Never in My Life!
by Katarzyna Grochola
translated by Wiesiek Powaga

Licking Wounds



I am an abandoned woman. An abandoned woman with a child. With a daughter. A teenager. Does that mean I am old? Not at all. It’s simply that my daughter Tosia is old. Tosia tells me not to take it too much to heart.



She claims that if we were destined to split up anyway, it’s better that it happened now than if it were to happen in ten years’ time. She too thought the world had come to an end when Andrzej from the 6th form told her he no longer loved her. And she survived. And now she doesn’t give a hoot. It’ll be the same with me. We can even be friends. Like in the American movies. And I should not worry about her, for he has told her he would always be her father.



God, why has it happened to me? Why doesn’t my husband doesn’t go to the 6th form? I’m sure he would not have got another woman pregnant. He should be going to the 6th form. He belongs there, together with Tosia’s ex.



I hate him.

They are all the same.

*



Whenever I think of improper things I hear my mother’s voice:

"Judith! How could you? Is that how I brought you up?"



I was brought up ages ago.



Thirty years passed since the process should have been concluded, but it goes on.

Oh, mother!



It’s not enough that they have given me this name – Judith! – they went on and added a little brother to it. And attempted to bring me up. I was not being brought up to be a naughty girl with improper thoughts. I was supposed to tidy up (building blocks, toys, dolls, tights, knickers, books, tea cups, ashtrays, glasses, bottles, etc). To say good morning, good bye, I’m sorry, please, thank you. To wash my hands before meals, and preferably after too. Not to answer unbidden. To be good to my little brother. I had a little problem with my little brother: I’d love to take him to the wood and leave him there. To lock him in Baba Yaga’s hut. Eat him. Then I’d rescue him and bring him back home. I’d become a family hero and they’d love me more.



And then he’d grow up and move out to the other end of the world. And they’d love me even more.



As it happened – unsurprisingly – I did not take my little brother to the woods. Nobody ate him, nobody roasted or froze him. I didn’t have to defrost him.

I decided to think about it hard, stopping my ears to my mother’s words: "My God, that’s not how I brought you up!"



My little brother survived in those difficult circumstances and became a painter. I love him, and I don’t have to take him anywhere. He buggered off out of his own accord to the other end of the world. Now they love him even more.



My improper thoughts now concern mainly my husband, who got Jola pregnant. Jola is a woman. She is horribly ugly. She has a golden tooth. Mouth like a knife cut. She is old and wrinkly. She has bandy legs. And no bust, preferably. Nasty character. Pig’s eyes. That’s how I like to think about her.



To my despair, Jola looks very well. She has a fantastic figure (perhaps the pregnancy will do something about it; I’ll be optimistic). She speak three languages fluently. She uses night creams and I bet she doesn’t smoke in bed. I hope her teeth will go bad soon and the dentist, working in a mental blackout or something, will put golden crowns on all of them.



My marriage consisted mainly of non-smoking in bed, non-eating in bed, non-drinking in bed, and non-heating the bedroom, because it’s good for you. We were non-doing more things than we were doing. I shouldn’t really be so surprised that my marriage ended like that. As far as bedroom business was concerned, getting into the freezing bed I prayed that he kept his hands off me, off my rolled up duvet, my blanket and my thick flannel pyjamas, inherited from my grandpa. Knowing what he fancied, I suspect he made Jola’s baby in the fridge.

God, why has it happened to me? Did it have to be me? After all, statistics say that in our country it happens to every tenth woman. Why did I have to be the tenth one? Who did the counting?!



And another thing – he couldn’t find a thinner woman, could he? The statistics say that more often than not a husband betrays his wife with an ampler woman. I am the ampler woman! Those mathematicians – the liars! – destroyed my relationship, which had such a promising start. And now I’m suffering. I’m dying. Why will I never hear that voice saying, "Where the hell is my coffee?!" Why am I so bothered? I’ll never get involved with a representative of that strange species. Never in my life. They are all the same.



I’m giving up coffee.

[…]



They rang from the office and straight away got on to me – what do I think? Good grief, what do I think? All I think about is pox on her, may she grow fat and forget to buy coffee.



Yes, but what do I think about the letters that have been waiting for me for weeks at the office? Only because I’ve been with the same paper for seven years they are prepared to offer some assistance in my difficult situation and send the letters directly home by courier. But I’d better hurry up. And good luck.



All right, all right.



My job is answering readers’ letters. On all subjects. I am the database. I am the oracle. How to enlarge breasts, how to make them small, what creams to use for oily skin, what face masks when past thirty. What to do when you have problems with your daughter and your husband is unfaithful. How to find a job and how to stand up for yourself. Where to seek help when he drinks. How to dress when one has a figure like an apple. How to disguise short legs? What to do to prevent him going off with another woman?

How the hell am I to know?!