Kitabı oku: «Miranda Sparks’ wonderful life»
© Danny Osipenko, 2022
ISBN 978-5-0056-1725-5
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Chapter 1
«My name is, Miranda Spikes. I am 25 years old. Okay, place of residence:…»
– Excuse me!?
The lady in the grayish, knitted dress, tore her head away from the book and looked at me.
– Yes, ma’am?
– In the column «Residence», should I indicate where I currently live or where my ancestors live?
– Okay, let’s see. – I gave her the bank. – Where you currently live, that address, write it down.
– That’s great. Thank you.
The lady smiled and went back to her book.
«Well, let’s see…»
«Residence: 90/38 46th Street, Ottawa, Ontario. What’s next? Place of work: ARTNOVA Design Studio».
– Um…» The lady looked up again. – I’m sorry again, but why would I write on your form what I do for a living?
– This is so we can order professional literature for you later, ma’am.
– Oh, I see. Although…
– Ma’am, write what you think is necessary. This is only a survey, no one will use your data for greedy purposes.
– I don’t doubt it.
Half an hour later, I ran into the library, on the corner of 10th Street and Maria Blu-Sae Avenue. Its building resembled the local café, with large glass windows and colorful marketing posters about events and courses in foreign languages. For me personally, the library is a bookish place. And books are unique in my life.
For the last couple of years, I’ve devoted myself to the majestic mission of reading 100 books on various topics. Whether it’s even a hard science book or a dystopian novel by a little-known creator. Reading for me, quite an entertaining process. If the book is boring and not fascinating, then I can read it for weeks, if not months. If a book kept me in suspense from beginning to end and never ceased to amaze me, I would swallow it in a few hours.
In two years I read only eighteen books, for which I didn’t spend a cent, thanks to the library. I didn’t have a specially prepared list, but still, from time to time I kept an account of what I had already read, in my own notebook.
Now I picked up the novel Nine Monkeys, by Paul Rivers. I just walked over to the rack of books, and when I got to the middle of them, I pulled one of them out. Anyway, naturally, I directed my attention to it, just because of the attractive blue cover. When I read the title of the book, which had monkeys under it, I realized that I might have to renew it at the library, and more than once.
Before I checked out the book, the librarian handed me a questionnaire, which I was now filling out with particular care. I spent a good few10 minutes on it, though there were only5 a few questions in the questionnaire. I got hung up on the fourth one, which asked, «What kind of books do you like? This was a difficult question for me, because I could not impartially assess what I had read. Well, I didn’t choose books by preference, either. So, I entered the last book of poems by Mike Lewis that I read, gave the questionnaire to the lady in the knitted dress, and took a book with monkeys, and left the library.
It was February, but the sun was shining so brightly that it felt like spring had arrived. I glanced at the watch I wore on my right hand, and walked briskly toward the subway station. It was seven past four, which meant that I still had two hours left in my supply before the whale show, which I meant to watch after buying some popcorn.
The subway ride from the library to my house was only minutes20, and I had to walk another minute5. From time to time I stopped at Starbucks to buy my own favorite cinnamon latte with a puff of cinnamon creamer. It took me an extra seven minutes to get home. And so it was every weekend.
I decided to skip the coffee now, and headed straight home. I was living in a high-rise, on the fourth floor, in a two-room apartment with one bathroom and a studio kitchen, together with my friend, Miranda Morgan. At this moment, she was not at home, as she went to shoot in Australia, and will stay there for at least a week. By the way, Miranda is not a model, but a photographer, and quite famous.
– Miss Spikes, there’s a letter for you. – Frank-the concierge at our building-stopped me when I opened the front door and strode briskly to the elevator.
– Me? I walked over to Frank. – Thank you.
– What are you reading now?
I tucked the letter into the inside pocket of my bag and turned the book in my hand and looked at the man.
– Roman.
– Fascinating? It looks like a children’s book.
– Maybe. I just got it from the library, so I don’t know if it’s exciting or not yet. Thanks again for the letter, Frank.
The man nodded back at me, and I stepped into the elevator.
Aunt Jo called me just as I took off my cherry-colored wool coat and hung it up in the hallway.
– Yes?
– Hello, Violet! – My aunt had the soft, purring voice I’d grown to adore.
– Hello, Auntie.
