I didn't know what to get my mom. Not because she had everything. Quite the contrary. Mom just couldn't be happy with the little things. All the little joys were bottle stoppers that wouldn't block the kilometers of her destitute soul's craters. And my mother did not find any sense in the traffic jams.
Things were different with Dad. He rejoiced at every fish caught, every meeting with whales sailing near the drifter. And then, for days and days, he walked around winged.
The hardest part was for me: I wanted to be happy as a father, but I had to be compassionate with my mother's craters. Everybody next to Mom was embarrassed to say that they were doing well. I gradually got used to the fact that if I was feeling good, I didn't feel deep enough, I didn't think superficially, and I didn't understand how to live my life at all. The guilt complex before a mother-suffering woman is not even enough. Over time, I realized that I was to blame to myself if I was happy for too long, even alone. I wanted to shout at myself as hard as I could: wake up, you lose your face, start to suffer to be human!
- And where are you going tomorrow? - My mother's figure, angular not so much because of the addition as because of the sudden, torn movements, was constantly swinginging behind the ironing board.
- I came out with my dad.
- Again? And the day after tomorrow, too, so?
- Mom, what does "means" mean? Did I say that the day after tomorrow I also came out? Tell me honestly.
- I don't know, I don't know, - my mother brushed off the couple who had risen upstairs and continued ironing with even more perseverance. - Do you want to make something tomorrow?
- You don't have to cook anything, Mom. Or cook potatoes - I got up from the sofa and tried to get out of the room so as not to drag my mother's remarks: that is, to twist and roll out as if by accident.
Closed in my room, I sat on the bed and opened a box of polaroid pictures. In one photo of my mother's hands are going through the fish Daddy brought; in the other - Daddy threw a fishing net at Mom, and Mom barely keeps her feet laughing; here are the parents fixing the old broken oven: both in gloves scrape off the soot; here is Dad trying on a sweater tied by Mom, and it is too big.
I took out a small photo album from the closet, which I had bought in advance, and began to put the pictures one by one into the pages. My parents didn't see these pictures taken in the last winter, and my anticipation was growing: now I'm going to show up in the kitchen and start congratulating them.
- ...I don't understand what's wrong with this book. What is the inadequate reaction, Vitya? - My mother so diligently filled the sponge with detergent that the plate in her hands disappeared in the foam.
- They want to hypnotize you! Well, look at these faces, - and Daddy carelessly flipped through the colorful book, stopping at one and the same page. - Look: Fuck your mother, they even have animals smiling. Have you ever seen animals smile?
- Yes, a shepherd's tamarin.
- By the way, did Tamara slip you this book?
- I didn't slip it in, I gave it to you. For your birthday.
- In short, Len, I'm against it. Read it if you want, but do not interfere with the child.
- You're just very conservative, Vitus.
- I just don't like it when animals smile at me.
When I walked into the kitchen, Dad just threw the book away on the kitchen table, fell on a chair, put his chin in the palm of his hand, and stared at Mom's back of the head.
- What kind of animals? - I ask them, though their loud conversation, of course, came to me. Parents always found out about the relationship, not even thinking that I don't have to hear it.
- Yes, tamarin is a shepherd. She smiles at people, - her father started seriously. - I'm ready to put my shoulder on it in difficult moments. And in her eyes... well, how to tell you...
- Vitya, please...
- Happy Birthday, Mom, my dear, I hugged Mom and pressed my cheek against her monolithic back that minute. My back shook a little, and my mother bowed her head toward me with restraint. I closed my eyes and imagined myself burying my face in the pages of a book. Their smell is distracting, soothing. - Don't hurt. Don't be sad.
Mom left the dishes, wiped her hands, and finally turned to me and Dad. Her shoulders fell, her hands fell, too. Her lips smiled slowly, then her eyes. And she probably smiled inside too.
- This book wasn't so bright, but it was real," I started it uncertainly, and handed my mother a photo album tied with a ribbon. - This is for you. From me and my dad," and my dad and I looked at each other. Dad was bewildered by the rubbing of his forehead and bent his head awkwardly as a token of his agreement, and then stared at the chips in the tile behind Mom.
To be continued on the next part