З життя
Ти вагітна?” – запитала мама.
— Оксано, ти чекаєш дитину? — спитала мама.
І як вона могла здогадатися?! Я ж тільки вранці сама про це дізналася!
А використаний тест ніяк не міг потрапити їй на очі, навіть випадково — я одразу викинула його у відро, а відро винесла до сміттєвого баку.
— Звідки ти знаєш?
— Знаю… Ти ж моя донька! — відповіла мама.
Я не зовсім зрозуміла, що вона цим мала на увазі, та й не намагалася зрозуміти — не до того було. У той момент мені хотілося лише одного: заснути і прокинутися… п’ять місяців тому, ще до знайомства з Миколою. Як шкода, що не можна взяти і відмотати час назад!
— Ти розійшлася з Миколою?
І знову мама влучила в точку.
Два тижні тому коханий призначив мені зустріч у кав’ярні. Я думала — звичайне побачення, а виявилось — прощання. «Пробач, Оксанко, але… Взагалі, дякую тобі за все… І, будь ласка, більше не дзвони. Зробиш боляче і собі, і мені, але все одно нічого не зміниш… І взагалі… собаці гуманніше відрізати хвіст одразу, одним махом!» Після цих слів він встав і пішов, а я сиділа і думала, що справді схожа на собаку, якій відрізали хвіст — мою любов. Від того, що гуманний Микола зробив це одним махом, зовсім не було легше…
А тепер ще ця нікому не потрібна вагітність…
— Так, мамо, ми розійшлися, — голос підло здригнувся. — Тільки, будь ласка, нічого не кажи. Я і так знаю, що ти скажеш. Мовляв, я тебе попереджала, а ти не послухала… Так, ти мене попереджала, що Микола — егоїст і бабій, а я не послухала. Задоволена?
— Як я можу бути задоволена, якщо моїй доньці погано? — сказала мама і погладила мене по голові, як у дитинстві. — Коли тобі народжувати?
— Ніколи. Я не хочу дитини!
— Оксаночко, дівчинко моя рідна… Коли не стало твого батька, я була в такому стані… Вижила тільки завдяки тобі. Коли мене не стане, вона… — мама знову погладила мене, тільки не по голові, а по плоскому животу, — стане твоїм ліками від відчаю…
Я була так поглинена своїми проблемами, що не звернула уваги на фразу «коли мене не стане». Зацепилася лише за слово «вона».
— Звідки ти знаєш, що буде дівчинка, а не хлопчик?
— Знаю… — знову не стала вдаватися в подробиці мама. І додала прохально. — Народи її, Оксаночко. І пам’ятай: що б не сталося, моя душа завжди буде поряд з тобою.
Ввечері 6 травня швидка забрала мене в роддом з переймами, 7-го ранку я народила дівчинку, а вдень прийшла сусідка тітка Люба з страшною новиною: моя мама померла. Вона, відправивши мене в роддом, викликала швидку і собі, а через кілька годин тітці Любі зателефонував лікар з лікарні і повідомив, що…
— Вона залишила ваш номер телефону. Обширний інфаркт. Ми нічого не змогли зробити.
Похорони пам’ятаю смутно — ними в основному займалася тітка Люба та інші сусіди. Лише через кілька тижнів, перебираючи документи, я виявила, що в довідці з роддому і свідоцтві про смерть зафіксована не тільки одна й та ж дата, але й однаковий час — 6:30.
Світланка народилася у ту саму хвилину, коли померла мама… Містика?
Чи може це бути простим співпадінням? Тут же згадалися мамині слова: «Коли мене не стане…» Але ж вона ніколи не скаржилася на серце! Невже у мами був дар передбачати і вона передчувала свою близьку смерть?
Маленька Світланка стала моїм порятунком і ліками від відчаю. Коли доньці було три з половиною рочки, я вперше взяла її з собою на кладовище.
— Ми прийшли навідати бабусю Світлану… — пояснила я доньці. — Ці квіточки ми принесли для неї. Давай поставимо їх сюди, в баночку…
Дівчинка здивовано озирнулася довкола, а потім покликала:
— Бабусю, ти де? Заховалася?
— Бабуся не заховалася, просто вона тепер живе на небі. Говорити з нами вона не може, зате…
— Може нас бачити, так? — закінчила Світланка за мене фразу.
— Так. Бачити і захищати…
Коли ми йшли, донька закинула голову і помахала хмариці, що пливла в висоті:
— Бабусю, не сумуй, ми ще до тебе прийдемо!
Зараз моїй малечі вже сім, і для мене немає людини ріднішої і любішої, ніж вона. До речі, всі знайомі в один голос стверджують, що моя Світланка — вилита бабуся. Я і сама охоче визнаю їхнешнє схожість, але останнім часом стала помічати, що у доньки є… дар передбачення. Скільки разів вона правильно передбачала погоду, прихід гостей або пропажу якоїсь речі. А вчора раптом зовсім вразила:
— Скоро у мене з’явиться тато… — і додала після невеликої паузи:
— Не бійся, бабусі він сподобається…
My Dearest One: A Tale of Family, Lost and Found Marina always believed she had grown up in a loving family—until she learned as an adult that she was adopted. Her foster parents, who had found her as an abandoned toddler in Sherwood Forest, never spoke of her past until her mother’s dying moments. With both parents gone, Marina discovers a hidden folder of letters and newspaper clippings about her origins, still unsure whether the truth should ever come to light. Years later at work, a woman named Hope brings news that a gravely ill retired schoolteacher from Yorkshire—who has been searching for her lost child all her life—believes Marina could be her missing daughter. A DNA test confirms it, leading Marina to the woman’s hospital bedside for a bittersweet reunion. Now torn between the mother who raised her and the one who lost her, Marina must decide whether to reveal a truth that could unsettle the family peace, or keep it hidden and honour the love she has always known. But as the past catches up, Marina realises that, for her, there has only ever been one real mother—a bond defined not by birth, but by love and devotion.
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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