– I finally got through to you. You’re not ignoring me, are you?
– No, you don’t!
– When loved ones avoid communicating with their relatives, it is very bad.
I went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water and took a big sip.
– Uh-huh.
– Yesterday I sent you an invitation to the fundraiser. You got it, didn’t you?
– Just now.
My current viewing of the white whale show flew by.
– That’s good. Then I’ll tell your daddy you’re coming. And keep in mind, honey, if you don’t show up, it might upset someone. And we don’t want that, do we? Do we?
– I figured you out.
– I’m sure that’s exactly what it is. See you soon, then.
– Uh-huh.
After talking to Aunt Jo, I ate a cheese sandwich and drank a glass of milk. I didn’t like cooking or cleaning, but every once in a while, I made an exception, like yesterday. It was a nice feeling to wake up in the afternoon and walk into the living room and see the clean dishes in the kitchen and things neatly in their own places, not lying on the floor or the couch, as they usually did when I worked.
My father helped me to buy this apartment, although I gave the bulk of the money for it myself. I have a well-paid job, so I managed to save some money, but unfortunately, it was not enough to buy the apartment. At that time it was ashamed to ask my father for money and it seemed to me that the apartment was not worth the effort. But at this point, after living here for almost four years, I thought my modest apartment was almost heaven on earth.
Later, after a while, Miranda came to live with me. We’d been friends since high school, so when she was in trouble, specifically without a roof over her head and without a job, I offered to let her stay with me. Since then, we have been living together. I didn’t give her my bedroom and put her in the living room. Although in reality, I still lived alone, since Sue was always on the road because of her work.
At one time, when my friend was dating a mannequin, I had to stay in my father’s apartment, so there wouldn’t be any terribly uncomfortable moments. One day, I came home early from work and found the couple making love on the table. After that, I probably couldn’t eat at the table or look my friend in the eye for a month or so, much less Miranda.
I didn’t bring enough people over myself, because I liked to be alone from time to time. And I didn’t have enough friends to invite them all here.
As for the apartment itself, it could be described as «small, moderate, but cozy. It was small because all three of its rooms were twelve squares each, because of which I was constantly hitting something, just passing from one room to another. What made the apartment moderate was the missing interior details and the ancient, shabby furniture that Miranda and I had bought at a local yard sale. For the sofa, upholstered in natural wool and sea wave color, my girlfriend and I went all the way to the suburbs, splurging on a cab just to see it. And then we had to pay for its delivery. But this sofa, perfectly fit into the living room, along with the walls, painted in paint with a gray-silver color. About the blue kitchen set, Miranda and I had a separate story. We had to take it in pieces because at the time we didn’t have the money to buy it all at once. We had to deny ourselves almost everything for the sake of one more chair or plate.
But we did have a big dining table, by the French designer Jacques-Emile Ruhlmann, which I had brought from my father’s house. It was the table where, later on, my friend and the mannequin man had sex.
Also, Aunt Jo did not stand aside, she gave me for the housewarming party, a large closet made of reddish wood, which at the moment stands in my room, right in front of the window.
And Miranda brought into our apartment, beautiful curtains with thin gold braid stitched at the bottom, and a coffee table, on which, food stands more often than on the dining room table. Well, you can see why now!
But our apartment was cozy only because every time the sun rose – and we lived on the sunny side – there was a pleasant feeling of light and warmth. And those who visited us said how much they liked our apartment, precisely because it was so sunny and bright.
My good friend from college, Bill Riley, helped me choose the neighborhood and the place. He was the only person I knew who worked as a realtor. So who else could I turn to but him?
In general, my idea to move out of the luxury house, into a separate two-room apartment, many relatives and acquaintances, perceived as a joke. And afterwards they said that I was insane and that I would not last forever. Now, only from time to time, someone, well, in passing, mentioned my action. Though, remembering my past shenanigans, a lot of people were happy about that change.
Because at this point, I was living a quiet and measured life, and there was no one to agonize over it. Amen!
Chapter 2
The first time I ran away from home was when I was fifteen.
It wasn’t exactly an escape, just a trip with friends, for a few days to the lake. We agreed not to say anything to our forefathers, so they would worry and all that. It’s not uncommon that after that, I got the first number from my parents. My mother later wept and cried over me for a long time, and my father called the parents of the other kids to keep it quiet.
