| Subject: Chapter 10 |
Author:
Kate
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Date Posted: 15:44:06 03/30/01 Fri
In reply to:
by Kate
's message, "Things My Mother Taught Me" on 19:49:51 03/29/01 Thu
************
Your son is your son today, but your daughter is your daughter forever.
For the next week, Michael stuck close to home. It was fun having Milla there and she clearly enjoyed being back. She teased David, their Jack-of-all-trades employee; she visited with her old friends in Sorrento and Pompeii; she did little errands David didn't have time to do; and in between, she entertained Nikita and Michael with funny stories about living in Egypt. A lot of the stories involved Sammy and Sara, and even without meeting them, Michael liked them because Milla did.
Like Michael, Milla was an early riser. One morning, he sat on the patio reading a newspaper and finishing his coffee when she wandered up to his table. "Hi-ho, Daddy-O."
The first time she'd called him anything other than Michael she'd been about seven or eight. Michael had been living with her and Nikita for a couple of years. They hadn't had a real wedding ceremony because Nikita was highly superstitious and believed Michael was cursed when it came to marriage. They had staged an elopement though, mostly for Milla's sake. Since Nikita had been using the last name of Samuelle all along, they had to tell everyone that she and Michael had been married young, divorced, then remarried. It was convoluted but Nikita thought it was relatively plausible and besides, they had Milla to consider. Nikita hadn't wanted Milla to suffer taunts or worse, censure from the nuns at her school, so they'd left Milla with Aldo for the weekend and ostensibly eloped.
False marriage aside, Michael continued to let Nikita make the parenting decisions -- after all, she was Milla's legal guardian -- and Milla always asked her mother rather than Michael for permission to do things. But one day after school, Milla had come into the laundry room to ask for help with her homework. Nikita was in the middle of a massive batch of laundry and folding sheets and towels as quickly as she could. Michael came in, toilet plunger in hand from unstopping a guests' toilet, to hear Milla ask Nikita for help.
"Sweetheart, I can't help you now -- I've got to get this done before the guests start checking in --"
"But -- the test tomorrow --"
Michael had been about to offer to help when Nikita spotted him. "Ask your father, Milla --" then she was out the door, arms loaded with freshly ironed sheets.
Milla and Michael had blinked at one another. Milla licked her lips and carefully, as if it were a foreign word, she said, "Father."
Michael couldn't breathe. Father. He hadn't thought anyone else would call him that, ever. And to hear it from Milla, whom he loved ... he swallowed past the lump in his throat.
"Will you please help me with my homework? It's spelling and I need someone to call out the words to me," Milla said.
"Of course," Michael managed to answer. And from then on, she called him whatever she wanted: Pops, Papa, Daddy-O, Dad, Michael, Big Cheese. For his part, he tried to give her as much guidance as she needed ... though now, he thought, perhaps that hadn't been enough. If he'd done a proper parenting job, her hand wouldn't be bandaged like a mummy's and maybe she'd stay closer to home.
"Good morning, little girl." Michael glanced up at her from under his paper.
"Want some more juice?" Milla asked.
"I'm fine." He smiled up at her and moved his arms out a little, so there was space between him and the paper. Milla smiled and slipped into his lap, as she had when she was very small and he was new to the family. She leaned back, reclining on him as if he were a chair cushion, and quietly read the paper with him.
"How's the hand?" he asked, turning the page.
"Okay. Mami looked at it last night and said the stitches were about ready to come out."
"Good."
"Are you going on your trip tomorrow?"
"I don't know. We'll see how your mother feels."
"What's wrong with her?"
"They don't know, Milla."
"She said they'd done some tests on her ..."
"Nothing conclusive has shown up yet."
"Milla!" From across the patio, Nikita called to them. "Milla, there's a phone call for you --"
Milla scrambled off Michael's lap. "Maybe it's Sammy. He said he might come through to look at my hand --"
"Make sure you book him a room," Michael reminded her, smiling. She scampered across the flagstones and Nikita held the door open for her, then came towards Michael.
"Morning," she smiled at him.
"Good morning." Michael put down his paper, folded it neatly and rose, kissing her soundly.
"Michael -- the guests --"
"Are still in bed," he said, returning to his seat. "As you should be."
"I'm fine. I feel ... good."
"Yes?"
"Yes." She smiled at him again, cradling her tea in her hands. "Michael, why don't you go ahead and go to Madrid tomorrow?"
He looked at her, considering. "It's a two-day trip."
"I know."
"You're sure you feel all right?"
"Absolutely."
"Would you like to come, too?"
"Maybe next time," she shrugged. "I'd like to stay here with Milla."
"She could come, too," Michael proposed.
"Well --"
The door to the reception area banged shut as Milla nearly skipped across the patio. "That was Sammy. They're coming tomorrow."
"Great," Nikita smiled. "Did you hold a room for them?"
"Yes. I put it down in the book. Number 4."
"Good. When will they be in?"
"By noon, they think. They're in Rome now, picking up some medical supplies."
"Well," Michael smiled at Nikita, "I guess that answers that question."
"Which question?" Milla asked.
"Your father was thinking you and I could go to Madrid with him tomorrow," Nikita said.
"Oh." Milla looked disappointed. "I wanted you to meet them, Michael."
"How long are they staying?"
"I don't know. At least one night, maybe two."
"I'll be back Thursday evening late," Michael said.
"Promise? You'll like Sammy and Sara. They're lots of fun."
"I'm sure they are," Michael stood, ruffled Milla's hair and kissed Nikita. "If I'm going to Madrid tomorrow, I need to get packed and call Klaus."
"All right," Nikita smiled at him, and Michael felt a sudden rush of apprehension. For a moment, he couldn't figure out why his stomach was clenched in fear and his chest felt heavy. Then he remembered: he used to feel the same way before a mission.
But missions were over. He didn't work for the Section. In all the years he'd been with Nikita, they'd never once encountered anyone from their old life, friend or foe. Michael had kept tabs on the people they'd known in Section, and most of them were either dead, insane or so completely rehabilitated they posed no danger whatsoever.
This feeling had nothing to do with Section. It couldn't. He was just worried about Nikita's health. That must be it.
Michael relaxed and went inside to pack and make his phone call.
*************************
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