Beautiful Evil Winter Page 2

  “What happened to you?” I ask angrily. “What made you sleep so soundly while all of that was happening?”

  With a sheepish look, he explains- “At the terminal, when you left in search of frozen yogurt, I left in search of a pub. I thought I could finally relax a little. The drink just got the best of me. I’m sorry.” Squeezing my hand, he looks out the window for a few minutes; then, turns back to me with an almost academic furrowing of his brows.

  “As a guy, I can’t blame him too much. He’s very drunk and you’re very pretty. I’ve struggled to keep my hands off of you at times. Besides, he didn’t know we were together.”

  I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. “Are you making excuses for him?”

  “Of course not,” Ethan answers insincerely.

  “What he did was wrong!” I continue, my cheeks heating up again with anger. “It was depraved and disgusting! Sometimes, you’re too objective, Ethan. To the point of being inappropriate!”

  “Remember logic and objectivity are two of the qualities you love about me.” Ethan says with an endearing smile, fishing for a magic lure to restore the peace between us.

  “You’re digging a bigger hole for yourself!” I lash out, glaring at him. “Some things should remain unsaid. I hope one day you learn that. Inappropriate can create havoc for us in a third world country.”

  “But you know what I mean. You know I’m not malicious,” he says gently.

  “I do because I know you and give you the benefit of the doubt, which not everyone will do.”

  “I apologize. Please, baby, forgive me.”

  Looking deeply into my eyes, he grabs my hand and kisses each knuckle.

  How can I say no to that? He’s too charming.

  “Maybe, one day, you’ll uncap that big cylinder of swagger outside the bedroom. Having said all that, you know it’s hard for me to stay mad at you,” I mutter as worry imbeds in my gut, like a parasitic worm.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Ethan.” I quickly peck him on the lips.

  He chuckles as he entwines my fingers in his, his gaze now directed toward the window and mine toward the aisle. All is forgiven, for now.

  As the pilot maneuvers the plane for take-off, Ethan begins to nod off, now snoring lightly. I, on the other hand, am wide-awake. Staring out the window, I can’t help but think about all the emotional baggage we’re towing to Russia, aggressive stubborn me and mild-mannered Ethan.

  With a gentle kick, I wake Ethan.

  “Sorry, honey, I’m so scared. Think of what’s awaiting us—the people, the culture, the climate and ‘no tell’ Natasha as in ‘no telling what she will or won’t do for us.’”

  Tears well up as I think of the possibilities. Clasping my hands together in my lap, I stare at the seat pouch in front of me as I struggle to stay composed.

  “Come on, Sophia, what are the chances that something bad will happen? You’ve got to be more positive.”

  As I wipe my tears away, Ethan rewards me with a hug.

  “Extreme uncertainty, extreme danger and extreme distance from home, I’m just talking facts not possibilities. Single out any one of the facts, and it’s frightening for both of us, not just me. Combine all of the facts, and chilling doesn’t begin to describe it,” I sniffle.

  “Yes, both of us fear all of those situations, but we’re beyond the point of turning back. The pilot won’t stop the plane for us because we changed our mind about this trip. Commit to finding the happy moments and they’ll be there for us,” he cajoles, adding a chaste kiss to end the conversation.

  “Now, how about a smile, Sophia?” He coaxes as he gently lifts my chin to plant another kiss on my lips.

  Turning away, I cross my arms and stare out the window.

  The jet engines whine as they push the plane across the runway. While the plane rises, my heart sinks.

  2. DEATH AVERTED

  I lean on Ethan’s shoulder and snuggle into him gazing out the window, lost in my thoughts—searching for a source of inspiration to bolster my sagging spirit.

  High School … The only other time worse than this…occurred in high school. A turning point—the day, the event, the moment—that ultimately mandated this entire journey.

  Everything changed in high school. Never thought my tenacity would be tested the way it was in high school. Never thought I’d lie bloody and severed in a pasture on the outskirts of town. Never imagined what happened could happen—neither could anyone else. When I think about my past, I remind myself—I’m just lucky to be alive and sitting on this plane. I could’ve easily died in that sun-scorched field in my blood-soaked clothes on the outskirts of Austin, at the tender young age of 18.

