There Once Lived a Mother Who Loved Her Children, Until They Moved Back In (12 page)

Later the fruit seller took her to see her mother’s grave and showed her all the papers. Everything was in order.

Lelia went to her only remaining relative, her grandfather, who lived in Sergiev Posad, forty miles from the city. Her grandfather went to the police, but they only shrugged: Lelia’s mother was an alcoholic. They advised Lelia to hire a lawyer—but with what money?

There was nothing to do but register Lelia at Sergiev Posad, where her grandfather owned half of a house with an orchard.

Lelia quit school and began training to be a nurse. As soon as she graduated and started her first job at a large hospital, her grandfather died of a heart attack.

Immediately, the owner of the other half of the house, her grandfather’s niece by marriage, tried to lay her hands on Lelia’s property—but the grandfather had arranged things well and the niece got nowhere. For consolation, she moved the fence in the orchard, annexing all the gooseberry and black currant bushes. In order to sue her, Lelia had to show a deed to the house, but it miraculously disappeared during the wake, which the niece attended.

Such was Lelia’s life story.

One night Lelia asked her husband, Nikita, if she could rent his room for three months to some female students.

“Maybe
I
will rent
my
room to fruit sellers from the market. How about it? Look at this mistress of the house! The apartment is mine, and I can do what I want with it.”

“As you wish.”

Everything had been said between them. After one terrible scene Nikita announced he would no longer give them a penny beyond utilities, and he kept his word. One more time, like a broken record, Lelia asked him to divide their apartment—or else she’d take the matter to court. Lelia knew that only the threat of legal action would have some effect on Nikita; but he knew, in turn, Lelia’s timid and inert nature and that she’d never be the first one to file for divorce. He just swore at her and slammed the door.

Lelia perched on a stool in the kitchen, catching her breath. Something was seriously wrong with Nikita; he looked awful. What was he planning? To hire a killer to get rid of them? He didn’t have the money. His mother and sister would never sponsor him. And why wasn’t he eating or drinking at their house? Maybe he didn’t want to take the last crumbs from his undernourished children? That had never stopped him in the past.

That Nikita was mentally ill Lelia had known for some time. There was plenty of evidence: changes in his appearance, sudden rages, ridiculous suspicions. He found a new pair of scissors and decided that Lelia was turning tricks for money; he stayed late, waiting for her lovers to show up.

What he didn’t know was that for two whole months Lelia had been working. In the face of mortal fear and shyness, she plastered their neighborhood with handwritten ads for a home playgroup, every day from ten to five. Some days there would be seven children, plus Lelia’s two—a handful.

Every day, rain or shine, Lelia took her brood to the park and kept them there for two hours. At home, after lunch, they drew, and Lelia taught them a little English. At five, the parents took them home. Lelia’s own children felt perfectly at ease among them.

Lelia’s firm rule was that children had to be picked up by five. If a parent was late, she took the child home and charged for an extra full day.

Nikita couldn’t know about the playgroup—there was no telling what a demented person might do.

Lelia’s children, Anya and Gleb, quickly got used to the new regimen. In the fridge there was a container labeled “Teatime” with candy and crackers for the group, and the children knew not to touch it. Even though Lelia still lived in constant tension, things improved a little.

Day in, day out, a string of children crossed through a tunnel and emerged in the park on the other side. There was a slide, a merry-go-round, and a gazebo in which to take shelter from rain. Ilya liked to fight and always had a runny nose. Methodius, an angel with flaxen curls, wept for hours on end. Kirill was dragged to the park an hour late, and Lelia ended up carrying around his lunch pail. His lunch always consisted of condensed soup and tinned fish; tea with sugar was a special treat for him.

At half past four they had tea with crackers from the container in the fridge: children adore other people’s food. Anya and Gleb assisted Lelia during lunch and teatime, and the other children always closed their pails neatly and put them away.

They even had a New Year’s pageant. Lelia taught the children some English nursery rhymes, and they recited “Little Mouse, Little Mouse” before their parents and grandparents. The kids were wearing costumes with masks and white tights; their parents brought their presents from home and placed them under the tree.

