28April
Dear Diary,
My mother was strikingly beautiful, though my father always insisted that it was her only virtue. I adored him with a love that made my heart race, and I saw the world through his eyes.
Thomas taught political science at the university. He came from an educated family that never quite accepted Grace, my mother. I learned the truth of their meeting only much later. As a member of a university workparty, Thomas was sent to a remote state farm to build animal pens. Grace was seventeen then, working as a milkmaid. She had only eight years of schooling, and even after many years with Thomas she still struggled to read fluently, tracing letters with her fingers and whispering syllables to herself. Yet she possessed a rare beauty fragile, with porcelain skin, honeygolden hair down to her waist, blueviolet eyes and a finely chiseled face. In the wedding photograph she looks as if she stepped out of a magazine. Thomas was tall, darkhaired, with a thick moustache and a very masculine bearing. That summer Grace became pregnant, and Thomas felt obliged to marry her. Perhaps he once loved her, but his parents pressured him, accusing Grace of having tricked him. Around the university swirled young female postgraduate students, perhaps not as striking as Grace but certainly educated and witty, ready to sustain any conversation. Moreover, whenever Thomas tried to take Grace to gatherings, she ate messily, fumbled with cutlery and laughed so loudly that he felt embarrassed. He never hesitated to mention this to her, and she would simply shake her head with a sad smile, unable to argue.
I never wanted to be like my mother. I wanted Thomas to be proud of me. Even before school I memorised the alphabet and read better than Grace ever could. I spent whole days practising arithmetic so that when Thomas set a problem I could answer correctly and earn his praise. At the table I watched his manners closely and mimicked him eating with my mouth closed, not licking the plate, using fork and knife. Despite all this, Thomas never grew especially fond of me; he would glance at me briefly, ruffle my soft hair with a distracted hand. On the rare occasions I managed a conversation with him, those moments became a longlasting comfort, and I replayed his words in my mind.
When I was in the second grade Thomas left us. Grace kept the reason a secret for a while, but eventually I learned he had found another woman. The word divorce sounded like a death knell, and the only thought in my head was, If only he would take me with him. Yet I stayed with Grace. We had to move out of the flat that had belonged to my grandparents; they were only glad to be rid of us. For a time Thomas sent modest sums each month, and my grandmother sent a few pounds at Christmas and for birthdays. But the country was in turmoil, and soon Thomas lost his job and the money stopped. Grace took a series of lowpaid cleaning jobs, scrubbing floors from dawn till dusk, often with delayed wages, so we lived in modest poverty. Graces beauty faded with the years, and I could no longer see anything worth admiring in her. I blamed her, in my mind, for Thomass abandonment.
Thomas had turned to entrepreneurship. One winter he drove by our block, handed me a new coat and a few pounds. That day has stayed with me: I had just come home from school, shivering in my old coat whose sleeves were already too short. Thomas stood at the entrance Grace was at work, and no one opened the door for him, but he waited. My heart leapt at last he remembered me! I offered him tea with sugar and rattled on about my school achievements, trying to prove how clever I had become. He listened halfheartedly, but stayed, finished his tea, unfolded the coat, placed the money on the table and said:
Give this to your mother. Ill bring more next month.
I timidly asked, Will you come for my birthday?
He looked at me, as if the date had slipped his mind, then answered, Of course! What would you like?
A doll, I blurted, a little embarrassed I was almost a teenager, but the word escaped me. I had always received books from him on my birthdays.
Alright, he nodded, a doll it shall be.
When Grace returned, I proudly told her about my fathers visit and his promise to bring a doll for my birthday.
On the morning of my birthday I ran home at breakneck speed, fearing Thomas might not wait. I hoped to see him waiting at the entrance, but he never appeared. The night before, Grace had baked a cake and, that morning, given me a trendy jumper Id been dreaming of. I left the cake untouched, waiting for Thomas, but he never came. When Grace got home from work we ate the cake together, yet I felt no joy; tears finally broke loose. Grace understood, but said nothing about Thomas.
The next day Grace handed me a small parcel.
Here, she said, the post was delayed; it should have arrived yesterday. Its from your father.
I opened it inside lay a brandnew doll in a pretty pink box. I shouted with delight and asked, Why didnt he come himself?
Probably he was sent on a work trip, Grace replied, averting her eyes.
That doll became my most treasured possession. I took it to school, unafraid of any teasing. Thomas never returned, and my grandparents never sent another monetary gift. Gradually I accepted that only Grace would ever be in my life, yet I missed my father every day, doing everything in the hope that someday he would return, see what Id become, and finally be proud of me.
After finishing my Alevels I was accepted into medical school. I was determined to tell Thomas the news, so I resolved to find him, no matter the cost. I remembered roughly the address of the flat where I had lived for eight years and the house of my grandparents that I visited only on holidays. Without telling Grace, I set off.
At the flat, a woman answered the door and told me no one named Thomas lived there; shed been the tenant for seven years. I tried to ask about previous occupants, but she slammed the door.
The grandparents house was silent. I was about to leave when a frail old lady in thick glasses opened the next door and asked, Can I help you?
Im looking for the Sergeys, I said, Im their granddaughter.
She looked me over and said, If youre their granddaughter, you should know theyve been dead for years.
I blushed. I didnt know My parents divorced and I
Ah, yes, divorced So youre Emma, then?
Yes.
Wanted to see your grandparents?
Yes and also my father, I exhaled.
She gave me a look that cut straight to the bone.
Theyre all dead, child. Killed for debts. All in one day. Because of your father.
The truth hit me like a hammer; I could barely breathe.
Dont kill yourself, she urged, youre still young, life ahead of you. Your mothers still alive, isnt she?
I nodded.
Here, Ill give you the exact locations of their graves. I have a notebook with the details. Go, visit them, and youll feel a little lighter.
She rummaged through countless drawers until she found the little ledger, read out the plot numbers and the name of the cemetery. I thanked her and rushed off, fear gripping me as I walked away.
The graves were overgrown, unattended. I cleared the weeds enough to read the headstones, all in a single row behind a low fence. The dates of death revealed that my fathers disappearance had occurred just two days after my last encounter with him.
On the tram ride home, trembling, a thought struck me: how could Thomas have sent that doll on my birthday? I had kept it all these years, cherishing it above the other gifts Mum gave me. Perhaps the doll had come from Grace after all, I wondered. A rush of shame flushed my cheeks, a lump lodged in my throat. My father turned out to be a petty criminal who had ruined his own parents. Thank goodness Grace and I never lived together then; otherwise we might have ended up lying side by side.
I never told Grace about the trip. I made up a story about hanging out with friends. Later I embraced her, whispered that I loved her, and added another lie:
Thank you for everything.
Graces eyes, now a little dimmer with age but still a bright blue, widened in surprise.
I always knew that doll was yours, she said softly, thats why Ive loved it all these years.
Big tears streamed down her cheeks. I felt no shame for the lies; I felt shame for the years Id spent believing there was nothing good left in her, only fleeting beauty.