  Looking up at Ethan, I smile lovingly. A deep sigh escapes my lips as I grab a blanket and snuggle into his shoulder. Absentmindedly, he brushes my bangs out of my eyes and plants a kiss on the top of my head.

  “You need to sleep,” he whispers. “You’ve already had a tough day. I know you’ve got this, but you know I’m right.” He says as he kisses the top of my head again.

  He’s right. Sleep seems—as seductive as chocolate now. The magnetic force of it pulling me away from the airplane cabin. It’s a match me and sleep—right here, right now.

  ***

  “I’m sorry, you can’t ride old Ben. He’s lame. You’ll have to ride King, the stallion. I’ll ride the mare.”

  Hmmmm…I’ve never ridden a stallion. My instructor never talked about stallions, but I’ve only had two riding lessons—lucky to get those with 3 kids in the house. High school not the best time to be in love with horses. Needs prevail over wants.

  My friends never talked about stallions, only geldings. I don’t even know the difference between a stallion and a gelding. I guess it’s okay, though. He’s a horse, and I’m good with horses. And I trust Luke.

  As Luke and I meander toward the 10-acre fenced pasture, King begins to toss his head and prance.

  Well, he seems to know the way to the pasture. He wants to go there. He acts like he wants to gallop to it now.

  Thinking nothing of it, we continue our journey, walking the horses side-by-side, flirting and laughing the whole time. As soon as Luke closes the gate, King lurches forward like a race horse at the starting gate. I shift a little in the saddle and quickly center myself, smiling at his exuberance. I didn’t like that too much, but I can handle it and Luke can catch up to us.

  Maybe, we’ll get to race!

  Instead, we canter happily in the open field. King becomes more animated, and shows more personality. Soon, we gallop across the field. King becomes more assertive and bucks, his head down in the dirt and his hind end high in the air like a rodeo bronc.

  What’s he doing? What the hell! Instantly, I lose the reins and cling to the left side of the horse in stunt rider position facing the rear of the horse. A jolt of adrenalin races through my body, like my first drink of hard liquor did. And the sudden splash of rubbing alcohol tingling on my skin sharpens my senses to a whole new level.

  As King races to a barbed wire fence, I check my position by looking down. The ground appears a blur of brown, the horse’s hooves streaks of black. My left calf hangs in the stirrup. My other foot and leg dangle freely. My bottom bobs toward the ground. My left hand grips the saddle horn as if it’s a rescue rope on a cliff face. The hard, cracked earth beneath me amplifies the frenzied clippity clop of the horse’s hooves. Luke’s voice startles me out of my panic. “No! There’s no time! Drop now!

  But I can’t. It’s impossible to let go.

  “He’s headed to the barb wire fence!” Luke yells in horror.

  What gives me a chance? Being shredded by a wall of barbed wire at a full gallop or dropping—which may kill me? No time to try to pull myself up and grab the reins. Even if I could, the stallion will buck again to launch me. Have to free myself from that one stirrup or I’ll be dragged. Have to push away so I won’t be trampled or kicked.

  Dear Lord, please help me.
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  With a deep breath, I hoist myself up with the saddle horn. I kick out and push-off to lose the stirrup.

  I want to live! I plead as I release my death grip on the saddle horn.

  My butt hits the ground first at a full gallop, at more than 30 miles per hour.

  “Are you o…kay?” Luke asks as he crouches beside me, his eyes glistening with fear.

  I sit upright and glance at my blue jeans now deep burgundy red. I blink and glance again—I’m wearing the same dark red jeans. I stare in disbelief—there’s no blue.

  This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. I’m not menstruating.

  This is too much blood.

  “I’m not sure if I’m okay, Luke—take me home so I can check.” Leaning back on my elbows, I can barely feel the crunchy grass beneath me. My vision is blurry around the edges, but I can see Luke’s look of terror, etched on his face like a bad scar.

  “You’re going to be okay, Sophia,” he says, “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

  Stumbling to his feet, he takes off running for the car.

