The old woman shook her head, and in that movement, there was so much habitual resignation that Yulia felt a pang in her chest.
“My son works on the other side of the country. He promised to come as soon as he can get away. I’m here alone for now.”
“Let me get you something from the cafeteria. Would you like something to eat?”
“Oh, my dear, you don’t have to bother…”
“I must,” Yulia said, more firmly than she intended. “What would you prefer: broth, porridge?”
Vasilisa Nikitichna—that was the old woman’s name—agreed to broth and a boiled egg. Yulia went to the cafeteria, making two lists in her head. For Gleb—the cutlets he loved, fresh bread, still mineral water. For the old woman—something healthy for after an injury. The difference between these lists didn’t seem strange to her then.
When she returned, she first brought the food to her husband. Gleb silently took the container, opened it, and poked at the cutlet with a fork. He didn’t even say thank you, just started eating, staring at his phone.
“Do you need anything else?” Yulia asked, standing by the bed. “Maybe I could bring you a book?”
“Just go, come back earlier tomorrow.”
She left and went to the women’s ward. Vasilisa Nikitichna took the broth with both hands, as if it were a precious jewel. Her eyes glistened, the rims turning red.
“My child!” she whispered. “Good Lord, you are so kind! Let me pay you, I have a little money. Here, take this!”
She reached for her bedside table, but Yulia gently stopped her hand.
“You don’t have to! Really, you don’t!”
“I don’t like to be indebted!” the old woman said seriously. “I’m not young anymore, I don’t want to leave debts behind.”
“This isn’t a debt. Eat while it’s hot!”
The following days blurred into a monotonous routine. Early in the morning, Yulia would arrive with a homemade breakfast for Gleb and stop by the cafeteria for food for Vasilisa Nikitichna; in the evening, she repeated the same with dinner. She helped the old woman get to the restroom, once catching her just as she slipped on the slick linoleum. Vasilisa Nikitichna was so light that Yulia was afraid she might break something else. The old woman thanked her every time, called her “my child,” and tried to press crumpled bills into her hand, which Yulia invariably guided back into her palm.
Gleb was becoming more and more irritable. On the third day, he threw his spoon into the container so hard that splatters flew onto the blanket.
“The same thing again! I’m sick of it! Is it so hard to come up with some variety?”
“I can cook something different tomorrow. Just tell me what you want.”
“I don’t want anything. Go to your old hag, since you find it more interesting there, and leave me alone.”
Yulia stood there, feeling the ground give way beneath her feet, and continued to convince herself: he was exhausted from bed rest, he was scared, he wasn’t used to being helpless.
“You’re better to me than my own daughter,” Vasilisa Nikitichna told her that same evening as Yulia was fluffing her pillow.
She smiled back, but the smile was crooked because something inside her had trembled and shifted, like cracked ice on a river.
On the fifth day, a thin man in his fifties, unshaven, with cheeks sunken from exhaustion, burst into Vasilisa Nikitichna’s ward. He fell to his knees before his mother right in the middle of the room, grabbed her hands, and pressed his forehead against them.
“Mom, forgive me! Forgive me for taking so long! I was on shift, they wouldn’t let me go, I came as soon as I could…”
“Sasha, my son!” Vasilisa Nikitichna stroked his head. “You made it, thank God! And I wasn’t alone here. Look, meet Yulenka! If it weren’t for her, I don’t know how I would have survived here!”
Alexander stood up, turned to Yulia, and there were tears in his eyes.
“Thank you! How much do I owe you? I’ll pay whatever you say!”
“You don’t owe me anything!”
“That’s not right,” Vasilisa Nikitichna intervened. “Sasha, wait! Yulenka, come here!”
She took a neatly folded handkerchief embroidered with cornflowers from under her pillow and placed it in Yulia’s hand. Inside was a piece of paper, yellowish, worn at the folds. Yulia unfolded it and saw a 25-ruble banknote from 1961.
Something inside her snapped.
“What is this?” she asked, her own voice sounding foreign, hoarse with approaching tears. “Is this some kind of joke? I brought you food for five days, helped you, stayed up at night, and you give me a piece of paper that they won’t even accept at the store?”
Yulia herself didn’t understand where this rage came from. The accumulated fatigue, the sleepless nights in the chair by her husband’s bed, his silence and reproaches—it all burst out and poured onto the person who deserved it least.
A familiar voice came from the corridor. Gleb was standing in the doorway, leaning on crutches, looking at his wife with a wry smile.
“See, you shouldn’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. It’s your own fault, you got what you deserved for gratitude.”
Vasilisa Nikitichna did not look away from Yulia’s face. She reached out and gently squeezed her fingers, which were still clutching the old banknote.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, my child,” she said softly. “I wanted to protect you from a great misfortune. A misfortune that might be sitting right in your own home.”
She pulled Yulia by the hand, seating her beside her on the edge of the bed.
“Listen to me, an old woman. There are things that look valuable, but are empty inside. These 25 rubles were once money, big money, you could live on them for a month. And now—it’s just a piece of paper, a memory. It’s the same with words: they might sound like love, like family, but if you dig deeper—it’s all lies.”
Gleb snorted in the doorway and hobbled back to his ward. Vasilisa Nikitichna watched him go, then turned back to Yulia.
“Let’s go into the corridor, child, we need to talk.”
They left the ward and sat on the same bench where Yulia had first seen the old woman. Vasilisa Nikitichna began to speak quietly, leaning close to her:
Comments are closed.