My high school years, in fact, were the wildest and most reckless. Back then I thought it was cool to smoke a pack of cigarettes a day and run out my bedroom window at night to go out with Bobby Miller.
I also loved to embarrass people with my actions or words. For example, I called my history teacher a «complete imbecile» during class and threw a notebook at him as I left the room.
At one time there was a video that I shot on my phone of a music teacher making out with a British teacher. I even posted flyers about it all over the school. Later, when it turned out that I had done it, it was hushed up, because my father sponsored both the school and the basketball team. My dad was always covering my ass for all sorts of things.
As for the appearance, here I was generally inventive.
At fifteen, I dressed like a young puttana: short skirts, high-heeled shoes, and fishnet tights. I wore very bright colors, liked piercings, and changed my hair color with constant frequency. By the way, there was one harsh case, because of which I was almost expelled from school. Even though my father sorted it out, I was still later shunned and even feared.
The thing is, I set Margaret Wilson’s hair on fire in chemistry class because she was spreading nasty gossip about me. She ended up being taken to the clinic with minor first-degree burns.
To say that my father was furious at the time is not to say anything. I was suspended from school for a month and not allowed out of the house. Even just going out for a walk around the house was forbidden. After that incident, I was routinely pointed at and looked at with judgmental eyes by everyone in town.
And later my mother became ill. My father came home less and less often. And I turned into the quiet one. Bobby and I broke up a year before graduation, and that was when I quit smoking and stopped being so provocative. I took off all the earrings on my own body and started dressing more modestly, discarding the short skirts and replacing them with sports tights and sweatshirts.
When the time came to decide on an institute, I told my father that I was going to be a doctor. Then my grandfather, my mother’s father, who lives in Germany, came to visit us. He was a professional neurosurgeon, who performed a huge number of successful surgeries and earned great respect among his colleagues. At the moment grandfather is already retired and from time to time, travels to different symposiums and conferences, where innovations in medicine are discussed. But he is still recognizable and authoritative, even in the eyes of the younger generation.
My grandfather was proud of my professional choice and began to pay a lot of attention to me so that I, too, would become a professional neurosurgeon. We spent hours at a time, exclusively in discussions. I promised him that I would become the best doctor in the world and cure my mother, and he said that everything can be only if you believe in it. And I did. But it took time to reach those heights, which unfortunately my mother didn’t have.
She was gone, two months before my graduation. She was gone, and with her came, from each of us, something alive, filling that void with unbearable pain. I couldn’t eat or sleep, and I turned into a recluse. My father drank routinely and stayed away for long periods of time, leaving me alone in the big cottage, which became torture for him and me. The memories of my mother were so colorful and vivid, and I imagined that she was still with us. That she was sitting beside me, pressing me against her, humming a familiar tune from her youth, as she had done before.
It took me a long time to start living a normal life. My dad and I were pretty much done talking. All our discussions lasted no more than a minute, where either of us would just say hello and go off to our own place.
And later came a period when I started traveling a lot, trying to find my newest self. During my prolonged absence, my father perked up, as if someone had replaced him. He, out of the blue, began to insist that I come home, and routinely told me that we should be a family now. And when I came back, he started telling me how I needed to live my life. I was under constant control. Because of this, I was again throwing everything away and going to another country to be away from him and his unnecessary tutelage. We quarreled a lot, we did not listen and understand each other enough. As I packed my own suitcase, my father hired people here to find me and bring me back.
At one point, when I went with the volunteer movement to India, the military came to our camp and took me against my will to some base, where I sat, in a damp and dirty room, for three days. Then my father’s men came and took me back home.
We fought wars for a long time, trying to get through to who we were when Mother was still alive. And the war between us would still be going on if I hadn’t given up. I was tired of running around and finding things that weren’t clear. That’s why I decided to put the brakes on what was still left, namely, my own father. He was just as miserable as I was. We were the cause of our own loneliness, so only we could help each other.
For my father’s sake, I reincarnated into an obedient daughter who did not rebel and did everything she was told. I went to college and devoted myself to the family business. I became a British lady and almost embroidered a cross.
I was routinely talked about in high society and invited to social gatherings. My father would walk with me proudly into society, and I would walk beside him uncomplainingly.
