So why wake up so early? There was no job to go to anymore, no one to make breakfast for, and the cat hadn't come home in a week. Yet, sleep was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was only... this.
The memories again. They used to be less persistent, less ruthlessly clingy. Now, they had seized power, surfacing whenever they pleased.
Two days ago, she had seen off her son, his wife, and their young grandson at the airport. For a whole year, they had pleaded with her to move abroad with them. Even little Leo, looking into her eyes with a heartbreaking pout, had begged:
"Grandma, please come on the plane with us."
If only they knew what it cost her to stand her ground.
That was the thing—she had always been able to stand her ground. She would regret it a hundred times later, but she never admitted she was wrong.
Soft, ever-tactful Claire, with that gentle lilt in her voice, had told her more than once:
"That isn't pride, Margaret. That's vanity."
Oh, Claire... If she told anyone how they had become friends, they wouldn't believe it.
It started when Margaret just felt under the weather. She took some aspirin, drank tea with raspberry jam and honey, and skipped her morning showers. But she kept going to work. The quarterly reports didn't care about the flu, and the firm was just getting on its feet. In the grandly named "Finance Department," she was the only employee. She carried the entire accounting and economic load on her shoulders, knowing the firm would only survive if she held the line. She was more than just staff; she was a partner and, effectively, the boss's wife. Letting down the man she loved wasn't an option. He worked day and night himself. If it weren't for the insulated bags of sandwiches and home-cooked meals she brought to his office every day, he would have collapsed for sure. Instead, she was the one who crashed.
She gave in only when her fever climbed so high it practically broke the thermometer. Everything blurred, and the world lost its color—it turned into a black-and-white movie with no shades of gray. She flatly refused an ambulance, so her husband drove her to the local clinic. God knows how he charmed them, but a primary care physician saw her without an appointment. He examined her, listened to her chest, and sent her with a nurse to the treatment room. They gave her two injections and a handful of prescriptions. She was told to return the next morning for a battery of tests. The shots helped; she slept until evening and through the night. In the morning, her husband dropped her off for the bloodwork before rushing back to the office. They agreed to call each other when she was done.
During the follow-up, the doctor kept staring at the lab results, turning the papers over and over. She sensed something was wrong and asked, with her usual bluntness:
"Doctor, give it to me straight."
Straight meant one specific result indicated a catastrophe. She didn't wait to hear the rest. she walked out of the office, out of the clinic, already picturing the grim future ahead of her. She felt a desperate urge to smoke, right there on the clinic steps. Cigarettes were her "break glass in case of emergency" tool when things became unbearable.
She shuffled around to the back of the building and found a service entrance with a set of concrete steps. She managed to reach them and sat down, her hands shaking as she lit up. Two drags in, and the tears came. Not just tears—a gut-wrenching, howling sob. She didn't know she was capable of it. Since her college days, they'd nicknamed her "The Iron Lady," but here she was, a leaking faucet.
The door opened. A young woman, maybe a nurse or an orderly, stepped out and asked:
"Are you okay? What's happened?"
Margaret didn't care who she was. She just needed to say the words out loud, to voice what the lab result had shown. She told her, and then the dam truly broke—total hysterics.
All those years of restraint. All those years of keeping herself together. She never imagined this could happen to her.
How that stranger, a young girl in a white lab coat, knew what to do was a mystery. She grabbed Margaret by the shoulders and shook her hard. When that didn't work, she delivered a sharp slap to the face. A moment later, they were sitting side-by-side on the steps, and a calmed Margaret explained the test result. The girl wouldn't let her leave until she had her undergo two more tests to double-check the first. Both came back clear.
A few days later, Claire—that was the nurse's name—told her about the fallout at the lab: the head of the department had been fired, and the technician formally reprimanded. But Margaret didn't care about the politics. She felt a joy so pure it reminded her of being a child waiting for her mother to come home from a long business trip.
From that day on, Claire became a part of her life—an indispensable part. Claire's own life story was something you wouldn't wish on an enemy.
She was raised by her grandfather. Her grandmother had passed away before she was born. She didn't remember her parents, though they existed. Her mother, the grandfather's daughter, had her before finishing high school and never named the father. She wanted to leave Claire at the hospital, but the grandfather wouldn't allow it. He fought the social services tooth and nail to get custody.
He often thought of his wayward daughter and searched for her, but she had vanished without a trace. Claire became the light of his life. She had a good childhood with him; he knew all her friends, always let them over to the house, and the neighborhood kids loved him.
