All Whom I Have Loved

34

One morning the door opened and there stood Mother. She had cut her hair and was wearing a long, heavy coat. I almost didn't recognize her. “It's me, my dear,” she said, and I went over to her. She tried to pick me up, but her heavy sleeves got in the way, and for a moment she stayed bent over my neck, embarrassed by her failure. But then she immediately took my face in her hands and kissed it.

“How are you?” she asked, taking off her coat. A little of the strangeness left her, and I saw then how her face had filled out and her hair had faded.

“You're alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where's Father?”

“At work.”

“Strange,” she said, as if only now had she grasped that she was there.

“Why strange?”

“I don't know.”

She stood there, looking around the room. It was a mess, and she didn't like the soot. She put her hand to her forehead, a gesture that I remembered well, a gesture of dissatisfaction and sometimes despair.

“Come, I'll show you the Prut.” I tried to extricate her from her confusion.

“But it's raining.”

“We'll put our coats on.”

Reluctantly, she put on her coat and we went out.

The Prut was now a dark brown; it cast its heavy waves against the bank. This was my mother, and yet she was so different. The heavy coat made her look shorter, and her long arms seemed truncated. We stood and watched for a short time. There was no beauty in the sight. The wet wind lashed at our faces. “Let's go inside, otherwise we'll be soaked to the bone,” she said. She was wearing rural galoshes that made her legs look thicker.

We sat at the table, and Mother took out the gifts she had brought in her bag: a particularly large set of dominos, a pack of cards, and, best of all, Suchard chocolate.

“How do you spend all your time, my dear?”

“I read.”

“What do you read?”

“Father's books.” I tried to impress her.

“They're very hard books,” she said, as if she had caught me attempting something that was beyond me. To tell the truth, I didn't like her inflection.

“You've changed.” The words just slipped from my mouth.

“In what way?”

“I don't know.”

Mother took some sandwiches out of her bag and then immediately removed them from the wax paper in which they had been wrapped. I remembered Mother's sandwiches. That's how she used to prepare them in our home in Czernowitz, and after that in Storozynetz. There was something of her grace in them. I immediately bit into one.

“I've come to fetch you,” she said.

“To where?”

“To Storozynetz.”

“No,” I wanted to say but stopped myself.

Mother must have sensed my refusal, for she said, “I've found a nice girl, like Halina.”

“And Halina isn't coming?” I interrupted her.

“What are you talking about, my dear?”

“I'm sorry.”

She said nothing about André or the wedding. There was no need to say anything; the expression on her face said it — that she was now married to André, preparing meals for him, washing his shirts, and laughing with him. But her face was not happy. It was somewhat frozen, and the more I stared at it, the more frozen it seemed, as if the tiny veins of happiness had been drained from it. She was the mother that I had once loved, and yet not. We sat without talking.

“We'll pack your clothes and go back home,” she said in a whisper.

“I don't want to go,” I replied in a clear voice.

My words must have astonished her; she put her right hand to her mouth and her eyes lost their luster.

“I love the river.” I tried to soften it.

“And you don't want to come with me?”

“Not now.”

“I understand,” she said, and her eyes moved slightly.

Then she put on her coat and closed her bag. She didn't try to convince me, not even by so much as a word. I knew that I was being cruel to her, but I also knew what I wanted, and nothing in me stirred toward her.

“I won't force you,” she said as she buttoned her coat. She must have expected me to waver, but I didn't.

The falling rain struck the door and the windows, darkening the room. “It's raining,” I said, trying to keep her from going.

“Never mind,” she said, lifting her collar. She kissed my forehead and went out.

I stood in the doorway and watched her grow distant. She made her way heavily, as if leaving a place she found distasteful.

“Mother!” I called, but my voice couldn't have reached her. I kept calling, my voice choking. I put on my coat and ran after her, but the rain and the mud dragged me down and I turned back. I sat at the window and waited for her to return. It was clear that she wouldn't, but with my thoughts I still tried to will her back to me.