Another Woman's Daughter (20 page)

“This is the final boarding call for British Airways Flight 0034 to London. Please make your way immediately through customs to gate number five.
Hierdie is die laaste aankondiging om aan boord te gaan
 . . .”

Still we lingered outside the opaque glass doors. In a moment I would have to walk through them and they would shut behind me—one chapter closing, another about to begin. People and places would become names, photographs, and marks on a map.

An image of the baobab tree flashed before me, its roots traveling deep into the ground, its branches reaching for the heavens. It would remain like that for many more years, but everything around it would change. Time and people would keep moving on.

“I hate good-byes, so this isn't one,” I said, fidgeting with my locket. “Just know a different person is leaving from the one who arrived eight weeks ago, thanks to you.”

“It's been really hard having such a difficult and awkward visitor,” he teased. “Now how am I to describe you to my editor? I'd say . . .” His cheeky smile vanished and his dark eyes were staring into mine. “Soul mate.”

We hugged. One last moment of soap, aftershave, and wood smoke. I leaned down and lifted a green cardboard box off the trolley where it had been carefully wedged between my bags. I handed it to him. “Don't tip it upside down, whatever you do.”

I turned and moved quickly through the doors toward customs.

“Papers,” the thick accent barked.

Once through passport control, I had to take a long flight of escalators down to the departure lounge. As I descended, someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Look,” the woman behind me said. “Someone's trying to catch your attention.”

I turned.

Thabo was standing behind a thick pane of glass, knocking on the soundless barrier. As he caught my eye, he lifted my gift out of the box and held it up for me to see. The stairs kept moving, relentlessly transporting me away from him and the baby cockatiel with orange beak, tomato-red cheeks, and charcoal feathers. He was waving my note in the air. I could see it had already been shredded at the corners and was no doubt sporting a couple of chalky exclamation marks.

At midday another bird—a huge metal one—rose into the sky. Africa grew smaller and smaller and eventually disappeared beneath a cloth of clouds. I was leaving it behind, but my roots were deep in the dry red earth; they could never be severed.

I was ready to grow.

11 February 1990

“Push! Come on, you can do it! One more push!”

“Aaaah!” The pain was intolerable—the burning, tearing pain.

“Come on, love. Give it all you've got. I can see the head. I can.” Dave kept encouraging me, his strong hands caressing my forehead. I wanted to clobber him.

The midwife bent down and grasped something in her hands.

“Nooo!”

As my flesh tore, I screamed; then, as if a vacuum sucked up all sound, the room held its breath.

A faint cry filled the void, growing louder and louder as if someone was turning up the volume.

“It's a girl, Miriam. You have a bonny baby girl,” said the midwife.

I lay back in wet exhaustion, bathed in an overwhelming, indescribable feeling of warmth and elation.

Dave, his eyes dancing with tears and joy, held the bundle proudly in his arms. “Miriam, she's beautiful.”

—

The pink lilies in my room had filled the air with a gentle scent, reminding me of Sylvia Eloff. Dave was asleep in the La-Z-Boy chair beside my bed. Across his chest our baby slept, her perfect little fingers peeping out from under a furry white blanket. I couldn't stop smiling—I was so happy my cheeks ached.

I glanced at the TV set in the corner, its volume muted. A man's face flashed across the screen. He had proud shoulders, an open face, and sloping eyes full of wisdom and gentleness. I reached for the remote control.

“—reporting. Yes, Susan, the first images of a man whose face has not been seen for over a quarter of a century. On this warm and cloudless day on the outskirts of Paarl, in the lush wine-growing region of South Africa, one of the last bastions of apartheid has come tumbling down. Who would have believed it could ever happen? Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela released from Victor Verster Prison, having spent twenty-seven and a half years of his life behind bars for his part in the struggle to end apartheid. It is certainly a new chapter in his life and in the lives of all South Africans—black, white, and colored. He is expected to address—”

I leaned over and carefully eased the sleeping bundle from David's grasp. He stirred, gave me a dreamy smile, then dozed again.

As I looked down at the parcel in my arms, two big brown eyes looked back at me—deep, dark pools in which I saw
reflections of many things. I saw my mother's immense love; I saw Dave's fortitude and generosity. There was Zelda's jollity, Rahini's wisdom, and Michael's kindness. And Thabo's unwavering convictions too. All branches of an immense baobab tree.

I leaned forward and placed a kiss on my daughter's crumpled forehead. She smelled like a puppy—of new life and warm skin.

“Hello, Baby Celia,” I whispered. “I've been so waiting to meet
you.”

The act of writing might be a solitary one, but the process of bringing a book to publication is most definitely collaborative. Every chapter of this book holds something of the time, expertise, and experience so generously shared with me. While there are too many to name individually, I am ever grateful to you all.

A special mention for my dearest husband, Luigi, whose love and unwavering support got me to the finish line, and my beautiful children, Nadia and Andrew, who never once stopped believing in me. Thank you.

