2.1. Tara. The Task
February 17, 2026 at 2:20 PM
"Mommy, are you here?" I ask into the void. My voice echoes through the black corridor towards the lit end. It's dark and damp here, like in a cave, water dripping rhythmically somewhere. I move forward, feeling the floor ahead with my feet. The sounds of dripping water get closer. I move cautiously. The solid ground, covered with small debris—stones grinding into sand—is briefly replaced by a spreading puddle where my shoes squelch. It smells of lime. It smells of chalk dissolved in iron-tasting water. I approach a slightly open door, originally white but smeared with soot. Yellowish light seeps through the crack. I push it open and find myself in an old-fashioned living room. I wipe my soles on the rug, deliberately placed here to keep dirt out of the clean house. Little-known paintings, familiar to me since childhood, hang on the walls. One of them—masterfully executed—is mom's. At the same time, I notice her. She rises from her armchair and reaches for the teapot. The house smells of family.
I sneak up behind her. But before I can gently touch her shoulders, she senses the presence of a loved one in the room and turns around. Here she is, mom!
"Hello, dear," she stretches her neck and offers her cheek. I kiss her in greeting. "How are you?"
Yellowish tea, gurgling, pours into a shiny cup made of expensive, genuine Chinese porcelain, so light and translucent you could see a grain of rice through it. The fragrant aroma of fine green tea spreads through the room.
"You came through the basement again? Don't do that anymore," mom says calmly, though her patience must be wearing thin, as she's said this not for the first time.
"Okay," I reply, untying my scarf. Then I take off my coat and hang them on a long, elegant wooden coat rack. "Jim and Agnes are perfectly fine, but Mark spoils them terribly."
Mom just smiles. She can't meet them, but quietly, though with difficulty, comes to terms with it. Then she sits back in her armchair.
"Sit down, Tara," she invites me to the armchair next to hers, and I accept. "Here's your tea, here are cookies, here are candies. Eat and listen. I have a huge request, or even an assignment for you," I pricked up my ears and took a sip of tea, slurping inelegantly. "Please, be more attentive to your mail. An important message should reach you within three days. Don't put off checking the mailbox for later and don't delegate it to your husband and children, as you usually do. And the matter mentioned in the letter won't tolerate delays. So be ready, alright?"
This request frightened me, and my heart started pounding so hard its beat thundered in my ears. I nodded. Mommy got up from her armchair and came over to me. She touched my hair with her hands and kissed my forehead. I was jolted by electric shocks, and my temples pulsed with a pounding like a jackhammer.
Outside, a jackhammer was indeed working. The window was wide open, and a tender, almost spring-like chill seeped into the bedroom. Tara was enveloped by the bed, warmed by body heat, white as freshly fallen snow. The girl, wrapped in a thick, soft black sweater, looked around fearfully. The dream had suddenly flowed into reality, and she hadn't had time to gather her thoughts. It was late morning because her husband was no longer beside her. Getting up, Tara closed the window, through which the smell of grass—probably mown for the last time this year—was entering the bedroom. A burst of children's laughter raced past the door. Tara smiled. Those were her two daughters—Jim and Agnes—running.
Tara got dressed and left the bedroom. The girls' laughter now chimed somewhere in the distance. The girl went downstairs, the stairs creaking under the weight of the lady of the house. The noise from the TV grew louder. When Tara found herself on the first floor of her home, the TV was already blaring. She walked past the flickering colored screen just as a character called an independent expert appeared and declared that the advertised medication was the best solution for mothers whose children often suffer from runny noses. Tara mentally scoffed because her recent experience treating her children with that very medication had been fresh and unsuccessful. The girl entered the kitchen, gleaming with polished glass surfaces. Near the stove, intently watching a cezve with coffee on the burner, stood her husband. Tara smiled and went over to her spouse, who at that moment raised his eyes to his entering wife.
"Knew you'd come down right about now," Mark smiled and stretched his face towards Tara. The next moment, they shared a quick, gentle, morning kiss. "Good morning!"
"Good morning," Tara replied, standing beside him. A new wave of the girls' laughter passed, followed by heavy stomping. The married couple, as one, directed their gaze towards the source of the sounds. The girls rushed into the kitchen and ran to their mother.
"Hi-i, my sweeties," Tara crouched and hugged her daughters.
