The Secret Wife(102)
‘There is something I must say and I want you to listen.’ She couldn’t raise her head from the pillow but she sought his eyes, forcing them to meet hers before she continued. ‘When I am gone, I don’t want you to feel guilty about anything. I know you torture yourself with guilt for all kinds of things that were never your fault but don’t ever feel guilty about us. Please believe me when I say that I have loved our life together. You have been a good husband – although we never married.’ She gave a little smile.
Tears began to gather in Dmitri’s eyes. ‘Rosa, please don’t talk that way. I want you to fight this thing and get well. You mustn’t give up. We need you.’
She reached for his hand. ‘I don’t think I’m going to beat this, my love. I’m too tired and running out of fight. But I can’t bear to think of you being miserable when I am gone.’ She took a deep breath that made a rattling sound in her throat, then said, ‘Dmitri, I know you found her. I know you found Tatiana. And when I am gone I want you to be together, and I want you both to be happy. Do you promise me you will?’
A sob burst from his throat and the tears flowed. He wanted to say ‘sorry’ but couldn’t even form the word.
‘Promise me,’ Rosa insisted fiercely, her fingernails digging into his palm, and he gave a little nod.
Chapter Sixty-One
Albany, New York State, 1955
Around ten o’clock one February evening, a nurse rang to tell Dmitri that Rosa was very weak and unlikely to make it through the night. Nicholas and Marta piled into the car and they collected Rosa’s mother and sister then drove to the hospital. Rosa was no longer conscious but lay with her mouth open, gasping for every breath like a fish lying on a riverbank. They all spoke to her, told her they were there and that they loved her, but there was no reaction. She was too far along the journey to the next place. Chairs were brought, cups of coffee offered, and they sat with her as the breaths became fainter and further apart.
Dmitri perched close to Rosa’s head, whispering to her, wetting her cracked lips with a damp sponge, as he had learned to do after her bouts of vomiting. He felt panic welling inside him at the thought of life without her, but at the same time he couldn’t bear her to suffer any more. He must be strong tonight for the sake of his children. Marta was crying and Nicholas was white-faced. Somehow they would get through this.
‘You should take the wedding ring off her finger now,’ a nurse advised. ‘It’s harder to do once she’s gone.’
Rosa’s mother and sister glared at him as he slid off the gold band and slipped it in his pocket. They both knew, although the children did not, that there had never been a wedding.
When the end came, none of them recognised it at first because the breaths were already so far apart. They listened, scarcely moving a muscle, watching her throat for a tiny flicker, but after several minutes with no movement Rosa’s mother sobbed, ‘She’s gone.’ A nurse came to confirm it and recorded the time of death as 3.20 a.m.
Dmitri wanted to be on his own with her, to whisper his last private messages of love, but he couldn’t; she belonged to all of them, not just him. He was dry-eyed, shocked, and extraordinarily tired. He failed to smother a yawn, and Rosa’s sister shook her head and tutted.
Before long, the nurse came to tell them that the body must be moved: that’s what Rosa was now – a body. They trailed out to the car and Dmitri dropped off Rosa’s mother and sister then took Nicholas and Marta back to the house. They were exhausted and went up to their rooms to sleep, but Dmitri sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands, feeling utterly bereft. He couldn’t bear the emptiness, the terrifying hole Rosa had left in the universe. He wanted to cry but at the same time was scared of crying because it might make him fall apart completely.
On a sudden impulse he got up and slipped out the back door, closing it quietly behind him. He climbed into his car, pulled out of the drive and headed across town to Tatiana’s, knocking on her door at five o’clock in the morning. She answered, wearing a long satin dressing gown, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
‘She’s gone,’ he said, a frog in his throat. ‘I had to see you.’
She pulled him inside and held him close for several minutes. ‘I’ll get some vodka,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’
He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, which suddenly felt as though it was choking him, and kicked off his shoes.
‘To Rosa,’ Tatiana toasted, handing him a shot of vodka.
As Dmitri drank he heard a banging on the door. ‘Who can that be?’ he asked. ‘I hope I didn’t wake your neighbours.’
Tatiana shrugged that she didn’t know and went to see. He heard a voice in the hall – ‘Where the hell is he?’ – then Marta burst into the room, her face scarlet from crying.
‘You bastard, how could you? Mum’s not even cold!’ She picked up a glass of vodka from the table and threw it over Dmitri.
What could he say? He took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his cheek.
Tatiana gathered her wits. ‘You must be Marta,’ she said. ‘I am an old friend of your father’s, from Russia. Please sit down.’
‘Forget it! I’m not accepting hospitality from a whore!’ Marta cried.