Shards of My Memory

A earthly platform. Do not grieve, Nor cry aloud. To all our wails he’s deaf. One of us has left for paradise— He’ll meet God there, for surely God exists. — V. Vysotsky

Time flows, time rushes on, dragging us into its whirlpools, shattering the fragile little boats of our memories into splinters.

Sometimes it feels like if you just reach out a hand, you could touch them, grab them, and pull them back into this world. But your fingers only get stuck in the emptiness of passing years. There is no going back.

On September 6, 2007, my father died in the hospital. Lung cancer, even though he had never been a heavy smoker.

The first call from Mum came at 3 a.m.:
“Dad’s doing really poorly. They’re offering to give him morphine. What should I do?” “Well, if the doctors suggest it, let them. At least he’ll get some sleep.” Lately, he hadn’t been able to sleep; he was suffocating, desperate for air.

Then the morning call, also Mum: “Dad died.”

A call from the hospital about five minutes later: “You might want to sit down.”

“I already know.”

“Can you get here as soon as possible? Your mother is in bad shape.”

“Yes, I’m on my way.”

A glass of vodka on an empty stomach. It didn’t help, but at least I could move.

Rush hour—everyone heading to work, trapped in traffic. Terrible. They’re off to work, and my father just died. Who could possibly understand? Nobody lets me merge.

Still thirty or forty minutes to the hospital. Memories flood in.

On my father’s bicycle—a small child’s seat fitted onto the crossbar. We’re flying downhill: terrifying and thrilling all at once!

Going to see the fireworks—huge crowds, but I’m holding his hand tight. He tells me about how he and Mum used to come here to Lenin Hills on dates. How Mum once ran downhill and couldn’t stop, and he caught her just in time.

The Black Sea—a bit rough, whitecaps riding the waves, so much fun to jump over them!

Suddenly we drop into a trench. One second we were standing, the next we are thrashing helplessly, trying to stay afloat. “Help!”—people think we’re joking because it’s shallow all around us.

The current pulls us into the open sea. I cling to Dad and scream. Then, right into his ear, a whisper: “Daddy, please, I don’t want to drown, I don’t want to die, please…”

He swims with the last reserve of his strength. Forty minutes later, we finally crawl onto the shore. Dad steps out and, ghostly white, collapses onto the sand: “If you hadn’t asked me like that, I would’ve given up and drowned. Don’t tell your mother.”

A furious Mum greets us: “Have you lost your minds?! Where were you?! We’ve been looking everywhere!”

“We just decided to go for a swim. Sorry, Irinushka.”

My very first short story: “Good job, keep writing, you’ve got talent. Maybe you’ll write a detective novel for me someday.”

Later, in the hospital room: “Dad, try to sleep a bit, you need your strength.” “Later. I just want to stay with you all a little longer.”

There were heartbreaks, too. I was about five. Dad and I were kicking a ball around. The neighborhood boys walked up: “Mind if we join?” “Sure!” My legs get tangled; I don’t know how to pass. Nobody on our team passes to me. “Dad, over here!” He passes to someone else. Once, twice. Hurt, I walk away. He doesn’t even try to chase after me: “I was ashamed of you. That’s not how boys behave.” Maybe… But I wanted him to BELIEVE in me so badly.

Right up until his death, though he’d offer praise now and then, he mostly corrected me. He never truly believed in me. Or am I just imagining it? After all, people told me he used to brag about me and my achievements to others… You can’t ask him now.

And here is the hospital.

He’s still warm. God, he has grown so thin! It’s as if he’s just asleep. His mouth is slightly open. Mum supports his chin. That’s what you have to do now.

I try to hold it together—I’m in charge now. I have to make the calls, organize things, notify everyone. Everyone pities Mum. So do I. But if only someone spared a little pity for me… Just a bit?

I call Dad’s colleague. Chris—roughly my age. He breaks down crying. I’d love to cry too, but I’m not allowed to. Being unable to let go makes it so much worse. I try to calm him down. He promises to come over.

Mum: “Maybe he’s still alive? Maybe he’s sleeping? Look, his hands are warm, see, his fingers bend… I think he’s breathing!”

On the phone: “Funeral services, hello.”

A hospital Catholic priest arrives. Full of understanding, sympathy, and all that. The room needs to be cleared; we’ll be moved to the viewing room, he’ll arrange it. Fine, but only after my sister gets here. He leaves.

The doctor on duty—do we want an autopsy? No. It’s clear enough—lung cancer, metastases, exhaustion. “Okay.”

Everyone has said their goodbyes and left the room. Now they’ll move him to the viewing room. We have about forty minutes to wait. Mum, my sister, and her husband are together. My nerves are completely shot. I grab Chris, who has just arrived and is sobbing uncontrollably, and we walk into a bar. Vodka, straight, no food. Who gives a damn about food?!

A call: “They’re saying we can’t go down to the viewing room, it’s occupied.”

“I’m on my way.”

I’m met by that same priest. In a matter-of-fact tone, without a trace of remorse: “As it turns out, we’re under renovation, and the viewing room is full of dirty dishes from the kitchen. We won’t be able to help you.” “But you promised?! What am I supposed to tell my mother?” “You were given plenty of time to say goodbye.”

Something inside me snapped: “Who are you to decide that? That’s why nobody goes to your church!” “Pardon me?” “Because you lie—you lie constantly. Then you abuse young parishioners, and then you lie again. Living without a family, you’re incapable of understanding basic human feelings, you freaks.”

Turning away and hunching his shoulders, he retreated down the hallway. I stepped outside and looked around. No one seemed to be watching. Out of sheer desperation, I began punching the brick wall, picking spots that would hurt my hands the most. I scraped off skin, broke a finger. To this day, I can’t fully clench my right hand into a fist—it healed poorly.

At the time, it brought a moment of relief. At least I no longer felt the urge to chase that “holy man” down the corridor and strangle him. I wonder if he realized just how close he came to a room full of dirty dishes himself. I looked back—a few people and an elderly disabled woman in a wheelchair were staring at me in terror. I offered them a crooked smile and walked off before they snapped out of it and called the police…

After that—what is there left to describe?

The funeral service at church. I arrived first. To keep myself going, I drank warm vodka straight from the bottle and washed it down with beer. People told me later that I was a huge help—to relatives, friends, the undertakers.

We buried my father just as he wanted: in a Russian cemetery, not an American one. In New York, right beside a large monastery. The surroundings look just like Russia: fields, open spaces, the ringing of church bells.

Silence.

May his memory be eternal.