Spy Mom (16 page)

“The doctor said a pain moving from back to front in waves,” I said. “This is not a pain moving back to front in waves. It is a pain from my head to my toes and not taking the time to do the wave thing. So I don't think it's it.”

“Are you sure?”

Just as he asked, I felt a huge gush of warm water cascading down my legs.

“No,” I said meekly. “Definitely not sure.”

“Shit!” Will jumped up from the couch, ran down the hallway, ran back, did a lap around the couch, and stopped short in front of me, still standing in my puddle.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Will started to laugh. “I don't know,” he said.

“You need to calm down now, okay?”

“Okay, okay.” He nodded, regaining his composure. “I'll get your bag. Let's go.”

At the hospital, the nurse yelled at me. “Why did you wait so long? What were you doing?”

I shrugged. “I didn't think this was it.”

“Not it? This baby is almost ready for college!” With that she took off down the hall, barking orders at everyone she passed.

Will stroked my hair and looked adoringly into my eyes. “I think it's too late for the epidural,” he said.

I thought about that for a moment. As every spy I knew, I'd taken the occasional beating on behalf of my country. But I'd never been broken, never gave up anything that I wasn't supposed to. As the searing pain in my abdomen gathered force, I hoped that would count for something.

“Try breathing,” Will suggested.

“I am breathing,” I growled. “If I wasn't I'd turn blue and die. Got it?”

Will closed his eyes and gathered his resources. “You are a strong person, Lucy, stronger than anyone I know. You can do this.”

To prove it, I gripped his hand so hard he winced. But I held on as the tidal waves of pain washed over me.

“Why didn't he kill me in Madrid?” I gasped, my vision blurry from exertion.

“Who, baby?” Will asked.

“Blackford,” I snarled. “And how dare he go and get himself dead before he could explain?”

Will gave me a funny look. Right at that moment, the nurse returned with the doctor on call.

“How are we doing?” the doctor asked.

“She's babbling incoherently,” Will said.

“Oh, that can happen. Don't pay any attention to it.”

Twelve minutes later, Theo burst on the scene. And Will never asked me about Ian Blackford and why exactly he didn't kill me in Madrid.

Back at home, carrying around my wrinkled and red bundle of joy, I slipped into a fog of contentment. Yes, I was exhausted, up every two hours, wrestling with diapers and tiny little pajamas, and freaking out that my baby would die of SIDS if I didn't check his breathing every ten minutes. I was hopped-up on a cocktail of anxiety and exhaustion that reminded me of life in the field and yet I felt oddly at peace.

I knew it was weird because I'd never felt it before. It was as if the slate was suddenly wiped clean and I could start again. The person I was before was gone. I was now Theo's mom and my job was to help him grow and learn and keep him safe. That was it. Simple.

Will was impressed with my multitasking mothering skills, with my ability to talk on the phone, change the baby, feed the cat, and put away the dishes all on twenty minutes of sleep and about a hundred cups of coffee. He said I had two pairs of eyes. Which was true. When I started my Agency training, Simon told me rule number one was to grow eyes in the back of my head. So I did. They came in handy being a mother. I can't tell you how many times I've grabbed Theo as he was about to fall down a set of stairs or trip on an uneven stretch of sidewalk. Even if he's behind me, my hand flies on its own, grasping onto his collar at the last second, stopping him from tumbling into oblivion. So maybe being a spy is good training for being a mom? Maybe.

It is 8
P.M
. when my husband rolls through the door into our very clean house. Theo has been fed and bathed and has been sleeping soundly for thirty minutes already. Instead of collapsing on the couch with a magazine, as I usually do, I've been pacing around trying to banish Simon Still, Ian Blackford, and the Blind Monk from my consciousness, sloshing red wine out of my very full glass with every agitated step. Short of banging my head against the actual wall, I'm at a complete loss as to how to shut off the noise in there.

Will looks at the red spots all over the floor, a small trickle of wine running down my wrist.

“Rough day?” he asks.

