Emily Johnson had been lying with her eyes tightly shut for what felt like hours. Sleep would have been a blessing, but it eluded her. Memories refused to let her rest.
They troubled her more than the constant chill in her feet, which had started after the operation. Even in the hottest weather, she had to wrap her feet in a woolen shawl before bed. A memento from the past was a small bouquet of dried wildflowers, blessed almost a year ago at Trinity Sunday. Another Trinity Sunday was approaching. So much had changed since then! She was no longer in her own home but in what could be called an institutional one. Surrounded by strangers. Life seemed somewhat settled, yet… her heart ached, the pain twisting her hands from within, her fingers losing sensation.
— You need to worry and stress less, — the doctor told her.
Emily replied that the cause was something else. After all, for the first time in years, she faced such prolonged idleness.
— This isn’t idleness, it’s rest, — the doctor reassured her, — well-deserved rest. Think of it as a reward for years of hard work.
Listening to the doctor, Emily mostly stayed silent, wrapping herself in her shawl as if shielding herself from the changes in her life that she was told to see as a blessing, though she didn’t feel that way.
The doctor suggested asking for an extra blanket. But what was a blanket compared to a stove? Emily used to keep hers burning even in summer, though not at full strength.
— Why heat the house in such warmth? — her neighbor would ask.
— As you age, the body craves more warmth and comfort, — she’d reply.
— Old age? You? Working the garden and managing livestock like that!
Indeed, Emily’s garden was always a sight to behold. A model garden! She kept a cow and poultry, providing for her children. There was no one else to do it.
Memories surged back with renewed force. Here, in the care home, the nights seemed made for dwelling on memories, which weren’t always joyful. That’s why she often longed for morning to come quickly. Mornings, days, and evenings were easier: walks, conversations. But then came another endlessly long and tormenting night. Back in the village, nights flew by unnoticed. A short sleep, and back to work. Here, only memories remained. Like those of her father, a village blacksmith, a straightforward man who always spoke his mind, heedless of consequences. To his daughter, he’d say, “You’ll live your life alone. Unless, of course, you have a child by someone.” Hurling such words at his own kin, he’d go about his business. Emily wanted to shout after him, “What’s my fault?! That you and Mother ‘gifted’ me this appearance?!”
To a friend, she confessed she couldn’t look in the mirror without disgust, only to hear, “Then don’t look. They say you don’t drink water from a face.”
Time passed. Her peers married, had children, who were already in school. But she spent her days and nights alone. Once, she spoke to her friend about adopting a child from an orphanage, only to be told, “Nothing’s better than your own.”
Emily understood that herself. In the collective farm, she worked on sugar beets, meeting quotas, as they said back then. On her birthday, colleagues celebrated her in the field, gifting her a bouquet of whatever flowers they could find in the village. Among them was the foreman. That day, she caught a man’s gaze upon her, one she’d never felt before. She understood what it meant. She tried to return a gaze with the same meaning, a woman’s gaze, as much as her inexperience allowed. And somehow, that evening, the foreman came to visit…
— Emma, understand me correctly, — he said afterward.
She understood everything: the foreman was a respected man in the village, married. She wanted nothing from him. Except, when she gave birth to a son, she named him after her father—James.
She knew she’d become the subject of village gossip. So she vowed her little James would grow up in conditions no worse than those of children from complete families. At the farm, she took on double quotas of beets. She raised livestock, grew vegetables, sold milk and sour cream. She ensured her son had decent clothes and good food. She often went hungry herself, wearing clothes until they wore out.
James didn’t excel at school but managed to get into university. By then, Emily was working herself to the bone. She fell seriously ill, underwent a difficult operation. Doctors strongly urged her to stop working. But how could she, when her son faced troubles? He was expelled from university for poor performance. He spoke of corruption, how much his classmates paid for every test and exam.
— Listen to him, just listen! — her neighbor remarked sarcastically.
But Emily only listened to her son. She trusted him completely, never blaming him for anything.
After being expelled, James had no desire to return to the village to help his mother. He spent more time with city friends he’d made during his brief student days. Visits to his mother were rare. But on one such visit, he brought good news:
— I got into a trade school. I’ll be an auto mechanic. You know how much they earn! I’ll support us both!
Emily was genuinely overjoyed. Her strength and health were waning, and it was high time for her son to become the family’s head.
He finished trade school but didn’t work long in his field. He told his mother:
— The competition’s so fierce, you’d have to slave away for ten years to earn decent money.
He asked for money for a new jacket, saying he’d started dating a girl and wanted to look like a successful man. Of course, Emily gave him the money, not mentioning it came from her emergency savings. By then, she no longer worked at the farm: her health wouldn’t allow it, and the farm was struggling due to the country’s economic troubles.
— Soon you’ll have a daughter-in-law, a helper, — her son comforted her.
Indeed, a daughter-in-law came. Sarah was everything good: pretty, smart, kind, hardworking. From a good family, too—her parents were simple but warm and heartfelt. However, the young couple didn’t want to live in the village. For a while, they stayed with Sarah’s parents, but two families in one apartment was cramped and uncomfortable. They rented a room. Then they learned a baby was on the way. James went to his mother for help again. When he found out her savings were gone, he suggested borrowing from neighbors:
— I’ve started a business. We’ll pay off all the debts, yours and mine, with the profits.
It turned out James had borrowed a huge sum for his venture. When Emily learned this, her heart sank, and her gaze instinctively turned to the icon of the Virgin Mary. She prayed fervently for protection from trouble.
James arrived unexpectedly, in the middle of the night. Almost from the doorstep, he declared:
— Mom, I’m in danger. I’ve got huge problems. Please, sell everything you can, as fast as you can.
His business had failed. In a week, the deadline to repay money borrowed from “serious people” was up. Failing to pay meant grave consequences. Very grave.
— Son, where am I supposed to go? — his mother asked.
In response, she heard accusations of indifference and stories of what those “serious people” would do if the money wasn’t returned on time. She had to sell nearly everything, save for a few personal belongings. And the blessed Trinity bouquet remained.
— When you bury me, place it under my head, — Emily told her son.
James took the money and left for the city. She hadn’t seen him since. Neighbors took her in for a month. The ordeal worsened her health again. She needed treatment and better conditions. But where to find them?
The farm chairman helped. He used his district connections to get Emily into a nursing home. It wasn’t bad there, but it felt empty without a loved one nearby. She worried deeply about her son. She tried calling, but his phone didn’t answer. News about James reached her, though—mixed news. She heard his marriage had fallen apart: Sarah took their daughter and returned to her parents. Would Emily ever see her granddaughter?
She heard things were starting to look up for James, that luck was smiling on him. Thank God! Lately, she only saw her son in dreams, often as a boy running to her through a field of ripening rye. They say dreaming of rye is a good sign.
She dozed off briefly. Waking, she heard rain outside. She tucked her chilled feet more snugly into the blanket and shawl. Dawn was near. That was good. She’d spend the day waiting for her son. Then another day, and another… That was her work now.
0 comments