My Angel Read online

  A STORY OF SALVATION AND LOVE

  A NOVEL BY

  TETIANA BROOKS

  ISBN 978-1-59433-474-0

  eISBN 978-1-59433-475-7

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2014907409

  Copyright 2014 Tetiana Brooks

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Acknowledgements

  I express my grattitude to my translator, Elena Zacharenko, editor, Rebecca Goodrich, and book designer, Jody Masty.

  Being drawn into earthly passions,

  I knew that, in going from gloom to light,

  Dressed in black, Dark Angel

  Would rush to shout: “Salvation is a lie!”

  Yet, unassuming and lighthearted,

  Delightful as a noble deed,

  Afterward comes White Angel,

  To whisper that hope is true indeed.

  B. Okudzhava, 1924

  Introduction

  For My Dear Readers, With Kind Regards from the Author All of my novels are based on the fates of real people. Any resemblance to the names and lives of actual people is purely coincidental, and all locations mentioned are used in a fictional manner.

  I sincerely hope that the fates of my heroines will help someone out of despair, and to find the answers to life’s seemingly insoluble questions.

  I dedicate My Angel, my first book in English, to my beloved son Sergey. For her children a woman is ready to overcome any difficulty. Children imbue our lives with light, color, and meaning. Sergey has inspired my life with meaning. (He has also had bad luck, and maybe one day I will write about it.)

  Neither this book, nor any of my others would have ever been written, nor would have seen the light of day if it hadn’t been for my friends. To them I owe the fact that I had the heart to start writing, and if they hadn’t supported me in this endeavor, then, of course, I couldn’t have managed this by myself. I am grateful to them from the bottom of my heart.

  The first thank-you I devote to my friend Irina Remezova. She was the one to convince me that the people I met along my way would be wonderful material for books. That the stories of life can help someone to find faith and a way out of the messes we all the time get into. Therefore there is something to tell and to share with the reader. It seemed that I never would, because it was one thing to talk, and quite another to write it so that it would be interesting to the reader. (Not to mention publishing the book, which wouldn’t have happened if it were not for Irina.)

  For the book design I am grateful to my longtime friend, a gifted artist and a wonderful woman, Natalia Korolyova. Natasha understood everything I wanted to express in this book, s no one else could.

  The first editor and admirer of my talent was Alyona Madosik. We had to wander thousands of miles from our homeland to distant Alaska to finally meet. My Angel was written here in Alaska; I rolled the dice and entrusted it to Alyona.

  Thank you, my dear husband, for doing your best to give me the courage to start writing. Thank you for having faith in me, and helping. You are one of the dearest people in my life. Without you and your support, this book would have never been created.

  And now, dear readers, a few words for you. I truly hope you will enjoy My Angel, and the characters in my book. If they somehow help you to find a way out of a difficult situation, I will be doubly satisfied.

  And now, good luck. God be with you.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part Two

  Walking Down the Aisle

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Part One

  Chapter One

  For many years I’d been having the same night dream.

  I come into a medieval town late in the evening or at night. The city is always empty. The street is illuminated with flaming lanterns, real fire flaring inside the white ball-shaped domes. I’m standing at the intersection of three streets, which form the letter Y.

  A big, beautiful house of gray stone overlooks the streets, forming the upper part of the letter, and I always come down the tail of the street. I do not know the name of this city, or even the name of the street, but it always attracts and excites me. Every time I manage to get here, I walk through the deserted medieval streets and contemplate the houses, trying to understand where I am.

  This dream is exactly how I imagine the medieval houses of wealthy citizens of that time. Pavement, buildings, walls, fences, everything is made of heavy gray stone, or from time-stained wood. Massive lanterns of wrought iron with ball-shaped domes with flames lighting the streets.

  It’s a bit scary, yet I am even more curious to know why there is not a living soul on the street. After all, in any city, even in the dead of night, you can meet a belated passerby. Someone may be coming back home from a vacation or a business trip, or after wetting his or her whistle on a friend’s birthday.

  And what about the lovebirds? They can be noticed in any city. Noticed is the best word here because they do not want to be stared at, but no matter how much they strive for intimacy they always get caught. When I go out at night this is what I see: Here’s a couple kissing behind a tree in a park. And here’s another one removing the light bulb in the entrance hall looking for a place to get cozy. That couple is simply walking around the city, holding hands and looking around amused, not recognizing their hometown. It seems completely unknown to them, so fabulous and beautiful is the power of love. Such nighttime lovebirds can be seen in any city. In any, but not in this one.

