Into the Flame (5 page)
The day she’d discovered the truth.
Now, finding herself in the safe, familiar setting of the place she had always called home, she hugged her baby, her Aleksandr, and in a steady voice that surely belonged to a stranger, she asked, ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me that I’m adopted? That I’m not related to you? To any of you?’’ She looked right at the woman she had always believed to be her mother. At Zorana. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me I’m not your child?’’
Her father had the guts to look bewildered.
Her brothers exchanged glances, the kind she’d seen so many times before, the one that said,
She must have cramps.
She must have cramps.
The other people in the tiny living room—her brothers’ women, the strange man she had yet to meet—looked the way people did when they’d fallen into an emotional episode they would just as soon avoid.
But her mother . . . oh, yes. Her mother sat pale, frozen, wide-eyed . . . guilty.
Jasha spoke first, in that excessively reasonable, older-brother tone of voice that made her want to scream. ‘‘Firebird, are you thinking you were switched in the nursery? Because you were born at home. Rememberthe story? We all remember that night, and we’ve told you the story at least a dozen times.’’
His wife, Ann, touched his arm and, when he looked at her, shook her head.
‘‘What?’’ His voice rose a little. ‘‘I’m just pointing out the facts.’’
Firebird’s voice rose, too. ‘‘And I’m telling you what the doctor told me. I am not related to any of you. He made that plain enough.’’
Everyone at
Seattle
’s
Swedish
Hospital
had told the family that Dr. Mitchell was the best in the field of genetic illnesses. She herself had seen that he was first in the field of arrogance, and last in the field of tact.
Seattle
’s
Swedish
Hospital
had told the family that Dr. Mitchell was the best in the field of genetic illnesses. She herself had seen that he was first in the field of arrogance, and last in the field of tact.
‘‘Why the hell are your parents having me waste my time testing
you
? You’re adopted. I’m looking for a genetic mutation that is causing your father’s disease. You’re no good to us.’’ He turned away.
you
? You’re adopted. I’m looking for a genetic mutation that is causing your father’s disease. You’re no good to us.’’ He turned away.
‘‘Someone screwed up, and it’s not my parents.’’ Furious with him, Firebird stood and lunged, catching his arm. ‘‘I’m not adopted.’’
He looked down at her as if she were a worm. ‘‘Oh, for God’s sake. I don’t have time to screw with this. I don’t have time to counsel you through your shock and anger. The lab redid the blood test three different times. You’re no more related to Konstantine and Zorana Wilder and their sons than you are to me.’’ He flung the chart at her. ‘‘Look for yourself.’’
She had. She’d gone through the chart so many times the results were burned on her eyeballs. It never changed.
Konstantine pushed himself upright in his recliner and robustly said, ‘‘That jackass of a doctor made a mistake.’’
‘‘No. He didn’t. Papa, you are type A. Mama, you are type AB. That means all of your children must be blood type A, B, or AB. The hospital lab typed me as O negative.’’
‘‘Well, they’re wrong.’’ Rurik was the second son, a former Air Force pilot with an officer’s forceful way of expressing himself. ‘‘Jasha’s right. I remember that night, and it was raining so hard—no way anyone was switching babies around.’’
Adrik was the youngest son. He had been gone, vanished for seventeen years doing heaven knew what. He’d come back changed from a laughing teenager into a stern-faced man. Now he knelt beside Firebird and spoke gently, convinced he was right. ‘‘I remember seeing you the next morning. I thought you were the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, all wrinkled, red, and ugly. You were certainly a new baby. The hospital has to have messed this up.’’
‘‘I checked my card from the Red Cross blood center. I
am
O negative. It doesn’t take an advanced degree in genetics to see that someone with my blood type can’t be the child of two people who are their blood type.’’
am
O negative. It doesn’t take an advanced degree in genetics to see that someone with my blood type can’t be the child of two people who are their blood type.’’
The men exchanged glances.
‘‘Isn’t it possible there’s some kind of genetic mutation?’’ Ann asked.
Firebird looked right at Zorana. ‘‘I don’t know. Mama, what do you think?’’
