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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No One Left to Talk To: A Story “Mum, what are you saying? How can you say you’ve got no one to talk to? I call you twice a day,” her daughter asked wearily. “No, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant,” Nina Anderson sighed sadly. “I just don’t have any friends or acquaintances left who are my age. From my time.” “Mum, don’t talk nonsense. You still have your school friend Irene. And honestly, you’re so modern and you look much younger than you are. Oh, Mum, what’s wrong?” her daughter fretted. “You know Irene has asthma; when she talks on the phone she starts coughing. And she lives all the way on the other side of the city. There were three of us friends, remember I told you? But Mary’s been gone for a long time. Yesterday, Tanya from the flat next door popped in. I made her a cuppa—she’s a lovely woman, often drops by. She even brought over some buns she’d baked for her family. She told me about her children and grandchildren. She’s got grandchildren, even though she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her childhood, her memories—they’re so different from mine. I just long for a chat with peers, people like me,” Nina Anderson explained, though she realised perfectly well that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time wasn’t gone—it was just outside the window. She didn’t yet yearn for memories. Sveta was wonderful and caring; it wasn’t about her. “Mum, I got us tickets for a night of classic ballads on Tuesday. Remember you wanted to go? No more sulking—put on your burgundy dress, you look stunning in it!” “All right, darling, everything’s fine. I don’t know what came over me, good night, we’ll speak tomorrow. Go to bed early—you hardly get any sleep,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight. Bye,” and Svetlana hung up. Nina Anderson gazed silently at the glittering evening lights outside… Year Eleven, also spring. So many plans. It seemed so recent. Her friend Irene fancied Simon Mallory from their class. But Simon liked Nina. He’d call her every evening, invite her out. But Nina thought of him as just a friend—why raise his hopes? Later Simon left for the army. He came back, married, lived in Irene’s old house. Back then everyone had a landline. The number… Nina Anderson dialled the number from memory. The tone didn’t come at once—then someone picked up, there was rustling and then a quiet man’s voice: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it’s too late? Why did I call? Maybe Simon doesn’t even remember me, or maybe it’s not him at all! “Good evening,” Nina’s voice rasped a little with nerves. There was more static on the line, then suddenly she heard an astonished voice: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d know your voice anywhere. How did you find me? I’m only here by chance….” “Simon, you recognised me!” A wave of joyful memories swept over Nina Anderson. No one had called her by her name for ages—just “mum”, “granny”, or “Mrs Anderson”. Well, except Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, so fresh—as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “Nina, how are you? I’m so glad to hear from you.” Those words made her ridiculously happy. She’d feared he wouldn’t recognise her, or her call would be out of place. “Do you remember Year Eleven? When Simon and Victor took you and Irene out in that rowing boat? He’d blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. Then we ate ice cream on the riverside while the music played,” Simon’s voice was soft and wistful. “Of course I remember!” Nina laughed joyfully, “And that class camping trip? We couldn’t get the tins open, we were so hungry!” “Oh yes,” Simon chuckled, “Then Victor opened them and we sang songs by the campfire. Do you remember? After that, I decided to learn the guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice rang with youthful delight at all these shared memories. It was like Simon was reviving their happy past, recalling detail after detail. “So, how are things now?” Simon asked, but immediately answered himself, “Actually, I can tell from your voice you’re happy. Children, grandchildren? You still writing poems? I remember: ‘To dissolve into the night and be reborn by morning!’ So full of hope! You always were like sunshine, Nina! You bring warmth to everyone, no one could be cold around you. Your family’s so lucky—to have a mum and granny like you is pure gold.” “Oh, come off it, Simon, I’m long past that. My time’s over, I—” He interrupted. “Come on, you give out so much energy I think my phone’s about to melt! Just kidding. I don’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—not a bit. That means your time isn’t over yet, Nina. So live—and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Simon, you’re still such a romantic. What about you? I’m going on and on about myself…” But suddenly there was a crackle and the call cut out. Nina sat there, phone in hand. She wanted to ring back, but it was late—better not. Another time. What a wonderful chat they’d had—so many memories! The sudden ringtone made Nina jump. Her granddaughter. “Yes, Daisy, hello, I’m still up. What did Mum say? No, my mood’s fine. I’m going to a concert with Mum. Are you coming over tomorrow? Wonderful, see you then. Bye.” In an unexpectedly good mood, Nina Anderson went to bed, head full of plans. As she drifted off, she found herself composing lines for a new poem… In the morning, Nina decided to visit Irene. Just a few stops on the tram—she wasn’t a creaky old nag yet. Irene was delighted: “At last! You’ve been promising for ages. Ooh, is that an apricot tart? My favourite! Well, spill, what’s brought this on?” Irene coughed, pressing her hand to her chest, then waved Nina’s concern away. “It’s all right, new inhaler—I’m better. 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