Читать книгу Uninvented Stories of Invented People - Svetlana Isaenko - Страница 3

Happensiness*

I am 9. A Russian literature class is on. Legs are trembling. My task is to eloquently recite a piece of poetry. It is a verse of my choice. “I’m sitting by bars in the damp blackened cell.... The juvenile eagle, who’s bred by the jail…²” . Words are pouring out of me and I, in fact, experience all the emotions of that prisoner with his eagle friend. I am taking my time, recite with passion and proper accents… finalize the declamation and hear my teachers approving

“Take you sit, Marie. It’s an 'A'!” I run jumping and sit to my place next to

Vovka, my closest and dearest friend.

Vovka is already trying cigarettes, often comes with a black eye, since “mom drinks”, and our friendship is inseparable. I do his module tests because “one needs to study well, otherwise will become a street cleaner”. I don’t want Vovka to become a street cleaner, but schooling doesn’t work out for him well. Yet he is good in carrying my schoolbag and protecting me. We giggle at out new teacher – her teeth stick up forward and Vovka mocks her quite well.

“Children bred up in impaired families are incapable of building up a worthy social unit, because they are impaired themselves,” declares Mrs. Bidmor, the teacher, through her stick-up teeth. “Therefore, Vladimir, I hold no grudge against you for mocking me out. This is just a defensive action you take, since, as usual, your home assignment is not done, therefore you get an 'F' ”.

My childish mind is overwhelmed by the rush of indignation that rises over the injustice I witness. What does “impaired” mean? In which meaning is Vovka impaired? He’s incredible. I stretch my hand out.

“Mrs. Bidmor, could you kindly tell me, what my impairment is? I understand that you don’t like Vovka and say that he is good for nothing, because he has no father and his mother drinks, but what am I inferior to? I have my mom, but no dad and I get “A’s” all the time!”

Mrs. Bidmor is bleating something, indistinct and incomprehensible. My question takes her by surprise, and I continue:

“I have two arms, two legs and a head, not a single “F” among the term grades – only “A’s”! I attend dance classes, study English and drawing, and neither me, nor Vova, or Alina, who has both dad and mom, are any different from each other. We are just out of special families, where dads love us very much. They just don’t dwell with us. Just so, why do You call us Impaired?

^{2 Prisoner by Alexander Pushkin, translated by Yevgeny Bonver https://ruverses.com/alexander-pushkin/ captive/5324/ (TN)}

The end-of-class life-saving bell interrupts this debate. The teacher announces: “The lesson is over.” I leer at her, take my school bag, and trudge home together with Vovka. His head down and he, says:

“Marie, you are wrong. Dad’s gone to jail and never ever sent a single letter. He doesn’t love me. Mom doesn’t need me either. She would always tell me that I’d better died or she had an abortion. The only one who loves me is my grandma. Sometimes I run to her at night when my mom’s too drunk and starts beating."

“Vova, I am telling you; they love you, and I love you. We just grow up, get married, buy ourselves a house and give birth to children. I’ll become a doctor, you’ll graduate and become the President and everything in this life …”

“You should be kidding, Marie. I’ll grow up to become a policeman. Have no desire or inclination to presidency. I am willing to hunt criminals, so that children were not offended …” we say our goodbyes in the middle of that dialogue.

I enter the house and I ask my grandma: “Granny, does dad love me?” Grandma says: “Very much, but he is just tied up with business and does not come over.” I’m cool, because it’s always so interesting to be special. Take me for example, I am very much special, my family is special. My mother is constantly at work and grandma makes me play the piano and doesn’t let me watch the cartoons. She says: “You are to be the best at everything. Be found of reading and make yourself a decent person”.

Whilst I am apt in dispelling clouds. If one concentrates greatly, one

may compel the clouds to disperse and the sun will appear. I made this happen a couple of times.

Now the study term already comes to the end. Summer is coming and you can read as many books as you want and swim in the pond. Then the winter comes and on my birthday he’ll be there. I will definitely tell him about Mrs. Bidmor, how bad a tale-teller she is. I’m confident, my daddy is the best of the best. While Mrs. Bidmor is impaired herself, since she speaks in that way.

I love autumn. It’s raining. The rain is soothing and refreshing, at the same time, tuning you up to a certain philosophical mood.

My Mom has taken an absence leave at work and is taking me to the hospital. I have a tumor in my breast. The breast is growing rapidly, ic, since I turned 13 and was one of the first to have a bra on, already a year ago. Transparent blouses can finally be gowned so that a bra could be seen. We arrive at the cancer detection center. An elderly lady doctor speaks to me in sweet words. I really like her. She is kind and addresses me with certain compassion. I undress, take off my pride, the bra, and she does the examination. She says I am to be urgently operated in a week. I say, I cannot because of my test in physics. My mother casts her an unrest smile and we lead on to undergo all the health screening procedures. She says, we’ll be there on Monday. To be honest, I wish no operations at all.

Mom and I go to the store and buy me boots. Though, they are not just the boots, but exactly those which I craved for – the knee-high boots! Can you imagine! The knee-high boots! To be honest I do not even know where to wear them. Probably my mother will even let me to a disco, since she bought me such ones that definitely can’t be a part of school uniform.

