There Once Lived a Mother Who Loved Her Children, Until They Moved Back In (11 page)

Nothing, Alena dear, I’m not taking anything, just looking for a hat for Granny—she’s completely bald, not a hair left. I’ll give her my scarf; I’ll raise my collar. Now I need a suitcase—it’s on top of the wardrobe. Look at this dust; I’ll wipe it with a rag. Now, clean sheets on the sofa, oh, and a rubber sheet underneath. Alena dear, you don’t have an extra rubber sheet, do you? I didn’t think so. I’ll use a plastic bag, or better yet I’ll ask for an old one at the hospital. Now run, run, run, fifty-two times a year plus New Year’s Eve, plus her birthday, plus Women’s Day, plus the Revolution Day, before and after, because the chief psychiatrist Revekka Samoilovna, may she rest in peace, hinted once that on holidays patients cry and ask for sleeping pills and die. Revekka, we worshipped you like a deity, and who remembers you now? I do.

What a heavy suitcase, my God. Where am I going? It’s one o’clock, they’re all gone. The unheated ambulance has taken her to the dump to die. I’ll get there and everything will be locked, no one will be around except the painters. Been ages since I’ve had my apartment painted. Young man, could you give up your seat? I’m going to faint; thank you, thank you. The train is barely crawling. How am I going to get her home? I’ve no money for a cab. Unless she’s gone, as you are hoping in your lowly heart of hearts. I don’t like the subway—tunnel noise scares me. They are looking at me, thinking, Where is this exhausted woman going with that suitcase? Remember your teeth; always smile with your lips closed. Young lady, please, could you give up your seat? I can barely stand; thank you. Let’s go!

Run, run, run. At least her outfit’s not completely shameful. Old people like old things. I forgot her ivory brooch! I’ll give her my cardigan and will button it up. A long line for the shuttle. Please, people, let me go first: the psychiatric hospital is closing. That’s right, I’m a patient there! Could you pass my fare to the driver? Double? Why? Oh, the suitcase. Shall we get going? The seats are all full.

No ambulance at the door. The steps. How my heart is pounding. I’m sorry for the knocking; I’m picking up my mother. I’m not too late, am I? Oh, thank God, I was so afraid I’d miss her. You see, my daughter showed up unexpectedly with her three children—the poor thing, she’s completely alone, everyone’s abandoned her. I saved my son, too. Some criminals threatened him; I paid them off. He worships me now, but he is an invalid with one heel. Is this her discharge form? Can I keep it, as a memento? What’s your name, dear? Sonya? What a lovely name, very rare these days, a name from Dostoevsky. I was going to present you with a book of my poems—I’m a poet, you know. When it comes out I’ll give every nurse a copy. In the meantime, Sonya dear, any equipment you may spare: a chamber pot, a rubber sheet, old sheets. I have absolutely nothing to put under her. Oh, thank you, thank you. Just throw everything into the suitcase; it’ll be empty. Will you bring her out, or do I go right in? Hi, Mom, how are you? Let’s get dressed. Want to go pee-pee for the road? Excellent. Look, Sonya, she understands everything! Sonya dear, what about her medications? A list of what she needs? Mama, we are getting dressed. What happened to her hair? Why did they shave her head? Look at her nails—did they never cut them? Oh, how my back hurts. Mama, look, wonderful Sonya brought us some pills for the next few days—I didn’t dare to ask! Sonya, I’m dizzy; it’s her smell, like a sick animal’s. Please, could you find me a few drops of valerian? Now the boots, not very comfortable with those toenails, I know.

Mama, try to stand up straight. How will I take you home? Sonya, you mentioned an ambulance; can you ask them to just take us home? I don’t have money for a cab—my book, you see, isn’t out yet; when it comes out I’ll pay everyone I owe.

“Look, Grandma,” Sonya tells me reasonably, “if you’re taking her home, the hospital isn’t responsible for transportation.”

“Sonya dear, as an exception, I beg you on my knees, please take us home. All the doctors are gone; there’s no one else to beg. . . .”

“You must speak to the driver—that’s up to him.” And she scuttles away, having lost interest in our drama.

We are dressed and waiting. Mama is crouching on the bed; soon she’ll pee herself. Loud banging on the stairs—a paramedic walks into the hall.

“Patient Serafima Golubeva!”

