The Lazarus Effect (2 page)
Read The Lazarus Effect Online
Authors: H. J Golakai
Strawberry lips
Jacqui smoothed the duvet cover against the bed as flat as she could get it. Then she folded … once … twice … tucked the edges in tight under the mattress, smoothing her hand along as she went. A well-made bed mattered to her mother, and these days what mattered to her mother mattered to Jacqui. The
kak
would hit the fan soon enough and the more she did to sweeten the inescapable journey through hell, the easier she’d make things on herself.
The floor she could never get clean enough. Besides that, it really ruined the whole room. It simply didn’t match. She had no idea how something as concrete as a floor could be out of place, since all the other bits either had to work around it or ignore it completely. But
this
one did its best to piss her off. She didn’t know much about styling yet, but one day she definitely would. One day, when she was an interior designer, or just a designer, period, knowing and being known for having cutting-edge information on such things would be her
effing
biznas
! Cool would radiate from her in waves and people would envy her taste. She’d have closets bursting with top-notch stylish clothes that her friends could borrow without bothering to return. Her super-expensive convertible would have spinning rims and her mansion would be full of pimped-out shit–
‘Sherbet,’ Jacqui corrected herself out loud. ‘Sherbet, sherbet, sherbet! Never say shit, say sherbet!’ she ranted, scraping the broom over the
ugly floor. No one would ever respect a designer with a foul mouth or covet her fashion advice. But then again, she knew for a fact that arty people were always pumped to the eyeballs with drugs and screwed around carelessly, swearing being one of their more normal habits. This new ‘afterlife of her eternal soul’ thing kept getting harder and harder to live up to.
Okay, fine, it wasn’t too bad. The socialising part of being born again was actually kind of fun: the youth meetings, braais and parties, the study groups where they did more gossiping than homework. Later on, though, after she made it big, how would all of this conflict with her image? Separate and part of a personal life was one thing – it could be easily packaged as a no-go area and even lend a bit of mystique to a star personality. But part and parcel of a public image, unless you were a gospel icon, was plain uncool. It soured quickly and could end up looking like a cheap publicity stunt, and there wasn’t much picking yourself up after that. She’d seen it happen too often: big break, the dazzling rise, media darling … then poof! Some stink rose from the grave and there went all your hard work. Back to eating
pap en vleis
on your ouma’s stoep. A girl had to be careful. Image was everything.
‘Jacqueline!’
‘Yes, Mum!’
‘Don’t shout at me when I call you! And that room had better be spotless before you even dream of going anywhere!’
Jacqui bit back a slew of curses and kept sweeping. She was practically out of the house; all she had to do was hold her tongue a little while longer. Once she was done, she turned her hand to finishing touches, adjusting the carpet in front of the door and lamps on the side tables, opening the curtains to let in the light. Her mother hated open windows and rudely gaping curtains, especially since the flimsy red material Jacqui had insisted on didn’t hide much without the heavier ones drawn over them. A young woman undressing with nothing but
saucy voile between her and the leering eyes of pervers-by, candles flicking their glow onto the windowpane, a soft breeze drifting past …
A teasing smirk lifted Jacqui’s lips. Okay, sometimes it was obvious she hadn’t worked the poison of too many girlie movies out of her system. But if only they knew … If only she could get it through to both of her parents, without actually having to tell and crush them, that it was too late to headache over spilt milk. All she could do now was stay on the mostly straight, annoyingly narrow and often boring. Well, she could do her best. No doubt her mother would be up here after she left, yanking the curtains shut, snooping through her things while trying not to leave obvious signs that she had, doing her best to preserve their humble home’s dignity. It was worth a try.
Jacqui checked the time and threw the rest of her look together in the last few minutes. It was cool and cloudy outside, showers threatening to come through later, so she stuffed her hair under her favourite red knitted cap. Saturday tennis wasn’t as big a deal as basketball training but still counted as an outing, and outings, thanks to her mum, were as rare and precious as gemstones these days.
Every
outing meant dressing up.
