| Subject: A la Vie - Chapter 3 |
Author:
Diane
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: Tuesday, October 19, 04:49:55am
In reply to:
Diane
's message, "À la Vie!" on Tuesday, October 19, 01:16:54am
Chapter 3
Gamely, Nikita kicked and blew bubbles as Michael towed her around in the shallow water. Every so often he let go of her hands, and she would panic, sputter, and stand up. This time she managed to keep kicking and found, much to her delight, that she was moving under her own power.
“You’re doing it, Nikita! You’re swimming!” Michael yelled in encouragement. Soon however, she had to take a breath, and stopped kicking to stand up. “You did great,” he said, giving her a hug. “We’ll work on breathing next time.”
Her teeth chattering, Nikita let herself be led to shore where thick Turkish towels awaited her and Michael. The drawstring shorts had been abandoned, as they had floated off of her as soon as she had stretched out in the water. Michael’s T-shirt came below her knees, though, and actually covered more of her than her dress did, so her modesty was intact.
They sat on their towels on the beach, and Michael teased her by putting the picnic hamper between them but not opening it. Nikita waited patiently. True, she had not eaten since Michael had fed her yesterday, but she had gone longer than 24 hours without food before. Finally, Michael opened the hamper, setting forth the same feast as the day before with one notable exception. Instead of wine, he brought out two bottles of Pepsi and a bottle opener. Nikita’s eyes grew wide with delight. She rarely got to drinks soda, let alone a whole bottle.
The embassy cook, Vizcano, was bowled over by Michael’s request for pop instead of wine. She had had to make a special trip to the market to meet his demands. Michael had also noted which of the cheeses Nikita had preferred, and ordered that their amount, as well as the number of crackers, be doubled. First no wine, then no brie. What was next, thought Vizcano with distaste, franks and beans? She debated about telling Michael’s father about his bizarre change in eating habits, then decided it was not worth incurring the wrath of Michael. He was, for the most part, a quiet and polite boy, but his temper was already legendary when things did not go his way.
Sated after their meal, Michael and Nikita lay back on their towels and watched the clouds overhead. Michael grew drowsy and, within minutes, was fast asleep. Nikita waited to make sure he was not moving, then carefully edged away from her towel. She stepped behind Michael and stripped off his now dry T-shirt and slipped back into her hated dress. She cautiously returned to Michael’s towel and curled up beside him, letting herself fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Michael was dreaming of his sister. An infant when their mother died, his father had allowed his sister and brother-in-law, Josephine and René Dian, to adopt Martine and raise her as their own. The childless couple was thrilled—Michael was furious. He took this as a sign of how important his children were to his father, and reacted accordingly. He distanced himself from the ambassador, and his heart had grown cold.
Somehow, in his dream, Martine grew into a seven-year old girl with silver-blonde hair and huge blue eyes, and her name was now Nikita. She had found a warm spot in his heart, and he would protect and take care of her the way he had been unable to do for Martine.
After a bit, Michael became aware of a weight pressing down on his chest. He opened his eyes to find Nikita curled against him, her head over his heart. He smiled, feeling very brotherly, and stroked her long, blonde hair. He took a closer look at the arm flung across his chest and frowned. There were bruises on her upper arms that hadn’t been there yesterday. Bruises shaped like finger marks. His expression hardened.
Nikita grew restless. She started moaning in her sleep, then whispering, “I’m sorry, Mum. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.” A tear slid down her cheek. Michael held her closely and murmured comforting words in French.
“Shh, shh, ma fille précieuse. Je suis ici. Rien ne peut vous faire du mal. Je vous protégerai”.
(Shh, shh, my precious one. I am here. Nothing can harm you. I will protect you.)
Nikita sat up in panic, struggling to be free of Michael’s strong embrace. “No! Let me go!” she whimpered, eyes unfocused.
“Nikita!” Michael voiced loudly, trying to wake her up. “Nikita, it’s me. It’s Michael.”
Understanding slowly dawned in her eyes, and she threw her arms around him and cried into his shoulder. He patted her back and stroked her hair, waiting for the storm to pass.
Nikita refused to talk about her dream, to explain the new bruises (there were old ones as well, Michael noted), or to come home with him.
Michael stood. “Then at least let me walk you home,” he offered, hoping she would capitulate.
“Can’t. Mum would see you and think I’m giving it away for free and she couldn’t make any money that way.”
Michael was shocked. He knew that Nikita was being physically abused. He intended to speak to her mother about that. He had calculated that being a diplomat’s son would carry some weight. Now to find out the she was being sexually abused! Pimped by her own mother! It was too much to take in. He sat down heavily.
“Are you okay?” the child asked, concerned.
Am “I” okay? Michael mused, still stunned. No, I’m not okay. This is the worst thing I’ve ever heard of in my life.
“I’m fine,” he answered her dully.
“I really need to go,” Nikita said, casting anxious looks over her shoulder in the direction of her house. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” answered Michael with conviction. With the police and Child Protective Services.
Nikita smiled brilliantly then, and kissed him on the cheek. “See ya!” she called over her shoulder as she loped down the beach.
“See ya,” echoed Michael in a whisper.
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 