The young actress Tara met jazz musician Mark Leviv in the early 2000s. It wasn't the banal story of a girl going to a concert and a man catching her eye. But it was even more banal. They met during the production of the musical "One Chance to Love." Mark was invited as a composer, and Tara—as a supporting actress. They only saw each other during general meetings, exchanging glances and smiles. Mark began to realize how much he liked the girl but was afraid to approach her. Then the musical's producer went bankrupt, the production was abruptly closed, the actors disbanded. Mark was puzzled: what about that talented actress with the wonderful voice? And he realized he was irrevocably and completely in love.
Where could he find that modest blonde? Mark was restless. The guitarist spent considerable time searching for her in vain but found her by chance. The musician, who had principledly refused mass media, decided to read the morning paper. The headline of the black-and-beige newspaper read: "The Musical is ruined!"
Just yesterday we learned that the musical "One Chance to Love," supposed to premiere this December, has been closed. Details on p.3
On that very page, the man saw the list of actors and began searching for information about them online. For Tara's sake, Mark even broke his principles!
Tara was found. Mark was stunned to learn that the object of his affection was Tara McCartney—a beautiful actress with an early-starting but brilliant career, the daughter of such wonderful parents.
Mark and Tara married in the hot summer of 2006 and moved to Brooklyn. Three years later, in May, their first daughter Jim was born, who grew up to be a very diligent, capable, and affectionate child. Tara tried to follow her mother's example and skillfully maneuver between work and home, carving out time so the child wouldn't feel deprived of maternal love.
The second daughter, Agnes, was born on September 30, 2013. The feeling of joy that day sharply changed to anxiety and then to grief: Tara received news that her uncle, Billy Carmelit, had been hospitalized with a heart attack, and by evening he had passed away. Tara decided that her parents would have been very upset to witness the death of their colleague and friend, the jolly Billy.
Mark turned off the stove as soon as the coffee in the cezve hissed and rose, covered with light-brown foam. Then he carefully poured the thick brew into a snow-white cup. Tara reached for the drink and took a sip. Mark disappeared into the living room.
"Tara, there's a letter for you here," the man returned to the kitchen with a pile of envelopes and took one from the top. Tara took the crumpled envelope, a knife to open it, and extracted the letter without studying who or where it was from.
Hello, Tara.
You probably didn't look at the envelope and now can't figure out who is writing to you and from where. But I'll reassure you, my name is Esther Ruth Goldenberg. Your grandmother, Merlyn Kristie, is my first cousin. But I'll tell you personally how fate scattered us.
I'm writing out of dire necessity. I have no children of my own, so I'm turning to you—your mother, when she was alive, praised you so much, my merciful Tara! I am very ill and dying in a nursing home in Norfolk. Actually, I wrote the address on the envelope, and you won't get lost, sweetheart. I need to give you something very, very important; what exactly—I'll also tell and even show you in person. Tara, please, don't abandon me. You are a great hope for both me and your late mother, don't let us down! I'm sure you're as wise and humane as Ami told me! Do a good deed, and it will surely return to you.
With hope and love,
Esther
Tara pressed the letter to her chest. Mom was right this time too.
What does "this time too" mean?
Since her mother's death, Tara had only communicated with her in dreams. The girl told no one about it, probably afraid people would think she was too young to bear the grief with dignity. But a twelve-year-old girl needed her mother's help. Her sensitive brothers, of course, helped her when needed. But men or a young sister without experience couldn't help the teenage girl with everything. Moreover, Margaret was preoccupied herself; by twenty-one, she had become a young mother. Mom appeared to the girl precisely at the most opportune moments when Tara faced a difficult choice and tormented herself with doubts. The girl grew up, became independent, and, keeping the secret from everyone, continued to consult with her mom. Sometimes Ami warned her daughter of danger or encouraged her with good predictions.
"Tara," Mark touched his wife's shoulder, making her flinch. "You look pale. What happened?"
Tara looked around as if afraid that an outsider was in the room who shouldn't be let into family secrets and realized that the outsider was her own husband.
"You know, Mark, I urgently need to go to No... Nor... Nord..." Tara glanced at the letter for a moment, "Norfolk. It's very important because it concerns my family."
"May I look?" Mark touched the corner of the paper with his hand, but the girl pulled it away.
