.
Two policemen shove the door open violently. They march over and grab at Pelo’s shoulders, dragging him away. He doesn’t fight them. He’s done this many times before, and he knows better than to fight back.
As his feet scrabble to stand, he looks up at me and grins, wide and disconcertingly. “It’s a girl!” he shouts as his legs knock against the door and disappear. Leaving me alone.
A girl.
A high-pitched squall follows, and a scrappy-limbed thing is placed on my chest. It thrashes its dirty head about, its eyes screwed shut.
The doctor clears his throat. “Congratulations, Mrs. Bianca. You have a healthy baby girl. We’ll do her scores after we’ve dealt with your husband.” The doctor and nurse snap off their gloves and throw them in the bin as they exit the room, leaving me completely alone.
I gaze down at the child. I fear for her. I know her scores will be low.
He’s hurting her. Extending her dark legs like you would a chicken’s wings before you clip them, pinching her. He pushes at her skin; it turns white under the pressure but comes back to brown. Are they hoping she’ll fade? Should I be hoping she fades? I’m not sure what to do, so I do nothing with tears stinging my eyes. I let them jab her with needles and squeeze blood from her heel like a wet sock as she squawks.
Pelo has been taken to jail for the night. He won’t get to meet his daughter until tomorrow. I’m not surprised, which saddens me. He never listens. To anyone.
The doctor turns to me with a much cleaner and much less happy baby, scrubbed and wrapped in a striped blanket the color of ash. “So Mrs. Bianca, what would you like to name the child?” he asks with suspicion on his tongue. “Nothing strange, I hope.”
I shake my head. This child scares me. She will depend on me for everything. She may be the one good thing I do in this life. May. “May,” I whisper, brushing my finger over her dark eyebrows. She twitches. Bringing her hands to her face and scratching her cheeks like she doesn’t recognize it as her own flesh.
The doctor scrawls Baby Girl May Bianca on a pink card and slots it over the top of my own name above the bed. I am now a mother. My name, my heart, goes behind my child’s. I kiss her forehead and smile. That’s okay with me, I think.
“Thank you, Doctor,” I say quietly, bringing May closer.
He coughs, unbuttons his coat absently, and then refastens it. “Mm, yes, well, here are your daughter’s scores. When eye color is final, we will reevaluate.” He lays the thin sheet of paper over my knees, and I pull them up so I can read it.
As if on cue, May opens her eyes, revealing dark blue irises the color of deep water. Water that has no end. I sigh with relief. Her eyes should balance out her skin, which is rich, chocolate brown.
I look at her scores, written on another pink piece of paper, cheerful ABC blocks drawn in the corners: Skin – 4, eyes – 8, Hair – 5.
It’s not great, but it could be worse.
Chapter Two
The next day, the door slides open just as I’m attempting to feed May. I rip her from my breast in a panic and cover myself, gasping at how much it hurts. They never said anything about it hurting so much.
Pelo’s unapologetic face pokes through the gap, and he steps inside. He looks unharmed and I smile, relieved. I button my shirt awkwardly with May lying across my lap. He is there in two beats of my nervous heart, scooping the baby up and tucking her into his arm. He gazes down at the child, a look of absolute adoration in his eyes. “She’s so beautiful,” he exclaims. He sits down on the edge of the bed, rocking her back and forth. “She looks exactly like you.” His smile is soft, centered. It melts my anger about yesterday into a pool that leaks down the drain. I want to keep this moment.
“How are y…?” he starts, and then his eyes go to the pink card above my head. Very carefully, he places May in the crib by the bed. She looks strange in the clear plastic tub, like she’s about to be packed away with the signing day ornaments for next year.
He reaches above my head and yanks the card from its place. “May? Did they make you choose this nothing of a name?”
I shake my heavy head, exhausted. Too exhausted to fight. “No, Pelo. I chose it. They let me choose it.” He’s not listening. The sweet moment is over and in its place are the same bitter-tasting ones I’m used to.
“I’m going to change it!” Pelo exclaims, shaking the pink card in his hands. He storms out of my room, leaving little May snoring, unaware that she just met and angered her father, and me scurrying to stop him before he gets himself thrown in jail again. As I move, my body feels leaden, my stomach pulling me down as I skid across the linoleum.
I catch up to him, reaching over the counter at the nurses’ station. The nurse leans away from him, from the flapping, pink paper like it’s a knife, and explains that I did name her. I wonder why everything is pink when you’re born, but then it all fades to gray. Her uniform, her home… everything will eventually be gray.
“I don’t know why you would name her without talking to me first.” He pants and hunches over the paper as if it weighs too much, everything always exaggerated. “May? May doesn’t mean anything,” he says, punching his finger at the name on the page.
I take a step back from his fiery expression, his disjointed movements. “I’m sorry,” I say, not really sure why I’m apologizing, but I don’t want him to cause a scene.
He throws the paper down and claps a hand over his forehead. I move past him, standing on my tiptoes to lean over the counter, and try to talk to the nurse who is now looking very irritated. “Is there any chance of changing the name?” I ask. The nurse shakes her head and uses a pencil to scratch her head. I try not to giggle. “Look. If you say no, he’s only going to scream down the place and disturb the whole hospital,” I warn.
She rolls her eyes and gives me a fresh certificate to fill out. “Lucky I hadn’t lodged it yet,” she says, pushing it in my direction.
I snatch it and shuffle off to find Pelo, who has stormed down the hall.
“Pelo, wait!” I shout. People turn towards me, and I blush as I run with my dressing gown flapping behind me.
He pauses. Take a deep breath and turns around.
“I’m sorry,” we both say at the same time.
When we said we would do this, we promised we would do it together. I know that’s why he’s upset. His passion is always intense, bright and burning like the sun. I knew that when I married him. Asking him to change was like asking a star to die just so I didn’t have as many to count.
I stroke his arm and he brings it around me, enveloping me a strong embrace. “What do you want to call her?” I ask to his chest, my chin vibrating from the rapid beat of his heart.
He hums, leaning his chin down to touch my head. “Rosario Elenora Bianca.”
I laugh.
“Oh God! Pelo, that’s awful!” I lift my face to gaze into his eyes, to choose my favorite, and dive in. “Really awful.” I grin.
He smiles, playing with a piece of my dark brown hair. “I just want it to be something different. Original.”
“How about a compromise?” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist and forgetting that we’re standing in a hospital hallway.
“I’m listening…” he says, a smirk creeping across his lips.
“In public, Rosa. In private, in our home, you can call her whatever you like. She can be Princess Rosario Alligator Grapefruit, for all I care!” At this, he chuckles, and then he laughs.
It’s the best sound in the world.
“Rosa. I like that,” he says. “It has cultural meaning, it’s sweet…”
I know he’s about to start something, so I press my finger to his lips. “Sh! They’ll hear you,” I warn.
He shakes his head. “You know I don’t care about that.”
“Please care for me, just this once,” I plead.
He raises an eyebrow and nods. “Oh, all right.”
We turn together and walk back to the nurse’s station arm in arm.
“Pelo, did you see her scores?” I whisper, just as we approach the bench.
He throws his hands in the air, and I stumble forward like he threw me. “I don’t give a flying alligator about her scores!” he yells. And I laugh even though I don’t feel as he does. It’s a sad laugh because he only listened to me for a few seconds before he went right back to trouble.
The Willful Page 1