To literary agents Glenys Bean, Heidi North, and Hannah Ferguson—I am indebted to all three of you for backing my book and working tirelessly to find it a home.

To Susie Dunlop of Allison & Busby, and Julie Mianecki of Berkley Books, Penguin USA—thank you for embracing this book with such enthusiasm. It is a privilege to have been invited into your respective folds.

Lesley Marshall, thank you for your sage input early on, and Lorain Day, for your exacting editorial eye at the end. Thomas Maraheni, Agnes Tshivhula, and Andries Liswoga, for your assistance with the Tshivenda translations; and Dario Dosio, Christine Dimitriou, Pat Scott, and Helen Stewart for facilitating this. And
of course my book club ladies for all the laughter and cake on a Wednesday night, which sustained me.

Thank you to my brother, Peter, whose splendid childhood theatrical productions and boundless imagination introduced me to the magic of stories, and to my late father (publisher and person extraordinaire) and dear mother (chief bedtime-storyteller and confidante), who both brought the wonder of words into our home, and that, of course, is where it all began.

Finally, to authors Nadine Gordimer, Athol Fugard, Alan Paton, Doris Lessing, Herman Charles Bosman, and J. M. Coetzee, whose brave works stirred and inspired me.

While
Another Woman's Daughter
is not a factual account, and the characters in it fictional, I am indebted to the authors of the books and websites below whose works supplemented my knowledge of the world my characters would inhabit.

 

Connew, Bruce, and Wright Vernon.
South Africa.
Auckland, New Zealand: Hodder & Stoughton, 1987.

Fugard, Athol.
Tsotsi.
New York: Random House, 1980.

Mandela, Nelson.
Long Walk to Freedom.
Randburg, South Africa: Macdonald Purnell, 1994.

Omer-Cooper, J. D.
History of Southern Africa.
London: James Currey, 1994.

Powell, Ivor, Mark Lewis, and Mark Hurwitz.
Ndebele: A People and Their Art.
Cape Town: Struik, 1995.

Reader's Digest.
South Africa: Magnificent Land.
Cape Town: Reader's Digest, 1988.

South African History Archive (SAHA), Google Cultural Institute. http://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/collection/south-african-history-archive.

South African History Online (SAHO). http://www.sahistory.org.za.

Venter, Paul C.
Soweto: Shadow City.
Johannesburg: Perskor, 1977.

Wannenburgh, Alf, and J. R. Dickson.
The Natural Wonder of Southern Africa.
Cape Town: Struik, 1987.

READERS GUIDE

ANOTHER WOMAN'S DAUGHTER

BY FIONA
SUSSMAN

1. In the author's note, Sussman acknowledges “the challenge of writing in the voice of characters whose life experiences and culture [are] so different from [her] own,” and ultimately draws on her “experiences as a mother, daughter, wife and sister” to tell her story. Can we look to our shared humanity to understand each other? How?
   
2. Why did the Steiners want to adopt Miriam? Do you think it was the right decision? Discuss the ups and downs of Miriam's life in England and the life she might have led in Africa.
   
3. Miriam describes how she “worked hard to make [herself] invisible.” Later on Celia feels invisible to the white family she works for. What does invisibility mean to each character? Why is it sought after by Miriam, yet so hurtful to Celia?
   
4. As Celia observes, “These township kids had looked down the barrel of the future and seen little hope. They had nothing to lose.” Do you see any parallels between
   apartheid and current events? Are there lessons we can draw on for today?
   
5. What effect does Sylvia Eloff have on Celia's mindset and self-image, and on her life in general?
   
6. Why does Rita scold Miriam for cleaning when they first arrive in England? What does this act of cleaning signify to both Rita and Miriam? What does the scene tell us about Miriam's adoption?
   
7. Rita is clearly a flawed character. Do you sympathize with her? Why, or why not?
   
8. Discuss Michael. Is his love enough, or should he have been more proactive, and interfered in Rita's treatment of Miriam? Why does he allow the deceit—about their marriage and the adoption terms—to perpetuate?
   
9. In the book we see three instances where love is sought outside a prescribed relationship—Michael is unfaithful to Rita, Rita to Michael, and then Miriam to David. How do these three instances differ? Can any or all of them be condoned?
   
10. “At least they're honest. There's no pretense. They tell the world we're second-class citizens and treat us accordingly. Growing up in England . . . I was encouraged to believe I was like everyone else, so my disappointment was all the
    greater when I realized I wasn't.” What do you think of Miriam's assessment of England as a kind of apartheid in disguise? Which unfortunate truth would you choose in her place?
    
11. Dave says, “Miriam's past is integral to who she is. For her to move forward she needs to explore her past. It's her history, her connectedness.” How does this apply to your own life? Is your past intrinsic to your identity?
    
12. What advantage do you think a work of historical fiction might have over that of nonfiction in causing a reader to acknowledge and reflect on human behavior? Has reading
    Another Woman's Daughter
    led you to ponder wider
    issues?
    

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