Rachel Weeping (6 page)

‘Hey, you,' Chris said, holding her tightly.

‘Hey.'

‘This is nice,' he said, motioning towards the fire.

‘I thought we should use it tonight. It's cold.'

Chris took off his jacket and sat down on the couch, kicking his shoes off and putting his socked feet on the coffee table.

‘And, apart from this, what did you get up to today?' he asked, smiling.

‘Not much,' Michelle replied. ‘Stuck around here and worked. Dealt with some emails.'

Satisfied with her handiwork, Michelle sat down beside her husband on the couch and rested her head on his shoulder. The warm light from the fire reflected on their faces as the flames licked lazily at the wood.

‘You speak to Rachel?'

Michelle sat up, taking her time as she thought about how best to answer him.

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘We were on separate sides of the house, so I didn't really get a chance.'

Michelle could tell that her excuse rang false because not even she believed it. She felt Chris shift his weight on the couch. He put his arm around her and pulled her back towards him.

‘You can't avoid her forever,' he said gently.

‘I know.'

They sat in silence, watching the flames dance around each other in rhythmic steps only they knew the moves to. Michelle reflected that it had been a while since the two of them had just sat in silence next to each other and the warmth of Chris's body was comforting.

Silence between couples was one of the things they disagreed on. Chris had always said that one of his nightmares would be if they ended up like those older couples you saw in restaurants who went an entire meal without talking to each other, each staring ahead and eating their food in silence. In his opinion, this was a sign that your relationship had died and that you had nothing left to talk about. Although Michelle partly agreed with him, she also took another view; she looked at those silent couples and saw something different. In her mind, the ability to be quiet with someone was a sign that you were truly comfortable with that person, that you no longer needed to talk to communicate. The ability to be silent meant that you knew each other inside out and were content simply to sit peacefully in each other's presence.

As they sat together now and stared into the fire, she knew that this silence fell into the latter category. Chris knew what she was struggling with and she knew that he knew. They didn't need to talk about it.

 

 

 

Chris scrolled through his Facebook profile as the fire died down. Michelle was taking a bath, the remains of their takeaway dinner on the coffee table beside his feet. He decided it was time to change his profile picture and clicked through his photo album to find something he liked. A friend's wedding he and Michelle had attended a couple of months ago had a few decent ones but nothing looked quite right. He opened up the album from the Run Jozi marathon he'd completed last October. There was a photo of him crossing the finishing line, his body a few kilograms lighter than it was right now and looking good in his running gear. He hit upload and, after aligning the thumbnail, set it as his profile picture.

He was about to turn the tablet off when he heard a beep and saw the red notification telling him that the photo had been liked. By Anja. The digital approval brought a smile to his face. Then the app beeped again and he saw that she had written a comment on the photo.

A man of many talents! #superboss

Chris couldn't think of anything smart to say in reply (and technically he wasn't her boss) so he made his way to her photographs instead, starting what had become a nightly ritual for him of going through Anja's past adventures. He chuckled to himself as he read some of the exchanges she'd had with her friends. Anja had a great sense of humour, sharp and funny. She was good company.

Before signing out he went back to her comment and liked it. It would be telling her he had received her message, but wouldn't be misconstrued or look inappropriate to anyone else who might be interacting with her.

 

chapter 6

Rachel sat on
the bed beside her daughter and tucked the blue blanket around the little girl's body. Maia lay on her back with her Barbie doll in her hands, whispering secrets into her ear. It made Rachel smile. She had hardly put the doll down since they'd got home.

‘Are you ready to sleep?' she asked.

Maia nodded but didn't look up. She began to stroke the doll's long golden hair.

‘What are you thinking, little one?' Rachel prompted.

‘Why is my hair not long like Barbie's or Abigail's?' Maia asked.

‘Because our hair doesn't grow like white people's,' Rachel replied, bending and planting a kiss on her daughter's head.

‘But Beyoncé isn't white and her hair is long,' Maia pointed out logically.

‘That's not her real hair,' Rachel told her.

‘Don't lie, Mama.'

‘I'm not lying,' Rachel replied, trying to hold back her laughter. ‘She buys her hair from a shop and they sew it into her real hair.'

‘Oh.' Maia looked up at her mother with interest. ‘Where does the shop get the hair from?'

‘Some of the hair is made from plastic but, if you have money like Beyoncé, you get it from Indian women. They cut their hair off and sell it to the shop.'

Rachel watched Maia process the information and tried to hide her amusement. She had an inkling of what was going through Maia's head. While she was growing up in Inhassoro, white people in the village were rare, but she had a distinct memory of once seeing some German tourists at the market, and she especially remembered being fascinated by the women's hair – long strands the colour of beach sand that went right down their backs and moved and floated as they walked around shopping for souvenirs. Rachel had watched in amazement and afterwards dedicated weeks of prayers to Jesus in the hope that he would give her hair just like those women's.

‘Mama,' Maia said, ‘can I ask you something?'

