Rachel Weeping (7 page)

‘I have to renew my visa on Monday,' Rachel said, wiping her greasy fingers on the grass.

‘Make sure you have your letter of employment,' Tapiwa said.

‘Yes. That paper is like gold,' Maria added.

‘Are you sleeping there on Sunday night?' Tapiwa asked. ‘At Home Affairs?'

‘No, I can't sleep on the streets with Maia. And anyway I'm going to ask the Jordaans if I can leave her here while I go.'

Maria and Tapiwa exchanged a look. Rachel shook her head, knowing what they were thinking. It was a little presumptuous of her to expect her employers to allow her child to stay unattended on the property but she believed they had a strong enough relationship to allow her do this. Chris and Michelle would both be at work so she knew that asking was more of a formality than an imposition and Maia would stay in her room.

‘Are you paying someone to stand in line for you?' Maria asked.

Rachel nodded.

‘How much?'

‘Too much.'

 

 

 

 

chapter 7

Rachel walked down
the cold driveway from her room to the Jordaans' house. Her feet ached. The leaves that Richmond had cleared had been replaced by a fresh batch from the oak tree this morning. The Audi parked outside the front door, with a thin layer of frost on its windscreen, told her that Michelle was still in the house. She took a deep breath. What was waiting for her on the other side of the front door today, she wondered. Would Michelle stay closed up in her room or would she actually have the decency to acknowledge her presence?

She walked into the warm house, opening curtains and windows as she made her way to the kitchen. A glance down the passage showed her that the bedroom door was firmly closed, as it had been the day before. Michelle was probably still in bed. It was early, after all.

She froze the moment she saw Michelle sitting at the kitchen table, the steam from two mugs of tea curling through the cold air in front of her.

‘I made you some tea,' Michelle said awkwardly, standing up.

Still rooted to the spot, Rachel watched Michelle approach her, mug extended like a peace offering. Rachel took it from her, barely registering the heat burning her hand as she gripped it tightly.

‘Thank you.'

The words hung in the air as the two women took each other in properly for the first time since their uncomfortable session the Sunday evening before Rachel returned to work. Michelle looked the way that Rachel felt inside: tired and sad. Michelle opened her mouth to say something, the words struggling to surface.

‘Rachel …'

Rachel waited for Michelle to continue, trying to suppress the hot fire deep inside her, its flames sparking and licking at her like tongues. She stood perfectly still, knowing that her face betrayed nothing of what she was feeling. She could see that Michelle was disconcerted by her posture and did not know how to read her. She wanted to scream, to run over to Michelle and grab her by the shoulders, shake her until her teeth rattled, take that hot mug of tea and throw it in her face like acid. But she stood, waiting.

‘I … I'm going to be working in the study today,' Michelle said. ‘Just in case you – Just in case you need anything.'

Rachel nodded. Waited.

Michelle edged past her. Still Rachel did not move. She did not watch Michelle leave the kitchen. She did not hear her footsteps in the passage.

When she was gone Rachel walked stiffly over to the sink. The mug was warm against her cold hands. She poured the tea down the drain in a slow brown stream. Then she turned on the hot water and began to rinse the dirty dishes.

 

 

 

Back in the bedroom with the door closed, Michelle found she was trembling. That had not gone well at all. She lay down on the bed and hugged a pillow to her stomach. She must have drifted off because when she woke with a start and sat up, feeling dizzy and nauseous, it was 9 am.

Realising with alarm that she was going to be sick, she bolted for the bathroom and slammed the door closed behind her. She lunged for the toilet, grateful for the first time ever that Chris had left the seat up, and vomited violently into the bowl, expelling from her stomach everything that she had eaten that morning and probably the night before.

Actually she had been feeling ill since she woke up that morning but the conversation – if she could even call it that – with Rachel seemed to have triggered a bout of morning sickness such as she hadn't experienced so far. Dr Pieterse had been telling her she was lucky: most of her patients reported horrible morning sickness. Other than not feeling herself over the last few weeks, Michelle hadn't actually been physically sick. Today was the first time that it seemed as though her body was turning on her. It had declared mutiny on her and all she could do was hold on as the storm raged inside of her.

