З життя
«Батьку, віддай квартиру — ти вже своє прожив». Після цих слів донька грюкнула дверима…
«Тато, віддай квартиру — ти вже своє віджив». Після цих слів донька врізалася дверима…
Він залишився сам. Після того, як дружина пішла, порожнеча огорнула його, немов темна щільна ковдра. Все навколо стало сірим. Нічого не тішило — ні сонячні дні, ні чашка міцного чаю зранку, ні старі добрі фільми, які колись дивився з родиною. Робота залишилася єдиним, що тримало його в цьому світі. Поки були сили — він ходив туди, бо вдома була нестерпна тиша. Ця тиша дзвеніла у вухах і різала серце.
Дні тягнулися один за одним. Всі однакові, мов копії: ранок, автобус, робота, дім, тіні на стінах, порожні вечори. Син і донька з’являлися все рідше, майже зникли з його життя. Відзвонювалися сухо, формально. А потім і зовсім перестали брати слухавку. Він годинами блукав вулицями, вдивляючись у обличчя перехожих, немов сподівався знайти в натовпі когось близького. Його лякала не старість — його лякала смерть у самотності.
Він почав відчувати, як згасає зсередини. Душа хворіла, стискалася у вузол. Він згадував дружину — хотів попросити прощення, але не наважувався набрати номер. Він все ще кохав її. Шкодував, що багато не встиг сказати.
І ось одного дня на порозі з’явилася донька. Він зрадів, як дитина. Приготував її улюблену випічку, заварив чай, витягнув старі фотоальбоми — хотів згадати, як все було колись. Але візит був зовсім не про це.
— Тато, — почала вона з холодною прямотою, — ти живеш сам у чотирикімнатній квартирі. Це несправедливо. Продай її. Купиш собі однокімнатну, а гроші віддай мені.
Він не повірив. Думав — пожартує зараз, розсміється. Але в її очах не було жодної краплі іронії.
— Я… Я не збираюся нічого продавати. Це мій дім… тут ваша дитяча, тут ми жили з мамою…
— Ти вже своє віджив! — виплюнула вона з роздратуванням. — Мені гроші потрібніші! Ти ж все одно один, навіщо тобі стільки місця?
— Коли ти знову приїдеш? — ледве чутно запитав він, не впізнаючи власний голос.
Вона подивилася на нього з байдужістю і, взуваючись, кинула:
— На твої похорони.
Грянула двері. Він застиг. А потім просто осів на підлогу. Біль у грудях била, немов молотом. Лежав так три доби. Без їжі, без сил, без надії. Потім зателефонував синові.
— Михайле, приїжджай… Мені погано, — просив він.
Син вислухав. Помовчав. А потім сказав:
— Тату, ти не ображайся, але тобі ж і справді не потрібна така велика площа. Я хочу машину взяти, а ти міг би допомогти… Я би приїхав, якби ти вирішив квартиру продати.
Потім було мовчання. Таке мовчання, що дзвенить у вухах і залишає в душі дірку. Він поклав слухавку. І зрозумів — у нього більше немає дітей. Є лише чужі люди, в чиїх жилах тече його кров.
Наступного дня він зайшов в аптеку. Там випадково зустрів брата колишньої дружини. Той здивувався, привітався.
— Аня? — запитав він, — як вона?
— Поїхала до Італії, — коротко відповів чоловік. — Вийшла заміж за італійця. Знайшла своє щастя.
«Знайшла своє щастя…» Ці слова палили. Він не був проти її щастя. Він був проти своєї порожнечі.
Вранці наступного дня він прокинувся з тяжкістю в грудях. За вікном висіло низьке, похмуре небо. Він накинув пальто, вийшов. Пройшов кілька кварталів. Знайшов стару лавку у дворі. Сів. Закрив очі. Серце зробило останній болючий удар.
А його душа, втомившись від болю, байдужості й тиші, нарешті злетіла — туди, де більше не зраджують. Де не просять віддати останнє. Де, можливо, знову хтось скаже: «Тату, я сумувала…»
Але це — вже не тут.
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