Mika liked ice-cream very, very, very much.
Or at least he thought he did. Because he only tried ice-cream once in his entire life, when he secretly took a bite of his friend Lisa’s ice-cream. Mom forbad him to Even Think about ice cream because You know why.
Mika knew, understood and comprehended. He was a very serious six-year-old man.
He wasn’t crying, whining or complaining.
He knew – if The Worst Thing happened and he got Sick, his mom would never be able to get over it. His mom has already experienced a Terrible Grief once, and one more would put her straight in a Grave.
Mika was really scared of that terrible Grave, whatever it was, and he was really scared to upset his mom. Mom never shouted, God forbid, but she would give him the stare with those huge eyes, while her mouth turned into a thin line.
No, no, Mika did not want to upset his mom.
But he remembered the wonderful, magical taste of ice-cream melting on his tongue, and sometimes dreamed of it just like the others dream of flying to space or something just as impossible. Mika was a realistic person.
Faina, Mika’s mother, has really experienced a terrible grief.
Her first born was an almost healthy boy, and never took his asthma seriously. Oh, come on, mom, what can possibly happen, so many good meds nowadays, he would wave her away while going skiing in the mountains or studying some drawings in the caves.
Until one time the meds didn’t help, or they just weren’t around, but one day Faina came home after visiting her parents to find her son on the floor, unconscious, his lips turned blue. He died in her arms while ambulance was on its way.
Eight years later Faina, dried up to half of her original size, made a solid decision: she was going to have another child, and control it so anything ever… never again…
And control him she did.
Thanks God, Mika was growing up a smart and obedient boy, touch wood.
They were just returning after one of the routine medical inspections (the doctor knew Mika since the day he was born, Faina didn’t trust anyone else).
A hot, sticky July evening just begun and they already ran out of water.
Faina sat Mika on a bench in shade, checked that he wasn’t too hot, unbuttoned his shirt a little bit (but not too much so he doesn’t get cold), looked around for scary dogs and suspicious people, and ran to the little convenience store to buy some water.
Mika was sitting and watching people eat Ice-cream.
Different kinds of ice-cream.
Some would lick a chocolate-coated vanilla stick, a creamy-white stream flowing down a glossy brown.
Some dipped their spoon into a delightful cherry-white substance, reaching the very bottom, mixing the layers into wonderful patterns.
Some would bite into a simple wafer cone, skillfully catching sugary shreds of ice with their tongues.
Mika craved that forbidden, endlessly wonderful thing so badly that he shut his eyes closed, swallowing heavily, and begged the good God whose name you aren’t supposed to say: “Dear Lord, please, make a miracle so I could be allowed a little bit of ice-cream just once in my life. But if it’s totally forbidden – it’s okay then. But if I’m allowed at least a little bit – then please, just a little bit. Vanilla cone. Or at least the simplest popsicle. Please.”
He sat upright, not even noticing in his frantic prayer how tears were flowing from his squinted eyes.
Faina nearly had a heart attack when she saw the boy was silently moving his lips with his eyes shut and his face all covered in tears.
“Mikele” – She hollered, groping him feverishly. “What’s wrong, where does it hurt? Are you too hot? Too cold? Did someone hurt you?”
“Mommy” – Mika said quietly, without opening his eyes. “Mommy, you know what? I… I really want some ice-cream, mommy” – And he burst in tears overtly, hating himself for his weakness.
Faina was speechless.
For several endless minutes she just squatted next to him, with her hand in her pocket. She wanted to get a handkerchief and forgot all about it.
Then she straightened up, swallowed, and asked calmly in a strange voice, “Which ice-cream do you want, son?”
Mika kept weeping, rubbing his eyes with his little fists.
She sat next to him, held him tight and asked once more, whispering into his ear: “Which ice-cream, Mikele? Chocolate, vanilla? Strawberry with nuts?”
And she felt the ice of that terrible day, when she opened the door and saw her child’s blue lips, melting inside. That’s another child, she finally told herself. And I am here. And he is alive. And wants ice-cream, you miserable fool!
“Come on” – Mom said and pulled Mika by the hand. “Come, you can pick any ice-cream you want. Don’t cry, my love, everything is going to be fine, I swear…”
And Mika realized – everything was really going to be fine.
Translated by Diana Shnaiderman-Pereira