З життя
Мамина смерть була довгою, важкою і некрасивою
Умирала мама довго, важко і некрасиво… Тільки її очі… Чим ближчою ставала неминучість, тим чорнішими вони були. Напередодні вони були оксамитово-непрозорими, невимовно розумними й усевидючими… Чи, можливо, просто шкіра на її обличчі ставала все білішою?
Якось у кінці літа я привіз її з дачі і, оскільки вже було пізно, залишився у неї на ніч. Серед ночі, дорогою в туалет, вона впала і зламала, як з’ясувалося пізніше, шийку стегна. Для старшої людини це майже вирок.
Далі все відбулося досить швидко: швидка — травматологія — операція і десять днів у лікарні.
Коли їхали до лікарні, я згадав, як ночував у своєї виховательки з дитячого садка Ганни Петрівни, коли ховали батька, що на своєму старенькому мотоциклі потрапив під вантажівку на нічному шосе. Мамі було двадцять вісім, мені три, і вона не хотіла травмувати мене новиною про смерть, тому на час похорону відвела мене з дому і сказала, що батько поїхав у відрядження… Заміж вона більше так і не вийшла, боялася, що новий чоловік не стане для мене справжнім батьком.
Коли її виписали з лікарні, довелося залишити роботу, щоб доглядати за нею: доглядальницю не могли собі дозволити, оскільки молодшому сину в той час купували квартиру.
Я переїхав до маминих однокімнатних апартаментів, де змінював на ній підгузки три-шість разів на день, мив та годував її. Вона не скаржилася. Ні на що. Терпіла. Тільки ойкувала по-дитячому, якщо не обережно перевертав її. А тоді шепотіла: «Нічого-нічого, все, сину, добре…»
Я навіть не знав раніше, що такий гидливий і слабкий. Вночі, коли лежав на дивані поруч з її ліжком, тихо плакав від відчаю. Напевно, було б красиво сказати, що це були сльози жалю до неї. Так, це правда, але тільки частково, бо себе було жаль ще більше.
Розраховувати на чиюсь допомогу не можна було: обидва сини зайняті на роботі і в своїх родинах, а дружина… Дружина сказала: «Ну, так адже вона тобі — мама, а мені — просто чужа жінка…»
В цей момент я згадав, чомусь, як вперше привів свою Таню додому, щоб познайомити з мамою. Вона була дуже привітна весь вечір. Коли ж я повернувся після проводження нареченої і запитально подивився на маму, вона трохи знизила плечима і сказала: «Не знаю, але щось не так… Однак тебе, сину, це ні до чого не зобов’язує. Адже ти одружуєшся з нею, а не я».
Все життя їхні стосунки з моєю дружиною були чудовими. Тепер же, як колись, дуже давно, ми з мамою знову були тільки вдвох, а вечорами, вже лягаючи і загасивши світло, довго розмовляли. І вона розповідала мені про бабусю і дідуся, про те, як німці прийшли в їхнє село, а вона зі старшою сестрою ховалася за парканом та підглядала за чужими ситими людьми, що грали на губних гармошках і постійно над чимось сміялися.
Розповідала про батька, якого я майже не пам’ятав. А може, і справді не пам’ятав… Тінь якась у пам’яті залишилася. Великий, з колючими щоками і противно пахучий тютюном чоловік бере мене на руки і цілує, цілує, цілує, коли приходить з роботи, і постійно повторює: «Синочку мій, син, син!».
А потім мамі ставало все гірше й гірше, і наші нічні розмови з нею поступово затихли. Мені все здавалося, що це тому, що я її погано, несмачно годую. І тому почав замовляти їжу з ресторану, яку привозили гарячою, ретельно упакованою. Коли я запитував у мами, чи смачно, вона понуро і байдужо кивала головою й казала: «Ти у мене за цей час справжнім кухарем став». До їжі ж майже не торкалася.
В останню ніч, яку мама провела вдома, вона чомусь згадала, як уперше в нашому місті з’явилися кулькові ручки, а я в той час навчався в третьому класі і тільки чув про них. Зате тато Лєни Пономарьової таку ручку звідкись їй привіз. Вона була настільки прекрасна, ця ручка, що я… Одним словом, увечері я з захопленням мамі вдома цю ручку показав. Дізнавшись, як вона у мене з’явилася, мама побила мене. Боляче. Прямо ременем. А потім взяла мене і ручку, і ми (втрьох: мама, я і ручка!) пішли до Пономарьових, щоб повернути скарб його законним власникам.
Я ледь пам’ятав цей епізод, а мама почала просити у мене вибачення за те, що побила, і намагалася виправдатися, кажучи, що дуже боялася, щоб я не став злодієм.
Я гладив свою маму по щоці і чомусь згорав від сорому перед нею, хоч злодієм і не став.
