Tried With Fire - (Ruth Harris Series)

Chapter 6

The days went on. Hunter and I seemed to have reconciled that Sunday in the park, and for Olivia's sake we acted like a content couple for the whole of the following week. But that's not how we felt. Sure, I wasn't angry anymore: on paper, we were fine. But on the inside we had never felt so far apart - including my life from ages 16-21 when we lived 5 hours apart and never saw each other. Those years had been torture, but this was worse. Somehow, I had the man of my dreams in my bed each night and the taste of his lips in my memory, but when we were together, we felt distant. The spark between us was still burning, but we were not acting on it. We were not being intimate - Hunter never 'made it up to me' like he'd promised to on that park bench. After the feeble attempt at romance we had had in the morning, and the bickering that followed, Hunter never mentioned trying again. Not when Olivia went to bed that night, nor throughout the rest of the week. The fact that he didn't seem interested in offering intimacy to me meant I was too self-conscious to ask, so the two of us just grew more and more distant as the week dragged on.

I took a nap when we got home from the park that afternoon. Hunter made himself and Olivia lunch, while I lay down on my bed and tried not to dream. I didn't want the sweet, saucy dreams I'd had the night before, because that would make me crave Hunter more and the ball was currently in his court. I couldn't keep asking for sex; he'd think there was something wrong with me, or that X had taken over my body. Obviously I didn't want my typical, horrific-replays-of-traumatic-past-events dreams either, so when I slid under the covers I begged God, whoever he was, to filter my subconscious until nothing haunted me. Thankfully, he did.
               Then we all spent a quiet evening at home, watching the cooking channel and snuggling up together on the sofa while the wind howled down our chimney. Hunter kept lighting a fire but it was always blown out within minutes. When he sat back down beside me he smelt of smoke, and I almost dissociated but managed not to. No Psyche Struggle followed, because my alters soon realised that Hunter had only been building a fire, and that I was not sitting beside Bertie: the chain-smoking man who ruined me. How could I have been? He was still in prison, and would be for four more years.

The next morning I woke up at 7:00 to get Olivia ready for school. Hunter was already in the shower; I would have killed to join him but he never invited me. Even when I walked into our en-suite to brush my teeth, he kept the curtain and his mouth shut. So, I returned to our room, made myself presentable and then knocked on Olivia's door.
'Bambina? It's time to get up for school.'
'Mummy.' she groaned, rolling over and yawning. I smiled. 'Can I come into your bed for a little while? Because I didn't get to yesterday, Mummy.'
'I know, Liv, I'm sorry. You can come into our room for a few minutes, but then we have to get you dressed.'
               Olivia grinned, clapped her hands and dashed into my room with my hand in hers. 'Woah, slow down Olivia!' I chuckled.
'Where's Daddy?'
'He's having a shower.'
'Oh.' she pouted. 'Will he be ages?'
'No, bambina. Come on, you can snuggle up with me until he's done.'
               I sat down on the bed again, probably creasing my work trousers and blouse, and Olivia settled in beside me. She twiddled a strand of my hair.
'I really like your new hair, Mummy.' she said.
'Aw, well thank you! I love yours. That Polish lady gave you lots of pretty layers!'
'Polish?'
'Yeah. She was from Poland. Did you hear that she had an accent?'
'Oh. I thought...oh.' Olivia frowned.
'What's wrong?' I stroked her hair now.
'But Mummy, you sound a bit like her sometimes. Are you Polish and Italian?' My daughter craned her neck to wonder up at me. I gulped.
'Er, no, bambina, I'm not Polish.'

Let me explain why Olivia was confused: one of my alternate personalities is German. I suppose to a five year old, German and Polish accents are as indistinguishable as egg shell and ivory napkins are to me. (Mama did most of my wedding planning.) So, she thought that Dr Monika Fischer, PhD, my now fifty year old alter with a rich German accent and profound knowledge of medical science, made me as Polish as I was Italian.