‘‘God.’’ Zorana stared back, stricken with horror. ‘‘God.’’
Adrik got to his feet. ‘‘Mama?’’
‘‘Zorana?’’ Konstantine leaned forward. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’
Big tears welled in Zorana’s eyes. She pressed her fingers to her lips and shook her head in violent shudders.
The sight of her mother’s conscience-stricken face calmed Firebird’s agitation.
The worst was over. She had her confirmation.
It was true. Zorana knew it was true.
Firebird was not her daughter.
In a low tone, Firebird said, ‘‘Mama, why don’t you tell us everything you can remember about that night when you gave birth to . . . your baby.’’
Zorana nodded in wretched assent, and began the story Firebird had heard a dozen times. But this time, Zorana told them the details she’d kept hidden for so many years . . .
Chapter Three
Twenty-three years ago . . .
Lightning flashed.
Thunder roared.
‘‘Push, Zorana, push!
’’
’’
Wind slashed through the night.
Rain sluiced down in buckets, in inches an hour, pounding the windows of the Wilders’ small house.
In the haze created by pain, Zorana Wilder had lost control of the weather.
‘‘Push, Zorana, push!’’
Zorana bared her teeth at the doctor. ‘‘Get away from me.’’
‘‘Get away from you?’’ Dr. Lewis swayed on his feet, and if smell were any indication, he had swum through a river of whisky to get here through the storm. ‘‘If I don’t deliver this baby, who will? This old-maid schoolteacher?’’ He brayed with laughter.
Miss Joyce, the aforementioned old-maid schoolteacher, paced back and forth in the Wilders’ small master bedroom,
agitation, fear, or perhaps a bad application of blush placing a red spot of color on each cheek. She’d arrived with the doctor, dressed in her usual uniform of orthopedic shoes, a long-sleeved blue cotton dress buttoned up to her throat, and a pleated plastic rain bonnet. With thorough circumspection, she had explained that she’d been with him when he received the call and thought she should come and be of assistance.
agitation, fear, or perhaps a bad application of blush placing a red spot of color on each cheek. She’d arrived with the doctor, dressed in her usual uniform of orthopedic shoes, a long-sleeved blue cotton dress buttoned up to her throat, and a pleated plastic rain bonnet. With thorough circumspection, she had explained that she’d been with him when he received the call and thought she should come and be of assistance.
Zorana barely refrained from snapping that the best assistance Miss Joyce could have given was to keep him sober.
Some things were beyond even Miss Joyce’s authority.
If only Konstantine were here. Always before, when Zorana gave birth, he had held her hand and encouraged her with his rumbling voice and his strength. And it had been ten years since Zorana had given birth. This labor was grueling. This son was bigger. He’d come quickly, too quickly for her to get to the hospital, and now she strained and sweated in her own bed, by the light of two bedside lamps, attended by a drunkard and a sixty-year-old virgin.
Konstantine Wilder had a lot to answer for.
‘‘Where is he?’’ Zorana gasped. ‘‘Where is the bastard who got me into this condition?’’
Miss Joyce swam into view, the edges of her form wavering, her face distorted, her smile stretched and flat.
‘‘Damn you, Doctor,’’ Zorana gritted between her teeth. ‘‘What kind of drugs did you give me?’’
Dr. Lewis adjusted his glasses and peered at her in astonishment. ‘‘You asked for them. Remember? You told the schoolteacher—’’
‘‘No, I didn’t!’’ Zorana shouted. ‘‘No drugs. I told you . . . no drugs!’’
Miss Joyce wiped Zorana’s forehead with a damp cloth. ‘‘She doesn’t remember,’’ Zorana heard her say to the doctor.
If Zorana had had a single ounce of energy to spare, she would have leaped off the bed and slapped them both.
‘‘Push, Zorana, push!’’ Miss Joyce said.
Zorana grasped her knees, took a breath, leaned up, and pushed.
The bed shook with the roll of the thunder.
The pressure inside was deep and strong. The baby was almost here.
‘‘Where is Konstantine?’’ she cried in a panic.