She zipped the tracksuit top of her school kit over a plain, loose T-shirt, liking how it worked with worn blue jeans and battered Bata
tekkies
. Saturday girl: scruffy chic, effortless. All her cool, new gear was zipped away, only to be worn during practice, and maybe after, depending on how brave she felt. No point inviting more questions when escape was so near.
Jacqui slung her gym bag over a shoulder and took one last look in the full-length mirror. She made a face. Too plain. She unzipped a side pouch of the tote and fished around until she found her make-up bag. Couldn’t hurt if she dotted on just a bit of her favourite lip gloss. Fruity and rose-red, just the way she liked it. Her lips gleamed as she
smeared them together. She pulled a few curls out of her ponytail, rounding off the cute messiness effect.
Much better. Jacqui lifted her index finger, licked the tip and then pressed it down onto her jutting bum, hissing air out of her teeth like the sound of a cigarette going out on something wet. A sway of hips and a giggle propelled her out the door.
Oh, behave.
The waiting room was an airless sinkhole of Monday-morning blues, its crisp décor struggling to lift the mood. Vee, an unrepentant fan of a brisk breeze, would’ve gotten up to crack a window, were her godson not sprawled across her lap. After twenty minutes of butt-hopping into any available seat to avoid the sun’s glare, she didn’t feel like bothering. To top it off, she was starving. Why did everything in this bloody city take so long?
The sit-in of glum faces around her didn’t seem to know either, or care. A paediatric appointment in this joint was a gem not readily discarded, though Vee was considering it. Every few minutes, the man beside her fired a round of coughs too rich for Vee’s liking, making her question whether it was the child he had in tow who needed to see a doctor. She kept her godson to her chest and leaned away, smiling politely. This was Cape Town and tuberculosis was real. You could never be too sure.
‘Waiting still?’ Soft brown eyes in a tiny face looked a question up at her.
Vee nuzzled Ikenna. ‘Aay sugar, I know. But we got to wait like everybody else, okay? Just small more.’ A new fit of
coughing erupted at her shoulder; the man was bringing up hacked-up pieces of lung. She hopped to her feet.
‘Or maybe,’ she muttered, hoisting the toddler onto her hip, ‘we ask some questions.’
The receptionist was serving the cocktail proffered by all gatekeepers: apathy and bullshit, garnished with feigned sympathy. She barely lifted her gaze to acknowledge Vee’s questions. ‘I’m really sorry ma’am, but the doctor can’t see you yet. As you can see, it’s gonna be a long wait for everyone. You just have to be patient.’
‘Patience covers an extra twenty minutes. It’s been over an hour,’ Vee said. ‘Come on, the patients here are
this big
.’ She gave Ikenna a playful swing towards the desk and he giggled, waving his arms. ‘How much time can it take to look one over and prescribe a cough syrup?’
The girl pursed her lips. ‘Obviously, you’re not his mother.’
Vee bristled. ‘Not his m–
excuse me?
Whatchu tryin’ to say, that I–’ The receptionist crossed her arms and popped a hip, prepared for showdown. Vee took one look around the crowded room and sucked in the storm. One stupid move and she’d be back on the butt of the line. TB Hero would be the least of her worries; the kid on the end was covered in a rash and throwing up orange chunks.
‘Pardon me,’ she sugared, starting again. ‘Please, okay, I really have to get to work. Can you check how much longer it’ll be? I’d really appreciate it.’
The receptionist sighed. ‘What name is it under?’ she asked, flipping through the appointment book.
Vee supplied Ikenna’s name and appointment time. ‘I’m his godmother. It’s under his mother’s name, Connie Ade–’
‘I see it, but there’s nothing I can do.’ The girl met her eyes and softened. ‘Look, it usually isn’t this crazy, but one of our paediatricians doesn’t seem to be coming in today. Ten, fifteen more minutes, max. I’ll make sure you’re in the next batch called.’
Vee thanked her and turned away, then remembered her prescription. ‘Where can I find a pharmacy in the building?’
