Chapter Twenty-Six
My further life consisted of a series of achievements and successes, difficulties and disappointments. Difficult (because of my poor English), but quite successfully (though still had to take it in English) were my exams for a driving license, and Mike bought me a small, but very nice car, a two-door Saturn sedan. Sporty, maneuverable, and light, it served me faithfully for the next four years.
At beauty school, being the oldest student, I felt quite like a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest. Mostly young girls of eighteen or twenty studied here. Not being English speaking, it was particularly difficult for me. But I tried. I tried hard. Teachers saw and appreciated that. Everything was fine, but not without small incidents. Of course, there was one person and, of course, it was a woman, a teacher-instructor, for whom I managed to stick in her gizzard.
“Polina, and how did you come to the United States?” she asked me once.
“I got married and my husband brought me here.”
“You see, girls,” she turned to all the female students. “These Russians take your men, and you sit here and let them do it with impunity.”
What was she saying to them? Stupid woman. She didn’t even remember I was from Ukraine, no matter that I had told her four times.
That evening at dinner, I told Mike this story, offended, and once again ready to go back to Ukraine. He calmed me down and taught me how and what to say if it happened again.
It didn’t take long for her to try to upset me again. Pity you couldn’t see her face and eyes full of anger, when I proudly raised my eyebrow and slowly answered, “My husband asked me to tell you that he can’t speak for all American men, but he is sure that those who are going for their wives to Ukraine or Russia are not satisfied with the attitude of American women. That they should learn from such women, like me, otherwise in the near future all American men will travel to countries of the former Soviet Union for wives.”
The owner of the school, having learnt about all this, soon fired this poor, bitter-at-the-whole-world woman instructor. Such an attitude towards students threatened the reputation of the school, and accordingly its financial wellbeing. C’est la vie.
Six months later, after successfully passing the exam, I started my professional path in the United States, a country I even didn’t ever dream I would end up in.
A year after my arrival grief broke into our little family. Mike called me at school.
“Please, come home,” he said, and I barely recognized his voice.
I don’t remember how I got home. Fear paralyzed my mind and body. What happened? What could have happened?
Stepping out of the car, I ran to Mike, who was standing at the front door with such a sorrow on his face.
“I killed a woman,” he said. “There was an accident.”
“Oh, God! And you? Are you okay?”
“I’m not hurt.”
“Mike, you couldn’t. You couldn’t kill her. I know how you drive the car. You couldn’t! Tell me how everything happened.”
The situation turned out to be more than common. Mike in his huge truck, a Peterbilt with a trailer, was turning left at the intersection of two streets. All his moves were perfected to the mechanism for years. He certainly—always—waited for a green arrow on the traffic light, which allowed movement for him.
On the perpendicular road a claret-colored Volvo was racing at the red lights. Without paying any attention to the car which was stopped in the other driving lane, nor to the red light, the Volvo, driven by a woman, crashed right into the middle of Mike’s 36-foot-long trailer. My husband didn’t even know what happened, so little was the impact from the collision felt in the cab. Nevertheless he stopped and approached the car, where he saw a woman, with extensive nose and mouth bleeding. Having dialed 911, Mike stayed there, waiting for the ambulance.
The woman died at the hospital. Mike was so shocked by the incident that now he wasn’t sure if there was the green arrow permitting his turn at the traffic light. None of the witnesses of the accident stayed on the spot to testify to the police. It was the middle of the day and everyone was in a hurry.
The family of the deceased launched an accusatory campaign in the media. Everyone accused my husband. Only I knew that he wasn’t guilty. He couldn’t have begun turning without waiting for permission to move. Mike paced the room back and forth, like a wounded bear in a cage, and I followed him like a shadow everywhere. He was in such a condition that I was afraid he would do something to himself.
It was awful. Our life just began to settle. He was in love. And loved. And now threatened with jail? He was charged with involuntary manslaughter in the second-degree. I kept walking after him wherever he went, repeating like a broken record, “Everything will be fine. You couldn’t have turned without the arrow. You’ll see, they’ll find out you waited for that green arrow. You’ll certainly get free from any charges.” It was only on the third day I managed to persuade him to eat a bit and sleep.
For a whole week the media was throwing the book at my poor husband. And then the first good news came from the police. There were witnesses. They called the police and told they saw a wine-colored Volvo, speeding against the traffic lights. Later police found out that the deceased had already been fined once for running a red light.
Having inspected the truck, the police had to admit that it was in excellent condition and worked properly. Thanks to heaven! We began to thaw out slowly. Until the investigation was over they made him give a written understanding not to leave the town. He was allowed to go to work, but Mike couldn’t drive a car anymore. Each time he approached the car or the truck he got pale and perspiring. What to do? How to help him? He couldn’t live without a car. Forty years behind the wheel! Oh, my Lord! Again, this magic number, forty.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bogged down in our trials, we didn’t notice two weeks fly by. The pleasure from a Sunday morning coffee was interrupted by a phone. It was Pat, my husband’s friend, who informed him that the snowmobile he ordered a month ago, arrived, and he could pick it up. It turned out my husband had bought me a snowmobile. Perhaps he also knew that it was better to buy one in summer. That was great!
