One solitary, insistent tear finally escapes to roll down my cheek as I fumble for the bathroom door handle. Pushing inside, I pat at the wall in the darkness until I find the light switch and flip it up. My mouth falls open the second the light illuminates the room.
This is the biggest, most luxurious bathroom I have ever seen.
My eyes must be the size of saucers as I walk slowly around the room, my hands roving over every polished edge. This bathroom is bigger than my bedroom back home, with the bricked left and right walls lined by gray stone counters, deep marble sinks, and brushed metal finish, with mirrors perched over the length of the counters. The floor is made up of some kind of dark gray stone, cut irregularly to give it a natural, outdoorsy look. The light fixture above my head, in the center of the ceiling, is a heavy-looking, impressive candle chandelier. At the end of the room is an elaborate stone shower with multiple spigots and a massive, deep bathtub big enough to comfortably fit at least three people.
Not that three people should ever sit in a bath together.
With awe, I walk over to the bathtub and, after having to examine it for a couple minutes to figure out how it works, I turn both spigots to start the flow of water. I search under the counters and find a stack of neatly-folded, fresh-smelling black towels. This is the warmest room in the apartment so far, in both temperature and ambiance. I wonder if Andrei ever uses this bathtub, or if he is strictly a showering kind of man. It is difficult to picture him sinking into a bubble bath, that hard body and solemn face sinking in among the floral-scented bubbles.
A smile twitches at my lips, but fails to follow through.
To my dismay, I am unable to find any bubble bath, anyway. So I settle for a hot, bubble-less bath, taking a bar of very standard, utilitarian soap from the shower. It looks like the kind of soap one would use to remove excessive gunk, as for someone with a very dirty, grimy job. My mother used to buy soap similar to this for my little brother, as he was a particularly messy child, always jumping into mud puddles and playing with bugs. A twinge of heartbreak hits me then, imagining Isaiah with dirt smeared across his chubby cheek, a mischievous grin on his lips, revealing a gap where his two front baby teeth fell out.
I sink into the bath and splash my face with hot water, letting it mix with my tears. I miss him more than anything else. I wish so badly I could run to his room and hug him, read him his favorite passages, tickle him and make him burst into those infectious peals of laughter I love so much. Under our roof, there was always an air of sternness, of still and slightly oppressive calm. But Isaiah broke the silence — he was loud, he was rambunctious, and he injected some much-needed joy into our household.
I miss him dearly. I wonder to myself who will hug him and swing him around now? Who will make him grilled cheese sandwiches and read nursery rhymes in silly voices? I know my mother loves him, and she will keep him properly fed and clothed and cared for, enough to maintain his health and appearance. But she is not particularly affectionate. Isaiah is a difficult child at times, and I worry that she will not be able to tame him on her own, or that my father will step in to beat him into shape.
The thought almost makes me want to jump out of the bath and run all the way back to upstate New York and scoop Isaiah up in my arms, keep him safe.
But I know that isn’t an option. I am a married woman now, at eighteen years old, and I cannot play caretaker to my baby brother anymore. I have someone else to care for and attend to — my husband. I only wish I knew how to do that.
He is so strong and silent that I wonder if he even has needs. Surely he feels lonely sometimes, living all alone in this big, beautiful apartment, in this relentless and anonymous city. But he seems so put-together. How can I possibly contribute to his lifestyle in any meaningful way? He appears, for all intents and purposes, to be doing perfectly well without me. As far as I know, he doesn’t have a maid or a cook or anyone to keep his home for him. I am shocked at the idea of a man taking care of his own home without a woman’s help.
And the apartment is flawless! All my life I have been trained to cook, clean, and serve. But how can I do any of those things where they aren’t needed or even requested?
But then, I remind myself darkly, there are other needs a man must satiate.
Ones that I have not been educated about at all.
I can clean a house, cook a meal, and wait on a man hand and foot but I don’t know the first thing about pleasing a man… sexually. And last night, I never even got the chance. Or did I? A feeling of shame and regret passes over me. It was our wedding night and I was the only one who had received any pleasure! And my pleasure is irrelevant! A woman is not meant to feel such ecstasy — it is her duty to serve, not to be serviced! Perhaps I only misread the signals, missed my cue. Maybe Andrei was hoping I would return the favor somehow, instead of lazily letting him do all the work.