On coming home one day I discovered Granny’s door barricaded. When I pushed my way in, my mother was crouching in the dark on her little sofa (now it’s mine). Why did you block the door? Why did you move the desk under the chandelier? Were you going to hang yourself? When the paramedics arrived, she looked at me wildly, threw her head back, and walked out, for good. That night I howled and howled, and I couldn’t stop. Alena shuffled in with some sedatives and doled out two pills, but I grabbed the whole bottle and asked her to bring me water; while she was gone, I stuffed the pills inside my pillow—I knew whom she was saving them for. You are hysterical, stop it, my daughter said, and what could I tell her? That I had come back from the hospital, with its barred windows? That Andrey has also been thrown behind bars? That I was a criminal? Who sends their mother to an institution? The doctors told me it was a very advanced schizophrenia—she herself told them about when the KGB began to follow her. I mentioned her scarlet eyes; they said it happens. She needs treatment, they said. Her life was in danger.
• • •
I knew, of course, that I couldn’t bring Mama home—because of Tima: he didn’t deserve that hell—the screams, the arguments, the smell, the feces. No pension would ever make up for all that, especially such a tiny one—she’ll put a kettle on the stove and burn down the house. Tima came to me, and I greeted him with a smile as always, and promised him bread with butter from last night, and tea with candy, and to make him a house from paper. My head ached. I put water on for tea and thought I could just as easily forget to turn off the gas and burn down the house; that it was a miracle that all this time I had managed not to lose keys or money and to answer the letters coherently. But what if it happens before I leave for good—who will save Tima? There must always be other people in the house, but where are they? Where?
At this very moment the doorbell rang. Another friend of Andrey’s? I’ve paid! I’ve paid everything I have, there’s nothing left, leave me alone, you bastards! My hands were shaking: Who is it? I asked. The little one rushed to open the door—he opens to anyone, always.
“It’s me, me.”
“Who’s me?”
“Me, Alena.”
Why was she here? It wasn’t her payment day! “It’s Mommy!” Tima rejoiced for some reason.
I cracked open the door.
“What are you waiting for, Mama?” Her large eyes feigned curiosity. In her arms she was clutching a baby, her third, while her second was clutching at her skirt. My daughter was clad in a jacket two sizes too small, clearly from the trash. She was surrounded by a stroller, a sack, a suitcase. How did she manage to drag it all upstairs?
“We can’t afford to receive you here, you hear me?”
I wanted to shut the door, but the little one wouldn’t let me. His mother was trying to unlock the door with her key; she addressed Tima through the crack: “Please, honey, step aside. She’ll jam your finger with the door!”
“That’s right, Timochka,” I told him sweetly. “Let’s close the door, sweetie.” No!
I walked away and locked the door to my room. They scuttled past my door to the kitchen, then to the bathroom. I could hear Tima’s happy voice, the baby singing, their mother cooing. He saved them; he is a member of their family now. For this I went hungry and sleepless, and at the first opportunity he tosses me aside like an old brick. In one brief instant my life has lost its meaning. How well he played his cards. A quick struggle at the door, and he is hers, his biological mother’s. I’ve seen such cuckoo-mothers, who receive their children years later, and how those children adore them, how they instantly forget those who had raised them. I remember a very distant acquaintance, a certain Irina, telling me that now she knew why she could never get along with her mother: her mother wasn’t her real mother! So now this Irina visits the grave of her real mother, which the fake mom had maintained all those years, while the woman who had fed and raised her gets nothing, even though Irina knows she’s been ill and had to retire from her high post. Her husband Irina also kicked out, after a consultation with the grave, because he came from the same privileged milieu. Now she lives alone with a little daughter in a condo her fake mom bought for her. I remember mulling over this story because I also wanted my mother not to be my mother. I didn’t understand then, and my heart went out to the grave of that birth mother, not to the adoptive mom, with her crew cut and ugly business jacket. I could imagine her with red cheeks and shaking hands breaking the news to Irina: she probably hoped for some gratitude at the end of her life, some justification of her sacrifices, and what did she get?
