— He’s getting by. — I poured a glass of water. My hands were shaking slightly. It had been a rough night.
— Rough, — she drawled sympathetically. — Of course, it was rough. What did you expect when you’re stuffing him with that foreign poison? I told you, Yana.
— Vera Andreevna, it’s not poison, it’s medicine. A doctor prescribed it.
— A doctor? — she snorted. — What kind of doctor only knows one medicine, and for an insane amount of money at that? I spoke with some knowledgeable people. There’s a professor in Poltava. A luminary. He gets people back on their feet with herbal remedies, you understand, natural things, not chemicals that have probably already destroyed my son’s liver.
I remained silent, knowing any argument was useless.
— Pashenka called me yesterday, complaining, — she continued, the sweetness in her voice gone, replaced by steel. — He says you reproached him about money again. What kind of stone heart do you have? He is sick, he needs support, and you talk to him about your pennies. Spendthrift. First, you blow everything on some strange pills, and then you blame your own husband.
— I didn’t reproach him, — my voice broke, — I just said that we have almost no money left. I’m working myself to the bone to pay for this treatment.
— Then you’re not working hard enough, or you’re spending it on the wrong things. A normal wife would find a way to treat her husband, support the family, and not whine about it. But all you know how to do is count money. You’d rather just buy him off with expensive things than truly care for him. You should be making him herbal teas, giving him massages, not shoving pills in his mouth and running off to your job.
Tears of resentment burned my eyes. I silently swallowed them.
— I told Pashenka from the very beginning that you weren’t right for him. You’re cold, calculating; numbers are more important to you than people. My poor boy, he’s so unlucky to have you.
— Vera Andreevna, I have to go, — I managed to say, feeling that in another second I would explode.
— Go, of course, go, — she sang with venomous sympathy. — Run after your money. Just remember, Yana: you can’t buy health, and your conscience, if you have any left, will torture you later. You’ll drive him to his grave with your treatment.
She hung up. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, clutching the phone to my chest. Her words rang in my ears. “Spendthrift, cold, you’ll drive him to his grave.” I felt completely crushed, lonely, and guilty. What if she was right? What if I really was doing everything wrong?
A soft moan came from the other room. I wiped my tears, put on the mask of a caring wife, and went to him. I had to find money. Urgently.
— You look absolutely terrible.
Diana and I were sitting in a small café near my second job. I had a forty-minute break, and she had literally dragged me here.
— Thanks, friend, you always know how to cheer me up. — I listlessly poked at my salad with a fork.
— I’m serious, Yana, I’m not kidding. — She leaned towards me across the table, her gaze worried. — Forget about Pasha for a second. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? The dark circles under your eyes will soon reach your chin. Your skin is gray. You’ve lost about ten kilograms. He’s the one who’s sick, but you look like you’re the one dying. This isn’t normal.
— And what’s normal about our situation? — I snapped. — My husband is seriously ill, and I’m running around like a hamster in a wheel to save him. Of course, I’m not going to look like a beauty queen.
— It’s not about beauty, — Diana persisted. — It’s about the fact that you’re driving yourself into an early grave.
— And for what?
— Tell me again about this doctor of yours. What’s his name, Arkady Lvovich?…
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