13November2023
I cant help but ask myself why anyone should pity me now, when I never asked for pity. That question haunts me as I write, a lingering echo from the last year of my mothers illness.
When Mum was in the hospital, I stayed at home with my stepfather, Uncle Mike. He was perpetually on the road, leaving at seven each morning and not returning until eight at night. I often felt as though I were living alone, even though his shadow hovered over the kitchen door.
Mike would slip me a few quid each week so I could buy a school lunch. The rest of the money went on cheap staplesspaghetti, buckwheat, potatoes, and the occasional lowbudget sausage. Those were the ingredients of my evenings, simmered into thin meals that barely filled the belly.
Late November, I came home from school to find Mike sitting at the kitchen table, elbows propped on his knees, staring at the floor. When I entered, he lifted his head and said, Thats it, Ethel. Theres no mum left.
I said nothing and slipped into my room. I was thirteen, and I knew that severe illness rarely allowed for long goodbyes, yet a stubborn hope kept me believing Mum would return.
Mum and I had dreamed together of me finishing Year9 and then going to a medical college. She always said Id make a wonderful nurse. You have a kind heart, love, and sick children need gentle hands, shed tell me.
I stared at the bare birch branches swaying outside my window, feeling a crushing loneliness, as if the whole world had emptied around meno stepfather, no relatives, no school friendsjust a void.
The following day my mothers sisters arrived: Aunt Vera, Aunt Val, and Aunt Sylvia, all from the countryside. They flitted through the flat, rummaging through Mums wardrobe, chatting, and then spent the evening bustling in the kitchen.
I stayed in my room. Aunt Vera placed a plate of mashed potatoes and a meatball on my desk, but I didnt touch it.
Three other women and two men Id never seen before came for the wake. As soon as we were all seated, the conversation turned to my fate.
Mike started, Katya and I were never married, we just lived together. I have no claim on the girl. The flat has to be vacated in two weeksonebedroom for me isnt enough. Ill find something smaller. So, family, decide who will take Ethel in.
A heavy silence fell. All the sisters of the deceased, and their own aunts, stared at each other.
Finally Aunt Vera spoke, What else? Katya was your sister, Vera, so its your duty to look after her daughter.
Ive only spoken to Katya twice a yearfor birthdays and New Years. I dont even know who the father is. Besides, I have three boys of my own; theres no room for another child.
Val, trying to help, suggested, Maybe you, Sylvia, could take her? Youre struggling financially, but youd get a caregiver allowance and a grant for Ethels mothers pension. Plus your daughter Christie is twelve; theyd keep each other company.
Sylvia snapped back, No! We just moved in with Paul. I told Christie to keep quiet like grass under water, and you want to impose a stranger on us.
I dont need any money, Sylvia added. Why dont you, Val, take her yourself?
Im disabled; they wont let me, Val replied. Im older than you, and caring for a child would be too hard.
The discussion dissolved without a decision. I heard the bargaining from the next room, feeling the cold indifference of my aunts. When they began to dress, Aunt Sylvia muttered, If the flat were owned, we could sort this out. Now youll lose more than you gain, and the inspections will only make things worse.
By the time the landlords notice came, my future had been decided: I would be placed in the local childrens home.
Mike handed me over to the care workers, saying, Dont hold a grudge, Ethel. Our paths now diverge.
The first day at the home, a tall girl with a mass of curly hair approached me. You new here? Whats your name?
Ethel, I replied.
Dont worry. It isnt all bad. There are decent carers and some who couldnt care less, but none are truly cruel.
Its lonely being the only one, she said. Ive been here a month; lets stick together. Im Lucy.
Do you have parents? I asked.
No, mine are alive but soon to be gone, I think. Their parental rights were stripped, and they sent me and my three brothers here.
Lucky you have brothers, I said.
Lucky? The youngest, Wolf, is harmless, but the older two beat me, forced me to cook and wash while Mum could barely stand.
How old are you? Lucy asked.
Thirteen, three months ago.
I thought you were older.
Its just that everyone in my family is tallgranddad, dad, brothers.
Lucy and I clung together until we finished Year9.
In that final school year we talked often about the future.
I want to go to medical college, I confessed one afternoon. Mum and I dreamed of it. I dont know if Ill make it.
Why not? Lucy said. Youve got As in chemistry and biology. Your certificates will have at most two Bs. And remember, we have certain benefits, though youll get in even without them.
Youre set on becoming a chef? I asked.
Actually a pastry chef. I want to bake airy cakes, light as clouds.
Remember when Miss Natalie entered us in that school choir competition? We won and were on TV?
Yes, later we went to a café and Miss Natalie bought us coffee and cake. The frosting was like clouds.
I eventually entered the medical college and became one of the top students in my cohort. Near the end of my studies I was allocated a modest flatplain walls, simple fixturesbut it was mine. For the first time since the childrens home and the dormitory, I had a room to call my own, a kitchen, and a bathroom to share with nobody.
I tried to make it feel homely: light curtains, a potted geranium on the windowsill, a bright tablecloth on the kitchen table, two redspotted pots, and a few other pieces of crockery. It wasnt lavish, but it was livable.
One afternoon, after finishing my shift as a hospital orderlies, I was heading to the locker room to catch the bus back to my parttime job at the childrens hospital when a familiar voice called out.
It was Aunt Sylvia, my mothers cousinthe same woman who had refused to take me in. Ethel, hello! Do you remember me?
Yes, I said, a flash of recognition. Youre my mothers cousin.
I didnt know you were studying here. It turns out my niece Christie mentioned that a girl named Ethel Pomaryova won a competition at her college.
There are many Pomaryovs, but Ethel isnt a common name. I came to see if were really related, Sylvia explained.
Im late for work, I said, moving toward the exit.
She walked beside me, continuing, I heard youve been given a flat. I have a small favour: Christie is only in her second year, she still has two years left. The dorm mates are rather troublesome.
Could she stay with you until she finishes college? Wed split the rent and bring groceries, Sylvia proposed.
No, I answered firmly.
Youve always been a kind girl! Dont you feel sorry for your sister?
Im not the sweet girl I used to be. And I dont feel sorry for Christie! Did any of you care enough to stop sending me to the childrens home?
Why should I pity you now? Ive survived the home and the dormitory. Im still standing, and Christie will survive too.
We reached the bus stop, I stepped onto the waiting bus and the doors shut. Sylvia stood there for a few moments, watching the vehicle pull away, then turned and walked back. Some people will always be as incompetent as they are, and theyll reap what they sow.
Ethel.