It was my turn to sit on the little sofa behind the locked door, my eyes bloodshot. Alena was going to move in here with her pack of brats. She’d take over the larger room, and Tima would move in with me, with his cot. I would celebrate my solitude at night, in the kitchen. There was no room for me here. When I came out, my eyes were dry.
“Alena, can I talk to you?”
“Wait, Mama. I’m unpacking. Can you feed Tima and Katya?”
Mama. A prick in the heart.
“Are you here for good? Is this it?”
“Tima, can you feed Katya? Grandma won’t feed her.”
“I can!” Tima yelped excitedly, and walked this fat Katya past me without a sign of recognition, as if I were a lamppost.
“There’s nothing to eat, nothing!”
“Mommy,” Tima announced, “we have two slices of bread with butter, and candy. I can put the water on.”
“Alena, stop him, he’ll burn himself and the little one. You’ll have to watch him—I need to leave.”
“You’re leaving?” she said dully. Clearly she’d been hoping to leave me with the brats.
“That’s right. Today I’m bringing home Granny,” I announced.
She froze. “Mama! Why? Why today? Stop your jokes. There are three children here.”
“Otherwise in an hour they’ll transfer her to the facility for the chronically insane.”
“So what?”
“What do you mean, so what? Who’s going to visit her there? Take her food? They’ll hit her over the head with a chair and that’ll be it.”
“You’ll visit. Like you have done all these years. Or haven’t you? You are getting her pension, after all.”
“It’s three hours one way!”
“You’ll manage, for your own mother. You’ll still be getting her pension.”
“What pension? There will be no pension!”
“Ah, now I understand. Because of a few pennies we’ll have to go through the same hell. My whole childhood, all the best years ruined by screaming. Twisted family.”
“Well, so that you can have a normal, untwisted family, Granny has disappeared.”
“I’ve listened to these tales for years.”
“To save you and your family, I sent her away, so your Shura could live with you here. But he couldn’t! No one ever could!”
To my surprise her eyes filled with tears. A vestige of shame still dwelled in her.
“Don’t cry, Mommy,” Tima begged her.
“Sonny, where did you leave Katya? She can’t be alone in the kitchen.”
“Our Andrey is being kicked out by his wife, by the way. He drinks, you know.”
Here I lied. One night Andrey pounded on my door screaming murder, and I caved and opened the door. There were three of them standing behind his back, hands in their pockets. I closed the door in their faces. Andrey was pale: he begged me on his knees—he owed eight hundred rubles. Under their watchful gazes I withdrew family savings, plus my mama’s insurance—everything I had. He promised to give up drinking, to find work, to get treatment for his foot, and to register at his wife’s address.
“Family, family,” Alena sighed.
“Granny will sleep in the little room; I’ll move into the kitchen. If Andrey comes home, he’ll sleep with Granny�
�he’s her darling grandson.”
“Andrey’s no one’s darling grandson, not anymore. I went to see him last night, with the children, and he threw a drunken fit in the middle of the night. They had a fight, turned on the lights—that was his way of telling us to get out.”
“But he has promised to quit!”
“He’s been drinking nonstop for a week—he found money somewhere. The house is full of his buddies. Well, at least this room is mine. Ours.”
I’m choking on my tears. Andrey, Andrey. How could you? The decision came suddenly. Freedom! Wasn’t it absurd to imagine freedom in such a space? Alena wouldn’t be heartbroken. What abyss did she emerge from that a single room for four people she considered a refuge?
She read my mind. “I request political asylum. Mama! If you only knew how I lived!”
One moment of closeness between us in three years.
“Then why did you have another one? Why didn’t you get rid of it?”
“Get rid—of Nikolai? Mama! How can you say that?”
“Everyone does it up until the last moment. Big deal. You pay money and have it done.”
“Money? What money, Mama?” she mumbled.
“Their money. From them. The ones you spread your legs for. And you were taking from us! Whore.”
