Nicolai's Daughters (28 page)

Achilles went on to list the people he'd talked to, the amount of money they had promised, when he hoped to hear back from them and how he planned to follow up. He sent along some pictures of other light standards. Nicolai flipped through the clippings and shook his head. They all looked the same: ornate design, old-fashioned, high-end. Achilles would never get it. This wasn't the look Nicolai was going for.

He skimmed through Achilles's hopeful projections, picking up small clusters of words. Thank God I didn't get in any deeper, Nicolai thought. There's no way this project is ever going to get off the ground. At least I have the land. It might be worth something one day. That's better than nothing. He continued picking up the gist of Achilles's ramblings until he wasn't sure he understood what had been written. He rubbed his eyes and reread the last two paragraphs.

So they are blaming me for what happened. Because we were together before, they think it is my fault. But you and I know the truth. Now I understand why you left in such a hurry.

What was Achilles saying?

Why don't you talk some sense into your cousin? Tell her to get rid of it. Things will go better for her. It's a problem no one needs. She seems to have forgotten. We are a small village. Everyone talks and they look at me as if I'm the father.

He leaned back onto his elbows, pushed hard against the floor. His mind was blank. His elbows began to shake. He pushed harder. Shit!

He heard Alexia's footsteps behind him.

He turned.

She stood behind him shivering, her feet bare. “Can I get a glass of water?”

He stuffed the letter in his pant's pocket. “You're not asleep yet?”

“I can't find a comfy spot in my new bed. And it's cold.”

“Let's see what we can do,” he said and led her into the kitchen to get her some water. The letter crinkled in his pocket. He rubbed at her shoulders. “We need to get something warm inside you.” He wasn't going to leave her. He wasn't going to hurt her again. And he wasn't going to let anyone else hurt her either. Focus, he told himself. Focus. Don't think about that letter. Not now.

He made Alexia a peanut butter and banana sandwich and gave her a cup of hot water with a piece of lemon. “My mother used to give me a cup of hot lemon water when I was cold.” He got a comforter out of the closet and wrapped it around her.

“When can we go and see them?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said, shifting his gaze away from her questioning eyes. “We have too many things to do right here. And you've got a new school to start on Monday.”

“I'm not sure about the school. What it'll be like.”

He wiped some peanut butter off the counter. He picked up the dirty knife as if he meant to throttle it. Damn Achilles! Was this some kind of blackmail? Or was it true? It could be true.

“Daddy, are you listening?”

Nicolai sat down with her at the kitchen table. He forced himself to look at her, calm his voice. “You'll make lots of friends,” he said. “You'll be part of the gang soon enough. You'll see.”

She put her hands over his. “You're tapping again.”

When had he picked up the spoon? He couldn't say. He put it down. “The noise fills up the room, doesn't it?”

He tucked her into bed and kissed her forehead, then went into his own room, got into bed with his clothes on and pulled the covers over his head. Those few moments with Alexia had given him a bit of reprieve. But that damn letter was still in his pocket. He heard it every time he moved. He threw off the covers and dug it out.

We met one day away from the village. It wasn't easy to arrange, but Achilles has his ways. She says she's moving away. Going to Aigio or Patras where no one knows her. But how will she survive? That woman has always been so headstrong. It is for this reason she can't get along with anyone.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! All this bullshit. What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?

Nicolai crumpled up the letter and threw it against the wall. He paced, picked up the letter again, smoothed it out and reread Achilles's words. Maybe it's not mine, he thought. It was possible.

He heard a tap. “Still can't sleep?” He pushed the letter under his mattress and opened his bedroom door.

“I just wanted to make sure you were still here.”

He folded Alexia into his arms. “Where else would I be?”

She shrugged, touching his face.

“Sleep in here with me tonight,” he said, bundling her in under the covers. “Until you get used to our new place. Okay?”

