My Angel

by Tetiana Brooks

  So we were celebrating our birthdays together in the middle of September. I was having my twenty-fifth one, Vova, his third.

  The table was set. Guests gathered. Aleksei was late and I was angry. He had gone to visit his mother in the village. I loved my mother-in-law and never dissuaded him from visiting her, on the contrary, I believed that he should do it more often. But today, I thought he could have stayed home and helped me get ready for the celebration.

  Finally the doorbell rang.???? why would ring his own doorbell? Aleksei came in with a medium-sized suitcase in his hand. Surprised, I was ready to hurry him up, when he opened the suitcase. The suitcase was full of roses. Red, pink, and white. Fresh, fragrant roses.

  “Oh!” The guests uttered a chorus of oohs and aahs.

  “Happy birthday, darling!”

  How much I loved him then!

  Now he was looking at me with the eyes of an old, tired, and beaten dog. There was fear. And suffering. And a plea.

  “I brought tea,” I forced myself to speak, holding back the tears. “Should I make the tea now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I also brought some cookies.”

  “I’m forbidden to eat cookies.”

  “What has happened to you? You love cookies.”

  “I have diabetes. The acute type. My pancreas is failing. So...”

  He couldn’t say a word more. Neither could I.

  I poured us some tea. I didn’t put out the cookies.

  “You know,” I said after a while, “I’ve come to talk to you. I forgive you for everything you did. I forgive you.”

  Alexei’s hand shook the tea in the cup.

  “I forgive you, because we were together for almost seventeen years. Because we are responsible for our son, and because I thought about revenge. And forgive me if I have ever hurt you.”

  I did it! I did it!

  But I was puzzled by the fact that he did not say anything. He was not surprised. He didn’t say it was not him who had done it, or that it was me who made him do that. I realized that he was truly sorry for what he had done. For the fact that it was he, nobody else, who had tried to kill me. He just sat there with his eyes on the floor, completely silent.

  Good heavens, you were so right, Maria Vasilievna! I didn’t want him to be sick. I didn’t want to put him to jail, nothing of the kind! Moreover, no prison could help a person experience remorse for what he did.

  You were also correct, Vladislav Petrovich. I forgave him. I didn’t want him to die. And the all-consuming hatred left me. Compassion came instead, and a sense of freedom I had not expected.

  I was ready to cry from happiness. No, not because my almost-murderer was punished far too much, even for me. I did not want to punish him! I felt sorry for him. Sincerely sorry. I had the feeling that all this time I had been carrying a huge bag filled with something very unpleasant and heavy. And now it was gone. So easy to move! Such freedom!

  We talked about various things, looking back on some good events in our life. Yes, there were some. In every family there are hard times and happy moments. And we were no exception. I thought back then that there was no woman happier than me in the whole world. And now I felt the same way.

  Out on the street, I was close to tying my leg to that old, vanished weight because otherwise I felt I might fly away, like Piglet’s green balloon. Wow! An idea flashed through my mind, how thoughts can physically put pressure on the body. I never would have thought that.

  But now I didn’t want to think at all.

  The world around was so colorful and it seemed that before I watched it through a dirty window. Now someone had washed it for me, and everything around sparkled. Was it Someone or had I washed it myself? No, I would not think about anything. I was so happy! So happy!

  Chapter Nineteen

  Freedom from that obsessive hatred and the feeling of ultimate happiness instantly affected the quality of my life. I looked around and noticed things I had not paid attention to, probably since my romantic youth.

  Look! There was a cloud resembling a huge, golden daisy. And this clean spring air fragrant with young greenery and lilacs! Even our hectic buses and cars, coughing up their fumes, could not kill the scent of spring and love.

  I love it, I thought. I love everything and everyone. I love this girl who is walking with her mother, holding her hand and constantly asking some kid’s questions, and the mother is answering with a tender smile on her lips. I love the guy, inputting something for ten minutes on his phone, and then all of a sudden either angry, or believing that the call will be faster and more useful, he is putting the phone to his ear, shouting, “Hey, hey! Can you hear me?” I even love that skinny croaker, with a face that expresses contempt for the whole world. Poor thing, she must be terribly miserable if she has such a mark of dissatisfaction on her face. And here a shoot of violets is making its way through the thickness of the asphalt and is about to flower.

  Wow, I thought, so small, so tender, so seemingly weak, and it made its way through the incredible thickness of the asphalt to live. Live, perhaps quite a short life, because it can easily be ripped off by someone’s evil hand or trodden down by someone’s careless feet. But still it risks all that. It wants to live!

  And suddenly I realized how much I want to live! How much I love life!

  Chapter Twenty

  Again, I am dreaming. This is not the usual city I’d been to previously. It’s my apartment. I am home, watching television. There is something on the screen not too interesting, not too sad, just something you watch to kill time. The doorbell rings. I slowly get up and go to open to door.

  I open the door and freeze, startled: there is a dog standing on my doorstep. My black dog that saved me from death in my last dream. My guardian angel. He came to me in a dream again. He came back to me!

