September 8, 2014 | Occasus | Issue 4 | Fiction

Reclaiming Spring

I wash my hands slowly, and look myself over in the bathroom mirror. My head is throbbing and I feel like I did in college, running on three hours of sleep before finals. In fact, I haven’t done much today and I had a full night’s rest. I feel strangely older, and my body doesn’t appear as toned. I stare at it in wonder: it is so unable, useless, and dirty, too. The doctor’s concerned voice plays in my mind, repeatedly “I am very sorry, Valentina, but our test results show that you cannot have children…is there anyone you can talk to about this, a close friend perhaps?” I tell the doctor that I am okay, and reassure him that I will come back for my post-miscarriage check-up. I leave; I don’t notice how I get home. My legs simply carry me without a conscious effort.

“Hey! Where’ve you been?” My husband’s words interrupt my thoughts. I break my gaze from the mirror.

“I went for coffee with a friend… just got back” – I lie and force a meek smile. He is standing in the bathroom doorway. I lean forward and cling to him, burying my face in the space between his neck and his shoulder, blocking out the light from my eyes. He has no idea; to him this is just a cuddle at the end of a long day.

I tell him I need a nap, so he agrees to cook tonight. I curl up under the thick blankets, unable to warm up. I draw my knees close to my chest, trying to minimize the hole I feel in my gut. I remember that blazing blue day in the spring, when I still thought I was pregnant and that this time I’ll finally be able to announce it to my husband through a romantic picnic or something! It is all over now. The phone rings downstairs, muffled. I shut my eyes; “I’m not home” – I think, “Please tell them I’m not home”. Tears don’t come. I am in a state between sleep and consciousness, and I never want to come out of it.

When he gently wakes me, it is dark outside. His whisper is sad and apologetic:

“Val… I got a phone call from mom. Dad is in the hospital. They think he’ll be okay, but I still think I should go to see him. It’s been long since I visited Minsk. I could get a two week vacation from Monday…I’m sorry this is such a short notice.”

I raise myself on my elbow and stroke his hair.

“Can I come? I’ll go with you!” I want to get away from this place. “I was thinking that I might want to visit my grandparent’s old home. I’ll give you time with your family, and join you on the second week”. Our hands meet, he asks:

“Near Chernobyl? But no one’s been in their house since…”

“I know” I interrupt, “That’s why I want to see”. He agrees and tells me thank you, of course I can come. In fact, it would be a great support to him. So we make arrangements at work the next day and begin packing. I find myself thinking whether it is dangerous for me to go there. But I didn’t want to worry him over it; he has enough on his mind.

In Ukraine, I am safe behind my anonymity. There are no familiar faces to meet with false cheerfulness. I hear there are tours available to just outside of the power plant. “How strange”, I think. They say a day visitor to the zone won’t get any more exposure than a passenger on a Toronto-Moscow flight from solar radiation. Instead, I make my way through the small Kapavati village. Grandmothers still live here despite the health risks and have long outlived my own grandparents.

When I ask for directions and tell them who I am, I am treated as their own. I am asked about my life now. I explain that soon after Soviet Union fell we moved to Canada; I was twelve. My parents are settled-in, and yes, I am married. My husband is in Minsk for a family visit and I’ll join him soon. They all wish me not to wait too long to have children; all I can do was laugh politely. I ask if somebody’s husband can help me force the door to my grandparent’s house open. Many invite me for supper, but they let me go into the house alone.

I must have been about six when I have last been inside my grandparents’ house, and it stood abandoned for twenty years. All I knew is that hours after receiving the horrifying news of the malfunction at the Chernobyl power plant, they phoned my parents, packed everything they could carry and left. They must have felt they wouldn’t have a chance to return. Their house now stands, a large time capsule, and when I open the door I find myself in 1986.

Its windows are boarded-up and thick ivy grows over the house, engulfing it in the scarred landscape. The outside paint is chipped, but inside, wallpaper is preserved, though much yellowed. Illuminated by a few rays of light leaking-in through the cracks, the house is electrified by a presence, as if a crouching animal is watching me, breathless, about to reveal itself in a momentous leap. Instead of the aroma of my grandmother’s cooking, it smells like old dust on library books. My very footsteps are muffled by dust that has collected, year after year, in this great vessel meant to hold and witness life.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with patched covers, I look over the greyed carpets, hung on the walls as tapestries. The bed faces a small round table and some stools, beside what was once a window to the garden, where children’s laughter was meant to ring for many years still. The only faces that meet me are the saint’s in the holy corner above and my old doll propped on the bookshelf. I almost pick the doll up, but I check myself in time. The saint looks down sadly from her icon. The silence presses on me; it is like an echo of a gong, which pulsates instead of ceasing. It is silly of me, but I feel like if I don’t leave now, I will be forever trapped in this memory lapse.

Outside, I stop weakly, stare at the house and think. When animals find it is their time to die, they crawl away, solitary, and face death calmly. They seem to see it coming, waiting for a guiding hand to take them through a door. We have no such gift. We die surrounded by others, who are very upset, and among all the chaos we cannot notice death. The victims of Chernobyl were given the opportunity to witness death crawl-up upon them.

