“Hello. Petrosian?” I asked as pleasantly as I could. Her expression shifted at my words. There was interest in her eyes and something else. Her face tightened.
“American?”
“Yes,” I said, and then repeated it in Armenian. She spoke quickly, too fast for me to understand. I interrupted with the Armenian word for slower. She repeated herself again as if she were talking to a dull child. I caught about half the words. Something about a plane and mountains. I smiled.
“I look for Tamara Petrosian,” I said, excited that I was at the right place. I saw anger in her face. I was missing something again. I quickly raised my hands, trying to wipe away the last part and start again. “I am Jonathan,” I said, “I look for Tamara Petrosian.”
The words that flowed from the woman’s mouth came too fast. I heard more people moving in the apartment and prayed that one knew English. Two men, both larger than I, moved behind the woman as she opened the door further. I could see that their presence strengthened her.
“I look for Tamara Petrosian,” I repeated to the two men. The one on the left rattled off some words to the woman who nodded. The door in the next apartment opened, and another man older than the first two entered the hallway, nodding at the woman. She rattled off some more words that included a butchered form of my name and plane and mountains.
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m Jonathan.”
A series of cursing followed. Intermixed with Tamara and something about being wrecked or ruined. Followed by a question that had something to do with Tamara and my happiness. I was scared to reply. I was scared not to reply. I had no idea if I understood correctly. Hesitantly, I nodded. Wrong answer.
The man from the hall hit me square in the face. I blocked the next fist and kept shouting “No” as the other two man came into the hall around the old woman. They were yelling, which drew more people out of their apartments. I remembered the ring and fumbled in my front pocket as a fist found my stomach. The ring box tumbled away as I doubled over and drove myself forward, into my attacker, trying to turn it into a wrestling match. The three men weren’t having it.
My arms were restrained, and I was lifted up. I kicked out, trying to move one of the men away from me. I was slammed against the wall, and another fist found my nose causing momentary blackness and a flood of warmth over my lips. I closed my eyes waiting for the inevitable next strike I could no longer avoid.
The woman yelled something. I could only pull out the word ‘stop’ in her words. The expected fist didn’t come. I opened my eyes. I breathed through my mouth since my nose was no longer functioning properly. The woman held up the open ring box and asked a question. I understood the name Tamara, but the rest went to fast, and my brain wasn’t exactly running at full speed. There was no way I was going to nod again.
“I don’t understand.” The words slurred out of my mouth in a horrible rendition of Armenian. The women repeated the question slower. Something about Tamara, the ring, and payment or gift. I slumped against the wall. “I’m not answering,” I said in English, “I don’t understand, and I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to see Tamara Petrosian.”
“She want to know if ring is payment for…pleasure with Tamara,” a woman with straight blonde hair, obviously dyed, said in English. I smiled stupidly at her, never so pleased to find someone who spoke English.
“Payment?” I asked. Blood was entering my mouth as I spoke, but my secured arms disallowed wiping it away, “why would they think that?” I shook my head no. More Armenian words were exchanged quickly.
“You American who crash plane with Tamara?” the woman asked.
“Yes, Jonathan Bennett,” I said hoarsely. I had to cough to clear my throat, “why do these people want to beat me up?”
“You ruin her life. They say you think her… I don’t know word…woman who sell sex,” the woman responded with her hands on her hips. I think she thought the same of me. My breath caught in my chest. Tamara must think of me as garbage. My eyes teared up as I looked back at the woman.
“I love her,” I said, the words choking, “that ring…I meant to ask her to be my wife.” Words began to be exchanged. “Where is she?” I tried to interject. I switched Armenian, “Where is Tamara?” I couldn’t bear her hating me.
“They say you lie,” the woman said, “you not see her for year. Now you want…buy sex. Hurt her more.”
“I was in a hospital,” I said quickly, “my legs were shattered. I was in a coma for two months. I had no idea…”
“Slow, slow,” the woman demanded. She grasped English better than I grasped Armenian, but she had her limits.
“I was in a hospital,” I repeated slowly, “I was in a coma for two months.”
“Coma, what is this word,” she asked.
“Knocked out, unconscious, asleep,” I said until she nodded so I could continue “my leg bones were shattered. I couldn’t walk.” I signaled for her to translate. More words were exchanged, and I only understood a tenth of them. I was beginning to think Ruben was a lousy teacher.
“You family try pay her. Send her away.” the blonde woman stated. The expression of the older woman was just this side of evil. I had no answer for this, but the truth.
“My father and mother were foolish,” I said, “they didn’t like me with Tamara.” More words were exchanged. I noticed the grip had lessened on my arms. I stood up straighter but didn’t make an attempt for freedom.
“Why not family like her?” the blonde woman asked. I could see this was going to drag out. We had a fairly large audience in the hallway.
“She doesn’t speak English,” I answered, then added more truth, “because she is not American.” I was going to get it all out in the open while I had an interrupter. I watched the black haired woman’s face soften as more words were exchanged. She was nodding to the blonde woman as she rattled off her response.
“She not like you. You not Armenian.” The blonde woman was holding back a smile. I felt as if I had crossed some line. The we-no-longer-want-to-kill-you line.
“Is she Tamara’s mother?” I asked. The blonde woman nodded. I thought for a second then took a risk. The truth was working so far.
“Tell her, if Tamara asks me to leave, I will leave Armenia,” I said slowly, “until then, I don’t care whether she likes me or not.” The blonde woman smiled at me. She turned and exchanged more words. She was still smiling when she turned back to me.
“She not hate you now,” the blonde woman chuckled. My arms were released, and the two men attempted to brush me off and straighten my shirt. I was sure my face was a mess. Tamara’s mom held out her hand and smiled when I took it. She pulled me into the apartment while she called out some instructions that involved the name, Tamara. I suspected the men to be Tamara’s brothers. One responded to his mother and took off down the hall. The other two entered with me. Thankfully, the blonde woman entered as well.
Unlike the drab hall, the apartment was plush. Red seemed to be the main color, with large paintings covering the cement block walls. An accordion divider, as tall as a man, was used to block off a portion of the Soviet boredom on one wall. The divider had an intricate medieval scene with a red flowered border. I was led to a red couch that was sitting on a very fine throw rug. I started to sit down and then reconsidered when Tamara’s mother scolded me. I didn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear. She pointed at the floor where I stood and walked off. I stood still as ordered.
“My name Viktoria,” the blonde woman introduced herself.
“I’m Jonathan,” I returned, “I owe you my thanks.” I felt a little foolish standing in the center of the room, under orders, with the others moving about examining me.
“No problem,” Viktoria said, “you good entertainment.” She laughed, which forced a smile to my lips. She looked a lot friendlier without the scowl on her face.
“I’m glad you decided to stay. I’d like to avoid more misunderstanding.”
“I would not miss,’ Viktoria responded with a sly smile. I saw something there in her face. I was the butt of a joke, or I was missing something. Maybe both.
“Yana,” Tamara’s mother said, pointing at herself. She had returned with some towels and pot full of water.
“Yana,” I repeated. She smiled as she lay a towel on the couch and indicated I should sit. I did. She didn’t seem like someone you said no to. Especially since two of her enforcers had taken chairs, sporting the same interest on their faces as Viktoria. She knelt in front of me and placed the pot on the floor. She pointed to one of the men, “Garik,” then at the other, “Davit.” I nodded to both who smiled back.
“Tamara’s brothers?” I asked Viktoria. She chuckled while nodding. A few words were exchanged between the brothers of which I understood little, but the tone indicated humor.
“They say sorry,” Viktoria snickered, “they thought you insult sister.” I knew the interpretation was missing something. I had heard the word American and something less than favorable.
“You are a diplomat,” I told Viktoria. She looked confused. The word was too much for her, so I let it go by waving my hand and smiling as if it didn’t matter.
Yana dipped a washcloth in the water and brought it to my face. She spoke in a tone one would use with a child as she began to wash under my nose. I almost reached up and took the cloth from her, but Viktoria shook her head no. The cloth came away bright red, with more blood than I had expected. Yana turned to Garik and spouted a command that had him bounding off.
After rewetting the cloth, Yana returned to my face with more tender words. Her free hand would tilt my face this way and that with no thought as to my fighting it. It took a few more dips of the cloth to clean my face to her satisfaction.
Garik returned with what looked like toilet paper. Yana grabbed it without a word, tore off a section, rolled it, and promptly stuffed it up my left nostril. Obviously, she thought it should be lodged all the way in my brain. I gasped at the final push and Davit laughed. He rattled off a statement that had Garik joining him. I looked at Viktoria, who smiled.