  He looked exhausted to a frazzle. His fur was dingy and ragged. He didn’t look at me. He wasn’t happy. I could not move. Tears were rolling down my cheeks, but I couldn’t wipe them off, so they were dripping onto the floor. I was not sure why he came, so I was too scared to say anything. But he figured it out. Our guardian angels know everything about us and can easily see what we really think. Pushing me away with his snout, he walked wearily into the apartment, lay down on the carpet, and closed his eyes. I ran up to him, started hugging him, kissing him. Where was he all this time? What had he gone through? How did he survive?

  What did he feel for me, contempt, hatred? Why was he back? Was he ordered to come back? Was it his duty?

  Or was it his own desire?

  I was crying out of pity for him, and out of happiness. He came back to me! I asked for forgiveness and promised that never, ever I would allow him to suffer because of me. It seemed he smiled gently to me, licked my nose and...

  And, I woke up. I woke up in tears. With a wet nose and a clear feeling that I had just been licked there. And then I realized that he had come back to me. My guardian angel returned because he loved me, because I’d changed. Getting rid of hatred in my heart, I cleared a space for him, so that he could get comfortable. He came back to help. He returned to suffer for my mistakes and enjoy my right decisions. I did everything right. Thank you, kind Maria Vasilievna. Thank you, Dr. Dmitrii Nikolaievich, and wonderful Bagreev. Thank you, Pastor Viacheslav Petrovich. I am grateful for my salvation, for your lessons, help, and faith. I thank you all for the return of my angel!

  Every person at birth gets an angel, a guardian. They accompany us through life. They bear responsibility for our actions. They can’t solve our problems, but can whisper clues to solving these by a quiet voice of conscience. Some people hear that voice loud and clear. Others don’t hear it at all. Or they don’t like what they hear. They don’t want to hear it. Such people have killed their guardian angels and live without them, believing that they know what’s best. Are they right? I don’t know. I think we are also responsible for our guardian angels. Everything happening to them depends on how we live, how we treat ours
elves and others. And that’s what defines us as humans.

  I don’t think my guardian angel actually looks like a Russian Borzoi. These angels know how to read our hearts and minds and assume the similitude of someone or something who is close to our understanding.

  I got out from the bed and, taking a pillow and a blanket, I lay down on the floor, right on the spot where I had just been crying in a dream over my angel, exhausted by my mistakes. Closing my eyes, I could feel the warmth from something soft and woolly. I mentally embraced it and fell into a balmy sleep, so peaceful, and more relieved than I had felt for the last five years.

  Part Two

  Walking Down the Aisle

  September. Indian summer. A warm, soft Indian summer. I feel much the same as the air. Soft and warm. I understand, of course, that the summer is over, but my soul enjoys this unusual downy tranquility and the unity of mood and weather. These September days the weather is always great. Even if it has rained the day before, and it has been cold, by the middle of September the weather always comes back to sunny, but not too hot. Warm and calm with the charm of the autumn colors in their brightness. Like a woman of forty, perhaps charming as never before and never after. Beautiful, with that confident magnificence that comes before fading. Just like nature at this time of year.

  No argument there, every time of the year has its own charm.

  Spring is the awakening of youth, freshness. Of gentle, innocent, but exuberant flowering. The air full of viridity, bursting with life and love. Thoughts and ambitions rush together in brassy meltwater streams. Storming hormones. The time of conception and development. The time of love.

  During hot, zippy summer you want life in all of its aspects. It seems that life has just begun. The energy of flowering is raging with irrepressible passion. So good! Already strong, but still young nature requires Life. So many more plans ahead! And here are the pledges of spring love. Young, green and fresh. It’s still spring in their souls. Summer is the season of love, but???? consciously deep and spiritual.

  And then suddenly--what is this?

  Fall? So soon? Oh, no! This is summer, but only the Indian one. And in your head you realize that it’s autumn, but deep inside you try to catch and hold tightly to this designation, given by some tradition—Indian Summer. And after, blossoming with that particular autumnal splendor, you begin to persuade yourself that no, life is not coming to its end. Look how beautiful I am! And the desire to live is so strong.

  And to love. Perhaps love is even stronger than in spring. It does not matter that the beauty is quietly falling down with golden and crimson leaves to the ground. But the pledges of spring love have grown up and matured. Now it’s summer for them. And we try to stick closer together in order to feel the waning summer warmth. This gives us chance to postpone breaking, unprepared, into the severity of winter. They remind us that it is still possible to enjoy the beauty of the autumn.

  So am I enjoying my autumn, though I understand that cold, frightening winter is just around the corner. It will come, as always with frosts, blizzards, and terrifying howls of the wind. It will come with lines of wrinkles, diseases, and weakness. It will cover us with silver-gray hair. It will end up in death. But that’s not today. Today it is still autumn. September. Indian Summer.

  Chapter One

  Today was my fortieth birthday. The beginning of my Indian summer. We were celebrating it together with Natalia. It was still the same village and the same problem of selling the house and paying half the money to my ex-husband.

  No words could describe my bad mood. Yesterday was my son’s birthday. He was having his spring. He was eighteen. Eighteen! Once I gave myself the best present in the world—my son. Since then we always celebrated our birthdays together. But this year, the first time in his life, I was alone. He was having his military-student life, and I was so far away from him, and had nothing to please him with. No gift to charm him.

