Three Sides to Every Story
Krisztina Janosi
Katie
Huh… first day at the new school.
I am excited and scared at the same time as I pull my school outfit off the shelf. It’s my special occasion one – a plain white blouse and a black skirt. I prepared it nicely yesterday evening, even if it will be ruined by the stupid rain that has to pour down on exactly this morning. My mom takes me to school and sees me off at the gate. The school building is not very far away. In fact, we could walk, if it weren’t for the rain. Today, we take the yellow tram and have our butts transported for those two stops from Mechwart liget to Széll Kálmán Square.
The yellow-painted school building is old and tall, each floor at least four meters high. By the time I get to my class on the second floor, I’m literally panting. After a quick look at my new classmates, I take a seat next to a short-haired girl. We start chatting right away, and, before I know it, the teacher is already standing in front of the class, talking about the big day and our life ahead. She seems nice enough, a middle-aged, thin blonde. As her words fill the room, I dream away about what it all will be like. The girl next to me also looks very excited. By the time the loud bell indicating recess finally rings, we start to feel at home in this tall and formidable school building.
The girl I share my desk with is Jenna. She has come from the same type of primary school as most of my new classmates. Actually, in mine, only a few of us had been enrolled in an 8-grade secondary school. The rest hadn’t gone through the entrance exam process. Or just weren’t smart enough. Two of those girls are my classmates in this new school, too. But since I wasn’t really fond of them back there, I didn’t want to ruin my chances of getting to know somebody different by sitting with them. Jenna must have been thinking the same way, as she is here with me, instead of being with her old classmates. When I ask her why, she says she hates most of them. She was an outcast in that class, and when I see her the next day without the special occasion outfit, I think I know why. She wears baggy basketball pants and a sweatshirt, with a baseball cap she only takes off when in class. But I don’t care. I like her, and I am content with having found a new friend. In a few days, it also turns out she lives right around the corner, just one block away from school. We live so close that I wonder how we haven’t meet before.
When I get back home, my mom is away. I didn’t taken my keys with me. So I sit down in the interior courtyard of our square-shaped condo building. We live on the second floor, but it’s no use staying upstairs. At least down in the yard, we have an old tree trunk to lean against. I text her, and it turns out she’ll be a little bit late, but I should rest assured, she’ll be ready for my school’s parental information conference at 5. That means I’ll have to pick up my little brother from school. Such a gnat.
I hate this. My little brother is nine years old already, and I just can’t imagine why he isn’t able to come home from school alone. It is only at the other end of our own street. Mom has spoiled him. She didn’t spoil me. Not that I need it, I am fine on my own. Yet it makes me wonder, why is it that only boys get spoiled? He gets everything. If not, he just throws a tantrum. Because he is used to getting everything. Me, on the other hand, I am used to doing everything on my own. Not that I enjoyed this, but I am annoyed by everybody’s incompetence in this family. My mom is always busy with my brother; my dad is nowhere near; so I am left alone to do my thing. I also wonder whether she will remember what I need for school when she gets home. I feel like everything else is more important to her than me and my needs. She left dad when I was little, or, better said, she stayed home with us, and sent dad to England. Not because she wanted more money, she just wanted dad off her back. I don’t entirely blame her, as dad can be a jerk sometimes. Okay, actually, most of the time.
So I’m picking up my little brother, who can’t even take a five minute walk alone. Duh. I was about to snatch the e-scooter, but it dawns on me that my mom has it. So I trudge down the street to the school, right next to the old, tall, yellow buildings. I go inside to fetch Blooper. The well-known sight of the school hall strikes me. I no longer belong here, and it’s a strange feeling. A good feeling though, a feeling of having completed and forgotten something, which fills me with contentedness. Blooper appears, running from one of the corridors. We go home.
When mom comes back from the parental information evening, I ask her all the questions: whether she remembers the teachers, the books and other supplies I’ll need for school. I get some answers, but I bet she forgot half of them. I can’t expect too much of her. She never remembers anything. So I’ll figure it out as we go. Again.
The next morning the rays of the sun slant down the street, making the run-down yellow buildings of Margaret Boulevard even more yellow and more dilapidated. And this time I’m walking to school. I bump into Jenna at the corner, and I know that I won’t be bored today, either. The teacher lets us choose our first desk mate, as – unlike in Western countries – we share a desk with another student. I sit with Jenna. The teacher will change the arrangements at the beginning of each month, so we’re safe until then.
At recess I find out that Jenna’s mom died a few years ago. Now she lives with her dad. She is still sad about it, and, in my mind, this might explain why she rejects everything girly. She just can’t take the pain. I guess I will be a psychotherapist.