But as he told her through tears after the "incident":
"I failed to protect you, Claire."
It was a day impossible to forget.
Claire was walking home from music school, skipping over puddles and swinging her new sheet music folder. She was almost home when three young men cornered her. The first covered her mouth, the second grabbed her, and the third just walked alongside them, giggling a disgusting, high-pitched laugh. They dragged her into a construction site near her house, and then...
Then there was pain, humiliation, and a desperate urge to throw herself under a car.
She might have done it, too—might not have even thought of her grandfather—but there were no cars passing by. Claire limped home. The moment her grandfather opened the door, he knew. He reached for the phone, but Claire fell to her knees and begged him not to tell anyone. She couldn't have lived with the perceived shame.
Claire became pregnant. The clinic confirmed it, even though she didn't show. She just felt someone inside her. That someone didn't stay long.
In her fifth month, an ambulance took her in with acute pain. As they wheeled her to surgery, she remembered the doctors scolding her for not coming in sooner. The fetus had stopped developing. They had to operate, and afterward, they told the sixteen-year-old girl she would never have children.
"We'll live just to spite those bastards, sweetheart," her grandfather told her when he brought her home.
He wanted her to be a doctor. He said her grandmother had always dreamed of healing people but never got the chance. His own daughter certainly hadn't dreamed of much.
Claire enrolled in medical school, and not a soul—except her grandfather—knew about that empty lot or the fact that she would never be a mother.
But Claire didn't become a doctor. She dropped out after her third year when she buried her grandfather. Neither her knowledge nor modern medical technology could stop the blood clot that killed him almost instantly.
She took a job at the city clinic, first as a janitor, then eventually getting certified as a nurse.
***
That was where they met and became friends. Claire became a frequent guest in their home; even Margaret's husband respected her. He found common ground with Claire quickly, and when they found out they were expecting their own addition to the family, Claire became their chief advisor. She eventually became Leo's godmother. Leo grew up convinced that Claire—or "Auntie Claire" as he called her—was his most important relative. If there was ever any friction between them, it was the church.
Claire attended every service, though she never pressured them to join. The only time they were in a church together was for Leo's baptism. But they used to say to each other:
"If it makes Claire feel better, let her go."
And yet, Margaret did go to church with her eventually. She went on September 12, 2001. She went and prayed as hard as she could for her husband. In late August of 2001, he had flown to the States for meetings with American partners. He was supposed to meet with several companies and, if all went well, sign cooperation agreements. He called home every day, adjusting for the time difference. She knew that on Tuesday, September 11, he had a meeting in New York City, at the World Trade Center.
It was supposed to be his final meeting at 9:00 AM local time. He had a flight back to London that evening. The meeting was in the South Tower—the one hit by the second plane.
It happened on a Tuesday. Tuesday, Wednesday, and every day after, her husband never called and never came home. Diplomats got involved, then the firm's lawyer went over, but to this day, nothing is known about the man, just as nothing is known about his American partners.
A year later, she flew to New York herself. She went to the spot where the Twin Towers had stood. Or where they should have stood; in their place, over the foundations, two memorial pools had been built. It was a strange, terrifying sight. Nearby, the new One World Trade Center was already rising, the silhouette of the Freedom Tower beginning to take shape.
She stood there, staring, trying to imagine if her husband realized what was happening. Did he sense the danger? Did he have time to think of her and Leo? She found herself hoping he hadn't understood anything, hadn't felt a thing—that he hadn't even had time to think of them. No one could have imagined what happened that day. Now, she would be imagining it for the rest of her life. Even now, a tiny spark of hope flickered within her: maybe he survived? Amnesia, an injury, a changed appearance? She had never let him go. How did she survive back then?
Leo and Claire helped. Dozens of people who knew her husband offered sympathy and aid, but Leo and Claire were her pillars day and night. That was when she learned that a pillar can be fragile; she wasn't the only one who needed help. Leo took his father's death so hard he developed a stutter, screamed in his sleep, and often couldn't hold things in his hands. She and Claire took turns taking him to psychologists, physical therapy, and speech therapists.
It took a long time, but after a year and a half, he finally began to recover. Claire had prayed for Leo in that church, too. She never talked about it, but it was obvious. Claire also kept pushing Margaret, reminding her she couldn't let the company fall apart—for her husband's sake, for Leo's sake. She was right, of course. If Margaret hadn't buried herself in work, who knows where Leo would be today. She was doubly responsible for him, and she was grateful her son never gave her reason to be ashamed. Only reason to worry...