“She is here, I’m coming with her, I’ve got her papers. Please, young man, help her down the stairs.”

Sonya is watching. As soon as we are on the stairs she locks the door inside. That’s it.

My mother walks in a strange, jerky way. The paramedic supports her. Her shaved head is too small for my hat.

We are inside the ambulance.

“Excuse me, which way are we going?”

“The Fifth.”

“The Fifth? We were told the other one. How far is the Fifth?”

“Three hours one way, then back to the city, to the depot.”

“Here’s my offer. You can drive us for three hours, in the cold. Or it can be a quick twenty-minute drive.”

“Where’s that?”

“Home. I’ll sign a paper that I changed my mind and took her home. At five you’ll be off.”

“Ah, you old . . . If you are taking her home, call the cab. Get out now, both of you.”

“No, I won’t get out. We will go straight to the Fifth, and there the chief will order you to take her home. Let’s go.”

“Hand over her papers.”

“No. I’ll give you her papers when we get to my house. Come on, it’s easier for everyone this way. What am I to do? She can’t walk—she can’t!”

“We have paperwork for the Fifth; they’ll sign it there.”

“Fine, let’s go to the Fifth, but they’ll send you back, I guarantee. Six hours in this cold. Just tell them at the depot that the patient was taken home, so you wasted a ride.”

“We know what to say.”

“And I’ll give you her paperwork. Please, think about it—look at the weather; she may die on you!”

“That’s it, get out. We are going to the depot.”

“No, you will go with us.”

“Look at yourself. You yourself should be committed, you old . . .”

I’m shaking, but the valerian drops are doing their job. With energy and calm I’m drilling holes in the drivers’ dim brains. They understand (I imagine their thought process) that something’s not right, that I’m trying to trick them. On the other hand, if they get rid of me quickly, they can get a nice, easy assignment: a family hacked to pieces by a drunken husband, for example.

“I sympathize, I do, but you won’t get rid of me. I have her paperwork. In a moment she’ll take a dump all over your floor.”

My old girl mumbles something from her cot. The drivers are glaring at us hatefully.

“Just take us home, I beg you. It’s half an hour.”

The driver starts the car reluctantly. I yell out the address, but they can’t hear it. Where are they taking us? I can’t see through the whitewashed windows; they whitewash the windows, so as not to upset the public. No one should see what takes place inside—the straitjacket, the final horror, the death. Paramedics are the ultimate power; they know neither weakness nor mercy.

After ten minutes they stop. But where are we? How did we get here?

“Please, are you sure we’re at the right entrance? I understand no one will help me get her out, and I would have taken a cab, but the pension, you see, is only two days from now. Please, where are we?”

“Get out.”

I drop my suitcase in the snow, then drag out my mother, who is weightless but unwieldy. The two men are sitting in the front cabin, smoking. As soon as I close the door, the ambulance scurries away, like an overfed bug.

We are standing on a bridge at the end of a gray winter day. In every direction I see factory pipes; under the bridge run railroad tracks. A streetcar rolls past, muffled by snow. I don’t recognize anything. Those paramedics have seen it before—clever relatives like me, who try to save their parents and children from the miserable end; they know how to deal with us.

We are shivering on the sidewalk. I had sat my mother down on the suitcase; suddenly she jerks, then droops again. I know she’s peed into her boots. Right now she’s warm; soon she’ll freeze. I grab her with one arm, wrestle the suitcase with the other, and drag her through the snow along the streetcar tracks in the direction of the stop. Someone will help us, I tell myself; the streetcar’s warm, and it will take us to civilization.

There is a noise behind us. I look around, through the thickening blizzard, and see an ambulance. Thank God, some kind soul called for it. A man opens the door: it’s him, the paramedic. They came back. He lifts my mother and tosses her onto the cot. It’s warm inside. He covers her with a blanket. Her head sinks into a white pillow; I see her caved mouth and the slits of her eyes. Her face is wet with melting snow.

“Sign it,” and he shoves a piece of paper at me.

That’s why he came back. Everything needs to be signed.

At home Alena is waiting—the children. How can I bring this filth, this old body, into that sacred nursery? Why did I terrorize poor Alena all day? I myself should leave.

