Part 10 (1/2)
When Anna and Kamila ring the doorbell that night, Damian is deep in the throes of his nightly tantrum. Justyna opens the door to the sight of her best friends, one of whom she hasn't seen in three years, standing side by side like frightened Girl Scouts.
”Dziewczyny, meet Damian Pawe Strawicz, jerk extraordinaire. He's just taken a steaming dump. Follow the smell of sraczka, and make yourselves at home.” Kamila and Anna clumsily take off their shoes and smile blankly. Justyna chuckles at their unease. She is a mother now, and Kamila and Anna, G.o.d bless them, had better get used it.
They follow her into the living room as Justyna plops down on the floor and places Damian in front of her, stretching his legs out and making them bend in circles, like he is a tiny bicyclist. ”Wipes!” she shouts and Pawe appears in the doorway with a tub of Bambino wet wipes. He is dressed in a black wife beater that shows off his muscular arms, and his long hair is tied back in a ponytail. He throws the baby wipes at Justyna, who sets to work, popping the snaps, scooping the s.h.i.+t, and fastening a fresh diaper onto the baby like she's been doing it her whole life. Kamila and Anna look on, stunned.
”It packs a wallop, right?” She tosses the dirty diaper to Pawe, who catches it with one hand, brings it to his nose, and inhales, an exaggerated, delighted aaaah. This is their routine and Justyna loves it. They perform best in front of an audience. Behind closed doors, when they realize Damian needs changing, they spend a few moments bickering about whose turn it is. In front of people, they work in mutual, tacit accord.
”We need some beer. Here”-Justyna thrusts Damian toward Pawe-”make yourself useful.” He holds Damian in equal measure of watchfulness and adoration. Justyna notices the way her friends stare at Pawe, and she smiles to herself as she walks toward the kitchen. Let them see; let them see just how happy she is.
She opens the fridge. From the living room she hears Pawe's voice, an octave too high, aware that she'd be eavesdropping.
”You don't know love till you watch your wife s.h.i.+t herself and you think it's kinda cute. And then the head popped out and I nearly s.h.i.+t myself.”
Justyna walks back from the kitchen, four beer bottles expertly balanced in one hand, and she pa.s.ses them out quickly.
She hands Pawe his ywiec and he grabs her waist, kisses her on the mouth, and then takes a swig, with the baby between them.
”Maybe I should tell them how when you saw his little d.i.c.k, you started bawling like a girl.” Pawe turns red and lovingly kisses the top of Damian's head.
”See this? My man's turned into a complete p.u.s.s.y,” Justyna proclaims, grinning from ear to ear.
”I can't get over how quickly you changed his diaper. Did your mom teach you?” Anna speaks up, in awe.
Justyna rubs her eyes and takes Damian into her arms. He has calmed down, and his eyelids hang heavy.
”Dobranoc, kotku,” she whispers and covers his face in dozens of small kisses. When she's finished she lets Pawe take him.
”Good night, girls. Don't let Mamuka stay up too late. We've got a four A.M. dinner reservation.” As soon as Pawe is out of sight, Justyna flops back onto the floor, digs in her front pocket, and fishes out a flattened pack of cigarettes.
”My mother hasn't gotten out of bed in months, Anna,” she says after her first drawn-out drag. ”We have to change her diapers now.”
”I'm sorry,” Kamila murmurs as she holds the ywiec between her bony thighs.
”I bring Damian upstairs every day and when I lay him down next to her she thinks he's Elwira.” Justyna frowns; she had forbidden herself to talk about her mother tonight. Who the f.u.c.k wants to go into the heinous specifics of cancer in its fourth stage? This is supposed to be a happy reunion.
They make small talk for a bit, and Justyna brings out the wedding alb.u.m to show Anna.
”You looked like a princess or something,” Anna says, closing the alb.u.m, smoothing her palms over its cover.
”I know. Some fairy tale, right? Baran, you look good. Your hair looks ekstra long. Every time I try to grow out mine, I end up cutting it,” Justyna says, touching her closely cropped hair, still worn in a pixie like Mia Farrow. ”But I'm not even gonna comment on yours, Kamila. What'd you dye it with, tar?”
Kamila pats her head self-consciously. ”It's so nice to see that motherhood's softened you.” The girls erupt into laughter.