  It can’t be too bad. I don’t feel any pain. Maybe, I’ll just go to the doctor and get a few stitches. It’s getting dark.

  Why is it getting so dark?

  “Sophia, please open your eyes! I’ve got to get you home!” Luke pleads. Squatting down on his heels, Luke carefully scoops me up and hugs me.

  “You’ll be okay. We’ll get through this together. I’m here for you, Sophia,” he promises, his face twisted in worry. He hugs me again before cautiously, setting me down in the backseat of the car and speeding to my house. Mom isn’t home so Luke uses my key to unlock the door. He walks with me, arm-in-arm, the short distance to the bathroom door.

  “I’ve got this, Luke.” I say bravely grabbing the door frame for support, but as I remove my jeans while positioned on the toilet, blood gushes from the area between my thighs. Slowly, I pull my jeans back on, my body still numb. This looks really bad, but I don’t feel pain.

  It kind of looks like… I’m bleeding from a cut artery.

  “Luke!” I call, and he appears again instantly at the bathroom door.” It’s bad.” I whisper, fighting back tears. “I’ve got to go to the hospital.”

  The hospital, Southwest Memorial Hospital, where my granddad died a year ago. Mom and Dad were outraged about his just-doing-it-for-the-paycheck nurses, and a doctor who proposed additional procedures on a dying man. I tremble at the thought of going there.

  It scares me more than the injury.

  Luke shakes his head in dismay, his face a picture of sorrow and despair as if he’d just run over the family dog. He moves closer to me. My legs begin to quiver. He pauses and gazes into my eyes for a few brief seconds, lost in his reverie. My thoughts turn to him.

  He looks worried and disappointed—worried about me and disappointed in the outcome of the day, a day designed to be playful and fun. Instead, he’s driving me to the emergency room because I’m bleeding like I’ve been shot between the legs with a 357 Magnum.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says as he carries me to the car.” So, let me know if I do something wrong.”

  Clasping my hands behind his neck, I rest my head on his chest. I wonder if my blood is soaking into his shirt. I hope it isn’t. He’ll have to buy a new shirt.

  I’m way beyond embarrassment at this point. Maybe, I can think this way because there’s no pain—just lots of blood. I feel kind of drained right now, kind of limp.

  Luke loads me into the car and rushes me to the nearest hospital emergency room.

  “I’m going to tell your Mom that you’re at the hospital because you broke your arm.”

  It’s getting dark again. I’m drifting away.

  Opening my eyes, I blink at the sound of a creaky car door. A concerned security guard hovers over me, trying to decide how to easily remove me from the car.

  “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t hurt you. I’ll get you out without hurting you.”

  Gently, he scoops me up like a mortally wounded child. As I lock my arms around his neck, my head droops on his chest. I cling to him as if he is a lifeguard saving me from a horrible death. My weak, bleeding body worries me less than the next steps through the hospital doors.

  I hate hospitals. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home. Granddad died here. I don’t want anyone to examine me. I’ll tell them what’s happening. I don’t want them to hurt me. I’m really scared. Where’s my Mom?

  My eyes fill with tears when he carries me straight to the emergency room. He lays me on the exam table with great care as if placing a newborn in a crib.

  I close my eyes momentarily peer to take a breath to steady myself. When I open them, I see a middle-aged nurse with jet black hair, slicked back and pulled into a bun. Her beady cobra eyes peer at me over her clipboard. Irritation knots her already too thin lips.

  “Lose the jeans and underwear or I’ll take them off for you!” she snaps.

  Oh, wonderful. I get the nurse with a coroner’s bedside manner.

  I grit my teeth, push off the table and waddle to the bathroom.

  Stay tough. Stay strong, Sophia. You can do this.

  In the bathroom, I stand and tug as the blood gurgles. My legs shake, and the blood pours. My entire body shudders like a building about to crash.

  If this is a nightmare, I need to wake up now. I close my eyes and pinch my knees.

  Wake up now!

  The smell and taste of cigarettes fills my stomach.

  Fight the nausea! This is real—survive!