Yes, she worried about everything, with or without cause. She managed to hide it from everyone except Claire. Claire worried too; Leo was precious to her. He suspected it was thanks to "Auntie Claire" that he and his family were now living and working across the ocean. A branch of his father's company was already operating there, and now Leo would head it.
Before Leo left, she visited the office one last time. When everyone gathered, she did something she hated: she gave a speech. She thanked them for always being there, for successfully continuing the work her husband started, and told them they would now carry on without her. She wasn't moving with Leo, but she was stepping down from active management, staying only on the board. She and Leo would always be a phone call away. For now, she thanked them once more and called it a career.
They gave her a warm send-off. She knew there was no faking it, no hypocrisy. In her, they were thanking her husband too. And now what?
***
Here it was, the first day of total freedom. What was she supposed to do with it? She knew that stopping mid-sprint was dangerous; the momentum might break you. She had been running for so many years. She had a goal, and then suddenly... snap.
But no one had forced this on her. As always, she had decided for herself.
Leo called, reporting that they had arrived. Everything was fine. He asked her to be online at a certain time in the evening. He hoped Claire would be there, too. They already missed them.
She reassured her son, telling him she was sleeping in, lounging in her tracksuit, and finishing books she'd never had time for. In short, she liked it so far.
After they hung up, she called Claire. Claire apologized, saying she couldn't talk right then—she was with people. She'd call back later.
When she did call back, she was happy to hear Leo was settled, but she ended the conversation quickly, again claiming she was busy.
"Why is Claire so busy?" Margaret wondered, trying to remember her shift schedule.
It turned out she was indeed busy. It was her shift.
Margaret forced herself to wait and didn't call Claire again. The silence lasted ten days, and it would have been longer if it weren't for Leo. He called late at night, apologizing for the hour, and said he had just sent two containers of school supplies and children's clothes. They were for Claire, but he couldn't reach her, so he asked Margaret to let her know. Once the cargo hit the port, it would be forwarded to the church address. He'd already paid for delivery. His firm had chipped in, and it wouldn't be the last shipment. More would follow.
Well, look at that. She knew nothing about it. Claire knew, Leo and his family knew, the American firm knew, and she was completely in the dark. No, she had to get to the bottom of this.
In the morning, she called Claire.
"The subscriber is unavailable," the automated voice said.
"Oh, is that so?"
She hadn't forgotten how to walk. She went straight to Claire's workplace, only to be told that Claire had taken two weeks of unpaid leave. Another surprise—and not a word to her. She went to Claire's house. Claire wouldn't just take leave for no reason; she prayed nothing was wrong. Real anxiety started to set in.
Claire wasn't home. Thanks to the neighborhood grandmothers on the bench, she learned that Claire had left early that morning. "The church," Margaret guessed and headed there.
While the morning service was underway, she stood outside and waited. Claire had to come out eventually.
And Claire did, but not alone. She was surrounded by children—about eight of them, preschoolers by the look of it. The girls wore headscarves like Claire. The boys were bareheaded. Claire saw her and walked over with the children.
"I'm so glad you came," Claire said. "Come with us."
Margaret didn't want to have it out in front of the kids, so she followed. They entered a new log-built house. There was a spacious entryway with coat racks, a door that clearly led to a bathroom, and two other doors. The first led to a kitchen, the second to three interconnected rooms: a classroom and two bedrooms. Everything was clean and smelled of fresh wood. The furniture was modest, but as far as she could tell, they had everything they needed.
"Children, go look at your coloring books for a bit while we talk," Claire told them, and they went into the classroom. "Don't be angry," Claire said to Margaret. "I'll explain everything."
Claire told her that the parish had received official permission to open an orphanage. The house was a gift from sponsors. A construction firm had donated the utilities, a boarding school had shared furniture, and now ten—well, eight for now—orphans could legally stay there. They would follow the standard school curriculum but with elements of a parish school. They had permission for that, too—the Bishop himself had helped. Claire had been in the organizing group from the start and was now deciding what to do next. If she was going to do this full-time, she'd have to leave the clinic.
"What do you think?" Claire asked her.
"I don't even know..." For the first time, Margaret wasn't afraid to seem uncertain. "I actually came because Leo sent two containers. Now I see who they're for. Tell me when they arrive; I'll help."