“No, it was fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Terrific day. Really. Here. Have some wine.” I shove my dripping glass into his hand.

“I have to go to yoga in about three minutes. Can you wait for dinner until I come back? If you're starved there's food in the oven.” I wonder if he can sense the nervous tension rising from me like an off-color aura.

“No, I can wait. I have a few work odds and ends to catch up on.”

“Of course you do. Why wouldn't you?” I say.

“Are you sure nothing happened today? You sound a little angry.”

“Nope. Perfectly fine. Not my fault you're a workaholic. Theo is asleep but you should go in and see him. If you can spare the time,” I say, grabbing my yoga mat and bag and heading toward the door.

“I hope the yoga makes you feel better,” Will shouts after me. “If not, you can beat me up when you get home.”

As I jump in my car, I can't help but smile. I should run back in and kiss him and tell him I'm sorry for being so nasty. None of this is his fault. But I don't.

Since my meeting with Simon, I feel like I'm suffering a relapse. I'm looking around too much. I'm expecting to see something out of place. I'm waiting for someone to come at me from the shadows. It feels a bit like putting on an old but beloved leather jacket and discovering it doesn't fit exactly like it used to. Your body is different, changed in some small but fundamental way.

Avery has saved me a space on the floor between her and Sam. Sam is the only man in the class, the only grandfather, and by far the most flexible human being I've ever met. When I asked him how he got that way, he said he used to be a trapeze artist with a traveling circus. I still don't know if he was kidding.

“Sorry I'm late,” I whisper, assuming my downward dog. It hurts. I can feel the pull in my ass in a way I never would have ten years ago. There is nothing like running for your life on a regular basis to keep you fit. Now I have incredibly strong arms from toting around my son, but the rest of me has gone to hell. I grimace.

“Redistribute your weight,” Sam whispers. “More on your heels.” I do as he says and the pressure disappears. The instructor glares at us. He would like us never to come to his class again, but cannot figure out a nice way to ask. I try to concentrate on my practice, but all I can see is Simon sitting in the Java Luv, waiting to ruin my life.

“Of course he's not dead. No one ever saw the body. You
always
see the body.”

“Who's dead?” Avery asks, under her breath.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“You said something.”

“Blithering,” I say, tapping my head. “Mommy brain.” We have moved on to sun salutations, which are far more painful than being kidnapped by a turncoat. The room is quiet, everyone trying very hard to block out the day, the frantic energy that keeps us all going from early morning until late at night.

I remember the last time I saw Ian Blackford, the last time he snuck up on me in a dark alley and, within seconds, had me over his shoulder, hauling me off to some hotel room where he would lock me in the bathroom for a while. Such a cliché to be abducted in a dark alley. I didn't even bother to scream.

“What is it this time?” I asked from my somewhat uncomfortable position dangling upside down, watching the street pass below my head.

“Time for a conference,” Blackford said.

“Can you please let me walk? I'm not going to run away,” I said.

“And why is that, Sally Sin? Why is it you don't run away? Do you enjoy the slightly illicit quality of our meetings?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Exactly what I said. I think you might be disappointed if I stopped carrying you off every once in a while.”

“That's ridiculous,” I said with a little too much bravado, considering my situation. “Every time I see you, you threaten to kill me. It's not very nice.”

“Then why don't you run?”

The real answer was because I had a sneaking suspicion that my running would do nothing more than make the game more enjoyable for Blackford. And I still had my pride. What was left of it anyway.

“No smart answer for that one?”

“I could shoot you,” I said.

“Yes, but that would require you to carry your gun. Where is your gun, Sally?”

A fine question. In my desk drawer. In my office. About eight thousand miles away. But I couldn't very well tell him that.

“Fuck off, Blackford,” I said instead. And that just made him laugh.

In about ten minutes, Blackford put me down. We were outside a small bar on a tight Hanoi street crowded with street vendors, scooters, chickens, and people.

“I thought I'd buy you a drink,” Blackford said.