On the one hand a snowmobile in July was, to put it mildly, neither here nor there, but on the other hand, I suddenly found in me this irrepressible craving for this type of transport and whined that I wanted to have my snowmobile here and now. I was even ready to drive if Mike was going with me on the passenger seat. So we settled on that, immediately packed up and went. Having passed a little more than halfway there, with longer than to go forward, I suddenly started complaining about a terrible headache.
“Oh, Mike. I can’t drive any more, this headache is killing me. I feel dizzy, I just can’t—”
He was silent. Biting the bullet, he got behind the wheel. I wasn’t sure if he got my trick, but all the way to Homer, the city where my snowmobile was waiting, he drove in silence. Mike was pale and sweating. I pretended to be sick, though there was no need for that, as I was trembling from stress for my husband, and almost I cried with pity for him, but there was no other way.
Finally we safely reached Homer. Having loaded my snowmobile, over which I sighed and gasped for half an hour, either looking under the hood, as if I understood something in that, or in the bag for tools, expressing my admiration, we headed back home. My head was still “hurting,” so Mike sat behind the wheel. Four hours of a journey, which he used to overcome in two. Five miles before Anchorage, Mike, gritting his teeth, passed a car for the first time since the Volvo had hit his trailer.
I sighed with relief. Thanks to God, he did it! Now everything will be all right, I thought.
There was our house. I felt like a boiled rag. Mike looked even worse: pale, his eyes glistening with some unusual light, his lips trembling. He slowly walked over to me and looked into my eyes. I thought, If he hit me right now, it will probably be right. But instead he dropped to his knees in front of me, embraced my l
egs, and whispered “Thank you.”
Investigation of the accident took a full year. Finally the police sent us the report, in which the deceased woman was found guilty of the accident. Finally, our life could return to normal. Though how could it?
We had become different. We had changed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Increasingly, I began to wonder where my home was. Increasingly I caught myself thinking that when I was in Alaska, I missed everything I left in Ukraine. When I came to Ukraine, I wanted to go back to Alaska. How could that be? Why was I here? Of course, since I met Mike, life was good, but my mind was tortured by doubts and my heart was heavy. Though now there was no reason to doubt the prediction of that old man from my distant youth. I thought of him so often that he seemed to become my family. I always thought of him with some trepidation, fear, and at the same time with warmth and hope that he would be right. It turned out he was. Who was he, that strange old man? It seemed to me that I knew who he was, but my guesses seemed incredible. Tell me, who can know exactly what awaits us in the future? Only something as old as the universe itself, exhausted, but kind and wise—Life itself! My Life!
I had everything. I was loved, rich as I’d never dreamed of, but why did I feel so bad? And then, on St. Tatyana’s Day, January twenty-fifth, I felt as sad as never before. Acting flakey, I yelled at Mike, stamped my feet, threw everything that came within easy reach. My terrified husband, (“What a monster have I married!”), tried to calm me down. My Lord! What am I doing? I thought, and ran out into the street, not forgetting to bang the front door loudly. An extraordinarily beautiful January was outside. Minus twenty-five Celsius. Everything was covered with thick, sparkling snow that was glowing somewhat unreal due to Christmas illumination on the houses around. But I didn’t see the beauty of the winter evening, didn’t feel the January frost. What is wrong with me? I thought. Where am I going? And more importantly, why?
I had nowhere to go and no reason for that. Crying, I was jogging in circles around the block. When I finally got exhausted from senseless running I calmed down a bit. I sat down on a park bench.
“God, please, help me,” I prayed. “I have everything. Everything! A wonderful man, a warm house with plenty of food, clothing, jewelry, and a car. I have never lived so well. Teach me to be grateful to the man who gave me all of this, grateful to all that I have in my life, to life itself. Why is it so hard? Why doubts and uncertainty are eating me up inside? Where are you, my dear guardian angel? Tell me what to do? Where to get the strength?”
Tears were rolling down my cheeks, turning to ice the second they touched the ground. And then I saw my car, driving near to me. I got up from the bench and went towards Mike. He saw the movement and drove close to me.
“Thank heaven I found you. Please, let’s go home. Please.”
I got in the car, feeling like I was the worst person on this earth. We drove home in silence. I went towards the front door, when my husband stopped me.
“Wait.” He gently took my hand and opened the door. “Look, you’ve painted this door. You’ve made this Christmas wreath and hung it here. To the right of the door hangs a picture of the truck with a prayer for the driver. For me. It wasn’t here until you came to this house.” We went inside and he said, “You’ve made this collage devoted to my late mother, father, and your relatives and put it on the wall. Our kitchen, with everything in it, was decorated by you. Our portraits and photographs of the children and grandchildren, and everything else in this house, wherever you look. Your hand touched all of that. Now tell me, how will I live without you here, without all this? I love you so much. I’m trying so hard. I see that you feel bad, but I do not know why. Tell me what I must do to make you feel better Tell me, I’ll do it.”