”Let's get out of here.” Justyna stands up. Upstairs, she can hear Elwira, who is on Mom duty tonight. Neither sister takes particular pleasure in spoon-feeding their mother, changing her underwear, or injecting her with morphine, but they make do.
By the time the doctors had done all the ultrasounds and biopsies, the cancer, which had originated in her mother's left breast, had metastasized to Teresa's spine and lymph nodes. It was in her pelvic tissue and liver, and heading north to her lungs. Women didn't die from breast cancer like they used to, except the ones who ignored lumps and b.u.mps and blisters. About a month ago, the hospital had discharged her because there was nothing they could do and there were other patients in line for her bed-other patients who were sick but whose recovery was still a possibility. They couldn't afford a hospice aide, so Teresa was sequestered to the guest room on the third floor, where she'd been about to take her last breath for weeks now.
Every time Justyna walked in to see Teresa, the smell made her gag. When people talked about death they talked about the sadness of it, the waste, but they never talked about the things that made you want to shut the door on the dying. Justyna would sit on the edge of the bed, talking nonsense while she clipped her mother's toenails. Teresa was unresponsive, teetering between sleep and G.o.d knows what.
”Should I see your mom before we go?” Anna sheepishly asks.
”She weighs forty-eight kilos, Anka. Have you ever seen bedsores?”
Anna shakes her head slowly.
”Well, if you're remotely curious, now's your chance. Otherwise ...” Talking about a person's death was easy; coming face-to-face with it was a whole other gambit.
”Fine, let's just go,” Anna answers.
Ten minutes later, Justyna stands in front of Marex Bar and whistles three times. Moments after, Jacek Szuler comes downstairs. ”f.u.c.king fifteen minutes and you're out. I gotta get up at five and go to the bazaar for my old man.”
”Sure, sure ... and turn the music on.” Justyna smiles and waltzes past him, Kamila and Anna follow. On Sunday night most pubs in Kielce are closed. The people who want to get drunk on G.o.d's day of the week are the kind that brown-bag their liquor. But Justyna has connections.
Jacek rests his head on the bar; after a half hour of shuffling shots over to their table, he's given up. ”I used to date him.” Justyna leans in conspiratorially. ”Ma.s.sive siur, I mean it f.u.c.king hurt, which further proved my theory that's he's half black.”
Kamila and Anna laugh in disbelief.
”I'm not kidding. Jacek used to do this clicking thing with his tongue, it was like Tourette's or something, but it might have been Swahili.”
”You're f.u.c.king crazy, Justyna,” Kamila shouts. ”Forever Young” starts playing and the girls all chime in. ”Let's dance in style, let's dance for a while, heaven can wait, we're only watching the skies ...”
”Remember how we used to force you to translate all those lyrics? You hated it!” Kamila recalls.
”She didn't hate it, she loved it. You loved it, right?”
Anna smiles and shrugs her shoulders.
”Hey! Do you remember when Lolek stole that Russian motorcycle? How old were we?”
”Fifteen,” Anna answers, looking into her empty gla.s.s.
”Fifteen. My G.o.d. He drove us all over town on that f.u.c.king thing. Remember, you burned your calf on the exhaust pipe, Kamila, and we put honey on it? And we sat on the bench in front of your klatka and all of a sudden these bees appeared and this one”-Justyna points to Anna-”had like a full-blown panic attack. G.o.d, we were stupid.” Images fly at Justyna, swarming her head. She sees it all like it was yesterday, her whole wasted youth.
Jacek finally shuts off the stereo.
”You're a loser, Jacek!” Justyna shouts but gets up to leave. She watches Anna place a hundred-zoty bill on the table. When they step outside the night air engulfs them, the breeze balmy and summery, the sky lit up with stars. The aroma of freshly baked rye bread wafts from down the street where the piekarnia is preparing tomorrow morning's loaves.
”Let's go see if we can mooch a bochenek. A warm slice with gobs of b.u.t.ter melting on it! I bet you have some vodka at your house. We could have a picnic, under the moon.” Kamila giggles.
”Justyna has to get back to the baby,” Anna reminds them.
”No, she doesn't, Anna,” Justyna retorts hotly. ”The baby has a father and the father knows how to heat a bottle.”
”But it's already after ten and I just got back from Wrocaw. I don't wanna p.i.s.s my babcia off any more than she already is.”
”Then you go home. What were you doing in Wrocaw, anyway?” Justyna asks.