“They have memories,” Viktoria answered the unanswered question. I guess Yana was used to bloody noses. A few moments later, I had two wads of toilet paper stuffed up my nose and Yana was satisfied I wouldn’t bleed in her house.
“Thank you,” I said in my best Armenian. She smiled and then gave her boys a stern look. I guess they were sparse with their thank-yous.
“Where is Tamara?” I asked Viktoria. Viktoria had a conversation with Yana that seemed to make Garik and Davit smile. I understood that she was coming, but missed all the nuances and the part that was making Tamara’s brothers smile.
“Armen will bring,” Viktoria said. I assumed Armen was the older brother who lived next door. I wondered why Tamara wasn’t here.
“She doesn’t live here?”
“Down floor,” Viktoria replied, pointing at the floor. I guessed that meant downstairs.
“She has her own apartment?”
“No,” Viktoria said and didn’t elaborate. Thoughts entered my head. I should have known that Tamara had gone on with life. I was bedridden, so it didn’t occur to me to move on. The sly smile on Viktoria’s face had me prepared for a surprise. One, I suspected, I might not like.
Tamara’s brothers started conversing as their mother left the room with the dirty towels and water. Viktoria found humor in what they were discussing. I knew it had something to do with me. I looked between Viktoria and them with concern.
“What are you talking about?” I asked when the pressure got to me.
“Not important,” Viktoria replied. She said something to the brothers, and they all started to laugh. Yana returned with a scowl that halted the laughter quickly. She spoke, and all discussion stopped. She sat down next to me on the couch and patted my knee.
“Tamara worry,” Yana said slowly, in simple Armenian words. Probably the same words found in an Armenian first-grade reader. The look in her eyes was loving, almost parental. I assumed she meant that Tamara was worried about me. “She can’t find,” more simple words.
“I had trouble finding her as well,” I said in English, then looked at back at Viktoria. She interrupted my words, which brought a smile to Yana. We waited, and I listened to brief conversations where I understood one word in ten. The talking ended when the door opened.
Armen walked in, and a worried eyed Tamara followed. I stood when I saw her. She carried a bundle and didn’t approach as I neared. She carried a child. Viktoria was looking between us, her eyes wide with anticipation.
A series of thoughts ran through my mind. Tamara was a nanny; possibly she found another job downstairs. No, the way she held the child spoke of love, not duty. She had it close under her breasts as if it belonged there. Of course, she found someone else. The watery eyes fit. She was too pretty to be alone. She had too much love.
The expression on her face denied another love. I had seen that expression before. Once, in the hovel, she held out a pot with embarrassment. The look was near the same but held more concern. Her eyes searched mine, and I saw something there. Our time together had allowed me to read slight changes in her expression. The way her shoulders curled toward me and the way she resettled the child in her arms. Entire sentences were there, and my throat thickened. It was my child, our child, she held.
I moved forward, more hesitant than I should have. I wasn’t prepared to be a father. Tamara saw my nervousness and her eyes swelled. Her hand pulled the cloth away from the baby’s face, letting me see it unobstructed.
The child was sleeping, it’s skin perfectly pale. It’s mouth was moving rapidly like it was feeding from a breast. There was a calmness about it. Something so perfect. I felt my eyes fill. It didn’t matter if I was ready or not. The desire to wrap the child in my arms and protect it from the world was overpowering. I looked up at Tamara.
“I never thought anyone could be as beautiful as you,” I said in English. Viktoria unnecessarily translated. I could see that Tamara understood when her smile grew. I added my arm to help cradle the child and found Tamara’s lips. They were as soft as I remembered. A year did not diminish the love I felt in them. I ignored the conversation that erupted behind me as I lost myself in Tamara and our child.
“I love you,” I whispered in Armenian. Ruben at least taught me that well. I felt passion when our lips merged again. A felt the desire grow as it had in the hovel so many months ago. Tamara pushed me away gently, a smile holding a promise for later.
“Mother here,” Tamara whispered slowly. I smiled back, knowing that she felt the passion as well. I held out my arms and without hesitation, she placed our sleeping child in them. “Milena,” she told me my daughters name.