She nodded, looked beyond him. Fear. Disappointment. What else was written on her face? He felt a rush of impatience. Why didn't she get it? He wasn't going to leave again. He wasn't. He pulled the blanket over them hard, lifting the bedding at the bottom end and exposing his feet. He kicked at the sheets. Alexia lay still. He felt her stare.

Alexia fell asleep tucked in close to him. He listened to her shallow breathing and resolved to tear up Achilles's letter tomorrow after he made Alexia's breakfast.

They settled into a routine. Nicolai scheduled his work commitments so he could pick up Alexia after school. When he wasn't able to, he phoned the school and she walked home. He'd come home to find her in a chair in the living room staring out the window. “What's wrong?” he asked her the first time it happened.

She shrugged. “I didn't know what to do.”

“You could have started your homework.”

“I wasn't sure.” She sat very still, wouldn't look at him.

“You mean you didn't know where to start?”

“I guess.”

He went to her, crouched down in front of her, wrapping her in his arms. She was so withdrawn, he was afraid she'd reject his effort. But then he felt her hands, light on his shoulders, and was reassured. “Should we go for a walk?” he asked.

“Do you want to?”

“Or we could do something else,” he said. “Anything you want.”

“I should do my homework,” she said, but didn't move.

“Sometimes I'm late,
paidi mou
. It doesn't mean any more than that.”

“I know.”

Years passed. Still, each time he wasn't able to pick her up at school, he'd come home and find her quiet and distant. Sometimes her mood lasted for days. He'd hear a creak outside his bedroom door late at night and knew she'd be standing outside. On those nights, he'd exaggerate his snoring. He hoped the sound of him would reassure her. He thought he'd convince her with all the things they did together: going to her practices, cheering louder than anyone at her basketball games, taking her to her favourite restaurants, planning weekends to the Gulf Islands. He'd show her he was a good father, and eventually she'd understand there was nothing to worry about. She'd forget he'd ever left her behind.

Sometimes he did think about Dimitria and the child, where they were, what they were doing. What did the child look like? What did the child like to do? Would he ever feel its hand in his, like he used to when Alexia was a child? Alexia was too grown-up for all that now. Sometimes, for long stretches at a time, he could distract himself with work or planning a weekend to the mountains with Alexia. But then he'd see a child playing in the park with her friends and he'd watch, wondering what his own flesh and blood was doing at the moment, so far away.

“Why don't you change your address?” Mavis said, handing him another one of the flimsy grey envelopes with the words
Air Mail
repeated over and over again around its border. “It's been almost five years.”

“I'll get to it,” he said every time. “I'm busy.”

At first, he ripped up all the letters without reading them. But they kept coming. A new one arrived, thicker than the rest. Nicolai listened to the rain drum at his window and fingered the letter. Alexia was asleep. What could it hurt? He slid his finger under the lip of the envelope. Pictures scattered at his feet. He gathered them, checked under the bed to make sure he hadn't missed one. The beach, his property in Greece, now had a concrete promenade lined with old-fashioned light standards. It wasn't what he wanted. But he hadn't stuck around, had he?

The last picture was of a little girl about four or five years old with long straight hair pinned back off her face with pink ribbons. She had olive skin and dark eyes, though one eye seemed a bit lighter. She looked like Dimitria. He lay down and covered his eyes with his arm. The picture dangled from his fingers. Yes, she looked like Dimitria, but her cheekbones, her chin, they looked so much like his when he was her age.

He thought about the night he'd given Dimitria and Achilles a ride back to Diakofto. Achilles had insisted on being dropped off first, but thinking back, he had to admit he'd wanted to be alone with her. He had wanted her, like he did when they were kids playing in her bedroom. He hadn't thought about that in a long time. Every kid experimented. It was natural. Innocent. Nothing happened except a bit of touching and awkward kissing. He'd never given it much thought, certainly didn't think of it in the same way Dimitria had. When they got together again, in Greece, Dimitria had told him she was glad that she was finally going to lose herself to him. It was what she wanted. “You were my first love,” she'd said. “Remember when we were kids? I waited all this time for you to come back so I could be yours. I knew you would.”