She stood up shakily and wiped her lips with a wad of toilet paper. Leaning over the basin, she rinsed the bile and vomit from her mouth. She wiped the sweat that had formed on her forehead with her wrist and paused for a few seconds to see if she should expect another bout of nausea. Then she flushed the toilet.

As she looked down at her stomach a flash of resentment towards the baby moved through her, and she had a moment of yearning for her body to remain inhospitable and reject the pregnancy. She didn't deserve this child, not any more. Maybe order would be restored if it just wasn't there.

The emotion was immediately followed by a flood of guilt rushed through her. She splashed more cold water on her face in an attempt to clear her mind. Then she brushed her teeth vigorously and blew her nose.

In the study she sat at her desk staring out of the window and trying to think of what she would do to keep herself occupied today. She was finally coming to terms with the fact that she was not going to be able to keep herself as busy as she was accustomed to and although it still didn't sit well, she knew she had no option but to figure out a way to ease into this different routine.

She powered up her laptop and scanned through her emails. Then she opened her internet browser and typed a search request into Google:
what shouldn't I do when I'm pregnant?

She waited as her request was considered by the web and watched as the front page of possible solutions filled the browser, with advice ranging from diet to activities. She scrolled through the advice with indifference, learning nothing new.

 

 

 

 

Rachel was standing in the flowerbed that ran along the exterior of the house cleaning the bathroom window when she heard the door open inside and then slam shut. This was followed by the unmistakable sound of Michelle vomiting – the second time today. Even through the thick pane of glass it made Rachel feel nauseous. She stopped wiping the glass and waited, listening to the muffled sounds of her employer's wretchedness. It took her right back to the early stages of her own pregnancy, with one moment in particular standing out. She had been standing in the line to get her passport stamped as she crossed from Mozambique into South Africa when the familiar nausea set in and, knowing that the customs official would not respond kindly to being vomited on by a traveller, she had used every bit of willpower she possessed to remain calm and keep everything inside. Once her passport had been stamped she ran to the bathrooms. Even though the facilities were blocked and covered in waste they could never have looked better to her than they did that day.

Rachel was brought back to the present by the sound of the toilet flushing and she waited until she was sure that Michelle had left the bathroom before she continued to clean the window. She wiped the pane until it squeaked before moving on to the next one. She found herself half smiling. There was a warm satisfaction in the thought of Michelle being in discomfort.

 

 

 

Michelle returned to her study. Her skin felt clammy and her mouth was dry from the vomiting. She had seen Rachel's shadow outside the bathroom window and had left the room feeling worse than when she had gone in. The idea of this child growing inside her under Rachel's watchful gaze, as she stood behind windows and in dark corners, silent, judging her, disturbed her terribly.

She typed another question into the search engine, each key that she hit laced with guilt:
abortion clinics johannesburg south africa.

A list of facilities close to her location appeared in the browser. She swallowed hard and opened the first link. Hesitating only momentarily, she tapped the ‘
more info
' section in the corner of the window and waited, her eyes not leaving the screen. At the prompt, her heart pounding in her ears, she entered her name and email address on the digital form.

 

 

 

Rachel
fell back onto her bed and closed her eyes. The weight of the work that day had left her physically exhausted. It was very quiet in the room and the lack of noise was soothing and unsettling at the same time. Usually she spent her afternoons once she'd knocked off with Maia, either playing in the park down the road or preparing their evening meal. The extra time she now had on her hands brought her no rest but rather an awareness of how alone she was, the emptiness amplified by the stillness.

She had no appetite for food nor the energy to prepare any. Even though there was still an hour of daylight left, she pulled the blue blanket over her head and slipped into a deep sleep.

 

 

 

 

‘How are you feeling?' Chris asked as he and Michelle strolled down the quiet street, the last rays of sun filtering through the autumn leaves. It had been his idea that they take Hugo for a walk every day when he got home from work and, thanks to their scarves and jackets, it was turning out to be a pleasant activity. Most of the traffic had died down by this time and they joined the other dog walkers and occasional jogger as they made their way along the neighbourhood's quiet avenues, peering into other people's properties, the ones that weren't incarcerated behind forbidding walls, and giving their opinions on their design and upkeep. The cold air burned their nostrils while the smell of the autumn fires added a distinct flavour that signified the start of winter.