  I hold the handrail and wrap the hospital gown around myself while the blood streams down my inner thighs. I move in tiny steps toward the table. With a deep breath, I heave myself onto the table and lay down.

  No more of that. There is no more strength left. I feel drained again. I feel limp.

  “Spread your legs,” the nurse barks.

  “I can’t, I just can’t,” I whimper.

  Rolling her eyes, she glares at me.

  Hot pepper sauce coats my tongue, and I feel the sting of rubbing alcohol again as my thoughts sink into a raging river of fear and adrenaline.

  She’s awful. I feel like a caged animal. I need to protect myself. I’ll tell her what I saw. Maybe, she’ll become a human being if I talk to her.

  “I…”

  In an instant, her cold beady eyes close. With a grimace, she grabs my knees—roughly jerking my trembling legs apart. A boulder of nausea pins me in place as I feel my body rip—my skin tear like paper.

  For the first time that day, I scream and faint. I awake to see Dr. Weisberg, my gynecologist, at my side. It’s shadowy dark in the room.

  ***

  “No, No, No!” I shriek, awakening with a jolt to find Ethan cradling me in his arms. The other passengers are looking at me, the 5-year-old girl staring at me in astonishment as the fingers on her right hand dangle Barbie above the floor. Other passengers look at me as I gasp for air, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  I was dreaming, and I’m shaking and melting down now—my head nodding in denial, my heart thundering to save me. The worst part of all is. It wasn’t a dream.

  3. THE PHONE CALL

  I grab a blanket and rest my head on Ethan’s shoulder. He sinks into his seat, and I stretch my upper body cat-like to be closer to him.

  So many obstacles, so much hassle. I’m so tired. Getting here, to this point, is a triumph in itself. I have to remember that…

  Closing my eyes, another memory emerges crystal clear—that day last summer in the garage apartment office of my manager, Louise. Something very special about that day—epic, extraordinary, and landmark are words that only begin to capture its meaning. Ultimately, it was life-changing.

  ***

  It’s my lunch hour. Instead of eating, I pick at my cuticles. From the window of the garage office apartment, I stare at the street scene—trimmed trees and lawns perfectly landscaped by crews of men, nannies pushing strollers along the sidewalk
s in front of the large red brick houses with iron gates, gates which block entrance to part of the driveway and the entire backyard. Iron gates tattooed with a letter. Gates to keep people away from the sports cars and luxury SUVs parked in front of the garage. It’s time to make the call. My hand trembles slightly as I pick up the phone. My heart feels as if it will bounce from my chest. I never call him while he’s working. It’s a first step, but it’s a big one. I dial the international operator and give her the country code and number. I hear the phone ringing.

  “May I speak to Mr. Warren please?” I say slowly to the Russian man answering the phone.

  My father, a Vice President of a Fortune 500 company, spent most of his career traveling the world for his company. Dad designs and sells energy extraction equipment—the company earning hefty royalties for his top-notch engineering. He spends a lot of time on and around drilling sites, but dresses like a Presidential candidate when necessary to negotiate deals. Like many presidential candidates, he travels extensively—only on an international scale from Indonesia to Canada to Africa to Saudi. And he looks like a handsome leading man in a motion picture. Moreover, I’m not the only female who thinks so. Most of all, Dad is a wizard—blindingly brilliant—fixing problems with cars, plumbing and electrical, and enjoying the challenge. Growing up, a repair tech never called and never needed.

  He was the natural selection to handle the revenue-rich Russian account; so, he began traveling there on a regular basis when I was a kid. Dad spent many a Christmas and Thanksgiving in Communist Russia without us. I hated the company for that. Year after year, we’d reluctantly and mechanically celebrate the holidays without Dad. It was like window dressing for a department store display. There were no Norman Rockwell Christmas Club moments at our home. We didn’t own a membership.

  But today, on the phone, I try to focus on the positive.

  Later, that day he called.

  “Hello” he answers, his response formal and brief.

  “Hi, Dad!” I say, “Hey, I know you’re busy, and this call is expensive; so I’ll get to the point. Ethan and I want to adopt a baby from Russia. Maybe, you can help us find an orphanage? One that takes good care of the kids.”