Chanda's Secrets (22 page)

“Home is in Bonang. There's no way she'll survive on a flatbed.”

The doctor pauses. “We don't get much call for the van,” he says slowly. “I bike to house calls. In a pinch, my brother has a Jeep. Tell you what: Pay for the gas there and back, and I'll have the helper drive you.”

“Thank you.” I squeeze Esther's money pouch under my dress. “Could I also buy some painkillers?”

He nods. “There's already some in the drip bag, but I can sell you more in case she needs it.” He shows me how to change the drip and catheter bags. “I'll arrange for Bonang General to send you a caseworker.” I can tell he thinks Mama won't be alive long enough for it to matter.

Before we leave, I ask to call ahead. There's only one phone; it's on a desk in the reception area. I turn my back on the patients lining the walls, so I can pretend nobody can hear me.

“How-de-ya-do?” The voice on the other end is unmistakable.

“Mrs. Tafa?”

At the sound of my voice, Mrs. Tafa gasps so loud she nearly sucks the phone down her throat. “Where are you calling from?”

“The clinic in Tiro. I'm with Mama.”

“Lord Almighty!”

“Tell Esther to get Soly and Iris cleaned up. We're coming home.”

“You're bringing your mama here?”

“Yes.”

“No!” Mrs. Tafa shrieks. “Your granny phoned this morning from the general dealer. She told me everything. If they couldn't hide the disease in Tiro, you won't be able to hide it here.”

“So what?”

“So
what?
The neighbors will know.”

“I don't care,” I say. “If Mama's going to die, she's going to die at home, surrounded by family who love her.”

“Chanda, listen to me, girl—”

“No. You listen to me, Mrs. Tafa,” I shout. “I'm tired of lies and hiding and being afraid. I'm not ashamed of AIDS! I'm ashamed of being ashamed!”

I slam the phone down. When I turn around I see walls of open mouths. All around the room, patients and their families have turned to see who said the unsayable.

I put my hands on my hips. “What are you looking at?”

They run from the clinic as if they're on fire.

On the drive back, Mama lies on a cot in the rear of the van, attached to her IV drip and a catheter. I sit beside her, holding her hand and placing cold compresses on her forehead. She
doesn't know where she is, who I am, or what's happening.

She tries to sit up, and cries out, “Amanthe, don't marry Tuelo. There'll be bad luck. I know things, Amanthe.” Then her head falls back on her pillow, her eyes roll into her head, and her lips flutter soundlessly.

When I think she's asleep, I pour out my heart. I tell her about Esther, how she's been living at our place, how she gave me the money to come here, money she was saving so her brothers and sister could be together. “I want to ask her brothers and sister to live with us, Mama.”

For a moment, Mama opens her eyes. Her eyes are clear. She nods. Did she understand? I don't know. Her eyes cloud again, her mind wanders off, and soon she's whispering to Papa and Auntie Amanthe, or sleeping, or singing bits of song to Sara.

I
T'S LATE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME WE GET HOME.
Soly and Iris are waiting with Esther at the side of the road.

They're not alone. Neighbors dot the front yards along the street. They pretend to garden, to simmer seswa on their firepits, or to chat across their hedges; but they have an eye out, curious about who or what “those kids and the hooker-girl” are waiting for.

When the van stops by our gate, they begin to drift over. They stare at the rubber gloves on the clinic helper. They stare at the tubing and the IV drip bag attached to Mama as he slides her from the rear of the van onto a stretcher-trolley.

The one neighbor missing is the one neighbor who knew we
were coming. Mrs. Tafa. I picture her hiding behind her shutters, afraid of living next door to an AIDS family.

Soly and Iris run up to me. I hug them. “Mama's very sick.”

“Is she going to get better?”

“We can hope.”

Holding hands, they follow the helper and me into the house and on to Mama's room. There's a homemade frame with baby pictures of us kids hanging above her bed. I take it down and we use the nail to hang up the IV bag. We lift Mama from the trolley onto her mattress, and pull up her cover.

Iris, Soly, and I each give her a kiss on the forehead. Mama's unconscious, but she seems to know what's happening. A smile crosses her lips and for a moment the lines around her eyes and forehead soften.