  I’d had not much work. Even less money. Of course he received a small gift with a card and some money from me, and I was hoping that it would improve his mood. But it was unbearably sad to think that he had to grow up so soon. That his eighteenth birthday he was celebrating far from his family, surrounded by responsible, serious officers and dedicated fellow students. But there was nothing I could do, so I kept struggling, telling myself it was meant to be like this, everything will be okay.

  I had no idea what was on the birthday table of my son, or even if he’d celebrated. On my table there was a bowl of boiled new potatoes, sprinkled with fresh dill. Pickled cucumbers, sliced and beautifully plated sausages, cheese, and a half-empty bottle of bathtub gin. Good bathtub gin. It was quite a modest birthday table.

  Everything, except the vegetables and one gift, a book of recipes, were brought by my friend. One of those who were there in response to my need. She knew that I had neither money nor energy or desire to celebrate my birthday. In addition, the week before, I broke up with a boyfriend I was relying on to some extent. No, I didn’t want to get married. To anyone. At all. Never! I’d had my piece-of-being-married-pie. But I desperately wanted to find a man with whom I would feel like a real woman.

  My previous marriage, though it had seemed happy, in the end collapsed and nearly cost me my life. I had been married for seventeen years. Seventeen years of my life flushed into the toilet! On the other hand, there had been a lot of good moments. The best of them was my son.

  Nevertheless I was sure I didn’t want any marriage stuff anymore.

  Anyway, I tried not to lose heart. Having got out of depression after the injury and its consequences, I learned to look at life philosophically.

  But not one of my friends called or congratulated me. Well. Busy people. Or maybe they were just not real friends. Simply acquaintances. But Natalia came! My friend. And we needed nobody else. Not a very elaborate birthday table? Perfect for us. How much did we need, the two of us? We had bathtub gin. And not from a bad batch. This was made by Natalia’s mom, with love and the best ingredients.

  What a great mom you have, Natalia, I thought.

  Broke up with a boyfriend? That means he never loved me. I would find a better one. That creepy man in Uman had told me I would be loved, happy, and rich. Could I have been happy with that guy, my former boyfriend? Too haughty he was. Puffed up all the time with his importance, vain as a peacock. One thing was good with him—he knew how to court a woman. Oh, and in bed, of course. So what if I had liked him? I would get over him. How could anyone like such a peacock?

  In my opinion men were born to bring trouble.

  Natalia’s life was also not cloudless; she had rain on her parade. Though not a Hollywood beauty, she was a charming woman with a good body. Her wavy, medium length hair flowed over her shoulders, with a few gray hairs already, which didn’t spoil her, on the contrary, even added some distinctive flavor. Big blue eyes made her look very beautiful. They say eyes are the mirrors of the soul. I thought that was not always true, but Natalia’s eyes spoke sympathy and kindness. And that’s how she was. Kind and sympathetic.

  Her husband, Boris, with whom Natasha now lived in a common law marriage, liked to wet his whistle from time to time. They had been married for nine years and raised two sons. Then he found another woman. So they divorced. His new marriage failed, because he could never give his new wife what she asked for. Not to mention his drinking problems. So in the end, he came back to my friend. And she, without pausing to think, took him back. After all, he was the father of her boys. And boys needed a father. Any man was better than no man in the house.

  He did not earn a lot of money, and even that was spent easily and quickly for booze. She was working as a nurse in oncological hospital, so her life could be called anything but easy.

  The 1990s. A hellacious page in our history books.

  People wrote it into the history of the countries of the former Soviet Union as the years of ‘epidemic’ trade and re-sell of things from Turkey or Odessa. Natasha went to bye things for re-sel
ling to Odessa. She doesn’t have enough of money to go to Turkey.

  Then all things they bought there people re-sell on the local market. Due to have place in the market people have to pay for the place. Then they mast pay to “protectors”, people who had nothing to do with “protection”. It was clear racketeering.

  So in the end almost nothing was left. But even with almost nothing she managed to save, and her husband immediately found what to spend it on. And she, good soul, gave away all her savings to him. The boys grew up and didn’t want to continue with their education, so both were looking for jobs. Of course, none of the good positions required them, young boys without higher education. So my Natalia supported all of them. But she never lost heart, and even with all her problems, managed to help me. All this flashed through my mind as we were slicing cheese and sausage.

  My poor thing. Such a kind and wonderful friend. I am so grateful you are with me, that you haven’t forgotten me. You’ve come.

  And me, exhausted with forced unemployment and the lack of money, health problems, and the constant squabbles with neighbors who still strove to chop off pieces of my land, I still felt happy. My angel had returned to me. My friend was nearby. My son was studying.

  Though it was hard for him there, he was constantly supervised and directed. He was safe. So everything was going to be fine. I even had a real birthday party. With guests and toasts. Well, only one guest, but the most welcome one.

  “So, Polina! Down the hatch. To your birthday. For your Indian summer!” Natalia raised her glass.

  “Thank you, my friend. Down the hatch!”