Monday, early in the morning, we leave to the hospital. Mom is very nervous. I’m nervous because she’s nervous. I know that there is nothing to be afraid of (as my mother says). They’re goanna give me a good ward where the girls are.

I am given an injection and taken to the surgery. I am thinking that it’s worth being a patient as soon as you are able to put the high-knee boots on. I lie down on to a cold surgery table. They tie me up, inject something into the vein. The nurses admire the string bracelets on my arms and I feel a pleasant wave spreading throughout the entire of my body. Darkness. I have my consciousness gradually returning to me. I feel like I am a snowdrop and I sprout through the snow. My head and chest ache severely. Mom is beside me and gives me some water. She says that everything is good and that I am a fighter. I am very much pleased, but it hurts immensely. I’m crying. An injection comes and I fall asleep.

I am brought home. There is a bandage over my chest with tubes sticking out from it. I’m scared. What if my breast is not there under the gauze and the bandages? What if it’s totally cut off from me? I’m weeping. Mom says, everything is on its place and I should stop crying, since I’m a fighter and will get over everything. The doctor said that according to lab results the tumor was benign and I should give birth to a child as soon as possible. To give birth? Horrors! What’s that supposed to mean – give birth. I haven’t even been kissed yet! Creepy.

Mom gives me injections and makes me lie over my chest “so that the liquid draws away.” I am hurt and offended. Why did that happen to me? In the evening mom comes into the room and says that DAD will come tomorrow. Tomorrow is Thursday. I jump out of the bed and run to the fridge. I ask if there are ingredients for the Olivier Salade. “Daddy will come, I want to treat him to my salad so that he could enjoy it.” Mom asks me to lie and calm down. I don’t surrender. I find everything I need, but take out a promise from mom that she will bring peas and mayonnaise in the morning. I barely sleep all the night in anticipation.

The meal is done and I am waiting for him in expectance of praise compliments. I have my best pajamas on. I am desperate to please him, waiting by the window not to miss the moment. By the evening I realize, that probably mom has got something wrong and he would arrive the next Thursday.

He did not come over neither that nor the next Thursday.

A year later, he once called to greet me a "happy birthday" and said that then he had hardships at work. But I no longer believed that we were a special family. The realization pulsed in my temples. “Dad, just thank you for my life, you’ve been there in the beginning.”

My childhood dream was to sit down at my daddy’s lap and talk of how I was getting on. Just so that he gave me a real dad’s hug and said that his girl was the best in the world. I’d ran it over in my head for millions of times. Yet, there by the window, I realized that, disappointedly, it would never come true.

The only time when I managed to talk to him and utter how much I loved and missed him and wanted to be proud of me, was the day of his funeral. I guess my soul motivation to obtain all those knowledges and grades was to proof worthy of his love. I was twenty-four. It was only by chance that I found out he had passed. Having arrived I saw the whole of his family standing next to the coffin. Three families to be more precise and the latest of his wives. Everyone considered me a “bastard”, since my mother bore from a married man. I didn’t care at all. I went up to him to say goodbye and tell of everything that was there in my soul. However, I had no anger, just the grief because of no change to be close. All his former families were up in arms as they thought I would claim the rights for the “facilities and mobilities”. They simply wouldn’t comprehend of my love and indifference to their financial issues. There was a man of my kin in front of me, my Daddy. The one who rejected me, but was, nevertheless, beloved.

I had been standing long while turning to him in my thoughts, when, of a sudden, I felt the hand of his latest wife over my shoulder. She bent down and said: “Move over, it’s his family over here.” I immediately replied: “I am at my father’s funeral and will stand where I find convenient. Have no worries I shall definitely not visit your exequy.” On that wonderful note I kissed my daddy goodbye and left. I went with inner sense of absolution and a realization that he was just like that. However, the most valuable things he gifted me were my life and my wonderful genes. Thus, no matter what, I love and forgive him. In my mind, he remained an ideal loving person. Though spuriously, but he remained my ideal father. The Gestalt was closed.

P. S. I am writing this chapter with a huge message. I believe that once it’s read, a telephone of some little boy or girl, or of a grown up one, would flash out “Daddy” and, on the other end of the line there will sound: “Hello, kiddo, it’s me, daddy… How are you? What do you say if we go and ride swings and eat your favorite ice-cream? I miss you so much…”

It could be that somewhere a long-awaited ringer of an old telephone would sound and a gray-haired old man will hear the cherished words: “Daddy, we haven’t heard each other for ages. You are so important to me, I love you… Forgive me for not calling you that long I’m on my way to your place.”

Bottom line: we are not free to choose our own parents. Many psycho traumas received in childhood indeed influence and predetermine our life. However, when adults, we are to choose our path ourselves and are capable of working through and letting go all the resentments inside. Forgiveness is the single and the most valuable luxury we can grant to ourselves! Yes, that’s right, exactly to ourselves. They, our parent, “knew not what they did”. Just the same, as sometimes we don’t. Everyone makes mistakes. That’s the way we are wired.