‘‘The dam on the creek, the one he uses for irrigation, is giving way. It’s about to flood the vines.’’ The red spots in Miss Joyce’s cheeks grew mottled, and she fanned herself with her hand.
‘‘I don’t care about the vines. Let them wash away.’’ Zorana could feel another pain building. ‘‘Bring Konstantine. His son is coming.’’
Dr. Lewis laughed. ‘‘You think it’s another son?’’
Of course it was a son. For a thousand years, the Varinskis, and now the Wilders, had had only sons. She had three sons, strong sons, mischievous sons, beautiful sons. . . . ‘‘Get Konstantine here now!’’ Zorana demanded.
Miss Joyce pushed a pillow under her shoulders, and in a brisk schoolteacher tone, she said, ‘‘If he doesn’t get the flood under control, the house is going to wash away, and all of us with it.’’
Zorana looked out the window. The black night pressed against the glass. Then a spear of lightning so bright it seared her eyeballs blasted the darkness.
She moaned. Tears of pain and fear slipped from the
corners of her eyes, and worry splintered her mind. Her other boys—Jasha, Rurik, and Adrik—should be in bed asleep, but no one could have slept through this violent tempest. And Konstantine was out there somewhere, in the rain and the lightning and the shrieking wind, risking his life . . . because the pain and the drugs had eroded her power . . . and the storm battered them with the force of all the storms she’d vanquished. ‘‘Konstantine . . .’’ she moaned softly.
corners of her eyes, and worry splintered her mind. Her other boys—Jasha, Rurik, and Adrik—should be in bed asleep, but no one could have slept through this violent tempest. And Konstantine was out there somewhere, in the rain and the lightning and the shrieking wind, risking his life . . . because the pain and the drugs had eroded her power . . . and the storm battered them with the force of all the storms she’d vanquished. ‘‘Konstantine . . .’’ she moaned softly.
The doctor took a pull from his bottle, rolled up his sleeves, and swiped at his sweaty face with his bare hand. ‘‘Not much longer now.’’
Repulsed, again Zorana shrieked, ‘‘Get away from me!’’
‘‘Don’t be silly, woman. I’m a doctor. You need me.’’ Dr. Lewis grinned idiotically and bent toward her.
‘‘No!’’ She kicked him.
He staggered backward, arms flailing, and hit the dresser so hard the mirror rattled in its frame. ‘‘What do you think you’re doing?’’ He sounded as if he were struggling to get to his feet.
Miss Joyce leaned over him.
Zorana heard a thump, like the sound a ripe melon made when dropped.
Miss Joyce rose, blue eyes bright with excitement. ‘‘He passed out.’’
‘‘That fool.’’ Zorana’s voice shook with ferocity.
‘‘You didn’t want him anyway.’’
‘‘I expected him to stay conscious!’’
‘‘Don’t worry.’’ Miss Joyce rolled up her sleeves and took his place. ‘‘I can deliver this baby.’’
There wasn’t a doubt in Zorana’s mind that she could. The rumors said Miss Joyce was from
Houston
, that she’d
taught at a tough school on the Ship Channel, that she’d been brutally attacked by knife-wielding students and had spent six months recovering in the hospital. Yet if she ever suffered residual pain or angst, none of it showed. Miss Joyce had moved to this small town in the Washington mountains not long after Zorana’s boys were born, and had taught at the local school ever since, earning a reputation for unshakable resolve. No student ever got the better of her. Neither would a simple thing like childbirth.
Houston
, that she’d
taught at a tough school on the Ship Channel, that she’d been brutally attacked by knife-wielding students and had spent six months recovering in the hospital. Yet if she ever suffered residual pain or angst, none of it showed. Miss Joyce had moved to this small town in the Washington mountains not long after Zorana’s boys were born, and had taught at the local school ever since, earning a reputation for unshakable resolve. No student ever got the better of her. Neither would a simple thing like childbirth.
Miss Joyce leaned over. ‘‘Push, Zorana. Push!’’
Zorana pushed, grunting with the effort of delivering her son. He was almost here. He was almost here. . . .
The lightning flashed so brightly, Zorana was blinded. The thunder snarled.
The lights went out.
She gasped, released.
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