“Do you promise not to put anything in it that's likely to have me wake up thinking I'm the reincarnation of Anne Boleyn?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Does that mean anything coming from you?” I said.

He fixed those eyes on me and smiled slowly. “Yes,” he said, “in fact, it does.” Caught in his gaze, I almost believed him. He swung open the door to the tiny bar and we went in.

We talked about the beaches in southern Vietnam. We talked about the Guatemalan jungle and how awful a Mexican prison can be if you can't find anyone to bribe. We talked about how thin the air is at nineteen thousand feet when you are running for your life and what it feels like to watch your guy get away. In the end, there was no point to any of it. He simply said he thought we should have a drink together. He seemed a little sad, although I would never have asked him why. After an hour, I said I had to go, work to do the next morning and that sort of thing. He was the enemy after all, although I was having a hard time keeping it straight.

“It was nice to see you, Sally,” he said, as we stepped out into the night. “You be good.” He started to walk away.

“Wait!” I shouted. He turned back toward me, the rush of people streaming by him on both sides. He could barely hold his place on the makeshift sidewalk. “Where does this all end?” It was not a question I'd intended to ask, nor did I know exactly what I meant by it. “When I'm dead, Sally. But don't worry. It's on the horizon. I can almost see it.” Then the crowd swept him away. For a few minutes, I stood there in the bar entryway, unable to shake the feeling that I would never see Ian Blackford again.

I am deep in this thought when our yoga instructor, Conrad, makes the mistake of trying to adjust my triangle pose. His job, after all, is to make my triangle the best triangle it can be. But as I said, my old habits make for unpredictable behavior. Conrad simply lays his slim, pale hand on the small of my back, attempting to shift my weight a slight bit forward. And without thinking, in one swift move, I grab his arm and pull his entire body up and through the air, bringing him down hard on his back on my not-so-soft yoga mat. The next move in this series would have my knee on his throat and my gun to his head. Fortunately, I don't have a gun and stop my knee about two inches from its destination. Suddenly, everyone in the class is bolt upright, eyes wide, staring at me and at Conrad, laid out like a rug on the studio floor.

“Oh no,” I mumble, “I am so sorry.” I pull Conrad up to his feet. “Are you okay?”

It takes him a second to answer. “I think so,” he says.

“I'm taking this self-defense course,” I start. “Maybe I'm thinking about it too much? God, I'm really sorry.”

“Of course you are,” he says, glaring at me. “Okay, class. Back to triangle pose, please.” As he walks slowly back to the front of the class, I can see his hands are shaking. I try to regain my triangle pose but it's not looking so good.

“Holy shit,” Avery whispers. “What the hell was that?”

“Nice move,” Sam adds. “Where did you learn it? Because I'm not believing for a second it's from a self-defense for ladies class.”

“People,” Conrad shrieks. “People, please, we are here for yoga. Get centered. Now everyone assume triangle pose. Calmness, please.”

He sounds like a man on the edge, and I am half sure he is going to cry. What I did was inexcusable, a classic overreaction. I blame Simon. The remaining twenty minutes of the session are disjointed. People keep looking at me, and I keep trying to ignore them. This is bad. On a lot of levels. The class ends.

“I'm really sorry, Conrad,” I say.

“You
attacked
me,” he says, as if he just realized it. “I'd prefer it if you practiced with another instructor from now on.” With that, he turns his back on me. I could have killed you, I want to say. So maybe consider this a good day.

Out on the street, the fog has swallowed everything. As we walk through the soup, Avery and Sam beg for an explanation.

“I did some martial arts in college,” I say.

“That was so fast. I mean, he flew through the air. Can you teach me that move?” Sam asks.

“No,” I say, a little too loudly.

“Okay, fine. See you ladies later,” Sam says, sliding behind the wheel of his BMW.

“Really, Lucy, what was that about?” Avery asks. “You scared the hell out of that guy.”

“He never really liked us anyway,” I say.

“True, but that doesn't mean you had to beat him up.”

“That was really awful, wasn't it?” But Avery has started to laugh.