I needed to hurry—they take them away early. They had already wrapped her in two robes, towel for a hat, rubber boots—in this cold! That’s how they dressed her once for the X-rays—the machine is in a different building; I came to see her, saw an empty cot. What a scare I had! Why did they let me see it? Right now my mother’s the last one left on the floor, her neighbor Krasnova’s gone, everybody’s gone, Mama receives special treatment as their only patient, and she greedily swallows additional food, her face contracting like a sponge. I won’t survive, she whispers. Of course you will! the nurse tells her. What do you have to worry about, Granny? We’ll take you to a new hospital; our beloved state won’t abandon you—you’ll always have your bowl of mush. Look at this sleeping beauty. Let’s go, Granny, I’ll rinse you off. Look at you—just skin and bones. The other day we lifted her neighbor, and she left her womb behind on the bed. Eighty-seven years old, they took her to the Fifth; the Fifth is much worse. You, Granny, they’ll take to another dump; it’s a bit cleaner. Who can find enough sheets and diapers for you, eh? Look at her, just like a baby. What is she saying? What are you saying, Granny? They should give them a shot and be done with it. Come, up you go.
But I must bring her some clothes. She’s thin, she can wear mine. But mine are all unwashed or full of holes. At least she doesn’t need a bra, and here’s a pair of underpants saved for a doctor’s visit, oh, happiness. Now. A slip. Nothing but holes. I mend now and again but not enough—no one sees me anyway. But what is this? Aha. An undershirt left by my former son-in-law, Shura. Thanks, Shura honey. I don’t have tights for her, but here’s a pair of sweatpants. Now I need socks without holes, but what’s this? A pair of unworn cotton stockings. I’ll roll them down, and she’ll wear them like socks with her shoes.
God help me, what am I talking about? What shoes? It’s winter, she’ll need felt boots. I keep my pile of felt boots in storage. Oh, what a mess; how will I find anything in here? Idiot, lazy cow, all you care about is your stupid poetry, and now you are late and they are taking her away.
“Mama, don’t make dust, for God’s sake!” my daughter announces in passing.
I’m late, oh dear. Now her dress: thank God she’s shorter than I am. I didn’t touch anything, despite my intention to make something for myself out of different dresses. In the end I saved everything for Alena—she is the same height as my mother, has the same temper, too. Alena the Troglodyte, I called her to myself the last time she was here, when she shoveled two helpings of everything, but that was because she was heavily pregnant—I didn’t know. Aha, here’s something—a lovely tailored dress. Mama was an elegant young lady in a cutthroat all-female office, had lovers among the highest management, the bastards. The hat. The main thing is to cover your ears, I’ve been telling the little one. I was his doormat; he wiped off his silky feet and marched on—don’t think, don’t cry, he is fine, he is with his family, his mother, his brother and sister. The mother will shear his curls and put him up at a boarding preschool, like army service. A single mother is entitled to the state day care—prison for the children. She’ll warehouse them all and go to work. But how is he going to sleep there alone? How? As your own mother has slept for almost seven years, that’s how, but let’s not think about that; let’s think about finding a scarf for her. That would be with Tima’s things; he wears it when his ears hurt, but it’s covered with stains, with camphor oil—I can’t put it on my mother’s head!
Nothing, Alena dear, I’m not taking anything, just looking for a hat for Granny—she’s completely bald, not a hair left. I’ll give her my scarf; I’ll raise my collar. Now I need a suitcase—it’s on top of the wardrobe. Look at this dust; I’ll wipe it with a rag. Now, clean sheets on the sofa, oh, and a rubber sheet underneath. Alena dear, you don’t have an extra rubber sheet, do you? I didn’t think so. I’ll use a plastic bag, or better yet I’ll ask for an old one at the hospital. Now run, run, run, fifty-two times a year plus New Year’s Eve, plus her birthday, plus Women’s Day, plus the Revolution Day, before and after, because the chief psychiatrist Revekka Samoilovna, may she rest in peace, hinted once that on holidays patients cry and ask for sleeping pills and die. Revekka, we worshipped you like a deity, and who remembers you now? I do.