The paramedic takes the signed paper and climbs back into the ambulance to arrange my mother on the cot. He looks back at me, waiting for me to say good-bye, but I can’t move. Then he comes out, slams the door, and climbs into the front seat, then slams that door, too, and the heavy vehicle sets off.

Into the nearest garbage can I unload my suitcase. I keep only a ball of cotton. Now Alena will drop all three on my back, but I’ll need to find time to visit Mama. Why didn’t I wipe her face? I was frozen on the spot—over what? Big deal—a sack of old bones is dragged to an almshouse. They must do it a hundred times a day. Why weep on the subway? It’s the law of nature: the old must make room for the young.

I reach my sacred hearth and tiptoe into my room. The apartment smells of babies and burnt milk. In the kitchen the refrigerator is rumbling like an empty stomach. I peel off my wet clothes, take a warm bath, lie down on my bed, and wake up, as always, at midnight.

The time is night. I’m alone in the kitchen. This is my time of peace, of conversation with deity and stars. Everything is quiet, the fridge has been turned off, but from afar comes the blood-chilling sound: Niura pounding bones for tomorrow’s soup. How many times we’ve asked her not to do it at night. But why so quiet? Three children didn’t make a peep all night? Their mother not once visited the kitchen to heat up the milk? Everyone must be tired. But living children don’t sleep like that! What has she done? Stop imagining things. Niura must have lost her marbles. She can’t feed her children, so she finds soup bones somewhere and pounds them into jelly, then boils them. Good for her. But I can’t go there. Four coffins, one smaller than the other, and flowers. How to dig up the graves in the middle of the winter? Andrey would get drunk. The dud wouldn’t have the guts to show up.

The pills, she always kept pills. But why take the children? The baby probably needed just a crumb in a drop of milk. The dead always look so relieved, as if they’ve just had a good cry. How long is she going to pound those bones? She’ll tell me to fuck off, a hardworking woman. Everyone is used to the noise and sleeps right through it.

I do two things. First, I knock on Niura’s door. When she opens it, all sweaty from her pounding, I explain to her in the language she can understand that if she doesn’t stop her racket I’ll report her son for vandalizing pay phones. When she opens her mouth, I slam the door in her face. Next, I march into my daughter’s room. It’s empty. There’s no trace of them—only a squashed pacifier on the floor. She took them away, all three. Where? Doesn’t matter. The main thing is they are alive. All the living have left me. Alena, Tima, Katya, even the tiny Nikolai. Serafima. Anna. Forgive my tears.

Chocolates with Liqueur

1

The Housing Question

N
ikita left his wife, Lelia, but for the time being he let her and their children stay in their two-room apartment.

He didn’t mention divorce.

Every night he came at seven and stayed in “his” room for two hours, watching television or talking very loudly on the phone.

The children were forced to sleep in these conditions. But they got used to the noise and to the idea that Papa was not to be disturbed.

He and Lelia agreed that he wouldn’t get there before seven. From seven to nine was his time.

Occasionally, the upstairs neighbor took in the children for those two hours.

To the children Lelia explained the arrangement as “Papa is working.” There wasn’t any need to explain anything, but Lelia tried at all costs to keep up an appearance of a normal family. The children, she thought, must not suffer—they must have a father.

In Nikita’s presence, Lelia made no demands, didn’t ask for anything, barely lifted eyes at him. Yes, no, as you wish. Even when she was in bed with a high fever and there was nothing to eat in the house, she said nothing when Nikita arrived at his usual time and turned on the TV particularly loudly. She was calm, with the serenity of someone who has hit bottom.

She and the children had nothing to live on. Nikita paid only for the utilities (having installed the weakest bulbs), and Lelia, a nurse, couldn’t work: her little daughter was constantly sick.

Lelia came from an educated family. After her father died, her mother took up drinking and, for some reason, sold their apartment. She bought a room in a communal apartment—to live in while she looked for another place—and that’s where they stayed. The money quickly ran out.

When Lelia was away at summer camp, her mother remarried. Her new husband was an out-of-town vendor who sold fruit at an outdoor market and rented a room in the same communal apartment. The mother registered him in their room—and his numerous relatives from his home village—and almost immediately died. All this happened within just two weeks.

When the poor girl arrived home from camp, she found the room where she had lived with her mother packed floor to ceiling with dark-skinned people who replied to all her questions with “no speak Russian.”