Коли вже під ранок їй стало зовсім погано, і її забирала швидка, вона на мить отямилася, вирвалася з передсмертного забуття, взяла мене за руку й сказала: «Господи, як же ти тут… без мене… залишишся… Молодий бо зовсім… дурний…»
Мама не дожила півтора місяці до свого вісімдесят дев’яти років. На наступний день після її смерті мені виповнилося шістдесят чотири…
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“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mother’s Things,” Said My Husband — “Those Clothes Belong to My Mum. Why Did You Pack Them Away?” My Husband’s Voice Was Strange, Almost Unfamiliar “We’re throwing them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter blankets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere,” I replied, continuing to briskly remove modest blouses, skirts, and light dresses that belonged to my late mother-in-law. Valentina always hung her clothes so neatly, and she managed to pass that habit on to her son. Unlike me—with my usual wardrobe chaos and desperate morning hunts for something presentable, ending up ironing crumpled tops that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve said a final goodbye to his mother. She needed treatment—mostly palliative—and peace and quiet. The cancer was merciless in its speed. So she came to stay with us, fading away within the month. Now, coming home after work, Steve saw her things strewn mid-corridor like worthless junk and just froze. Was this it? Is that all his mother deserved—tossed out and so quickly forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like I’m some enemy of the people?” I retorted, stepping aside. “Do not touch these things.” His words came through gritted teeth, his face darkening dangerously; he briefly lost sensation in his hands and feet as anger rushed to his head. “For goodness’ sake, they’re just old clothes!” I shot back, my patience thin. “What do you want, a museum? She isn’t here anymore, Steve. You have to accept that. Maybe if you’d cared for her this much when she was alive, maybe visited more, you’d have known how ill she really was!” Those words hit him, hard. “Leave, before I do something I regret,” Steve managed, his breathing ragged. I snorted. “Fine. Suit yourself.” Anyone who disagreed with me must be crazy—or so I’d decided. Steve didn’t even take off his shoes as he headed for the hallway cupboard, flinging open the very top doors and hauling down one of our old checkered bags from the move—there were about seven of them. He packed all of Valentina’s belongings inside—not just stuffing, but folding each one carefully. Her jacket and a bag of shoes went on top. Our three-year-old son whirled around his father, “helping” by throwing his toy tractor into the bag. Steve hunted out a key from a drawer and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” He managed a tight smile. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go find Mummy.” “Wait!” I called. “Are you leaving? Where are you going? What about dinner?” “No need, I’ve lost my appetite for your attitude towards my mother.” “Oh come on, are you really upset over nothing? Where do you think you’re going this late?” Not looking back, Steve left with the bag. He drove around the ring road, letting the roar of tyres drown his thoughts—work, holidays, even his favourite Facebook jokes—everything faded away except the heavy ache of loss and the accusation that maybe he’d failed his mum when she needed him most. She’d never wanted to bother him, never wanted to be a burden, and he’d started calling less, visiting less, always busy, always something else to do. Halfway there, he stopped at a roadside café, grabbed a quick bite, and drove the remaining three hours in silence. He barely noticed the sunset, just the faint memory of his childhood home drawing nearer. He arrived late, fumbled at the garden gate with his phone torch, ignoring five missed calls from me. The scent of fading bird-cherry blossom hung thick in the dark. Inside, Valentina’s old slippers waited in the porch, her house shoes by the inner door—blue and worn, with little red bunnies, a present from Steve years ago. He stood, staring, and finally entered his mother’s world for one last time. Everything was just as she’d left it—neat, a little damp-smelling, the furniture faded. Her makeup and comb, a packet of pasta marked ‘basic price’, the newer settee and telly he’d bought her, and in her room the bed piled with pillows. Steve sank onto the edge. He remembered sharing the room with his late brother, the old table by the window, now replaced with Valentina’s cherished sewing machine; her wardrobe now holding her lifetime’s treasures. The house was silent. Steve pressed his face into his knees, shook, and sobbed—he’d never found the right words to thank her; he’d sat dumb as she squeezed his hand, thousands of things left unsaid. He wished he could thank her for his safe childhood, her sacrifices, the sense of home you could always come back to, where mistakes didn’t matter and love was unconditional. But nothing he could say now felt real—our modern world, he thought, was quick with sarcasm, but never had the words for gratitude or grief. He left everything just as it was and finally slept, waking at seven as always. The morning was cool and fresh, the birch trees glowing outside the old garden fence. Steve carried the bag of his mother’s things upstairs and put everything back in its place with gentle care. He called work: “Family emergency, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He even sent me a text—apologising for his temper. After picking early tulips, daffodils and lilies of the valley, he made three small bouquets—one for each of his loved ones at the cemetery. Stopping at the shop, the old shopkeeper fussed over him, offering cheese; Steve bought some, just as his mum once did. At the grave, Steve shared breakfast—with his father, his brother, and his mum—laying out chocolate and cheese in silent tribute. He spoke to them in his mind, remembered childhood mischief with his brother, early morning fishing trips with his dad, his mum’s echoing call for dinner that he’d once found so embarrassing. He stroked the fresh earth of his mum’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… It shouldn’t feel this empty without you. So much I wish I’d said. You were the best parents anyone could ask for. Thank you—for everything. We’re selfish, me and Olya; you were never like that. Thank you, Vasya, too, little brother.” It was time to go. On the way, Steve met old Serge, drunk as ever, declaring it World Turtle Day. Steve looked at him, weary. “Look after your mother, mate. She’s gold, and she won’t be around forever.” And so, with that, Steve walked on—leaving his friend in the dust, and carrying his mother’s memory home.
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