  And what about the windows? I like to peep into the windows late in the evening. Someone in that room has a very beautiful chandelier. And the curtains in that window are amazing! I have to get the same for myself, just not claret-colored with silver but dark green with golden threads. Mostly warm green and other sunny hues predominate in my house. The palette of life.

  And here are people sitting in the kitchen. Surely they are having a sociable drink. Nemiroff vodka with pepper, or Khortytsia, the platinum. Maybe some old friends scattered to the four w
inds have finally reunited. Or perhaps a neighbor simply dropped in to swig a glass before sleep.

  In that window a young mother is carrying a baby in her arms. She is looking at him with eyes full of love and with a happy smile. Who will her beloved baby become, what kind of person will he be? Maybe he will become a world-renowned doctor who will save hundreds of lives and find a way to cure cancer. Or maybe he will end up as just a teacher at a school, but, certainly, the kind of teacher the children will love. Or maybe his destiny is to be a talented artist.

  But in this city all the windows are so tightly shuttered that even a small gleam of light can’t fight through them. Is it so late that everyone is asleep?

  It was only once that I came to this town in the afternoon. It was warm and sunny. A lot of people in bright clothes crowded around. I came to my intersection in the usual way. I had two Russian sighthounds, Borzoi, on a leash: a female, Onega, that once lived with me and passed away, and a black male dog. I used to have a male Borzoi too, Leader, but he was white. He died with Onega, and their death was one of the biggest losses for me. Partly, it was my fault, and I always felt that.

  But when I entered the city, my mood was sunny like the weather and the light all around. I was glad to finally see the people living in this city. I’d finally ask them the name of the city and would be able to just talk to someone. But everyone was so busy with their own affairs that day that no one paid me any attention. I would just have to come back, in another time of dream.

  But I was never able to dream my way back again.

  It would have been better never to arrive there in the afternoon. Because after I had left the city, I never came back.

  But I know for sure when I come here again, it will be the same wonderful weather, but it will be the last dream of my life.

  In the meantime, I was made to start my life anew.

  I was only thirty-nine.

  Truly, God works in mysterious ways.

  Chapter Two

  If you are married, you should always be prepared for troubles, large and small, insignificant and significant. I got tired of these disappointments and decided to finish his marathon of endless lies.

  “So, where were you this time?”

  “Well, my boss had lights down in his country house. I had to go to repair the electricity “

  “Oh, there are no other electricians at the plant?”

  “Everyone went home already. Why are you asking?”

  “So you were the only one who didn’t leave? Why was that?”

  And so on and so forth. This went on for a long time. It was hard to believe that after sixteen years of seemingly happy married life such things could happen. I really couldn’t remember how long this lie lasted, because I never had a habit of lying and trusted every word of my husband Aleksei.

  But recently I began to notice that my good relationship with my son was somehow changing for the worse. He became irritable with me and frequently replied to me with a disdainful smile and dismissive words. That was if he replied at all. At first, as usual, I was thinking it was the awkward age that would pass soon. But with time more and more often I could hear, “You are so-and-so, yelling at me, making me do all these chores, while Aunt Marina...”

  I became tired of hearing how wonderful Aunt Marina was. Whoever she was.

  In 1991, the Soviet Union, the “Inviolable union of independent republics,” collapsed. Ukraine became an independent state. As a result, everything created before was destroyed, while nothing was built to replace that. Not even offered. Enterprises turned bankrupt or were just closed so it was incredibly hard to find any job. Those who were lucky enough not to lose one had to manage without salaries as no one was planning to pay them for some time.

  Six months later, when the backdated salaries were paid, inflation had grown by 300 percent or even more. Everyone survived as best they could; many people abandoned the city to develop little plots of food crops, and to get away from the noise and dust. One could have fresh tomatoes, dill, and parsley there any time, or could even start growing flowers, just for the beauty.

  We decided to enjoy village life as were so many others.

  So now we were sitting in the courtyard, surrounded by flowers, shaded by apple and pear trees. Watching how my hubby was plying a good knife and fork while we were having our usual conversation, I kept thinking, Do you really think you are the first one to try to get away with this? Do you think you are smarter than everyone else? From time immemorial men have been lying to women, all giving the same excuses, and it has never occurred to them that there is no need to say anything. Looking at this guy, who, to put it mildly, did not sleep at home, everything became obvious: twinkling eyes, avoiding looking at me, and this facial expression of a tomcat, who had just loaded up with cream or done something even worse for a decent man but so usual for a tomcat.

  “So,” I said. “If you really need this Marina, go! Adieu! But don’t take my son there.”