‘Like my body is making a human,' Michelle said.

Chris smiled, but Michelle wasn't looking at him. Brown and golden leaves crunched beneath their feet. Hugo ran as far as his leash would allow, jerking at Chris's arm as he charged ahead between sniffing at trees and street poles.

‘You get any sleep today?'

‘I tried. The problem is that if I sleep too much in the day I'm up all night.'

‘I like what they've done with the entrance here,' Chris said, stopping beside a house where a new security wall and gate had recently been installed. The high walls were clad in sandstone. ‘We should think about doing something like that around the fireplace one day,' he added. Michelle nodded.

They greeted a young man in a vest and shorts who was jogging past them, his warm breath silver against the cold air. They both shivered and, huddling closer together, carried on walking in silence. Chris linked Michelle's arm in his. He was trying to figure out if this was the best time to ask Michelle the question that was uppermost in his mind but he didn't want to ruin this moment of intimacy, contentment even.

‘We spoke,' Michelle said.

Chris looked at her, but her eyes were on the ground ahead.

‘And?'

‘It was awkward. But we spoke.'

Chris stopped walking and made Michelle do the same. He took his wife's face in his hands so that she was looking directly at him. Her eyes were watery but he couldn't tell whether this was from emotion or the cold.

‘It will get easier as time goes by,' he said.

Michelle nodded. The defiant set of her chin at that moment made something catch in his throat. He kissed her softly on her mouth.

‘I'm proud of you,' he said.

 

 

 

Rachel lay in the bathtub, the water shielding her body from the cold night air that drifted in through the window she had left open. Sometimes she enjoyed the contrast of temperatures, her cold face peeking through the steam that rose from the hot water. She slid down onto her back and submerged her head, the night sounds from the garden disappearing as the silence of the water took over. She could hear her heart beating in her ears and as she held her breath she found herself wishing that she could just dissolve into the water that surrounded her.

To disappear, to escape, to no longer be needed and to no longer care.

She felt trapped, caught between her pain and her obligations. The days moved so slowly. She no longer experienced the extremes of emotion she had gone through when Maia – now she just felt dead inside, her soul a dry husk that no water could revive. As her lungs ran out of oxygen, she resisted the urge to come up for air, allowing the pain in her chest to distract her from that other pain, the one that throbbed continually like a club to her heart.

Is this what it felt like
, she thought to herself as her lungs contracted and her heart beat faster.
Maia?
Is this what dying feels like?

Blood roaring in her ears, she held herself down until the first drops of water began to slip through her mouth and into her lungs. She came up quickly, coughing and spluttering and choking on water and air.

And then Rachel began to sob, her tears mixing with water as they ran down her face into the tub.

 

chapter 8

‘Are you sure
there isn't a job at one of the hospitals?' Rachel's mother asked her.

The landline in the Jordaans' kitchen was much clearer than the pay phone by the taxi rank and, while she had felt uncomfortable at first when Chris told her she was free to use their telephone to call home, she had slowly grown accustomed to this perk. She had told her mother not to call her on the line, though, on the chance that Michelle or Chris might pick up, but to rather text her when she was available to talk. Then if the house was empty, Rachel would call her back and they would spend about 20 minutes exchanging stories and catching up. Today, with the Jordaans at their respective offices, Maia at nursery school and Richmond working at his other job in the neighbourhood, she was relaxed on the white leather couch next to the phone.

‘There's nothing, Mama,' Rachel replied, slipping into Portuguese like her mother. She took a sip of tea from the mug she held in her free hand. ‘They barely have work for the local nurses so there's little chance of me finding something. Plus, if I changed jobs then I'd need to find a new place to stay.'

‘It's a pity, but – '

‘How is Father doing?'

‘Better. He can walk again.'

The line went silent for a minute. Inevitably, they always ended up talking about Inhassoro and the local people's ongoing struggles there. This time Rachel brought the subject up first.

‘Is there food in the shops yet?' she asked.