Milena fit her perfectly. She was so light and so comfortably asleep in my arms. “Milena is beautiful,” I said carefully in Armenian. I guess I got it correct when Tamara blushed with pride. I turned back to the couch with my bundled treasure. Yana was beaming like her daughter. I now understood why she thought I had ruined Tamara. They had thought I left Tamara with a child to raise on her own. In some ways, I deserved a bloody nose.
“You like surprise?” Viktoria asked me as I sat down with Tamara. I could see the thrill in her eyes. She had been waiting for this all along.
“She’s perfect,” I replied. I looked at Tamara. “They’re both perfect.” Viktoria chuckled while she translated. Yana responded, and Tamara shook her head. I looked between them both and then at Viktoria.
“Your family not like you now?” Viktoria asked. I smiled at the thought. They were convinced I had to choose between Tamara or my family. I guess my parents didn’t make a very good first impression with Tamara.
“I think Milena changes everything,” I said. I placed Milena in Tamara’s arms making sure Milena’s beautiful face was exposed. I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture. I had no idea what ungodly time in the morning it was back in Chicago, but I sent a text nonetheless. A picture of my daughter in her mother’s arms. The words simply said, ‘your granddaughter.’
I sat back on the couch and greedily took back the sleeping baby. I wanted so much for her to wake up, but I didn’t want to disturb her sleep. All my thoughts were jumbled. Milena changed everything. Tamara curled into me, and I made room. She liked me caring for Milena. Like I had any choice. God knows how much more of myself I would lose when Milena opened her eyes, which I prayed was soon.
“I am so sorry I wasn’t here for you,” I said to Tamara. She understood, but Viktoria translated anyway. “She is so wonderful. I can’t believe we made her,” I added. Tamara smiled and tucked herself closer. Viktoria started to translate and Yana interrupted with some quick commands that sent everyone but Tamara and I scampering away. Yana smiled at me and left to what looked like the kitchen. The woman was smart.
I wrapped my arm around Tamara, and we shared Milena between us. Our child slept as we found each other again. All my reservations were consumed by her lips. It didn’t matter that my Armenian sucked. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have clue-one on how to raise a child. Tamara and I would fuck up parenting together.
My phone rang. I pulled it out and smiled at the caller ID. My mother always kept her phone close when I was out of the country. It didn’t matter how old I got; she worried all the same. “Mother,” I said to Tamara in Armenian. She nodded as I put my mother on speaker. Even if Tamara couldn’t understand, I didn’t want to go private right now.
“Sorry to wake you, mom,” I said, “you’re on speaker with Tamara and me.”
“Oh,” my mom stuttered, not expecting a public conversation. I heard some shuffling, probably putting on her robe as if we could see her. “I…she’s beautiful, Jonathan…so beautiful.”
“She is incredible, I’m holding her, and I still can’t believe it,” I replied. I gave Tamara a quick kiss to ease her mind. I could tell she was apprehensive.
“Jonathan…I did things I regret,” I could hear tears in my mother’s words, “I didn’t…I thought…I wasn’t thinking. I am so sorry, Tamara.” I translated as best I could. I am sure it came out something like, “Mother sorry.” Tamara nodded and wiped at her eyes. I think she could hear the grief in my mother’s voice.
“Oh, Jonathan, I’m so sorry,” my mother continued. I thought it was done with. “Tamara tried to find you, and I told the embassy things when you were unconscious. I don’t want her to hate me.” I looked over to Tamara and saw her stiff face. She was tolerating my mother, not forgiving her.
“Did you know where Tamara was?” I asked. I was trying not to be angry, but this could be an issue. God only knows what Tamara thought of me during that time.
“I’m am really sorry,” my mother admitted without saying so. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. My anger flared, but the child in my lap refused to let me show it. Right at that moment, I hated my mother. I reached forward and disconnected. The strain building in my shoulders faded with the end of the call. If my mother knew, then most likely Kimberly knew as well. I moved Milena fully to Tamara’s lap. I dropped to my knees in front of her.
“I’m so sorry, Tamara,” I said in English. There was no way I could say it clearly in Armenian, “my mother didn’t understand. She was a fool.” I paused for a moment, looking into her dark eyes. Her family’s initial reaction to me made complete sense. I would have beaten myself up. “I love you,” I said in Armenian. Her forgiving smile was so lovely. She reached forward and pulled me up to her. She may not fully understand what transpired, but she understood my current desire. Her lips forgave me in so many wonderful ways. I was hoping I would learn to forgive myself and maybe even my mother.
