З життя
Вільна хвилина на чай в кабінеті УЗД.
Ольга сиділа в кабінеті УЗД. Пацієнтів сьогодні було мало, випала вільна хвилинка на чай. Жінка помішувала цукор, ложка билася об склянку, видаючи мелодійний дзвін. Ольга була незадоволена, оскільки зранку все пішло шкереберть. Поссорилася з чоловіком через дрібниці. Запізнилася на роботу, за що отримала догану. Настрій був невимовно поганий. Вона розгорнула блискучу фольгу і дістала шматочок шоколаду. Немає нічого кращого для зняття стресу. Шоколад був смачним, чай ароматним, але допити його не дали. У двері постукали, і на порозі з’явилася молода жінка з обличчям, що сяяло від радості. Ольга її впізнала. Минулого разу та приходила з чоловіком, привабливим чоловіком.
– Мене знову направили до вас, – усміхнулася жінка.
– Ну, якщо направили, – Ольга неохоче взяла карту.
– Віра Силіна, п’ять тижнів.
Жінка лежала на жорсткій кушетці, по її округлому животу ковзав датчик. Серце майже завмирало від очікування. Вона чекала на цю дитину сім років. За цей час вони з чоловіком обійшли чимало лікарів, але все було марно. Віра вже боялася, що безплідна. Але все позаду, зараз вона була щаслива. Ольга не поділяла її радості. Своїх дітей у неї не було, а чужого брати чоловік не хотів. В душі жінка заздрила тим, хто міг відчути щастя материнства.
– Що там? – хвилювалася Віра, дивлячись на похмуре обличчя лікаря.
– У плода є патологія. У вас народиться дитина з відхиленнями, – відповіла та.
Віра застигла від жаху.
– Тут якась помилка. У мене гарні аналізи, – слабко протестувала вона.
– Навіщо вам хвора дитина? На вашому місці я б задумалася.
Ольга не відчувала докорів сумління і незворушною рукою зробила запис у карті. Віра на зігнутих ногах вийшла і попрямувала до лікаря. В коридорі, просоченому ліками, було холодно, як і в душі жінки.
– Віра, добре подумайте. Дитину з синдромом Дауна важко виховувати. В будь-якому разі, вибір за вами. Термін невеликий. Якщо що, я випишу напрямок, – слова звучали як вирок.
Пацієнтка пробурмотіла щось нерозбірливо і поспішила залишити кабінет. Вона сама не пам’ятала, як вийшла з лікарні і викликала таксі. Дома, не знявши взуття, впала на ліжко і розридалася. Чому її так покарано? Що в житті зробила не так? Ще нещодавно вона уявляла, як гулятиме в парку і слухатиме приємну музику. Бесідуватиме з малюком і читатиме вголос дитячі книжки. Всім серцем полюбила цю дитину. І раптом таке… Повернувся з роботи Борис застав дружину в сльозах.
– Віра, що сталося? – злякався він.
Отримавши від неї пояснення, Борис посумнішав і сказав, що повідомить батькам. На сімейній нараді Віру намагалися переконати позбутися дитини.
– Навіщо тобі інвалід? – умовляла мати.
– Будеш з ним мучитися. Які твої роки? Молода, здорова, народиш іншого. А цього залиш.
– Мамо, що ти говориш? Таке слово вигадала! Він же не річ, а жива істота!
– Ось саме, істота! Народиш – будеш дивитися сама!
– Борисе, ну поясни ти своїй впертій дружині, що хвора дитина – це хрест на все життя! – плакала свекруха. Віра почувалася беззахисною голубкою, яка потрапила в зграю ворон. Батьки мовчали, вважаючи, що це жіноча справа. І тільки старенький дід заступився за внучку:
– Чому ви на неї насіли? Хай сама вирішує, як краще.
І Віра вирішила залишити дитину. Батьки злостилися і не розуміли її. Борис замкнувся і віддалився. Рідні відвернулися, коли Вірі так була потрібна їхня підтримка. І хоч було важко, серце підказувало: вона вчинила правильно.
– Може, я це заслужила? – запитувала Віра діда.
– Ніхто не знає, чому так сталося. Ти, головне, не нервуй, для дитини це шкідливо. І чоловіка пробач, йому теж нелегко.