But everything changed after I met Mike Norland. For the two of us, it was love at first sight. He told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world, and I said, «He’s an intolerable liar. Our affairs were not perfect, but we adored each other wholeheartedly, and that was completely enough for us.
I met him in late fall in New York, at a party thrown by what later turned out to be a mutual acquaintance. In March, I introduced Mike to my dad. It was not the reaction I had hoped for, for that same evening, Dad told me that I had to break up with Mr. Norland immediately. He knew very well that I wouldn’t do that. That’s why he started pressuring me, telling me that he would spare no expense or effort to make sure we weren’t together anymore.
And again the war began.
At first, it was all the little things, like zeroing out my credit cards and sounding off that I was no longer his daughter. Then, things took a more drastic turn. My father got Mike fired, from Molose-Hole Construction Company, where he had worked for over a year5, as head of public relations. It was totally expected and in the spirit of my dad, so we weren’t surprised or upset. Mike almost immediately managed to find a job in a small design studio, which was engaged in the design and creation of kitchen sets. Only not in Ottawa anymore, but in Toronto. I, on the other hand, got a job as a secretary in a law office, with Mr. Harry Peterson, a divorce lawyer. Through this job, I learned to make very solid coffee and to be a little more aware of people.
Mike and I rented a small but nice apartment on the edge of town. When we moved in, all we had was a bed and a shabby wood table. But even without looking at all that, we were recklessly happy.
Every day began with Mike and ended with him. I adored him madly, as if he were my air and my universe. I learned how to make his beloved pasta bolognese and long walks in the evening. And everything would have been fine except my father found us. And he did what he always did – he hired people to take me, against my will, back to him. I bit and scratched and even begged them to leave us alone, but they didn’t care.
I wasn’t able to get in touch with Mike until I was in my father’s office. I asked him to give me a little time to work things out peacefully. But Mike said he had to talk to my dad himself. He wanted him to accept our business so we could have a relaxed marriage. But before that could happen, he had to get my dad’s approval. And I couldn’t talk him out of it, which I regret at the moment. But the past cannot be undone, and the mistakes that have already been made cannot be undone.
Mike died, August 28, 2010, at 10:50 p.m. He lost control, the police station told me. His car was found off the road on the way to Montreal. He hit a tree and the forceful impact caused a brain haemorrhage, which resulted in Mike’s death at the scene.
I had to be there to identify him, a few days after he was found. It was the worst horror of my life. To see his unmoving face and know that he wouldn’t look at me again. That he wouldn’t tell me how much he loved me, or kiss me. Without Mike, life made no sense at all. I could stay awake for days at a time, just sit by my bed with his picture on it and sob silently. I wanted to scream from the unbearable pain and longing for him. It almost made me climb the walls.
A couple of times I tried to commit suicide, but every time my father brought me back. When I was already in the clinic, I would open my eyes and see his pale, worried face, which was what I hated most of all at the time. It annoyed me to have someone with me all the time. Whether it was my father, my friends, or my relatives, no one would let me be alone. I knew they did it because they adored me and feared losing me. But I couldn’t live in a world where Mike was no longer there. I couldn’t just rip the love that was hurting my heart right now out of my chest. After another attempt to make ends meet, my father sent me to a private clinic, where I stayed for a little over a year. And then he took me to my grandfather, because he realized that it was still hard for me to forgive him.
There I found peace and practically stopped sobbing at night. The pain wasn’t gone, it was just a reminder that I was still alive, and that I had to go on living, just for the sake of Mike’s memory. On weekends, my grandfather and I would go fishing. The rest of the day, I helped out at the children’s center for the autistic unhealthy. A little later, I signed up for a web design course. And after finishing it I got a certificate and left Devonshire for Ottawa, where I live now. There I got a job and a little later bought my own little apartment.
Dad and I communicated, but not like we used to. I was done blaming him for Mike’s death. After all, he really wasn’t to blame for it. Just then, I needed someone to blame, at least some of the pain I’d felt. And that someone was my father. He knew how I felt, so he took all the heat for it.
At this point in our family, things were slowly getting better. We agreed to a peaceful coexistence, where as much as we could, each of us tried to be less intrusive in the other’s life. From time to time, I did my duty as a daughter and went out with Dad to show all his partners and acquaintances that we were doing fine.
In general, «peace and friendship and bubblegum.