A coo in Tamara’s lap broke our kiss. I looked down at baby blue eyes that were full of curiosity. They moved all over my face in wonder as I searched hers. A smile I couldn’t control forced my lips to curl. Milena copied mine, hers was a toothless smile and held unbridled excitement. Tamara giggled as my heart melted. I was no longer Jonathan; I was Melina’s father. She and Tamara were now the most important people in the world.
I spent the next few minutes making Milena laugh. I never thought I would be one of those idiots spouting foolish gibberish to babies. Melina’s smile was just too precious, and her unpracticed toothless laugh made my heart sing. Tamara was biting her lower lip to control her smile as I played with our daughter. I loved life at that moment.
Tamara eventually made me lie down on the couch. I had Milena sitting on my stomach as Tamara slowly pulled the tissue I had forgotten about, out of my nose. She was muttering something about brothers as she struggled to undo what her mother had done. I had fun flexing my stomach, making Milena bounce that in turn, caused her to smile.
Dinner was a casual affair. I had refused to answer my mother’s two attempted calls. I was still angry at her and needed to stew a bit before I could forgive her. Yana served a very tasty sausage dish, laced with garlic, called Yershig. She served it with bottled water that seemed out of place. Viktoria was invited to help translate.
I spent most of the dinner trying to find out facts about Milena. Her birthday, how the birth went, and everything else I could gather with words. Milena slept fairly well and could almost make it through the night now.
I found myself slightly jealous when Tamara decided to feed Milena. Tamara was struggling to keep a straight face with Milena attached to her breast, as I failed miserably to hide my idiotic concern. It was such a beautiful thing ruined by my stupid brain.
I explained, as best I could, about my hospitalization. There were small bouts of words between Tamara and her mother as I explained. From what I could understand, Tamara was going through a litany of I-told-you-sos and Yana was admitting she had misjudged me. My parents had stirred up a hornet’s nest. I explained how Ruben had given me the clue that led me to them. They all agreed that Ruben was a better friend than Armenian language teacher.
I excused myself to use the restroom. One of the few things I could ask about in Armenian without error. Tamara showed me the way, leaving Milena in the arms of her mother.
The apartment only had one bathroom. The place was utilitarian and contained little in the way of conveniences. The perfect Soviet hovel. There was a toilet, tub, and sink. The tub was full of water with a handled pot sitting on it’s ledge. I looked at Tamara, who mimed lifting water from the tub with the pot and filling the toilet tank. She turned on the faucets, and they gurgled a bit, but no water came out, showing me the lack of plumbing. She mimed washing her hands and using the pot to rinse them off. Her motions were quite clear. Her words of explanation were lost on me. I wondered how they got water into the tub if the plumbing didn’t work.
Tamara moved over to the corner and crossed her arms across her body and smiled. It took me a moment to realize that she intended to stay as I relieved myself. In my best Armenian, I told her to get the heck out as kindly as possible. She shook her head and laughed. I could see the moment on the mountain in her eyes when she was forced to pee in the hovel with me present. This was some kind of loving revenge. If I remembered, I had peed also in that hovel. Of course, she went first. I shrugged my shoulders and unzipped my pants. I could hear her snickering as I emptied my bladder into the toilet, keeping my back to her as best I could. I couldn’t help it, as strange as it was, it made me smile. When I was done, and parts put away, Tamara was biting her bottom lip thinking herself funny. It made me laugh, which set her off as well. We needed it.
I flushed and refilled the toilet tank. I then washed my hands as Tamara dumped water over them. As I was drying them on a towel, Tamara scooted up behind me, her body molding to mine as she whispered something in my ear. I heard the word love mixed with others, her hands roaming over my chest emphasized the words. I turned in her arms, and we kissed passionately.
“I change,” Tamara said, in simple Armenian I could understand, “Milena change me.” She took my hand and placed it on her stomach and moved it along her hips. I could hear a little anxiety in her words. Silly fears about the changes in her body and my reaction to them. I smiled into her lips and let my hand travel to her butt. I pulled her in close and let my tongue wake up the feelings I had been waiting a year to feel.
“Beautiful,” I whispered, unable to express much more in Armenian. Her smile was all the confirmation I needed. The mother of my child desired me. A part of my body was suddenly concerned about the sleeping arrangements for the night. In some ways, surviving on a mountain top is easier than normal life. In other ways, Milena existed. I greedily wanted both.
Dessert was something called Paklava. A pastry with a gut of cheese that I found very tasty. It went well with the potent coffee Yana served.
I asked Viktoria about the water and received a lesson in Armenian history. An earthquake destroyed most of the infrastructure in the late 1980s. Although electricity had been fully restored long ago, the water systems had yet to be fully rebuilt. The Kurkjian buildings had water from seven at night until three in the morning. There wasn’t enough pressure to feed the whole city at the same time. Everyone bathed at seven, and then they filled the tub and some jugs for the next day. To them, it was just part of life, a minor inconvenience.
I was holding Milena, watching her sleep in my arms when a discussion erupted between Tamara and her mother. Viktoria looked away as if it wasn’t happening. Tamara’s brothers were trying not to laugh. I heard my name in the mix, and I could see Yana trying to make a point and Tamara putting her foot down. When it was over, Tamara looked at me.
“I go you tonight,” Tamara said slowly, in Armenian. Yana looked less than pleased. I was more than pleased. Tamara had a stubborn look on her face. I knew it was for her mother, but it also dared me to say no. I smiled, the same smile I used on the mountain when we were thinking the same thing. I loved the smile I got in return. I looked down at Milena. “Both my loves are with me tonight, my beautiful one,” I whispered.
Viktoria called us a cab. Tamara went downstairs to pack up a few things. She was staying with a grandmother I had yet to meet. From what I could discern, her pregnancy caused friction, and the family thought it best that she and her mother had some distance. Yana shooed the brothers away but kept Viktoria to translate.
“You leave?” Yana asked through Viktoria.
“Leave?” I pondered, “Leave for where?”
“Leave Tamara and baby. Go home,” Yana clarified.
“I just found them,” I said, my anger rising, “no one is taking them away now.” Viktoria waved her hands, trying to erase her statement. She thought for a moment then started again.
“You stay with Tamara long time,” Victoria restated. Yana was looking confused. They were asking if I had intentions of leaving Tamara. Yana didn’t like Tamara staying with me. She was trying to figure out if I was in it for the long haul.
“Forever,” I said. Viktoria didn’t understand the word. “Long time,” I restated, “til I die.” Her eyes widened, and she translated, hopefully correctly, to Yana. Yana looked at me when Viktoria finished.
“Tamara my baby,” Yana said. It needed no translation.
“Milena my baby,” I said, raising my daughter from my lap, “Tamara my love.” Yana eyes looked me over as she assessed the truth of my words. Finally, she nodded and reached into the pocket of her dress and withdrew my ring box. She pushed across the table to me.
“You marry?” Yana asked.
“If Tamara say yes,” I answered in Armenian before Viktoria could translate. Yana smiled and rattled off words that left my realm of understanding.
“She say,” Viktoria said with a smile, “If Tamara say no, you see her. She change Tamara mind.” I laughed as I took the ring box. I had a future mother-in-law in my corner. Right then, I liked her more than my mother.
“She think maybe you not stay with Tamara,” Viktoria said unprompted. They were Viktoria’s words and not Yana’s. She was becoming a friend. I still had some trust to earn. I gave her a smile.
“I’ll never leave Tamara again,” I said. Viktoria smiled back. I think she was Tamara’s friend as well.
Tamara returned with Garik. Between the two of them, there were two suitcases and two gym bags. My eyes widened. Tamara smiled at my surprise.
“Me,” Tamara said, indicating her one small suitcase, “Melina,” she continued, pointing at the rest. I looked down at my sleeping daughter and laughed. She fit in the notch of my arm yet had more stuff than Tamara and I combined. At least Yana was laughing as well. I guess she had a little more trust in her daughter.
The trip back to the hotel went without incident, and I think I finally got the tip right. A calm smile and the tip of an imaginary hat from the cabby confirmed it. I had a crib brought up to the room, declined the fourth call from my mother, and brought Tamara to the first real room we would share together.
Tamara worked quickly, setting the crib to rights and organizing Melina’s stuff while I entertained Milena on the bed. I found out that she was rather ticklish. I would run my finger lightly along the instep of her tiny feet, and she would laugh and kick at me. It was most entertaining.
