З життя
Він йшов на операцію, а вона заспокоювала його кілька днів.
Він готувався до операції, а вона кілька днів заспокоювала його перед цим. Планова операція, вже давно час зробити, нічого страшного, всього кілька годин, подібні операції вже поставлені на потік, у нього гарні аналізи, міцне серце… Постійно повторювала ті самі слова, мов заведена. Він усміхався, гладив її руку і мовчав. Їй здавалося, що він її не чує, що все це вона говорить сама собі, себе заспокоює, собі пояснює.
Та так і було. Він слухав, але не чув. Просто дивився, як вона рухається по квартирі. Як накриває на стіл. Як п’є каву, дбайливо зварену ним на сніданок. Як хмуриться і турбується. Як сто разів перебирає в пакеті його лікарняні речі. Як нагадує зателефонувати сестрі у далеку країну.
Вже давно вони жили лише вдвох. Половину того життя, що прожили з батьками, сином, онуками. Батьків поховали, синові купили квартиру. Залишилися вдвох і на вихідних накривали столи, як колись, запрошували друзів. Влітку їздили на відпочинок. І постійно трималися за руки.
Переступили за 60-річний рубіж, а рук так і не роз’єднали.
Вони були таким єдиним цілим, що навіть імена не було сенсу вимовляти окремо.
Що вони пережили, розповідати довго. Всього було. Вона із дитячого будинку. Але раптом, коли її дитина вже виросла, знайшлася мама. Хвора, покинута, нікому не потрібна. Вона, не замислюючись, взяла її до себе. У свою тісну міську квартиру. Практично всі крутили пальцем біля виска. Мама залишила її в крихітному віці. І ніколи, ніколи в житті не згадувала, що в неї є донька. Вона дійсно не розуміла, чого від неї хочуть? Щоб вона кинула маму? Так само, як мама кинула її? Але ж їй було боляче, всі ці роки було дуже боляче! Вона не хоче, щоб так було з мамою…
Маму доглядали разом із чоловіком. Вона пролежала кілька років, два останні роки втратила розум. Але вони не нарікали, мовчки доглядали, годували, поїли, міняли підгузки і постіль, лікували…
Вона, властиво, могла все. Коли він був поруч. І нічого її не лякало. Коли він був поруч.
На операцію вона його провела. І сиділа під дверима. Чекала. Невелика операція, але все одно купа переживань. Він ніколи серйозно не хворів. І їй було трохи дивно сидіти і чекати закінчення його операції.
Машинально сунула руку в сумочку, намацала конверт. Здивувалася, наче жодних конвертів у неї в сумочці не повинно бути. Витягнула. Ще більше здивувалася — лист від нього. Коли він встиг написати? Коли в сумочку встиг підкласти? Вони ж наче весь час були разом, вона б помітила.
Прочитала. Дуже дивний лист. Він наче прощався. Вона сиділа, боячись рухнутися. Вона все зрозуміла. Ще до того, як лікарі вийшли з операційної.
Не переніс він незначної операції. Зупинилося серце. Те саме, наче здорове і ніколи не боліло…
А потім, після похоронів, валер’янки, порожнечі, неймовірного болю, вона витягнула з шафи свою кофту і намацала в кишені листок. Це була кумедна записка. Від нього. Пітемніло в очах. Полізла в іншу кишеню зимового пальта. І там записка. З пририсованою смішною рожицею.
У неї в квартирі був мільйон цих його записок. Написаних до зупинки серця на операційному столі. І знайдених нею після його похоронів.
Вона спочатку плакала, не могла читати, фізичну біль викликав навіть його почерк…
Потім почала читати. Він жартував, підбадьорював, питав, передбачав, шкодував, любив… Він був живим і колишнім у тих записках.
І, дивлячись мені в очі, вона раптом каже: — Розумієш, мені навіть соромно зізнатись у тому, що я тобі скажу. Соромно, коли навколо багато горя і багато проблем, коли наче так і не буває, всі одне на одного жаліються… Розумієш, я була дуже щаслива, як жінка. Дуже. Я не можу про це розповісти. Але я була дуже щаслива.
І десять років, щовечора, вона перечитує його записочки. Ті, які знаходила в квартирі ще довгий час. Ті, які їй тоді допомогли не зійти з розуму. Ті, які продовжують зберігати його тепло. І його любов.