"No. Sorry."
Mark understood everything. Tara highly valued this important quality. Being a famous person, you acquire many fans and with them many problems, one of which is a spouse's jealousy. Therefore, Tara and Mark had immediately established an agreement: complete trust and absolute absence of jealousy. And if something were to happen, it's better to confess everything right away.
Tara set the letter aside and pressed herself tightly against her husband. Mark hugged his wife and smiled lightly, merely lifting the corners of his lips. Warmth, warmth spread. She tried to hear her husband's heartbeat, but she couldn't let herself get carried away. It wasn't the time, not the time. Not a time for romance; family life was prosaic here too.
"Mark, you can have no doubt that I love you," Tara said quietly, almost whispering, "but I can't say why I'm leaving. But I'll definitely tell you everything when I return" the girl raised her head and looked straight into her husband's eyes, still holding onto him tightly with both hands. "Take care of the girls," Tara stroked her husband's shoulders, pulled away, and headed for the hallway. A minute later she returned wearing a black autumn puffer jacket and boots, wrapping a scarf around her neck.
"You're leaving already? So early?" the man was surprised.
"I'm going to get tickets," Tara took a sea-green plastic card from the drawer, shining in the light, which would expire in just six months. If six months is so little, how much time did poor Esther Goldenberg have left? Tara, paralyzed by this thought, stopped for a moment, then slammed the drawer shut and, approaching her husband, gave him a light goodbye kiss.
The girls reluctantly let their mother go. She promised them many gifts, but even that hardly appeased Jim and Agnes. Tara promised them as much as they had never received before.
"My dears, I'm not leaving forever. I'll call you on video chat," Tara herself wasn't eager to leave the children; she even wanted to take them, but alas. "Dad will be with you, and he's even kinder."
In the end, little Agnes let out a loud, plaintive wail. Tara picked up her daughter and covered her face with kisses. But realizing that if she stayed a little longer, she'd miss her flight, she handed the girl to her husband. Mark took the protesting against mom's business trip Agnes in his arms. Tara said goodbye and left the house. Stopping on the threshold, she turned back, and her heart clenched with pain.
How she got to the airport, McCartney didn't remember. Sitting on the bus, she leaned her head against the cold window glass, and while almost entirely bare trees and various houses flew past her eyes, Tara thought about her little ones: the fair-skinned, pale Jim with shiny black eyes that surveyed everything with a sharp gaze, and the skinny, dark-haired mischief-maker Agnes. Jim was incredibly well-read for her not-quite-ten years. At school, this modest, quiet girl was called Jeannie, and she preferred that modification of her name. Agnes was loud, mischievous, often feisty, with a roguish little face. In short, the sisters were complete opposites of each other. And Tara, thinking about them, smiled, but as soon as she remembered the impending long separation, her heart began to constrict. The girl distracted herself with amusing memories. For example, how Agnes took apart her child's high chair and hid the parts all over the house, concealing from everyone where they were. Or how, as a child, Jim appointed a milk carton as her favorite toy, and Tara with difficulty convinced her daughter that this packet had many errands and had to run off to the trash bin on business. Sometimes the girl got so deep into memories that she started laughing, alarming everyone around.
Tara also paid no mind to the tedious airport procedures and therefore didn't notice how she was already at the end of the ordeal: in a strange booth where they make you raise your hands like a criminal caught red-handed. Tara decided to send a message to her husband and children, and, running her fingers over the keys that emitted a mechanical clicking sound with each touch, she wrote:
Tell the children I'm on the plane and already miss them terribly. I love you all very much.
The enclosed corridor bridge, its walls plastered with ads reflecting the plane's hum, led McCartney into the aircraft cabin. At the entrance, a pretty stewardess asked to see her ticket and escorted her to her seat. Tara got a window seat again. Lately, her mother had found flying burdensome. Or maybe that's why an airliner was what killed her? The girl couldn't agree with her mother and listened with pleasure to the singing of the impatient engines.
Very soon, Tara found herself in Norfolk—a city in southeastern Virginia. A strange fear took hold of her, making a coarse tremor run through the girl's body in the form of spasms from time to time. Her bones ached, muscles cramped, and Tara couldn't understand what story was beginning. And only when she approached the nursing home where Esther lived Tara began to make at least some sense of her actions.