Tamara sat down behind me, leaning her head over my shoulder and watched as I teased our daughter. I could feel her smile on my cheek as Milena and I played. Arms came around me, hugging me close. Shivers ran down my spine when I felt lips kissing lightly, just below my ears. It was arousing, but I could feel her desire only to convey love, not excite. Not, at least, while Milena was awake.
The mood was broken when Melina’s face became distorted, and a series of wet sounds emitted from her bottom. Milena seemed relieved. Tamara laughed and stood back. I looked up at Tamara with apprehension and a small amount of hope. I saw only humor in her face as she collected a diaper from one of the gym bags. She was desperately trying not to look happy. I think I was about to experience a little revenge for missing the birth of my child.
“Jonathan,” Tamara called in her lovely accent. I turned and caught the diaper that she tossed my way. The smile on her face was brutal. She expected me to change my first diaper right that moment. I smiled back as if it was going to be an easy task. Inside, I was cringing.
Undoing the old diaper was easy, opening it brought back my survival instincts. Tamara found my face hilarious. Milena began kicking her feet with excitement, making an awful runny mess worse. I was handed moist wipes and began trying to clean up the discharge while trying not to look at it. For such a tiny butt, my daughter produced a large mess. It took a lot longer than I expected to clean it all up. I rolled the dirty wipes into the foul diaper and closed it up. Tamara had a plastic bag ready for it. I powdered Melina’s butt as instructed and affixed the new diaper under Tamara’s watchful eye. Milena thought the whole process was exciting.
When I looked up to Tamara, emotionally exhausted, she tackled me right there on the bed. The kissing was fierce. I suspected I passed a test. Milena started cooing next to us which ended our quick bout of passion. I didn’t think Tamara could be any happier. Somehow, she found my changing the diaper thrilling. I was secretly hoping my daughter would fill another as I wrapped Tamara in one arm and tickled Melina’s foot with the other.
It took a long time to get Milena to sleep. She was in a playful mood, probably due to the new surroundings and an overly attentive father. Once her eyes were closed, her practiced mother was able to deposit her in the crib without her waking.
“Shhh,” Tamara warned me with her finger to her lips. The smile in her eyes told me I would have trouble following the command. She shut off the main light and began unbuttoning her blouse. I stopped her with a kiss, moving her arms to her sides. I wanted so much to undress her myself.
“I have been waiting a year,” I whispered in English. She needed no translation since the tone was more important than the words. “I want this to last,” I added as I began to complete the unbuttoning of her blouse. She smiled and allowed me to my pleasure. I pushed the blouse over her shoulder and let it fall to the floor. My lips began tasting her newly exposed skin. It was softer than I remembered. I delighted in the shiver I sent through her body as my fingers explored.
“Shhh,” I warned as a moan escaped her lips. My smile matched hers as she saw the humor in my warning. I undid that clasp on her bra and released her heavy breasts. She whispered something as I explored them, I am sure explaining their increased size and weight. I cared not for the biology, only the beauty. That they feed my daughter made them more wonderful though I took care not to use too much pressure. Light kisses and tender caresses brought more lovely sounds to my ears.
“Shhh,” Tamara giggled to me. It was her making the sounds. I suppressed my laugh at the irony. I undid her pants and slowly lowered them. Above her panty line, I could see light lines of her pregnancy, the marks of motherhood in the dim light. Tamara’s hand covered one as she whispered her concern. I dropped to my knees and moved her hand. My lips caressing the marks, loving what she had gone through without me, trying to erase my guilt for not being there. Her hand found my hair as I kissed every line, following them across her belly. I looked up as I lowered her panties.
“I love you,” Tamara whispered, her eyes glossy with tears. Guilt flooded through me. I hadn’t been there when she needed me. I wanted her to know that I would be there from now on. Nothing would drag me away again. She stepped out of her panties, and I kissed the top of her soft mound. I rose, and our lips joined as she began undressing me.
Tamara showed no further shyness when my clothes found the floor. Her hand wrapped around my obvious arousal as she whispered tempting words in my ear. I understood one in ten, but the idea was very clear. My hand found a home between her thighs. Her words lost structure as I explored. I could feel her lips curving on my neck as I softly played with her. She was as excited as I.