There was so much warmth in his words, so much of true love. He sank into a chair with me on his lap, and buried his face in my chest and hugged me gently and firmly.
“I do not know,” I whispered, “I do not know.” But I felt the terrible pain and sorrow leaving me. Everything started moving into place, it became clear and understandable.
I hadn’t lost anything, but only gained. I had my homeland, Ukraine, where I was born and lived for more than half of my life, and where I could go at any time. My children, grandchildren, and friends were waiting for me there. Here, in the United States of America, I had my husband, a man with whom I was going to live my second, better half of life. He was sharing with me his second half of life and all that was in it, I was sharing mine.
Perhaps this is what they call sharing your grief. I guess you must truly love a person to feel him or her that much to be able to take away part of his heart pain, and perhaps even physical pain. I hugged him back and whispered, “Thank you, my dear. I love you too. Forgive me. I don’t know why I’ve felt so bad. But now I know, now I can handle it. Thank you.”
The next day I felt sick and weak, though there was no pain, no sorrow anymore. So I decided to stay home. I still felt a little sad, but it was a different kind of sadness, bright and rewarding. God had helped me. Made me wiser. My angel, through Mike, gave me the hint. I was doing everything correctly. I worked hard, loved, missed my family and friends. I dreamt. I realized it was okay to laugh when I felt joyful, to cry when I was sad or hurt. This meant that I was alive. As the singer Vysotsky said, “I breathe, and therefore, I love; I love, and therefore I live!”
I love and therefore I am alive.
“Polina, can I have your car? I need to go out,” Mike asked.
“Of course. Why do you ask? You always take my car when you needed to.”
I wondered why he wanted to take my tiny car. Outside the snow was knee-high, so it was easier to take the pickup. But I forgot about it the second he left, devoting all of myself to cooking dinner.
He returned home in forty-five minutes and sat down at the computer. He didn’t say where he went, what for. I didn’t ask. After dinner, I went to the garage, not turning the lights on. Suddenly, something alerted me. Something was wrong. I walked over to the light switch and turned it on.
“Oh my goodness!”
Instead of my little Saturn, shimmering with its mother-of-pearl, there was parked a magnificent snow-white car. A Cadillac! I got frozen to the spot, and as soon as I was able to move again I rushed into the room where my husband was sitting in his favorite chair and intently pressing keys on the keyboard, as if nothing had happened.
“Where? Where’s my car?” I cried.
Mike beckoned me to come closer. I did, and he put a key in my hand with a warm smile.
“Here is your car.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Squeezing my keys in my hand, I ran outside.
Little soft snowflakes swirled in their winter dance, covering everything in front of the house. It seemed like millions of diamonds were scattered all over the earth by some zillionaire. They were hanging on the bushes, trees, even buildings. Everything was sparkling and shimmering. It wasn’t cold, though the thermometer showed minus twenty centigrade. So good. It was all so good! I began to sing.
“It was a winter and first of Christmas Day,
And the whole day we would wander with you.
And all around was solemn and quiet
And white-white snow above white Earth…”
I was singing heartily a famous Soviet song, “Tatiana’s Day,” and swirling in my own winter dance, imagining myself one of those silver snowflakes.
Snow was slowly falling down on my shoulders, covering my head. Was it winter? That terrible winter with blizzards and frost, white-hair and sickness? There was nothing scary in this winter. Winter could also be very, very nice and warm. Life was continuing. I knew there would be many things in our lives. The important thing was that we did find each other, despite living on different parts of the globe.
“Look, Mike, how beautiful it is all around!” I voiced my thoughts aloud. I had noticed that he was standing in the doorway, not wanting to disturb me. He was standing
quietly, smiling, looking at me, and his eyes were so warm and so affectionate.
“Yes, very beautiful. I love winter. Let’s go to the cabin and race on snowmobiles, eh?”
“Great! When?”
“When? Well, tomorrow morning!”
And we began to make plans for tomorrow morning, then the next year, then the rest of our lives, which we had decided to spend together. Dreaming, laughing, hugging, kissing. And I realized after winter, spring would come again, followed by summer, autumn. Life went on and was lovely in all seasons.
Snow kept falling and falling, covering the area in front of the house with a sparkling white carpet. I fell into it in the middle of the yard, and began to move my arms and legs, leaving an angel silhouette in the snow. Mike plopped down next to me and did his own angel. Snow was covering our bodies and faces, falling lightly down from heaven, and we kept lying in it, like two snowy angels, looking at the dark sky that rained down on us sparkling white fluff and smiling.
My Angel Page 14