Вагітність протікала на диво легко. Лікар лише руками розводила і просила сподіватися на краще. Віра молилася і сподівалася на диво. А вночі, лежачи в холодному ліжку, плакала в подушку. Чоловік давно переїхав спати на диван у вітальні. І коли серед ночі викликали швидку, знову молилася за дитину: “Лише б все було добре!” Морозного ранку народилася дівчинка. Віра була готова побачити недосконалість. Але їй показали малечу, і сльози навернулися на очі. Дівчинка була схожа на янгола. Світлі волосинки, кругленькі щічки і неймовірно великі блакитні очі.
– І це диво мене хотіли змусити знищити, – з жахом прошепотіла вона.
Вдень заявилися родичі, вітали. Бориса пустили до палати. Він приніс великий букет квітів і просив вибачення. Віра пробачила, хоч у душі залишився осад. Вона підійшла до вікна і побачила, як за склом кружляють сніжинки, забираючи з собою горе і печалі. Згадалося УЗД та лікар, через яку ледь не зруйнувалося крихке щастя. Борис милувався донькою, що спала в ліжечку. Дивлячись на нього, важко було повірити, що ще нещодавно чоловік поводився як чужа людина.
– Як назвемо донечку? – запитав він.
– Надія, – відповіла Віра. – Тільки вона не дозволила мені зробити страшну помилку.
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A Life Put Right: “Lydia, I forbid you from speaking to your sister or her family! They have their own life, we have ours. Did you ring Natalie again? Complain about me? I warned you—don’t blame me if anything happens,” snapped Brian, gripping my shoulder painfully. As always, I quietly retreated to the kitchen, blinking back bitter tears. No, I’d never complained to my sister about the life I shared with my husband. We just talked. We still had elderly parents; there was always something to discuss. That infuriated Brian. He despised my sister Natalie—her family enjoyed a peace and comfort that ours never had. When I married Brian, I was the happiest girl in England. Swept up in a whirlwind romance, I hadn’t given a thought to his lack of height—Brian barely reached my chin—or to his mother, who turned up at the wedding barely able to stand. I later learned she was a longtime alcoholic. Blinded by love, I ignored the warnings. But a year into our marriage, I began to question my happiness. Brian drank heavily, staggering in late and reeking of cheap whisky. Then came the string of affairs. I worked as a nurse at the local hospital. My pay was measly. Brian preferred the company of the pub over supporting his wife. I stopped dreaming of children. Instead, I doted on our pedigree cat. I wanted no child with an alcoholic for a father, even if I still loved Brian. “You’re a fool, Lydia! Look at all the men watching you while you waste yourself on that little tyrant. What do you see in him? You’re always covered in bruises from his fists. Think no one notices those black eyes under all that concealer? Leave him before he actually kills you, silly girl,” scolded my colleague and friend. Indeed, Brian often unleashed his anger in violence. Once he beat me so badly I couldn’t manage my hospital shift. Worse: he locked me in the flat and took the keys. After that, I grew to fear him. My soul shriveled; my heart raced whenever Brian turned his key in the lock. I thought he blamed me: for childlessness, for being a poor wife, for everything. So I never resisted when he lashed out. Why did I still love him? I remembered his mother’s advice, witch-like as she was: “Listen to your husband, love him with all your heart, forget your family and so-called friends. They’ll never do you any good.” So I left behind my friends, my family, and surrendered to Brian’s will. But I liked Brian’s melodramatic apologies. On his knees, kissing my feet, covering our bed with stolen rose petals from the neighbour’s garden. I soared in those moments. Of course, I knew the roses were pilfered, sold for cheap by a drinking mate to win his own wife’s forgiveness. But I forgave, too. Perhaps I’d have spent my life as Brian’s doormat, always picking up the pieces, had fate not intervened… “Let go of Brian, I’ve had a son with him. You’re barren; it’s time you stepped aside for our child’s sake,” demanded an impertinent stranger at my door. “I don’t believe you! Leave now, before things get worse!” I shouted back. Brian denied everything, but I pressed on: “Swear he’s not your son!” I knew he couldn’t. Brian was silent. I understood everything then. “Lydia, I’ve never seen you smile. Is everything alright?” asked Mr. Harrison, our hospital’s consultant, who I’d assumed barely noticed me. “Everything’s fine,” I replied shyly. “It’s wonderful, when people’s lives are in order. That’s when life is beautiful,” he said mysteriously. Mr. Harrison had once divorced his cheating wife and now lived alone, with a grown daughter. He was unremarkable: glasses, balding, short. Still, his