After classes, Jenna and I go home, skipping the afternoon study session. The study session here is not even a proper one. We don’t do any homework; we just sit there like vegetables, waiting for our parents to pick us up. Baah… really, why would I wait for mom to pick me up when I can just go home. Jenna and I walk together for a little while, but at the first corner she takes a left and disappears in the maze of giant concrete blocks on crooked Várfok street. I continue straight ahead, up the hill, then down, and soon find myself on Széna square, where I could hop on the tram, for one stop, but it’s not worth the wait. At home, I find mom at her computer, as usual, and again, there is no chocolate or chips or any other edible food in the fridge. She says she is busy, didn’t have time to go to the grocery store. Busy all the time, when it comes to me. At least today I didn’t have to pick up Blooper. Actually, his real name is Ben, but, in my opinion, he hasn’t yet earned the right to be called by his real name. I’ll call him Blooper until he starts acting like a human being, that is, he comes home from school alone and can go a full day without this annoying whining over everything.
So my mom was a teacher. She taught English, but she has such a funny accent, I just can’t fathom how people understood her. I remember, she tried to teach me English when I was little, but I refused to understand or say anything in this foreign language – until I turned 10. Then I just somehow picked it up from here and there. Mom used to give private lessons to some strange kids and adults, who literally swarmed our apartment. I hated this. I felt like she treated those kids better than she treated me, or even Blooper. Thank goodness she has given it up now and become a part-time journalist, which is not much better either, as she is always on her computer. She constantly says she is working, but I’ve often caught her doing something totally different, for example, checking her social media accounts, chatting with friends, writing useless emails, and so on. I guess she just uses this as an excuse to stay out of my life. Or stay out of life in general. She always acts like she is overly busy, making and taking phone calls, exchanging messages, but I no longer believe the blah blah they are all work-related. And when I ask her for something, let’s say a glass of water or some chocolate (this is my weak point, I can’t live without chocolate, which she knows full well), she starts moaning about why I can’t do it on my own. But I don’t see why I should do it on my own. Sometimes, just to be mean to her, I test how far I can go until she snaps. It gives me inexplicable enjoyment. Sometimes I hate her. I can’t explain, but it feels so good to mouth off and outsmart her. To tell you the truth, she is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so it’s not very difficult.
Anyway, after the first few weeks at school, I realize that Jenna and I have many things in common. Her dad doesn’t have time for her either, even though she is an only child. They never have enough food or chocolate or chips at home, just like us. And she is left alone a lot. Okay, maybe more than me. Her dad is also working two jobs and is always on the go. And, because nobody is stopping her, she is also addicted to gaming. Sadly, my addiction can’t be topped, so in this, we tie. And we both like skating sports: she played hockey, while I did ice dancing. I don’t know why she stopped, but I know I did last year – because mom could no longer afford it. But I guess both Jenna and I have become too lazy to do sports now anyway. I outright hate PE lessons, especially when the teacher makes us run around the park next to the school. To my chagrin, it’s a huge park, and there is no Rekortan on the running path, only gravel. It’s good for the old ladies who do their Nordic walking exercises, mostly in the morning, when our PE teacher makes us jog on that gravel, maneuvering our way around the flock of old ladies.
Now that I no longer sit through the afternoon study sessions at school, I sometimes give in to the temptation and amble over to the shopping mall at Széna Square to look around in the beauty shops. Sometimes I ask mom for some money, so I can buy some cheap lip gloss or facials. Jenna doesn’t like beauty products, so I go alone. There, at least, nobody asks me whether I have done my homework or cleaned my room. In the shopping center, I have to cross the whole complex to find a drug store. It’s my safe haven – I could stand in front of the Essence stand for hours. Sometimes I try a perfume, sometimes I open up a tester lipstick, or look at the nail polish assortment. Then I collect myself and head home, walking by the mammoth statues in the lobby, out of the mall, and emerging into the light again by the tram stop.
For Christmas, dad is planning to visit us. Blooper can’t wait because, for some reason, they get along pretty well. He is such a baby, he still believes that dad could be a normal dad, a normal family guy, kind and protecting, and so on. I can’t fathom how he doesn’t see that it’s just impossible. His old-school ego just doesn’t let him be kind or considerate, I suppose. He always has to be right, and he will shout your hair off if something is not to his liking. When we were little, mom cried about it a lot. But crying is not going to help, and, again, she can’t explain to me why she didn’t just tell him to his face that he was a jackass. Looks like I am the only one in this miserable family who has the brains and the guts to survive in this chaos at all, and, this time, I have a special plan: Just go live somewhere else until then, and the problem is solved. I’m a genius.
Kris
Oh, crap… I forgot to put Katie’s key in the stairwell cupboard… why, oh why does she always forget to take it with her… wait… I’ve got to get back anyway, the parental information conference is at five. Never mind, I’ll take the e-scooter. I’ll get there faster. Get here, get there – always on the run. A mom’s life, isn’t it. If I had just known it before I agreed to have those kids, I’d never have had them. Literally, taking care of them erases all my lust for life. And I’m not even allowed to say it aloud. Everybody lies in my face about it; everybody says having kids is soo wonderful and rewarding, and how one touch of those little hands makes you forget all the suffering. And how they even shed a tear to make it more theatric. Yep.