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“I Had to Get a Separate Fridge So Mum Would Stop Taking My Shopping” — says Anna. “It’s a ridiculous situation, but there’s no other way. I’m not against selling the flat and sharing the money, but she refuses”. Anna recently turned 24. She’s earned her university degree and found work, but hasn’t settled down yet. Living in her own home isn’t easy. Anna owns half of the flat. It used to belong to her father. She and her mother inherited equal shares when Anna was 14. Ten years ago, things were tough for the family—they lost their breadwinner. Anna’s mum quit her job when Anna was small, deciding against maternity leave because her husband earned well and they were comfortable. She focused on being a homemaker. After Anna’s father died, her mother sobbed, “Who’s going to hire a forty-year-old like me now? What, as a cleaner?” Anna continues: “I was getting a family pension, but Mum couldn’t resist trips to the salon and shopping, even though we were barely scraping by. Her brother helped at first, but then he’d had enough. My uncle told Ali (my mum) she’d have to find work. He has his own kids — he can’t support everyone. After about a year, Ali brought a new man home. His name was Derek. She announced he’d be living with us. Mum tried to solve the money problem by getting married again. Derek did earn good money, but he didn’t get along with me at all. Derek would say: ‘All you do is eat. You’d be better off with a load of laundry or cleaning. Why do you have to do homework? University? Forget it—you should work instead. Or do you think I’ll just keep feeding you?’ I couldn’t say anything. Yes, I was getting a pension, but Mum had control of the money. She never defended me from my stepdad. She was afraid of losing her breadwinner. ‘How will we cope without him?’ she asked me. ‘Don’t argue so much, just do what he says. He provides for the family.’ I made it to university and found a job. Even so, Derek thought of me as another mouth to feed and was always counting what he spent on me. “Six months after I started work, I could afford my own fridge,” Anna says. “I put it in my bedroom because Derek locked the kitchen fridge.” ‘You’ve got a job now? Feed yourself,’ Derek said. Ali fell silent again. Even when Derek showed me the utility bills and demanded I pay for everything he’d ever spent on me. Eventually, Derek lost his job. He and Mum began raiding my fridge. The bills all landed on me. At first, I paid. But Derek sat around unemployed for nearly a year. I’d had enough, so I put a padlock on my fridge. Of course, Mum objected, claiming Derek had kept us fed all this time. I said, ‘Help me out, if you want. I’m not the first one sharing everything in this house. Go get a job.’ Derek recently moved out. Mum’s had enough of a man who brings in no money. But I’m still not taking the padlock off my fridge. I believe Mum should work too. What do you think—is she right?
I had to bring in my own fridge just so Mum wouldnt keep taking my groceries. I had no choice...
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You’re the Big Brother, So You Must Help Your Little Sister—You’ve Got Two Flats, Give One to Your Sister! Not long ago, we celebrated my sister-in-law’s birthday. Alina has never had any friendly feelings towards me, and I’ve always felt the same about her. The celebration brought together all our relatives: grandparents, nephews, and of course the birthday girl. Each relative felt obliged to congratulate my husband on his sister’s birthday, while also admiring his generosity. My husband and I graciously accepted the congratulations, but couldn’t grasp what was happening. In my hand was an envelope containing £100 as a present. I thought it was a decent gift for the occasion, though hardly a display of extraordinary generosity. Everything became clear when my mother-in-law began her birthday speech for Alina. “Mark,” she said, “it’s your sister’s birthday today. She’s still single and without a partner, so as her older brother you should look after her and guarantee her security. Now that you own two flats, you’ll give one to Alina.” The room burst into applause while I nearly fell off my chair at the cheekiness of it all. But it didn’t end there. “Brother, make sure you give me the one in the new build! So, when can I move in?” Alina pressed, and I decided it was time for some clarification. My husband and I actually have two flats. One I inherited from my grandmother; we did a bit of redecorating and now rent it out. The money from that pays the mortgage for our flat in the new building—where we actually live. My husband has no rights to the flat I inherited; I’ve always planned to pass it on to our child—my sister-in-law isn’t even in the picture. “Forget it, the rented flat is mine and the one you’re dreaming about is our home.” “Child, you’re quite mistaken. You’re my son’s wife, so all your assets are jointly owned and should be managed by your husband,” my mother-in-law chimed in. “I have no issue with you helping, but not with my assets!” I said. “Mark, do you have anything to add?” “Darling, you and I will earn more money and buy another flat. Let’s just give this one to Alina; it’s her birthday today.” “Are you serious?” I asked, astonished. “If it ever comes to that, you can give her half of our flat after we file for divorce!” “Aren’t you ashamed to speak to your husband like that? If you want a divorce, you’ll get one! Son, pack your things and come home. And you—you’re vile and greedy!” my mother-in-law snapped. After that, I left that crazy house. I wasn’t going to stick around with people who think they have the right to dispose of my property.
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