We fell upon the bed and Tamara pulled me between her legs. There was so much room compared to the hovel, no cold, yet the feeling was the same. There was no more impending doom forcing us into each other’s arms. We simply didn’t want to be anywhere else. Eye to eye, I entered her. She wrapped her legs around me and held me deep as we shared the same air. I tried to move, but she countered it by lifting her hips, and a smile emerged on her face. She whispered something about putting things together, joining. I relaxed, letting my smile merge with hers. She wanted to hold me in her, just feel me. I couldn’t think of a better place to be.
“A little bit of heaven,” I whispered. Tamara nodded though she didn’t understand a word of my English. I played with the hair, forcing it behind her ear with caressing strokes. We lay, studying each other, sharing looks and smiles, speaking volumes without a saying a word. In time, our bodies revolted, no longer able to withstand such stillness. We moved with the grace of knowing lovers, accenting each other’s movements and enhancing the pleasure we found in each other.
Tamara lost herself first, something I was worried my growing excitement wouldn’t allow. Her pelvis rose, grinding into mine, The movement, and her moans set my body on fire. I joined her on a luxurious flight into the clouds. Both of our bodies stiffened, my face buried in the pillow in an attempt to not wake Melina.
We held each other as control returned to our muscles. Tamara, giggling, was kissing my shoulder. “We are damn good at that,” I said in English when my breath returned. Tamara agreed, knowing my meaning if not my words. I laughed at her happy eyes, and she broke into laughter as well. It was a wonder that Milena never woke.
++++++++++++++++++++++
I awoke as Tamara was untangling herself from me. Milena was crying. Not an end-of-the-world cry. A small cry announcing she was awake. I sat up to ease Tamara’s movements. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I heard Tamara soothing Milena as she picked her up. Tamara sat down on the end of the bed and began feeding our daughter. I scooted behind Tamara, kissing her shoulder and watched Milena suckle with her eyes closed. I wasn’t even sure she fully woke up.
Tamara leaned into me with a sigh. I became her back support, lightly caressing her sides as her head fell back on my shoulder. We shared a brief kiss as Tamara shifted to make herself more comfortable in my arms. Both mother and child had their eyes closed. I smiled at the wonderful experience. It was a habit of love for the two, but it was new to me.
My daughter was a pig. I lightly stroked her cheek as she suckled. I could feel her muscles working hard. I wondered if it was painful for Tamara. She didn’t seem to be bothered as she lay contented against my back. I felt Tamara smile when I lightly caressed her breast trying to figure out how it all worked. I kissed Tamara softly, and she closed her eyes again. The whole situation was surreal and well worth the loss of sleep.
Finally, when Milena was fully sated, her mouth lost contact with the nipple. I smiled at her contented face lost in dreamland. Tamara shivered awake when I moved. I calmed her and lifted Milena carefully in my arms. Tamara sleepily whispered something I didn’t understand as I moved toward the crib, my daughter snuggled to my chest.
Milena made a gurgling sound and belched in her sleep. I have no idea what mother’s milk smelled like straight out of the breast. I now knew it had a very unpleasant odor when it came back up. I held Milena away from the mess she just made on my chest. Tamara was stifling a laugh as she whispered something close to “I told you so.” I laid Milena carefully in her crib and turned to a smiling Tamara who was waving me toward the bathroom. The diaper and the spit-up were happy revenge for me missing so much. I had to smile when Tamara began cleaning me up. She seemed so pleased that I took it well. Daughters were messy. They made up for it by being so damned cute.
I, again, fell asleep in Tamara’s arms.
We spent the next day being tourists. Tamara was showing me the sites of Yerevan, walking where we could and driving when we had to. Milena rode on my chest in a baby sling thing that allowed her to see everything without expending any energy. Every once in awhile, I had to hand her over to Tamara. Milena needed reassurance that mom was still there.
We were at the foot of the Cascades, a beautiful art deco version of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, when I decided to risk everything. I knew what I wanted. I believed Tamara wanted it as well. There was fear all the same. I retrieved the little black ring box and placed it into Melina’s hand. I pretended not to notice as she tasted it and let out a grunt when it didn’t fit in her mouth. Tamara, a mother who knew her grunts, turned and quickly removed it from Melina’s fingers. She was talking, mostly to herself as she examined the small box with confusion. Milena reached out to try and grab it back, but mom wasn’t having it.