‘What?' Rachel said.

‘Can you get me some Indian hair from – '

‘Okay, girl, it's time for you to go to sleep now.'

‘One more question, Mama.'

‘Quickly.'

‘When are you going to teach me to swim?'

Rachel looked down at her daughter and stroked her forehead, the hope in Maia's eyes bringing a wave of warmth through her soul. She couldn't believe how fast she was growing up.

‘Not yet, Maia, but soon.'

‘And then can I swim in the ocean when we go visit Mozambique?'

‘Yes. Time for sleep now,' Rachel said. She leaned forward and kissed her. ‘Sleep dreams, my little girl.'

Maia gave a big contented sigh. Carefully, she tucked her mermaid Barbie doll beneath the blue blanket beside her, arranging the golden hair on the pillow. Then she closed her eyes and Rachel turned off the harsh overhead light. She left the bedside lamp on.

As Maia's breathing deepened, Rachel knelt on the floor next to the bed and reached under it. She pulled out a red biscuit tin, which she took across to the table. Quietly she prised off the lid and sifted through the contents until she found her passport. She flipped through the pages to the latest stamp. The date showed that her visa would expire in just a few weeks' time. She would need to go to Home Affairs soon to get it renewed, a process that usually proved to be both humiliating and time consuming. She always dreaded going there.

Most of the guards outside the building carried sjamboks, large plastic whips that they swung back and forth to herd the foreign nationals in and out of the premises. No one dared complain. They were all well aware that any protest would be detrimental to the renewal of their visas. Some of the guards would stop people from entering and only allow them access to the building once they had paid a bribe. All power rested in their hands and everyone knew it.

Fortunately for her, Rachel was familiar with the process and not as intimated as she used to be when she'd first arrived in South Africa. Now she knew exactly where to go and how the system worked. Usually, she found herself standing in a line with about 50 other immigrants all waiting for their applications to be processed by an officer who would take frequent bathroom breaks and personal phone calls. On good days the process would take about three hours, although this was never a certainty, and by the end of it she would emerge with another six months of security. She dreamed of the day, not too far off now, when she would be able to fill out an application form for permanent residence.

She put the passport back in the biscuit tin but before she closed it her eye lit on the cowry shell she had picked up on the beach at Inhassoro the day she had left Mozambique. She took it out. The enamel shone in the light of the lamp but somehow, like Rachel herself, she thought wryly, the shell had lost its vibrancy over time. Perhaps it was the absence of the warm waters of the Indian Ocean that had taken its toll on both of their bodies. But still the shell reminded her of home. She brought it to her lips and blew gently into its underside until a low hum resonated through the room. Instead of returning it to the tin, she placed it on the table, deciding she would give it to Maia in the morning. It would be something that would tell her where she came from. It might not be an expensive doll or an elaborate birthday party, but it was something precious. Something from home, a part of who she was.

Rachel slid the tin back beneath the bed, then turned on the TV with the volume down low. She cleared everything off the table and spread a threadbare blanket over its surface. Then she turned her attention to her own pile of ironing, starting with her blue and white uniform for the following day.

 

 

 

Michelle sat on the toilet seat, waiting for the pregnancy test to give her an answer. They had done everything by the book: from the timing that they had sex to the food she had eaten and not eaten that month. She had even lain with her pelvis in the air for an hour after they had had sex in the hope that the angle would encourage Chris's sperm in their important mission.

This wasn't the first time she had held one of these tests in her hand but this time, as with the ones before, she was hoping it would be the last. The negatives had happened too often for her not to be worried but she still held onto the belief that this time it would be different.

When they had first started trying to conceive, she had let Chris know whenever she was about to take a test but now, four years and three miscarriages in, it was something that she did privately. Chris would always get too excited in the build-up and when the answer came out negative he would be unable to hide his disappointment. This, in turn, would lead to a difficult week, of insecurity from her side and compensation from his as they tried to deal with their failure. By keeping it to herself, she reasoned, she made things easier, and while it meant that she went through the journey alone each time, it also meant that she dealt with the disappointment faster.

With Chris at work and Rachel at the shops with Maia, she had the house to herself. She stared at the small window, willing the right sign to appear. The colours on the stick began to change and she watched as one line emerged from the beige background. She waited a little longer until she was certain and then she tossed the stick into the bathroom trashcan.

Unbidden, the tears came and she stayed where she was, sitting on the toilet seat. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed by a fist in her chest and she felt the beginnings of a headache. Perhaps it was time to consider the reality that she and Chris might not be able to have children. The thought was unbearable. She tried to stop herself from crying but then, realising that she was completely alone in house and that no one could see or hear her, she just let go. She put her face in her hands and sobbed. She cried until her insides hurt.

When it seemed she was spent, she stood up and looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She was a pitiful sight – smeared make-up and puffy red eyes. Get a grip, Michelle, she told herself. She turned on the faucet and splashed her face with cold water. She reached down, took the pregnancy test stick out of the trashcan, wrapped it in toilet paper and took it downstairs to put in the bin outside the kitchen door. No point in Chris coming across it inadvertently.