The damned reactor burnt for ten days. Its immediate victims and firefighters watched burns develop on their skin like images on photo paper. Day one – swelling; still a hope for recovery. Day two – scabbing; must’ve gotten injured along the way. Day seven – skin is coming off in layers! And then? Medals presented to their widows, and streets titled with their names; that is all. One grandmother tells me, when the officers came to evacuate the village, she hid in the basement with her cows. Radiation didn’t scare her; the sadness of being away from her house would have been much worse.

These women still support each other through their unified trauma. What determination! Waiving wrinkled hands at their houses, they all say: “This is all I have!” They lean on a wall and kiss the walls of their homes. Suddenly, a tear appears in my heart, and keeps growing until I am paralyzed with emotion that is foreign to me. Who am I? How dare I to think I knew who I was all these years? How dare I, to cry at their tragedy?

I give in to my own, private grief and burst into tears. I feel a hand on my shoulder. A grandmother who came to meet me asks with quiet solicitude “What is it daughter? Your loved ones? We all lost someone through that fire” – with a wave of her frail hand. Her frankness rubs my bitterest wounds. A fresh wave of tears; she murmurs “They watch over us, you know, up there!” She points to the sky, but I explode into even more violent sobs that shake my whole body. She pats me soothingly, her voice trembling, “That’s enough, daughter, enough. We’ll see them again. Stop now or you will make me cry, too”. Sure enough, tears begin rolling down her cheeks, and so we are thrown together on this village road by a tragedy so shared and so unknown.

At nights I go back to my inn, but every morning I return to eat with the women and listen to their stories. Some make light of their post-Chernobyl life, others talk about it ceaselessly to anyone who stumbles upon their land. As for me, it is then that a strange hope begins to lure into my soul. It is almost painful, although I find myself smiling at nothing once again as I walk through the village streets, the park, the lake shore, and then back to the houses again. There, the memories live, and they reach out to me like invisible hands, so resembling my grandmother’s: the type of hands that pet your hair, no matter what age, until you truly believe that spring is coming once more.

By week-end, I depart to the train station. It seems the entire village gathers to bid me farewell. Each woman has a small token to give me: a pocket prayer book, a bouquet of roses from her garden, an embroidered handkerchief. Their well-wishing is not unwelcome, and I hug each one of them dearly. Their kindness will follow me in all my future life.

Throughout the train ride, it rains the way it does in storybooks. The places we pass are dressed in a nearly-liquid light. Wet city lights have always reminded me of marmalade candies. How many rainfalls has this place seen since? But this rain is not merciless. It plucks down like the fall leaves that gently untwine themselves from their branches to come parachuting to the woodland floor. I long for my husband so I can tell him everything. He meets me at the station looking pleased but like he hasn’t slept much.

“How was your trip?” He asks, as he takes my bag and we kiss.

“Fine” I smile, “How is your dad? I am so sorry I couldn’t call again. I hope he is out of the hospital by now?”

“He is! We are invited for supper, of course. You better be hungry…my Aunt cooked pies today! Everything is covered with pies – they’re even on the TV stand! I hope I don’t have to eat the fish one…” He laughs and we walk to the car he borrowed from his brother.

“You are exhausted” I look at him, consolingly, my hand on his forearm. God, how I’ve missed him! I haven’t fully looked at him since the night of the doctor’s visit. He laughs and cups my cheek for a moment. He glances over at me, thinking. I am very quiet.

“It’s good to have you back” We’re holding hands and he kisses mine when we are stopped at the traffic lights.

At the building lobby I stop, and it takes him a few moments to realize, so he is half-way up the staircase when he turns around.

“What’s the matter?” I lead him back outside.

“Listen….the night you got the call about your dad – I was at the doctor’s. I had a miscarriage” I pause. “Again”. His eyes widen as he stares at me with fear and surprise, but before he can put a word in, I continue:

“Listen…I had one last winter as well. You were on your company trip then, and after I could never bring myself to tell you. I thought we’d keep trying, I thought how I could have more than one?” I shrug and half smile at him, seeking reassurance. There are people nearby, but we are speaking English. “And listen, the doctor says, probably…I won’t have kids…” my voice breaks.

He paces, then comes and cups my face in his hands and draws me close. He is simply bewildered. I look at him patiently, and suddenly:

“Baby, why didn’t you ever tell me? I would’ve helped, I would’ve…!” With desperation in his voice, it is him who feels useless now.

“I couldn’t” I reply simply. “But the women I met this past week, their stories helped…somehow”. I waive my hand dismissingly and shake my head.

“Listen” – I sigh, “I need you to be okay with this, okay?” He drops the bag he was still holding and hugs me, pressing his lips tightly to my forehead. I am small inside his embrace. We exchange looks and begin to make our way upstairs again. His is full of plea and worry – shouldn’t a woman tell her husband about such things? He is trying to step on his ego, and I just nod.

YULIA LOBACHEVA is a Russian-Canadian artist and writer.  She has recently completed her BFA.