He looked at the back of the picture.
Theodora, 5 years old.
Her name was Theodora. She had a name. He had a picture. How could he ignore her now?

He got up and went to the window. Maybe somehow they could make it work. He tried to imagine bringing Dimitria and the child to Vancouver. Maybe they could have some kind of life together. Alexia would love a little sister. They'd be a family. He shook his head, dislodging the image. “Don't be ridiculous. You don't love her,” he said out loud. Does it matter? he wondered. The child. Theodora is more important.

He picked up the letter. There were only a few words.
As you can see work progresses and time passes with everything.

Achilles included Dimitria's address and phone number.
I include it in every letter in the hopes you will come to your senses and return. They need you.

Nicolai gazed at the clock on his nightstand. It was already morning in Greece. He folded the letter and told himself he'd call tomorrow.

What would he say? That he had so much. Of course, he would share it with them. Make their lives better. But what if she wanted more? He could only give so much. Sara understood that. Sometimes he forgot what she looked like, the way she held him and listened to him go on and on. She was right here on his nightstand and still he sometimes worried he'd forget her, or worse, that Alexia might. He couldn't give anyone more. But he could help the child.
Theodora.
He could do that. Alexia wouldn't need to know. He would keep everything separate. For now. Maybe later, who knew?

He pulled the letter from its hiding spot at the back of the drawer and picked up the phone. After the first ring, he hung up, shoved his hands in his armpits until he calmed down. He was being silly. She probably wasn't even home. He dialled again.

A little girl answered. Dimitria came on the line, apologized that her daughter had grabbed the phone and said hello two or three times. He said nothing. “The person doesn't want to talk to us,” he heard Dimitria say.

“It's me,” he said.

There was a hesitation, dead air. “I understand,” she said finally.

He wondered where Theodora was in relation to her mother and then heard the little girl whine, “Mommy, I'm hot. When can we go?”

“We will in a moment,” she said. “Let me finish here first.”

“I can call back.”

“No.”

“How are you?” he asked.

“We're well,” she said.

“Achilles sent me a picture.”

“I told him not to,” Dimitria said. “We can take care of ourselves.”

“I can help.”

“Look, Achilles wants you to come back,” she said. “He sends you these things to entice you. But we are fine. Believe me. She doesn't know you.”

“Maybe we should change that.”

“It's too late,” Dimitria said. “There's someone else. And besides, you remember what you said to me before you left? You were talking about the time we were children. You said, ‘we were just playing house'. And you were right. We played house as children and we went farther, too far, as adults. But it was never more than a game.”

“We could do something,” Nicolai said. “I mean for the child's sake.”

“Please don't call us again,” she said and hung up.

“Are you sick, Daddy? You slept in.”

He pulled the pillow off his head. She was standing by his bed, backpack over her shoulders. “I had trouble getting to sleep. What time is it?”

“Time for me to go to school.” She gathered up his pants and threw them on the chair, his socks and shirt went into the hamper. “Look at all this stuff!” She picked up something from the floor as he got out of bed. “Who's that?”

He wanted to grab the picture out of her hand and tear it up. “A friend,” he said, working to keep his voice calm. “It came in the mail.”

“Cute kid,” Alexia said. She put the picture on his bedside table beside Sara's framed picture. “Can we get going?”

In the years that followed, Achilles sent more pictures, more letters. Nothing happened with the promenade. The money dried up. Achilles couldn't find any more investors and Nicolai wasn't going to sink any more into the project. And that was that. Achilles's parents died and he inherited their house; he invited Nicolai to come and stay with him any time he wanted. Theodora grew. He kept one picture of her in his desk. He wasn't sure why this one over all the others. She sat on a blanket on the beach, smiling at the camera, hopeful.