 

 

 

Rachel and Maia walked through Checkers Hypermarket, Maia's tiny hand in Rachel's as they navigated their way through the crowded aisles of food and products towards the Money Market counter at the back of the store. The Money Market was a cash-send facility the department store offered, which allowed customers to deposit in South African rands and send the money to family in the currency of the country they came from. This was how she sent money back to her parents in Mozambique, which she did once a month on the day the Jordaans paid her.

They joined the back of the line that snaked towards the counter. Rachel checked her old Nokia to see if she had any messages. Her mother would often send her an sms to let her know that she was at the cash depot in Inhassoro so that if there was a problem with the transaction, Rachel could sort it out right away. There was no message today. She put a fingertip into the envelope she had in her hand and counted the rands inside once more just to make sure that she had the correct amount.

Maia had brought the Barbie doll along for the journey which served Rachel just fine because it meant she wouldn't have to keep the child entertained while she shopped. Things moved much more slowly when Maia was with her so she appreciated anything that made the task easier.

The cashier at the Money Market stand indicated to Rachel to step forward. Rachel did so, and placed the envelope and her passport on the counter.

‘Where to?' the assistant asked. Her plastic braids were held together by a bright purple band.

‘Inhassoro, Mozambique.'

The woman slid a piece of paper and a pen across the counter and started talking to one of the other assistants, who was leaning against the counter with an earphone in her one ear listening to music on her cellphone.

Rachel was just beginning to fill out the form when she felt a tug on her sleeve.

‘Wait, Maia,' she said without looking down. ‘Don't do that.' She went back to the form. When she was halfway through she heard a familiar high piping voice coming from about a metre away. Clear as a bell, she heard her daughter say: ‘Can I have your hair?'

She whipped around. Maia was standing in front of an Indian woman, who looked to be in her thirties. Her hands were behind her back, Mermaid Barbie clutched tightly in one of them, and her chin was pointed upwards as she looked earnestly into the complete stranger's face. The Indian woman stared down at the little girl, obviously uncomprehending, which only prompted Maia to repeat her question, louder this time so as to make sure it was understood.

Rachel stopped writing and hurried over, her cheeks burning. She grasped Maia by the arm, muttering apologies to the woman, who didn't seem to see any humour in the moment. She picked Maia up and sat her on the counter. When Maia opened her mouth to speak she silenced her with a fierce look that told her she had better stay right there and not go wandering off and accost any other likely looking candidates. Rachel hastily finished the form, picked Maia off the counter and set her firmly on the floor.

‘Maia,' she said, kneeling down so that she was on her level. ‘Do not do that again. It is not good manners to ask ladies for their hair. Do you understand?'

‘But you said ...' Maia knew she was taking a chance but was standing her ground.

‘Stop now,' Rachel said.

Maia knew that tone. She whispered something in her Barbie's plastic ear but said no more about it.

 

 

 

Chris sat at his desk, staring blankly at the screen of his desktop. He was supposed to be working on a proposal for a new development but the 3pm slump had hit and he was struggling to stay focused.

He let his eyes roam around the open plan office and saw the rest of his co-workers working at their stations, the air filled with the quiet patter of fingers on keyboards. He watched Anja Fouche exit from her boss's office across the way and make her way to her desk. She was oblivious to his scrutiny. She sat down and began to shuffle through the papers she'd been carrying, chewing on her bottom lip in concentration as she tried to create order.

His phone buzzed and he looked down to see that he had a message from Michelle. She was feeling sick and didn't feel like going to movies as they'd planned. Chris texted back, asking if he could get her anything, to which she replied that she just wanted to sleep. He was free to go out and do whatever he wanted that evening.

Chris contemplated staying at home to keep Michelle company but decided to take her up on her offer of a night off. He opened a new email and typed Hannes's address into it, sending him a quick message even though his friend was sitting on the other side of the office.

Movies tonight?

Chris hit send and sat back, looking across the office as he waited for Hannes's reply. Instead his friend's head suddenly appeared through the work station dividers. Hannes grinned and gave Chris a thumbs up.

 

 

 

Maria and Tapiwa were laughing so hard that drivers stuck in traffic turned to see what the commotion was on the street corner.

‘What did the woman
say
?' Maria spluttered. Her laughing turned into a wheezing cough and she tried to bring it under control.

‘Nothing,' Rachel said as she caught her breath. She had found herself laughing just as hard as her friends as she told the story of the incident with Maia at the Money Market counter in Checkers. ‘She just changed lines and refused to look at us.'

‘Poor thing,' Tapiwa chuckled, her shoulders still shaking with mirth.

The laughter started to fade and brief silence descended. The three friends hadn't met together on the grass for a while and there was a lot to catch up on. Maria had brought a packet of crisps along and a few moments of steady crunching covered the quiet before the next topic.