З життя
«Батьку, віддай квартиру — ти своє вже прожив». Після цих слів донька зачинила двері…
«Тату, віддай квартиру — ти вже своє прожив». Після цих слів дочка зачинила двері…
Він жив один. Після того як дружина пішла, порожнеча охопила його, ніби чорна густа ковдра. Все навколо стало сірим. Нічого не тішило — ані сонячні дні, ані чашка міцного чаю вранці, ані старі добрі фільми, які колись дивилися всією родиною. Робота залишилася єдиним, що ще тримало його в цьому світі. Поки вистачало сил — він ходив туди, бо вдома стояла нестерпна тиша. Ця тиша дзвеніла у вухах і різала серце.
Дні тікали один за одним. Усі схожі, як ксерокопії: ранок, автобус, робота, дім, тіні на стінах, порожні вечори. Син і дочка з’являлися все рідше, майже зникли з його життя. Віддзвонювалися сухо, формально. А потім і зовсім перестали відповідати на дзвінки. Він годинами блукав вулицями, пильно вдивляючись у обличчя перехожих, ніби сподівався знайти в натовпі когось рідного. Його лякала не старість — його лякала смерть на самоті.
Він почав відчувати, як згасає зсередини. Душа боліла, стискалася в клубок. Він згадував дружину — хотів попросити пробачення, але так і не наважився набрати номер. Він все ще любив її. Шкодував, що багато не встиг сказати.
І ось одного дня на порозі з’явилася дочка. Він зрадів, як дитина. Приготував її улюблену випічку, заварив чай, дістав старі фотоальбоми — хотів згадати, як все було колись. Але візит був зовсім не про це.
— Тату, — почала вона з холодною прямотою, — ти живеш один в чотирикімнатній квартирі. Це несправедливо. Продай її. Купиш собі однокімнатну, а гроші віддай мені.
Він не повірив. Думав — пожартує зараз, засміється. Але в її очах не було ані краплі іронії.
— Я… Я не збираюся нічого продавати. Це мій дім… тут ваша дитяча, тут ми жили з мамою…
— Ти вже своє прожив! — з роздратуванням виплюнула вона. — Мені гроші потрібніші! Ти ж все одно один, навіщо тобі стільки простору?
— Коли ти знову приїдеш? — ледь чутно запитав він, не впізнаючи власний голос.
Вона подивилася на нього з байдужістю і, вдягаючись, кинула:
— На твої похорони.
Хлопнули двері. Він завмер. А потім просто опустився на підлогу. Біль у грудях била, мов молотком. Лежав так три доби. Без їжі, без сил, без надії. Потім зателефонував синові.
— Мишко, приїдь… 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 б міг допомогти… Я б приїхав, якби ти вирішив квартиру продати.
Потім було мовчання. Те саме мовчання, яке дзвеніло у вухах і залишало 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 в Італію, — 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.
Зранку наступного дня він прокинувся з тяжкістю в грудях. За вікном нависло низьке, похмуре небо. Він накинув пальто, вийшов. Пройшов кілька кварталів. Знайшов стару лавочку у дворі. Сів. Заплющив очі. Серце зробило останній болісний удар.
А його душа, втомлена від болю, байдужості та 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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