"Oh, bless Leo! I'll call him. It'll be just in time for the school term."
Claire was beaming, but then a little girl came up with a question:
"Auntie Claire, I can't get the paints open."
"You go, Claire," Margaret said. "We'll talk."
She couldn't sleep for a long time. She had talked to Leo, to her daughter-in-law, and her grandson had recited a nursery rhyme for her, and everything seemed fine, but sleep wouldn't come. She gave in and went for the sleeping pills. She rarely used them, but tonight was the night. They worked. She fell asleep right in her robe—or maybe she didn't fall asleep, because her husband sat down beside her...
It was definitely him. He looked just as he did when she saw him off at the airport, only with more silver at his temples and tired eyes.
***
"I've been thinking about it all this time, too," he said, as if continuing a conversation. "What does it matter where they're from? They're still children. Do you know how many orphans were left after that black Tuesday? It wasn't just us who died, not just the ones inside the towers. How many under the rubble? How many firefighters? How many on the planes? They were just passengers; they had no idea what was about to happen. We decided right then that we would help the orphans, started gathering them. But they don't want to come; they're all calling for their moms and dads. I didn't think we could do it, but we did. And you will, too. You're not alone. You have Claire, you have Leo, you have my grandson—he looks a little like me, doesn't he?"
She sat up with a jolt, reaching out to touch him, to say yes, the boy was the spitting image of his grandfather, but there was no one there. What was that?
She never had dreams, and was that even a dream? She could still smell his favorite cologne in the room. Maybe it wasn't a dream. She got up and turned on the lights, first in the bedroom, then in the whole apartment. No, she was alone. But why was she alone? There was Leo and his family, and Claire...
Suddenly she understood why he had appeared, what he wanted to say. Never a believer in the supernatural, she now knew what she had to do. She knew what her husband would have done—he would have cared for those orphans, regardless of where they were from. That was exactly what he had told her.
Finally, morning came.
She called Claire, asked her to wait, and said she was coming over so they could go to the orphanage together. Judging by the silence on the other end, Claire didn't know what to say. Finally, she said:
"I'm waiting for you."
Barely saying hello, Margaret told Claire about the night and said:
"I understood what he wanted to tell me."
Claire looked at her and remained silent.
"Can I work with you at the school? Just half-days, maybe? Then you wouldn't have to quit the clinic. Can we try?"
Claire hugged her.
"What's there to 'try'? You can do anything. But if you want, just come for a while, see how it feels. Although..."
"Claire, I know what you're going to say. You can't just 'try' with children, especially these children. I know I'm not like you; I don't know how to be soft, but I won't hurt them. Do you believe me?"
"Oh, stop it!" Claire, who never raised her voice, sounded almost cross. "You can do it. Just try not to cry when they tell you things they remember from their past. Yes, really—try not to cry. Even a man couldn't handle it."
Alas, she couldn't follow Claire's advice perfectly. When the children remembered something during a game or a lesson, she wanted to find those who had hurt them and kill them—literally kill them. Because human beings don't act that way. The only thing she managed to do was step out of the room for a minute so they wouldn't see her tears, or pretend to drop a pen so she could hide her face while picking it up.
She couldn't live without those children now, and every evening, across the ocean, Leo and his family listened to her stories. Her daughter-in-law cried openly, and her grandson would bring his favorite toys to the screen, waving them at the monitor.
"Will your kids like this dinosaur, Grandma? How about Winnie the Pooh?"
One day, when it was just her and her son on the call, Leo asked:
"Mom, did Claire recruit you?"
And she told him about the "daydream." About his father, how he sat down and talked about being responsible for the orphans—somewhere out there, he was looking after them.
Leo was quiet for a long time. Then he said:
"Mom... Dad came to me in a dream, too. He said the same thing. And then Claire told me about the orphanage. I decided right then to organize help. You know, everyone at the firm stepped up. Even the young programmers who usually just joke around. Before I left, Claire and I didn't want to tell you; to be honest, we were afraid you wouldn't support us. So, what was that? If I told anyone, they'd call it mysticism. I still don't know what happened."
"I know what it was. It was your father."
"So, I take it there's no point in asking you to join us here?" Leo asked.
"Don't be angry, son, but I can't right now. You and your family are confident, smart, and safe. These children aren't. Claire and I are going to try to give them that confidence—to give them a normal life. Why don't you come here for a holiday instead? You're going to love my kids."
0 comments