Only poor Kirill didn’t have a present—his harassed mom dropped him off at the last minute and ran home. Gleb found him a pair of white tights, and Kirill brilliantly played the part of Mouse (such semi-neglected children from educated families often grow up to become real talents). He received a hastily compiled present: a few caramels and tangerines. He couldn’t believe his happiness and immediately began munching.

The children walked around the tree in a slow circle dance and sang; the parents and grandparents were touched to the point of tears. At the end they played parlor games. And at five sharp, mothers and grandmothers quickly rearranged the room, swept the floor, and promptly left. Kirill was taken home by a stern-looking big brother of seven. (In that family there were at least three other brats.)

At seven thirty Nikita staggered in. His eyes were bulging. His forehead was paper white; the rest of his face was scarlet. The children, who were resting on the couch in front of the TV, jumped up and made for the door, but Nikita stopped them. From his shabby briefcase he pulled out a box of chocolates—a present. Anya took the box timidly and placed it on the table.

“Eat,” Nikita ordered.

Gleb swallowed one chocolate; Anya took one, too.

“You too, madam,” Nikita said to Lelia. “Your favorite—with liqueur. Stuff yourself; don’t be shy.”

“Oh, but why do you give them liqueur?”

“Let them practice—their granny, after all, was an alcoholic. And their mommy’s a whore,” he added with pleasure.

“Thanks for the compliment, but I’m not hungry.”

“I know you’ll gobble everything down the moment I leave!”

But first he made sure the children ate two more chocolates. Eight remained in the box.

•   •   •

As soon as Nikita left, Lelia carried the children to the bathroom, made them drink a liter of water, and then induced them to vomit. After that she gave them warm milk. Then she put them to bed. The children were pale; their pulses were weak; they needed intravenous treatment urgently.

Lelia put the remaining chocolates in a plastic bag and hid them under the tub. She was collecting papers for hospitalization when Nikita thumped in with his heavy winter boots—Lelia barely had time to fall on the couch and close her eyes. When Nikita leaned over her and felt her pulse with his icy fingers, she opened her eyes and gave out a moan. Nikita jumped.

“Oh dear,” Lelia moaned, “it hurts! I think I have the flu.”

“And the children?”

“Long asleep.”

He tiptoed to check, then asked, “Why so early?”

“We had some children over for the New Year; everyone ate too much and got overexcited. . . .”

“Ate too much? Where did you get the money to buy all that food?”

He rummaged in the kitchen, looking for something; he must have found the empty box.

“I see you really liked my chocolates.”

“There were just a few left,” Lelia moaned.

“Right. I have to go now. Be back soon.”

Lelia jumped out of bed and tried the phone. There was no dial tone; he must have cut the cord.

The children were still breathing. Lelia had pumped their stomachs thoroughly, and the milk must have helped. But what’s next? She couldn’t call the ambulance. Was that his plan—to wait until they died from poisoning and then walk in with the police to remove the bodies? He looked completely demented.

Lelia closed the curtains, gathered their papers and money (the parents had just paid for the month), packed everything into an old backpack, and woke up the children. They were extremely weak. Lelia removed the poisonous chocolates from under the tub: they were beginning to melt; the poison was leaking. She quickly put on surgical gloves, wrapped the chocolates in some candy wrappers from the trash can, and put them in the “Teatime” container, which she shoved in the freezer.

The children got dressed and were standing shivering. It was past midnight.

Suddenly the lock creaked, and again Nikita staggered in. “What’s wrong?” He seemed genuinely shocked to see them.

Hiccuping with fear, Lelia told him that they felt sick and needed to get to the hospital; they couldn’t call the ambulance because the phone wasn’t working. He walked them downstairs, flagged down a random car, gave the driver some cash, and told him to take them to the Thirty-Third Hospital. He walked around the car, memorizing the license plate.

The Thirty-Third was notorious for its inhumane treatment of the bums and homeless.

At the hospital Lelia got out, thanked the driver, immediately found another car, and asked to be taken to the Children’s Hospital. There she explained that the children seemed to have been poisoned by some bad candy. She gave different names and promised to bring their IDs in the morning.