‘We ran out of maize last week. Fortunately, I had enough to last us but others went hungry. Mr da Silva says there'll be more next week if his shipment makes it through customs. I don't know what we would do without your money, child … others are dying because they don't have a – '

‘That won't happen to you, Mama,' Rachel said, cutting her off before things became too emotional. ‘I get paid on Wednesday and I will wire the money to you in the afternoon. You should get it – '

Rachel stopped talking at the sound of the dial tone. The connection to Inhassoro was faulty, even on good days, and it wasn't unusual to have her conversations with her mother cut short this way. She considered calling her back but decided not to today. She still had work to do.

Even though things in Inhassoro were getting better, they were still far from good. She recalled how, just after the cyclone had hit, she and her mother had competed with seagulls for the tiny crabs that would end up being the only food they were able to find during that time. All crops and livestock were destroyed and clean water was something that you had to collect in buckets when it rained.

Scores of villagers died of dysentery and other water-borne diseases and she had witnessed with horror as friends and family members had seemed to melt into their skeletons. She was watching a village die. She had spent her days trying to ease the pain of those who were suffering.

Help, ironically, had come from the sea, the very thing that had destroyed them. While on a trip to Vilanculos with her mother to try and find food, Rachel had been walking along the beach when she noticed a large boat sailing towards the broken harbour which had been built by the Portuguese before she was born. The boat navigated the rocks and sandbanks in the harbour and came to a stop. She saw a man, probably in his thirties, climb out and secure the boat. He approached her and, with the help of a translator, asked her if she could go and gather the men in the village. When she had asked him why, he told her that he had brought food and that he needed help taking it from the boat. The news seemed too good to be true but a glance over the man's shoulder into the vessel revealed large bags of maize wrapped in plastic, stacked one on top of another.

Rachel ran back to the village and did what she had been asked, returning with as many as 50 able-bodied men and a larger crowd of women and children who wanted to see if she had been bewitched or if she was telling the truth.

The men got to work and, after a day of heavy toil, the maize was on the beach and the boat was empty. Rachel had managed to find a fresh coconut which she cracked open and brought to the man, a simple token of thanks for the salvation he had brought to her people. He accepted the coconut and drank the sweet milk gratefully, thanking her afterwards in English. When she responded in English, he looked surprised and started to engage with her, asking her questions about her life and her family.

Rachel found the man easy to talk to. In turn she asked him who he was and where he was from. He told her his name was Peter and that he had come from South Africa because he believed that God had wanted him to bring food to the people affected by the cyclone. He had started an NGO called Joint Aid Management and his goal was to use JAM to bring food and clean water to people who did not have access to it. Before he could continue, the elders of the village arrived to thank the man for his help and Rachel had to stand aside with the rest of the women and children.

Rachel never saw the man Peter again but so strong was the impression he had made on her that she decided, in her heart, that if a white man all the way from South Africa could do something to help her people, she would try to do the same.

It was the day she decided to train as a nurse.

Rachel went through the house methodically, room by room, cleaning and straightening as she went. She noticed Michelle's expensive Louis Vuitton handbag on the dining room table. As she moved to straighten the centrepiece she saw that the bag was open and that Michelle had left her purse in it. Rachel paused. Her heart started to beat hot and fast, betraying her intention before she even had a chance to acknowledge it.

Even though she knew she was alone, she looked around anxiously for a couple of minutes, ears straining for any sound. Then, quickly, nervously, she dipped her hand into the bag and slowly extracted the purse, her fingers trembling. She unfastened the silver clasp and the purse popped open. She looked inside and saw a wad of R100 and R200 notes, crisp from the ATM. She didn't need to count the money to know that what Michelle carried in her purse as change was more than she had in her red biscuit tin after years of saving.

She stared down at the money. She reached in and slid out a purple R100 note. Carefully, she folded it in half and placed it inside her bra, before returning the purse to the handbag.

Michelle would never notice one note missing, of this Rachel was sure. And she would add it to the money she was sending back to her mother, so she would benefit nothing from it personally. Again she looked around, just to make sure that ... Then she left the room, bending down to pet Hugo as he bounded up to greet her.