Buying this e-scooter was a great idea. In fact, the best I had in a long time. I love the wind blowing in my face while I whoosh away in between two unsuspecting pedestrians on the wide and smooth sidewalk of Margaret Boulevard, then over Margaret Bridge, where there is a bike lane, so that I can go even faster. Within a few minutes, I am at the Western Railway Station, lock down my scooter, buy my ticket on the phone and hop on the train to Vác. It’s a one-hour journey. During these sixty minutes I am trying to forget all the misery I’m actually in and leave behind the feeling of uselessness that has been weighing me down the last few days. Days? Months? Years? I can’t even keep track any more: trying to do my best raising the kids, putting up with Katie’s teenage behavior and Ben’s constant whining, their dad’s phone calls he makes just to believe he is still in control of me, taking care of the house, preparing food, bringing Katie to skating lessons, accompanying Ben to handball sessions, and besides, working two jobs to fund this whole circus. Is one hour enough to forget this? Anyway, as the train is chugging along the Danube, leaving behind the trees on the other side, I need to focus on today’s assignment: I am going to interview a social worker.
A tiny, gray-haired lady who looks like a nun greets me with a huge smile on her face. She shows me around her office with unfathomable enthusiasm, pointing to photos of the less fortunate people she is trying to rescue from misery: a gypsy family in a filthy house, a newborn baby abandoned in the hospital, a group of homeless alcoholics. Just seeing this makes me shiver to the core. She tells me how she helps the gypsies, how she appreciates the goodness in them, how she arranges free food and benefits for them, how she is attempting to teach them to act responsibly, and even though she knows it’s futile, she never gives up. She is fighting the authorities to arrange a foster family for an abandoned baby, and even though she knows it’s an endless battle, she is relentless.
On the trip back, as I draft the article and attempt to understand my interviewee, I start musing about the world’s miseries. And it turns out that my misery is just one of the many, many miseries out there. I still won’t say I’m lucky, but I acknowledge a slightly different attitude toward my situation. By the time I hop on the e-scooter again and enjoy the light breeze on my face at Margaret Boulevard, a mission is starting to take shape in my head. Alongside the well-paid journalism work, I am determined to lay the foundation for a self-help group of moms who are struggling with these treadmill-like problems.
I pick up speed again, whoosh home and let Katie in. She has surely been sitting in the stairwell for some time now because she forgot her keys. I prep her dinner and whoosh over to the parental information conference that evening at school. Oh, not again. I forgot my notebook. After a desperate search in my backpack, I find a ballpoint pen and check it. Luckily, it works. I get a piece of paper from a mom in the next chair over and jot everything down diligently.
When I get home, Katie cross-examines me, asking whether I took notes and what she will need for each class. Just as expected. She also reminds me not very kindly that she had to fetch her brother, and how this was such a burden for her. I know she doesn’t trust my ability to keep track of things, and I also admit, her fears are not unfounded. I know I haven’t been the best mom for her, nor for Ben. Logistics has always been a struggle, meaning multiple trips to the convenience store each day. And this is why she thinks I’m a complete idiot. I don’t blame her, but, at the same time, it hurts like hell. This is all I can give, and I do give them everything I’ve got. Yet she hates me and never misses the opportunity to talk back or to twist my words. What I am miserably failing at, is enduring it without losing my temper. And I should keep this behavior under control… Okay.
After a few weeks in school, the routines have returned, and I clearly see that this year will be even tougher than before. The self-help program is a success so far, and though it takes a lot more time than I currently have on my hands, it’s still by far the best of the things I actually do. It helps relieve the stress and somehow gives me confidence, which I need in industrial quantities, as things at home are not getting any better soon.
Before I know it, I see Christmas decorations all around the streets, the shopping malls, on houses and in school, of course. My kids like this festive preparation a lot, but, oh God, how I hated it in recent years. Sometimes less, sometimes more, I generally ran late with my present hunting. As I walk past the fancy street lights at Szent István Boulevard and Terez Boulevard on the Pest side, my heart fills with mixed emotions. People are supposed to look forward to a celebration like this, yet here we are, moms, parents, who secretly wish it would simply cease to exist. What’s left of the festivity for us, is just logistics: preparing presents for my dad, whom I haven’t said more than 10 sentences to in my whole life, even though theoretically he lived with us the whole time. Then presents for his girlfriend, who criticizes everything I buy. Presents for her daughter and her two kids, whom I don’t see during the year, but who will be there at the Christmas reunion. And finally, presents for Katie and Ben. At least I am good at this – they have not complained so far. Then I have to clean the house, get and decorate the tree. There’s dinner, the kids’ Christmas parties at school, the parties at the skating club. And now, the kids’ dad will come to visit. Katie hates him so much she wants to go and spend Christmas with a friend. I can’t blame her, but she can’t just leave. Why is this so hard?
Of the Truth
“Katie, how many times have I asked you to take out your trash?”
“Please… I will take it out later.”
“Katie, how many times did I tell you not to eat in bed?”
“But nothing’s gonna spill, I swear!”
“Katie, did you do your schoolwork yet?”
“Just let me play this one, then I’ll do it.”
“Katie, again, when will you ever do what I ask you to?”
“Why can’t you just leave me alone? Really, why do you care at all?”
“Because I love you.”
“I love you, too.”