The children were so weak they couldn’t talk.

She sat the night out at the waiting room; there was nowhere else to go.

In the morning she was told her children had been poisoned by some untraceable substance and that it had affected their hearts.

They were in the ICU. Lelia immediately went to human resources. They didn’t have a vacancy for a nurse; Lelia was hired as a janitor, to wash miles of floors, plus the toilets. No one else wanted to do the job for the money they paid. But at least she could see the children. They were almost invisible under the covers, but they were still alive.

In the evening Lelia went to check on her home. The lights were on; from the stairs she could hear Nikita talking to a woman.

“Imagine how much renovations will cost!” he was complaining.

“A terrible dump,” the woman confirmed in a fat, confident voice. “How can one consider herself a mother and live in such conditions?”

“Forget it, it’s over,” Nikita responded. “I’ll go to the hospital to make sure they are gone.”

2

Rivals

S
ometimes instinct compels a young man to pursue his prey, especially if there is a rival panting next to him, nose to nose. That’s how they felt, those idle young men, the convalescing surgical patients at a large Moscow hospital. Their prey was a very young nurse, a real angel in white, Lelia, with soft, gentle hands and a sweet smile—an ideal wife.

Nikita was recovering from an appendectomy. After one look at Lelia he knew what he wanted. Compared to Lelia, he said to anyone who listened, proud city ladies were just overeducated whores with tiny salaries. Lelia even made her own clothes! She looked like a heroine from an American hospital drama: a little makeup, kitten heels, and a thick braid under her green cap. She came from an educated family and knew foreign languages.

Unfortunately for Nikita, there was another suitor, a certain Danila, who used to work at the hospital and was now back as a patient. He showed up every time Lelia was on duty and took her home. Every time he brought her chocolate—Nikita and the other patients already knew that Lelia loved chocolate. Nikita asked his sister to buy him the biggest and most expensive box, which he handed to Lelia one night during her shift. That shift he wouldn’t leave her alone; they ended up talking all night. In the morning, however, Danila ran in panting, complaining about traffic—so he owned a car.

By profession young Nikita was a biochemist. That night he bragged to Lelia about inventing a perfect poison that doesn’t leave a trace—people simply die from a heart attack. Nikita, it’s true, seemed a little loopy: he was taking some self-made pills, supposedly for pain, and wouldn’t shut up about his brilliant future, when he would have a beach mansion, a car, and six children. In the meantime, all he had to his name was a Moscow registration: he was registered at his grandmother’s two-room apartment; the grandmother was bedridden, in the full throes of dementia; his mother and sister were taking care of her.

To all this Lelia replied that she didn’t plan on getting married just yet; that first she wanted to study, but of course medical school cost money, and even with her own vegetable patch and overtime at the hospital she couldn’t afford it. Since her grandfather’s death, Lelia had lived alone in his half of the house. Little by little she told Nikita everything.

“Well,” Nikita announced. “True, we have nowhere to live just yet, but we already have a summer house. You are a bride with a dowry.” As if everything had been decided!

Nikita found out that Danila was married to a woman seven years older with a child of her own.

A day after Nikita was discharged, he turned up during Lelia’s night shift. He was very excited, his pupils dilated. He handed her a box of chocolates and announced that tomorrow morning they were going to apply for a marriage license. Then they would rent a room in the city to save Lelia her ninety-minute commute.

“As you wish,” Lelia responded with a sweet smile. No more “I’m too young,” “I want to study.” Lelia never contradicted anyone, but did as she saw fit.

“Let me see your passport,” Nikita demanded. “I want to make sure you are not married.” Smiling sweetly, Lelia took out her passport from her locker and gave it to Nikita, who opened it, closed it, and put it in his pocket. Just like that.

In the morning Danila arrived and walked straight into the surgery, where Nikita told him to go back where he came from. “Let’s step out and talk it over,” offered burly Danila. But at this point the chief nurse interfered and asked Danila to leave—he was no longer their patient. “What about him?” roared Danila. “He came to remove his stitches. . . .”