“You rest now, Mama,” I whisper.

I walk the helper back to the van. I pretend not to notice that the neighbors haven't budged. The helper hops into the van and starts the engine, then hands me a box of rubber gloves through the window. He edges the van through the crowd and is gone.

Everyone's staring. I want to close my eyes and make the world disappear. I want to recite the alphabet until my brain melts. But I don't. I force a smile. “Thank you for coming,” I say.

Silence.

I know each of these people—I've known them since we moved here. They're good people, fine people. But they look at me like I don't exist. A million terrible thoughts fill my head. Are we without friends from this moment on? Cut off? Shunned? Left to live and die alone?

It's now that a miracle happens. A screen door bangs shut on the other side of the hedge. All eyes turn. Striding toward
me, twirling her floral umbrella, comes Mrs. Tafa. She marches up as bright as a sunrise and kisses me on both cheeks.

“Welcome home,” she says. She nods to the crowd. “I don't know what the rest of you folks are doing here, but I've come to say hello to my good friend Lilian.”

The crowd blinks.

“Is something the matter?” Mrs. Tafa demands.

There's a low rumble.

Mrs. Tafa arches an eyebrow. “I know what goes on behind each of your doors,” she says, sizing them up one by one. “This is the best family on the block. If any of you disagree, I'll be happy to share your secrets.”

Some nervous coughs. A few wives give their husbands the evil eye. Young men look down, toe the dirt. And from all around, voices begin to break the silence.

“Glad to see you back,” says old Mr. Nylo the ragpicker.

“You're in our prayers,” say the Lesoles.

Under the watchful eye of Mrs. Tafa, they each come up to give their regards or shake my hand. As soon as they leave, some of the shakers wipe their hands on their pants and dresses. It doesn't matter. The Keeper of Scandals has spoken. The curse has been broken.

W
HEN
M
RS.
T
AFA AND
I
ENTER THE HOUSE,
Esther whisks Soly and Iris to their room. I close the front door and Mrs. Tafa starts shaking. She looks out the window to make sure everyone's truly gone. Then she clutches her hand to her chest and collapses in a chair at the kitchen table. “Water! Water!”

I bring her a glass. She gulps it down and has another.

“Mrs. Tafa,” I say, “thank you for what you did out there.”

She gives me a wave of her hankie as if it was nothing. “Is it all right if I see your mama?”

I nearly fall on the floor. It's the first time I've ever heard Mrs. Tafa ask permission for anything. “Come,” I say, and take her into Mama's room. We sit together by the side of the bed. As I watch her watching Mama, she doesn't seem so fierce anymore. Instead she seems like I feel: scared and alone.

“Chanda,” she says at last, “forgive me. Your mama and me, we thought we knew best. We thought if the traditional doctor came, your mama would have an excuse to disappear, to pass in secret. Your mama thought she'd spare you shame. Me, I just thought about myself. People knew we were friends. To have her die here... like this... after everything I'd said about the sickness... I was afraid.”

“It's all right,” I say.

The minute I say it's all right, Mrs. Tafa buries her head between her knees and wails. I put my arm around her shoulder. She grabs hold of me and blubbers like a baby.

“You thanked me for what I did out there,” she weeps. “It's not me you should thank. It's my son. My Emmanuel.”

But Emmanuel's dead, I think.

“When you called from the hospital,” Mrs. Tafa continues, “I was so terrified. I closed the shutters and hid behind the closet curtain. When the van drove up, I peeked between the shutter slats. I saw the neighbors coming. I went back to hide, to leave you to face them alone. That's when I saw the shrine to my Emmanuel sitting on the side table. His baptismal certificate, funeral program, envelope of baby hair, and in the middle of it
all, his photograph. His eyes called to me from the grave, ‘Mama, for my sake, you know what to do.' He was right. I knew. And this time I didn't betray him.”

“But you've never betrayed him.”

“Oh, yes, I have. Ever since he died.” She wrings her hankie. “When Emmanuel won his scholarship to study law in Jo'burg, we were all so proud. He'd never been one to waste his time on girls. Only on books. Now his studies had paid off. I remember the last time we spoke. He was at a phone booth on his way to his doctor to take the physical for his travel documents.”