aftershave sent a shiver through me; I found him strangely irresistible. After his kind words, I realised my life was chaos. Time was marching on, and I was running out of it to sort myself out. I left Brian and returned to my parents. Mum was astonished: “Lydia, what happened? Did he kick you out?” “No, Mum, I’ll explain later.” I was too ashamed to describe my married life. Later Brian’s mother rang, cursing and blaming me. But I had already begun to breathe again, thank goodness to Mr. Harrison. Brian raged, stalked me, threatened me. But he didn’t know I was finally free. “Brian, stop wasting your time on me—your son needs you. I’ve turned the page. Goodbye,” I told him calmly. I returned to Natalie and my parents. I became myself again—not a puppet. “Goodness, Lydia, I barely recognise you! You’re glowing, happier,” my friend exclaimed. Then Mr. Harrison proposed: “Lydia, let’s get married. I give you my word—you won’t regret it. Just call me by my first name at home; save the formal titles for work.” “But do you love me, Harrison?” “Oh, forgive me—I forget women need to hear it. I believe I do. But actions matter more.” “I do, Harrison. I know I’ll love you for certain,” I replied, overjoyed. Ten years passed. Every day, Harrison showed me his gentle devotion. No empty promises or theatrical apologies like Brian. He cared for and cherished me, always surprising me with his generosity. We never had children together—perhaps I was truly “barren.” But Harrison never blamed me, not once. “Lydia, it seems it’s our destiny to just have each other. That’s more than enough for me,” he reassured me whenever I mourned lost motherhood. Harrison’s daughter gave us our darling granddaughter, Sarah, who became the centre of our world. As for Brian, he drank himself to death before fifty. His mother still scowls at me across the market, but her anger no longer reaches me. I almost pity her. And as for us—Harrison and me? Our life is in order now. Life is wonderful.
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I’ll Remind You “Miss Mary, I can’t get this swirl right,” whispered little Archie, the Year 2 boy, despondently poking his brush at the stubborn green leaf of his painted flower. “Try a lighter touch, sweetheart—like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. That’s it—beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who is such a wonderful painting for?” “For my mum!” Archie beamed, triumphant over the defiant leaf. “It’s her birthday today! It’s my present!” The pride in his voice after the teacher’s praise was unmistakable. “Well, your mum is a lucky lady, Arch. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet—let those colours dry a minute, so they don’t smudge. And when you get home, gently tear out this page. Your mum will absolutely love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary cast a last, fond glance at the boy’s dark head, bent over the page, then returned to her desk, inwardly smiling. A birthday gift for Mum! It had been too long since she had seen such beautiful presents. Archie truly had a gift for art—she must call his mother and suggest the art school; such talent deserves to be nurtured. And she’d ask her old pupil if she liked the present. Miss Mary couldn’t tear her eyes from the flower’s leaves, almost expecting them to stir and shimmer to life. Definitely takes after his mum! When Lottie was his age, she was just as good at drawing… ***** That evening, the teacher’s phone rang. “Hello, Miss Mary, it’s Lottie—Archie Cottam’s mum,” the young woman’s voice came crisply. “Just calling to say Archie won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lottie! Did something happen?” Miss Mary asked kindly. “Yes! That scamp ruined my whole birthday!” the voice bristled. “Now he’s laid up with a fever, ambulance just left.” “How’s that? He went home healthy, with a present for you…” “You mean those scribbles?” “What scribbles? Lottie, he drew you flowers! I was going to call to ask about enrolling him at art school!” “I’ve no idea about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy, flea-ridden bundle!” “A bundle? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was baffled as she listened, her frown deepening with each anxious word from the mother. “You know what, Lottie—do you mind if I come round now? I’m only next door…” A few moments later, after Lottie agreed, Miss Mary slipped into the hallway clutching her thick, battered album—full of faded photos and cherished childhood drawings from that first, long-ago class she’d ever taught. In Lottie’s bright kitchen, chaos reigned. As Lottie cleared away cake and dishes, she told the story: How Archie had come home late, dripping mud and water from his bag, coat, and trousers… How he’d pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his jumper—reeking to high heaven! He’d climbed into a frozen ditch for it, where some big boys had chucked it! His ruined textbooks, the ruined sketchbook—now nothing but blots and stains—and a fever which shot up near forty in an hour… How the guests had left, no one tasted the cake, and how the paramedic had scolded her—the negligent mother who hadn’t kept an eye on her son… “So, I took it back to the dump when Archie fell asleep. His sketchbook’s there on the radiator—there’s not a trace left of the flowers, just blotches!” Lottie sniffed. And as she rattled on, she never noticed how, with every word, every harried phrase, Miss Mary’s face grew darker. But when she heard what had happened to the puppy Archie rescued, her frown turned thunderous. She stroked the tattered sketchbook fondly and began quietly: She spoke of green swirls and living flowers… of a boy’s diligence and courage beyond his years. Of a gentle heart, quick to stand up to bullies, to defend the weak. Of the cruelty of those children who’d thrown a helpless pup into that frozen ditch. Then she led Lottie to the window. “There’s the ditch,” she pointed. “It could have swallowed Archie, let alone a tiny puppy. Did Archie care about that? Or was he thinking about those flowers he’d been so careful not to spoil, the gift for his mother?” And maybe, she went on, Lottie had forgotten the day back in the ’90s when she was a girl herself, sobbing on the bench outside school, clutching a scruffy kitten rescued from the bullies. How the whole class had stroked the cat and waited for Lottie’s mum; how Lottie hadn’t wanted to go home, how she blamed her parents when they’d thrown out that “flea-ridden bundle”—only to relent later. Miss Mary dug out an old photograph of that day—a little girl in a white pinafore, hugging a kitten, surrounded by classmates, smiling so warmly—and a faded drawing of a girl holding a fluffy kitten in one hand and clinging to her mum with the other. “I’ll remind you,” Miss Mary’s voice was stern now. “I’ll remind you of Tilly, and Patch, that lolloping mongrel who walked you all the way to university, and even the old rook with the broken wing you nursed back to health… I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed bright as wildflowers in your heart.” She paused, brushing away a tear, and added: “If it were up to me, I’d have kissed that rescued puppy and Archie both! I’d frame those colourful blotches! For what better gift is there for a mother than raising a child with a kind heart?” And she never noticed, as she spoke, how Lottie’s face transformed—how she cast worried, guilty glances at Archie’s closed bedroom door, clutching the battered sketchbook with limp, pale fingers. “Miss Mary! Please—could you watch Archie for a moment? Just for a few moments. I won’t be long, I promise!” Under her teacher’s watchful gaze, Lottie grabbed her coat and dashed outside, heedless of puddles or mud, running for the far-off rubbish tip. She called and searched, looking under dirty boxes, sifting through bin bags, casting anxious glances back at home… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Arch, who’s got his nose in your painting there? Is that your friend—Digger?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Does he look like him?” “He certainly does! And that star-shaped patch on his paw! Remember how your mum and I scrubbed them clean?” she laughed warmly. “I wash his paws every day now!” Archie declared proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you look after him!’ She bought us a special bowl, just for the job.” “You have a lovely mum,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Mm-hmm—for a frame. She keeps those blotches in one, and she always smiles at them. Can you really smile at blotches, Miss Mary?” “At blotches? Maybe you can, if they come from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school? Is it going well?” “Really well! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait. She’ll be so happy! And look—” Archie pulled a folded paper from his rucksack. “This is from my mum—she draws too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet and gently squeezed the little boy’s shoulder. There, on the bright paper, Archie grinned brilliantly, hand resting on the head of an adoring black mongrel. Beside them stood a tiny, blonde girl in old-fashioned uniform, clutching a fluffy kitten… On the left, from behind a desk piled with books, smiled an ageless teacher, her wise and gentle eyes alive with joy. In every brushstroke and every vibrant hue, Miss Mary felt the quiet, boundless pride of a mother’s love. Brushing away tears, she smiled—there, nestled in the corner of the painting, in looping, flower-coloured letters and delicate green swirls, was a single word: “Remember.”
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