What a heavy suitcase, my God. Where am I going? It’s one o’clock, they’re all gone. The unheated ambulance has taken her to the dump to die. I’ll get there and everything will be locked, no one will be around except the painters. Been ages since I’ve had my apartment painted. Young man, could you give up your seat? I’m going to faint; thank you, thank you. The train is barely crawling. How am I going to get her home? I’ve no money for a cab. Unless she’s gone, as you are hoping in your lowly heart of hearts. I don’t like the subway—tunnel noise scares me. They are looking at me, thinking, Where is this exhausted woman going with that suitcase? Remember your teeth; always smile with your lips closed. Young lady, please, could you give up your seat? I can barely stand; thank you. Let’s go!
Run, run, run. At least her outfit’s not completely shameful. Old people like old things. I forgot her ivory brooch! I’ll give her my cardigan and will button it up. A long line for the shuttle. Please, people, let me go first: the psychiatric hospital is closing. That’s right, I’m a patient there! Could you pass my fare to the driver? Double? Why? Oh, the suitcase. Shall we get going? The seats are all full.
No ambulance at the door. The steps. How my heart is pounding. I’m sorry for the knocking; I’m picking up my mother. I’m not too late, am I? Oh, thank God, I was so afraid I’d miss her. You see, my daughter showed up unexpectedly with her three children—the poor thing, she’s completely alone, everyone’s abandoned her. I saved my son, too. Some criminals threatened him; I paid them off. He worships me now, but he is an invalid with one heel. Is this her discharge form? Can I keep it, as a memento? What’s your name, dear? Sonya? What a lovely name, very rare these days, a name from Dostoevsky. I was going to present you with a book of my poems—I’m a poet, you know. When it comes out I’ll give every nurse a copy. In the meantime, Sonya dear, any equipment you may spare: a chamber pot, a rubber sheet, old sheets. I have absolutely nothing to put under her. Oh, thank you, thank you. Just throw everything into the suitcase; it’ll be empty. Will you bring her out, or do I go right in? Hi, Mom, how are you? Let’s get dressed. Want to go pee-pee for the road? Excellent. Look, Sonya, she understands everything! Sonya dear, what about her medications? A list of what she needs? Mama, we are getting dressed. What happened to her hair? Why did they shave her head? Look at her nails—did they never cut them? Oh, how my back hurts. Mama, look, wonderful Sonya brought us some pills for t
he next few days—I didn’t dare to ask! Sonya, I’m dizzy; it’s her smell, like a sick animal’s. Please, could you find me a few drops of valerian? Now the boots, not very comfortable with those toenails, I know.
Mama, try to stand up straight. How will I take you home? Sonya, you mentioned an ambulance; can you ask them to just take us home? I don’t have money for a cab—my book, you see, isn’t out yet; when it comes out I’ll pay everyone I owe.
“Look, Grandma,” Sonya tells me reasonably, “if you’re taking her home, the hospital isn’t responsible for transportation.”
“Sonya dear, as an exception, I beg you on my knees, please take us home. All the doctors are gone; there’s no one else to beg. . . .”
“You must speak to the driver—that’s up to him.” And she scuttles away, having lost interest in our drama.
We are dressed and waiting. Mama is crouching on the bed; soon she’ll pee herself. Loud banging on the stairs—a paramedic walks into the hall.
“Patient Serafima Golubeva!”
“She is here, I’m coming with her, I’ve got her papers. Please, young man, help her down the stairs.”
Sonya is watching. As soon as we are on the stairs she locks the door inside. That’s it.
My mother walks in a strange, jerky way. The paramedic supports her. Her shaved head is too small for my hat.
We are inside the ambulance.
“Excuse me, which way are we going?”
“The Fifth.”
“The Fifth? We were told the other one. How far is the Fifth?”
“Three hours one way, then back to the city, to the depot.”
“Here’s my offer. You can drive us for three hours, in the cold. Or it can be a quick twenty-minute drive.”
“Where’s that?”
“Home. I’ll sign a paper that I changed my mind and took her home. At five you’ll be off.”
“Ah, you old . . . If you are taking her home, call the cab. Get out now, both of you.”
There Once Lived a Mother Who Loved Her Children, Until They Moved Back In Page 8