“Just before his hunting accident, right?”

She shakes her head. “My boy didn't hunt. There was no accident. He shot himself.”

My head swims. “What?”

“As part of the physical, his doctor gave him an AIDS test. The test came back positive. Emmanuel borrowed a rifle from a friend. He went into the bush, put the rifle in his mouth and blew his head off. You see, he didn't know how to tell us, my husband and me. He was afraid we wouldn't understand. He was afraid we wouldn't love him anymore.”

“But that's crazy.”

“Is it?” She wipes her eyes. “Then why have we dishonored his death with a lie?”

We sit very still.

“I won't tell anyone,” I whisper.

“It's all right if you do,” she says. “Seeing how you've stood by your mama, well, it's how I want to stand by my Emmanuel. Facing the neighbors today, I've never felt so tall. I hope my boy was watching.”

Before Mrs. Tafa goes, she takes my mama's hand and whispers
in her ear: “Oh Lilian, you have such a daughter. Such a daughter.”

T
WO DAYS LATER,
M
AMA SLIPS INTO A COMA.

Esther looks after Iris and Soly, while Mrs. Tafa organizes different neighbors to bring food and help with chores. I stay with Mama the whole time, changing her, and turning her over to keep away bedsores. At night I pass out on a mat beside her. I'm glad I don't have time to think. If I did, I'd go crazy.

In the middle of the week, I get a visitor. Mr. Selalame. Without thinking, I throw myself into his arms. “Oh, Mr. Selalame, I'm frightened.”

When I settle down, I have Esther sit with Mama, and Mr. Selalame and I go for a walk. We end up at the park around the block, sitting on the swings.

“I'm sorry about school,” I say. “I'm sorry for letting you down.”

“You didn't.”

I wipe my eyes. “I don't think I can go back. When this is over, I'll have to work.”

“I know.” He pauses. “Chanda, this isn't the right time to make decisions. But I want you to know I've made enquiries. A lot of teachers are sick. There aren't enough qualified replacements. You were one of my best students. I've recommended you at the elementary school. When you're ready—if you're interested—the principal says you can have a job as a supply.”

I know this is wonderful news. Working supply will help us get by—and I can keep an eye on Iris—Soly too, he'll be starting school next year. All the same, I think of my dreams. How I
wanted to graduate. Get a scholarship. Be a lawyer. A doctor. A full teacher. My dreams are over. I choke up.

Mr. Selalame knows why I'm crying. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Chanda, you keep your dreams alive, you hear? This is only for now. Dreams are for your whole life.”

At night I sit with Mama after everyone's asleep. I hold her hand and tell her what Mr. Selalame said. “It's not perfect,” I say quietly, “but there's always the future. And meanwhile, Soly and Iris and I will be all right. We'll survive.”

They tell me Mama can't hear me. All the same, when I say my news, her body relaxes. She begins to rest easy.

She stays with us for one last day. Iris and Soly know what's coming. They sit beside her and tell her stories. I say that even though Mama's sleeping, deep inside she knows they're there.

Every so often, one of them cries. I try not to show how afraid I am. “It's all right,” I say. “I'll be with you.”

“But we want Mama. We don't want her to go.”

“She won't be gone. Not really. Whenever you miss her, just close your eyes. She'll be as close as your nearest thought.” I hope that's true. Even if it isn't, I don't know what else to say.

People think I'm imagining things when I tell them this, but I don't care. It's what I know:

The end came in the middle of the night. I was on my mat next to Mama. Soly and Iris were in the other room with Esther. For some reason I woke up. Mama was looking at me.

I raised myself on an elbow. Mama's in a coma, I thought. Am I dreaming?

“Don't worry,” she said. “You're awake. I've just come back to say good-bye.”

“No,” I pleaded. “Not yet. Please, not yet.”

“You'll do fine,” she laughed gently. “I believe in you.”

And she passed.

I went to get Iris and Soly. At the door to their room, I saw them standing at the window with Esther.

“They just woke up,” Esther whispered.