When we reach the top floor, Denis gives me the bags, at last, and leaves. I use the card to enter the apartment and stop dead at the threshold.
“I thought shopping trips lasted at least several hours,” Mikhail says while standing in front of the kitchen sink, pressing a bloody rag to his forearm.
I let the bags fall on the floor, rush toward him, and look over the stuff he has lined on the counter—antiseptic spray, antibiotic cream, bandages, and a needle with a thread. Is he planning on sewing himself?
“Go to your room. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
I ignore him, turn on the water, and start scrubbing my hands with the soap.
“Bianca, leave.”
There is something very dangerous in the tone of his voice, like he is angry at me for some reason, but underneath, there is something else. I can’t quite define it.
Very slowly, I turn toward him and, without breaking eye contact, place my hand over his, which is still holding the bloody rag to his arm. He’s looking down at me, his lips pressed together in a hard line, his blue eye watching me with such intensity that I get the impression he can see right into my soul.
Finally, his grip loosens and he removes the rag. Only then do I notice that he's in a T-shirt, something that I've never seen him wear before. I look down at his forearm and it takes all my self-control not to show any reaction to what I see. The wound itself is not that bad, a few inches in length and not that deep. It looks like a knife wound. What’s really bad is . . . everything else.
The inside of his forearm was badly burned, a long swath of mottled skin running diagonally from his wrist to the inside of his elbow. It looks like a very old scar, just like the others. Long thin lines crisscross his arm in different directions, probably wounds inflicted by the tip of a knife. I allow only a second to collect myself, then I take a package of sterile gauze and the antiseptic and start cleaning the gash.
“I see you’ve done this before,” he says.
Without lifting my eyes from the gash, I hold up four fingers, throw the bloody compress into the sink, and take a new one. Angelo was an idiot when he was younger, always getting into fights, so I received a lot of experience dealing with the consequences of his moronic behavior.
After I repeat the cleaning process several times, I take the needle and start looking for the numbing spray among the stuff on the counter, but I can’t find it. I look up and find Mikhail watching me. Shit, how to explain. I mimic the spraying motion and point toward his wound.
“You can sew it without it. It won’t need more than two stitches.”
He can’t be serious.
“Just do it.” He nods. “I have a high pain tolerance.”
I look down at his arm, taking in the multitude of scars. Yes, he probably does. I take a deep breath, pinch the skin on each side of the cut, and start with the first stitch. Mikhail doesn’t even tense when the needle pierces his skin. It’s disturbing. After I’m done patching him up, I place a clean compress over the cut and bandage his forearm.
There is a light touch on my face, just above my cheekbone. It lasts just a moment and then he removes his finger.
“Thank you, solnyshko,” he says and leaves the kitchen.
*
I take the meat casserole from the oven, put it onto the counter, and look toward Mikhail’s bedroom. He went inside after I patched him up and hasn’t come out since. Probably sleeping. Where had he been the whole night? How did he get that knife wound? And what happened to his arm before to leave those scars? When it comes to my husband, I have a long list of questions and zero answers. Will it always be like that?
The front door opens, and Lena runs inside, giggling, with Sisi following. She’ll wake Mikhail. I grab my phone from the counter, rush to Lena who is sitting on the floor taking off her shoes, and crouch in front of her. I brush her hand with mine and she looks up smiling.
“Bianca, Bianca, I have a new drawing. Wanna see?”
I put a finger over my lips and point to Mikhail’s bedroom. When she looks over and back at me, I put my palms together on my cheek to show a sleeping pose.
“You sleepy, Bianca?”
I sigh. Communicating with a small child is going to be hard without being able to speak, and she’s too little to read. Taking my phone from the floor, I type a message and give it to Sisi, who’s standing next to me and watching my interaction with Lena. She looks up from the screen and nods, a surprise visible on her face.
“Daddy is sleeping, Lena. We need to be quiet.”
“Okay,” Lena whispers.