Olga Grushin - Forty Rooms

“Yes,” she said. “Speaking.”

“Oh,” she said after a minute. “Yes, I see.”

“Oh,” she said a little later. “So the oncologist will be there when?”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course. We’ll be waiting for your call.”

“Yes,” she said then. “Thank you. I understand.”

But she did not understand, not at all. Her eyes still, she repeated what the doctor had told her.

“So they don’t know,” Paul said fiercely. “They don’t know for sure. Honey. Listen to me. Listen to me. This doesn’t mean—”

She sank to the floor, the telephone slipping onto the carpet. The carpet was green, and all along its border, monkeys, elephants, and giraffes with tails sticking up trudged clockwise one after another. The nursery had a jungle theme. There were blue monkeys climbing up and down the vines on the curtains, and green and orange monkeys on the sheets, and the clock was the grinning face of a lion with two thrusts of jaunty whiskers for hands. The clock showed eleven minutes past one. The lion grinned as its longer whisker moved down a notch, and now it was twelve minutes past one, and the lion’s grin looked evil, and its eyes were demented slits. Fifteen minutes, the doctor had said. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. Half an hour at most.

The demented lion’s whisker moved down another notch.

There was a swarming of hot wasps in her head. But I don’t understand, she thought dully. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t— With dry, feverish eyes, she stared around the nursery, at the two matching cribs, one of them empty now, sliced in half by a slanting ray of sunlight; she could hear George’s giggles bouncing like spilled peas somewhere downstairs. In the other crib, Rich slept peacefully. His pink lips were partly open, and his shirt rose and fell with his slow, even breaths. He lay on his back, as he often did, his arms and legs spread out wide, as if he had fallen into a tranquil doze while making a snow angel—or a bed angel—or an angel soon to be.

No. This isn’t happening. Why him, why me, why? It was all a mistake. It made no sense—like opening a gift wrapped in cheerful floral-print paper to discover some rotting horror inside, something vast and nameless from the underside of reality that reared up and swallowed you whole—the nursery’s stuffed animals with their vapid button-eyed faces and blue plush hides turning on one another, tearing out one another’s innards in the hot darkness of the jungle, the reek of guts and feces in the air, the vicious pulse of life and death, and her children, her own flesh and blood, wandering lost and frightened, so sweet, so innocent, so defenseless—

Her jumbled thoughts rose to a pitch inside her, a hot silent howl. This isn’t real, if this happens, life will be over, nothing will matter, time will drag on and on from year to year, empty, empty. A phrase Hamlet liked to repeat in some unimaginable past fell like a cold little pebble into the turmoil of her mind: Art is a haven from misfortune for mankind. Some ancient had said it, Seneca or Menander, one of those stoic philosophers or sage playwrights who strode about wrapped in their neatly pressed togas, proclaiming that nothing human was alien to them. She felt she was choking. Haven from misfortune—what mockery that was, what mockery… No, if this happens, I will be silent forever, for this suffering will not fit into any words, into any poetry—who can even think of poetry when it’s Rich, my Rich, my special Rich, so full of life, so full of future, why? But the horrifying knowledge had already stirred inside her, uncoiling its slithering length. I did this. I did this. This is my punishment—my punishment for always thinking this isn’t enough, my punishment for always dreaming of a life I will lead once I am free, once I am an artist, once the children are gone . This is the gods throwing it back in my face, this is the gods, yet again, granting the most evil of my wishes, answering the darkest of my prayers. You wanted your children gone, and so they will be, one by one by one, so now go stuff yourself full of your fucking freedom, full of your fucking art…

