Page 144 of Cruel Demands

“See what?” I demand, my voice bellowing. “She is ill. She needs a doctor, not a pilot.”

Taylor goes white. For one second, none of us move. Then she clamps a hand over her mouth and runs. I follow immediately. She barely reaches the bathroom. The door remains open as she drops to her knees in front of the toilet and vomits.

I stop behind her. Fear turns to anger so quickly they are indistinguishable. She has known she is ill. She has refused food, refused help, and concealed it while becoming progressively worse beneath my roof.

I kneel beside her. She pushes my hand away when I reach for her hair. “Don’t touch me.”

“You need a doctor.”

“No.”

“You are vomiting.”

“I noticed.”

“This is not a joke.”

“I’m not laughing.” She retches again.

My mother appears in the doorway.

I stand. “Call Arkady. Have him bring Dr. Lebedev.”

“No,” Taylor says.

I ignore her.

“Mikhail,” my mother warns.

“She has barely eaten in days.”

“I know.”

“She eats a handful of strawberries, and now she is vomiting.”

“I see that.”

“She may be dehydrated.”

“I know.”

“What is this, Taylor, some kind of strike? You want to go home so badly that you are refusing to care for yourself?”

Taylor grips the edge of the toilet and closes her eyes. “No.”

“Then you cannot leave. You will not leave until you are better, at least. I will not be responsible for you dying on a plane back to America. I am not returning you to your parents malnourished and pale faced, they will think I have tortured you!”

I realize that I am yelling at her, angry that Taylor is unwell and refusing care, angry that she is refusing my help, angry that she is allowing my mother, not me, to hold her hair for her.

My mother yells at me from the floor, “You are a very stupid, blind man.”

“What does that mean?”

She looks at Taylor. Taylor shakes her head once. The movement is small. Desperate. My attention moves between them, coursing, twitching. They know something.

“What are you hiding?”

Neither answers. I swipe everything off the sink with my arms, sending expensive crystal soap and potpourri holders careening to the floor. They shatter on the tile.