  “Oh, so you’re still going to tell me what to do!”

  It is a well-known fact: attack is the best form of defense. Oh my gosh, I was so tired of all this! I had to find out who Marina was to objectively evaluate the situation. Though I’m an active and emotional person, I’m also a Virgo, and therefore had some common sense. I preferred to draw conclusions after having at least some basic information.

  So. Who was he calling much lately?

  Ira Romanova? No way. We had lost contact with her and her husband Sasha a long time ago. I wonder why? Somehow our paths diverged. It was a pity. I truly missed Irina. It would be so good to find her, find out how she was doing. And how was her daughter Karina doing?

  Okay, this was not the main event now. Who could this other woman be? That’s what I had to think about now.

  There had to be someone who knew at least something about her, he had to talk of it to someone, to grumble and to discuss what a wonderful woman Marina was and what a bitch I turned out to be. Without a shoulder to cry on and to huff and puff about unfair fate, everything lost its meaning for my husband.

  Ah! I knew! Raia Eremina. He was working with her in the laboratory. It had to be her. She must know something. It had become a habit for him to call her, her but not her husband Igor, which would be more logical. Which was what he used to do. The time had come to act!

  “Raia? Hi, honey, how are you?”

  “Oh, Polina, hello! Do not even ask. I almost broke up with Igor.”

  She was telling me the issues right from the start.

  “Well, almost does not count. What happened? Look, this isn’t a phone conversation. Pop by and we can chat, go over all of it.”

  “I would love to. Okay, tomorrow night, at five, I will be there.”

  “I will be waiting.”

  Raisa was a blonde woman with a nice body. She had large gray eyes, and was always using black eyeliner to show them off. In my opinion, a little too much eyeliner, but Raisa became extremely offended if you tried to give her advice about putting on make-up. So I was used to keeping my mouth shut.

  Well, imperfect make-up was not the most important of Raia’s disadvantages. The eyeliner was, as always, a bit too much, but I totally didn’t care today. I put on my diplomatically sweet facial expression and I was ready to meet her, faking my pleasure to see her:

  “Raisa! Hi, honey! Haven’t seen you for ages! I’ve missed you incredibly.” Forgive me for my insincerity, I prayed. “Come in. Come to the kitchen at once! You must be hungry.”

  The kitchen is absolutely irreplaceable for these kinds of chats. You can use it almost like a torture chamber, while it looks the exact opposite of one. People are ready to tell you much more than they have ever planned to.

  “A glass of something?”

  After the third vodka, the ice had been broken and Raisa began to complain, “Imagine, Polina, my Igor became jealous of your Aleksei. Big deal, so he took a few nice pictures of me, but it doesn’t mean anything. Well, now we talk on the phone a
little more often than usual, but we do work together.”

  Is there not enough time to talk at work? I seethed inwardly, but in the kitchen, I just kept refilling her glass. There is old Ukrainian wisdom that warns, “Say nothing to your girlfriend.”

  But Raisa was either not familiar with Ukrainian folklore or because my kitchen and vodka began to do their job, went on. “Well, we can’t discuss our private affairs at work. And anyway, it’s not about me. All of this is about Marina. How to help Marina.”

  Raia must have gotten completely confused as to whom to drink with and what to say.

  “Can you imagine, her husband left her when their daughter was born six years ago, and just up and moved to Israel. The poor woman has been alone for so many years, not a single man in six years. And then she met Aleksei. His wife is such a—Oh! Polina, I am so sorry. This is another Aleksei, not yours, and I have to go now.”

  Raisa tried to stand up, but I pushed her shoulder to seat her back down, softly but surely. “Shhh. Stay!”

  I pulled myself together. Relying on my pedagogical and psychological education, I cautiously continued, “Keep cool, Raisa! We have been friends for so many years. All men cheat. Generally speaking, I don’t care anymore, but I feel so sorry for my son Vova. He’s only fourteen, and can’t understand everything; his whole life could go awry. Let’s have one more glass for our friendship, for real women’s friendship.”

  Raisa, knowing my, to say the least, extremely emotional nature, was looking at me like a rabbit looks at a boa constrictor, and I continued to dissemble.

  “You know, I don’t want anything from him anymore. If Marina needs him, I am ready to let him go. Clearly, though, it’s going to be hard to be a single mom. All I need is just to talk to her. On the phone.”

  Raisa was speechless. Her mouth was hanging open.

  “Well, let’s have another glass for our kids, for their happiness.”

  It’s almost a sin not to drink for that.