She grew conscious then of her sobs, and of Paul on the floor next to her, gripping her shoulders, repeating, “Honey, please, honey, we don’t know for sure—” With a jolt she remembered him, her big, safe, cozy giant of a husband who always knew just what to do, whose love for her had always been there. Something deep in her seemed to give way at last, and her soul rose in her mouth, heavy with gratitude and love and terror. Gods, oh gods, I swear, if only you avert this, if only you take this cup of suffering away from me, I will be happy, I will never want anything more, I will never ask for anything more, just this life, just this small life, because it isn’t small, I understand that now, it is enough, it is all I want, this family is all I want, all I ever wanted, my husband and my children and my home, I swear, I will prove it to you, I swear, just let it be the way it was and you will see, please, please, if you let me, I will even—I will even…

They sat on the floor, holding each other, while the lion whiskers crept forward on the wall, and the telephone lay inert and deadly between them, and their baby slept in his crib with the orange monkeys, and outside the closed door their other children squealed with laughter, and spots of bright sunshine slithered like fat yellow slugs across the giraffes on the carpet, and some other, normal life slipped farther and farther away, sliding over the edge, year after year, decade after decade, falling into nothing.

The lion’s whiskers now pointed to twenty-nine minutes past one.

The telephone rang.

They looked at it.

“Paul,” she mouthed. “I can’t. Paul. Please.”

He answered, his face blank, his voice a wire.

“Yes? Yes, Dr. Peck. Yes. Yes.”

She held his free hand, crushing his fingers, watched his face split open with relief. She felt herself going slack, and hid her own face in his shoulder, and cried with happiness unlike any she had ever known. They were reprieved, the door that had cracked open onto the monstrous blackness had swung closed, this time at least—but she would never let there be another time. And when he finished telling her, and when they stopped laughing and shouting and kissing the bewildered, sleepy Rich long enough to catch their breaths, she snuggled deeper into his arms and whispered, “Let’s have another baby.”

The expression on his face was suddenly hard to read.

“We have a wonderful family already,” he said a long moment later, and leaned over to kiss her—but she knew by the way he looked at her that he would change his mind in time, that she would change his mind for him.

“Naturally, these are all important decisions,” the decorator said, shutting her purse—a hard-edged affair taut with some reptile’s skin. “And while most of our options are not inexpensive, you must keep in mind that, if done properly, they will last you forever.” In the doorway she paused. “Also, Mrs. Caldwell, you should consider cutting down that tree in front, it makes the room quite dark.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Caldwell. “Thank you for coming, Felicity.”

Alone, she dreamily stroked the rise of her stomach and contemplated the two bare windows, dimmed by the oak’s giant shadow. Felicity’s right, I should call our tree service, she resolved—and was, for the briefest of moments, visited by a disorienting sensation, a memory, or perhaps a thought, brushing by her only to flee out of reach. Just then, on the exact same spot in a neighboring dimension, a woman who looked much like her, but who had no baby with glowing pink fingers close to her heart, stood gazing out of her study window, thinking about a poem she would write next. It would be a long poem set entirely in an old tree, even bigger than this one—like the magnificent oak that grew in a forest clearing beyond her childhood dacha. There would be fairies living in its vertiginous upper reaches, elegant, haughty, and treacherous, weaving subtle byzantine intrigues over sips of pollen-sweetened dew from perfumed petal cups; and nameless birds, bees, and squirrels working their lives away in the middle thicket, scurrying in and out of nests and hollows, storing honey, gathering acorns, raising their young, ensuring by the daily accretion of minute labors the eternal rotation of the seasons, the steady passage of time; and, in the damp, black interstices of the underground tunnels and roots, secret societies of gnomes pursuing with dark obsession some mysterious, closely guarded purpose of their own, and a lonely mole scribe entrusted by generations of moles before him to continue the Sacred History of the Tree, to record with diligent devotion each drought, each near strike of lightning, each furry death, each feathered birth, to write the world into existence while himself remaining blind, unappreciated, and unknown, year after year after year. But the most marvelous thing about the tree would be its leaves, for the leaves—the leaves… And just as the woman at the window of that other, haphazardly furnished, much smaller house reached for her pen, Mrs. Caldwell looked once again at the notes she had jotted down in her agenda, under the heading “Convert study into guest bedroom”: