Victim
THE PASSAGE OF TIME WAS SO FAST. Violette thought about that with each passing year of her own life, and having a baby made time’s quick movement all the more tangible to her.
“Maaama?”
“What’s wrong, Vanila?”
“Where’s Mawi?”
“Marin’s doing laundry. Want to go see her?”
“Mawi says she’s gonna bwing da fwuffy-fwuff.”
Violette’s three-year-old son, Vanila, flapped his tiny hands up and down. The gesture looked like fluttering leaves, but the words “fluffy-fluff” perplexed Violette.
She asked Vanila what he meant. “Fwuffy-fwuff…?”
When he responded by imitating her confused look and squealing with laughter, she realized she’d get no further clues as to what the “fluffy-fluff” might be.
Violette knew Vanila had taken to following Marin around ever since he’d started calling her “Mawi.” She never knew what he was up to or what he expected Marin to do for him. Still, she knew he’d at least be safe in Marin’s presence. For Violette, one happy memory was Vanila falling on his face, and Marin flying to his aid with tears in her eyes. The tumbler himself had only blinked innocently in Marin’s arms as if he had no idea what the fuss was about.
“All right,” she told Vanila. “Let’s go see Marin.”
“Yaaaay!”
“But we mustn’t disturb her at work.”
“’Kay.”
Whether he understood her or not—probably the latter—his reply was at least clear and fairly polite. His hands reached up to the sky; Violette initially thought he was asking her to pick him up and carry him. The boy had recently taken to toddling wherever fancy led him, though. More often than not, Violette shuffled behind him, keeping pace with his short little stride. But they could only do that without trouble indoors. If she set Vanila loose in the garden, he’d make use of his tiny body and bottomless well of stamina, and the adults would need to dispatch a search party before they knew it.
As Vanila stumbled by Violette’s feet, she gazed down at the little mop of light-gray hair. It was like an angel’s shining halo. His tresses, cut short to stay out of his eyes, swayed side to side with each footfall. The gray ponytail behind Violette’s head was the same color, and it was probably swishing side to side in the same way.
From his round, catlike eyes rimmed with thick lashes, to the curve of his cheeks and thinness of his lips, Violette’s son really did look just like her. The fact that Violette had already been living as a boy at his age only reinforced the resemblance.
Her sweet little boy. When he’d called her “Mama” for the first time, she’d been relieved, knowing that she could indeed love him. As Vanila smiled innocently and reached out to her, tears had spilled relentlessly from Violette’s eyes. All the fears that had plagued her before giving birth had been staved off by the growth of a baby, of all things. You could say that was partly because Violette had been unable to wall herself off from the double impact of her heart’s latent fears being extinguished and peace coming to her.
“Va-nee-ya calls it fwuffy-fwuff.”
“Ooh, you sound pleased with yourself. Do tell Mama what it is.”
“Mm-hmm! Va-nee-ya will teach you!”
Violette giggled. “Thanks.”
As Vanila smiled big and bright, his eyes looked golden for a moment. When he blinked, though, they looked dark. His irises were grayish-gold, the same color as the sand in the sandbox where he liked to play. Some had hailed his eyes as gold, others condemned them as “impure,” but since Vanila never left home, he’d never heard any of it. Yulan and Claudia had a plan to ensure that Vanila would never have to hear that gossip even after he ventured into the outside world.
“Mawi! Fwuffy-fwuff!”
“Why, Master Vanila, what brings you here?”
“Sorry to disturb you at work, Mari. Vanila says you made him some sort of promise…”
“Fwuffy-fwuff!”
“Fwuffy—oh, you mean this. Yes, I just ran out of things to wash, so you may use it now,” Marin told him.
The maid had just been working at a washtub, and the surface of the water inside was bouncy with fluffy white foam. Finally, Violette discovered what the mysterious “fwuffy-fwuff” was; Vanila meant those soap bubbles. His fingertips curiously scooped them up; he watched the soap bubbles drip between them, then scooped up more.
“He saw soap bubbles when Chesuit was washing dishes,” Marin explained. “Since we couldn’t let him touch the dish soap, I used a soap that’s gentle on one’s hands for the laundry.”
“That little scamp—he went to bother Chesuit again?”
“Yes. He figured out that if he bothers Chesuit while he’s testing recipes, he’ll get a snack. Chesuit has a lot of fun testing all sorts of things out on him, from sweetness levels to dinner portion sizes.”
“Well, since we let Chesuit handle all the meals here, that isn’t exactly a problem. But I do hope Vanila isn’t bothering anyone else at work.”
“Chesuit’s used to it, Violette. You apparently used to behave the same way.”
“Come on. I was definitely a bit older than him.”
Back in her childhood home, she hadn’t had proper meals until Chesuit was hired. She’d frequently eaten everything force-fed to her at the table without complaint, then thrown it up after her mother left. That had been a double-edged sword—she’d eaten to the point of discomfort, yet felt hungry.
Whenever that happened, Chesuit made her dessert and let her eat only as much as she wanted. It was no exaggeration to say that had saved little Violette from starvation. And, every day, she’d come to hover around Chesuit’s toes when her mother wasn’t looking.
“I suppose you and Vanila have a special curiosity about Chesuit’s cooking in common,” Marin said.
“I’m not sure… Maybe Chesuit brings that behavior out in anybody.”
“That could definitely be true. His staff meals won over our junior employees.”
“Oh my.”
“Maaama, watch me bwow on it!”
“All right, dear. I’m watching.”
It took everything in the boy’s small lungs to blow the bubbles from his hands to the ground. Still, Violette gave her son a proud round of applause as he shyly slapped his hands to his mouth. The residual bubbles on his hands gave him a fwuffy-fwuff beard.
“Come here and let me wipe your face,” Violette told him.
“Don’t wanna!”
“Are you sure? If you leave your mouth like that, you won’t be able to eat dinner.”
“Noooo!”
“There, there. I think we’ve had enough fwuffy-fwuff for today. Your father should be home any minute.”
“Daaada’s coming?”
“Yes. And if he sees your new beard, he’ll have an awful fright.”
She wiped his face a bit roughly with a handkerchief. Vanila’s interest had already shifted to his father’s return home. He clung to Violette’s neck, demanding to know when Yulan was returning and whether he was back yet.
“He’ll be back very soon,” Violette assured him. “But, Vanila, have you forgotten what you promised Dada? You told him you’d have cleaned up your toys by the time he got home.”
“But I did cween up. Va-nee-ya’s aww cween!”
“Wow, I’m impressed. You’re a very good boy. Well, let’s just wash your hands and get you changed.”
“’Kay!”
Just when she thought he’d erupt into a tantrum, he cheerfully and politely obeyed. A toddler’s mood swings were no joke. If you reacted to each change in turn, you’d wish you had three days’ energy to cram into one.
Truth be told, it was anyone’s guess whether she’d be able to get Vanila’s hands washed and clothes changed before Yulan returned, but she’d cross those bridges when she came to them. She didn’t know what would pique her son’s curiosity next, so trying to make any sort of schedule would be pointless—the past three years had pounded that lesson into her soul.
“Which one wew we show Daaada?”
“Good question. Which one shall we go with today?”
“I wanna show Daaada the spawkowy one!”
“Didn’t you wear the sparkly one yesterday?”
“I wannaaaa!”
“All right, then. Let’s go with the sparkly one. I can’t wait to see what Dada thinks.”
“Tinks!” Vanila repeated.
“Pardon me, Lady Violette, but I do believe you exhausted yourself while I was washing the laundry earlier…”
“I did,” Violette admitted. “Could you please come with me, Marin?”
In the end, it took three times as long as she expected—seven times as long as usual—to get Vanila dressed. The room where they prepared for Operation Sparkle looked like a burglar had ransacked it, and there was no way they could tidy it before Yulan’s return. They managed to sidestep handling that disaster for now by going to greet Yulan at the front door.
“Daaada. I made fwuffy-fwuff.”
“Fwuffy-fwuff…?”
“I can bwow by mysewf!”
“Oooh, wow. That’s great.”
“It aww white. You supwised, Daaada?”
“Oh, yes. I’m very surprised.”
“Wia! You’w not supwised at all!”
“Huh…?”
“Hee hee! Hang in there, trooper,” Violette chuckled.
Their son was doing his best to tell Yulan about his day, but his speech was already quite difficult to decipher, and his verb tenses were all over the map. In actuality, even Violette—who was most often with him—didn’t quite understand what Vanila was talking about. She felt badly for Yulan, who was doing his best, nodding in understanding. Vanila was probably just stringing together random vocabulary words he’d heard, not wanting to communicate anything specific. If he did have a message to convey, it would be “Listen to all the new words I learned!” The end.
“Come on, Vanila. If you’ve finished eating, you have to brush your teeth.”
“Nah done yet.”
“Chesuit doesn’t have any treats for you.”
“Nooo!”
“Hm? He told me you already had your treat for the day. You only get one treat per day. Remember how Chesuit said that?”
“No faiw!”
“Fair or not, he doesn’t have any,” Violette snapped.
A moment of silence followed her rebuke. Vanila’s eyes quickly welled with tears, and as the first ones spilled over, he released the air in his lungs in a wail.
“No faiaaaaaw!”
His wails resounded through the room like an alarm. It was no trick of the ears that his screaming seemed to get louder every day. What had been simple cries when he was a baby were now motivated by a variety of complaints.
Unfortunately, these cries were the angry sort.
“Oh dear,” Yulan sighed. “After I finish eating, I’ll give him a bath.”
“Thanks. I’ll bring him a change of clothes after.”
“All right. Think it’ll be a long one today?”
“Not sure… But I predict he’ll fall asleep before he stops crying.”
“Oh, yeah. Could be. He’s already starting to sound tired.”
“Thank goodness he has trouble pacing himself.”
“I predict he’ll last two minutes tops.”