The receptionist grimaced. ‘Sorry man, there’s no pharmacy on this floor. Used to be, but everything’s been shuffled because of the renovations. Ground floor, west wing, oncology. Bit of a walk.’
Cursing under her breath, Vee left her cell number and set off.
There was trying too hard, and there was just right. The Wellness Institute was clearly aiming for a healthy mixture of both. It was clinically chic, if there was such a thing, but not so self-important as to have ditched the conventional hospital feel, which, gory or not, lent a weird kind of comfort. It was however, New Age-y enough to have opted for old parlance like ‘institution’, which did no harm when paired with taglines like ‘a beacon of hope in health care’ and all its other cutting-edge frills. Even under renovation, the place looked and felt good. The tastefully carpeted corridors and pastel waiting lounges were comfortable distractions from the construction work underway. Unsightly scaffolding and noise from an active building site were unwelcome additions to the muted plushness of the interior, but the WI had collared brisk business and was handling it well.
Vee didn’t ask for much from hospitals. They were like jails and children’s birthday parties – if you got out alive, count yourself lucky. Having spent most of her life in places where access to a proper doctor was a raffle win for most, hanging on to high expectations didn’t feel right. Clean bed, capable staff, clear diagnosis; that would do her. But here … here you got that and a gushing fountain of more. She felt ashamed for surreptitiously eyeing the fresh paint and smiling staff, comparing them to the poky clinic in Kenilworth that would certainly never see her face or debit card ever again. Her last GP had been pleasant enough. Well, until her problems overwhelmed them both and threatened to reveal his ignorance in more specialised matters, which had resulted in a hurried referral. She was glad of it. The WI was hot property – if they didn’t have someone who could fix her, nowhere would. Their bill was bound to be piping hot, too. The key was remembering that her health was important and worth paying for to preserve. She would keep singing that refrain and watch in mute dismay as the invoices filled up her postbox.
Her cell phone tinkled.
‘Where the hell are you?’ Chari hissed in her ear. Vee held the Nokia away to check the number. Of course: Charisma Mapondera, office busybody, using an office landline snoop. The woman would rather risk being overheard by half the staff than spend a cent of her own airtime calling in a more private spot. ‘It’s almost eleven. She’s been stalking you all morning.’
‘Uh. I’m running a little late,’ Vee said. Portia Kruger, editor-in-chief and omnipotent ‘She’ could grind her bones to dust later – a task she always took on with rabid glee. ‘You’re
supposed to be covering for me. I didn’t know there’d be all this rigmarole. This place is more like a new nightclub than a hospital. Aaaay Lawd.’ Ikenna’s body clock was chiming his next nap session and from the lolling of his head, he wouldn’t hold out for much longer. She relaxed her grip on him, forcing him to stay awake by clinging on to her.
‘… know
exactly
how she can be. You don’t even sound like you’re at a doctor’s appointment. Oh my God. You’re not at a doctor’s appointment, are you, you traitor! You’re at a job interview. You’re packing your bags to work for the
Mail &
Guardian
and leaving the rest of us in this dust bowl. Don’t even deny it.’
‘You got me. In one morning, I’m taking a three-year-old to his check-up, hustling to mine …’ Vee mentally amended the second to ‘postponing mine indefinitely’, since something had to give or she’d be here until lunchtime. At the thought of another appointment missed, through no fault of hers, relief coursed through her. Guilt hunted relief down and ate it. Was she really trying or simply going through the motions? She
did
want to know what was wrong with her, dammit – she was pursuing every avenue and life kept getting in the way. ‘Then I’m rushing home to throw on my power suit and speeding to town to knock out a brilliant interview at the
M&G
, all before twelve.’
Chari giggled. ‘Okay, okay, you’re at a doctor’s office full of whinging kids, your life is sad and you don’t need atto from me.’ Vee had no doubt that Charisma was idling behind her desk, untroubled as she used her phone and pilfered snacks from her drawer. Chari hated anyone who was immersed in their own
lives, leaving her smack alone in the middle of hers. Vee could hear her cogs turning, churning out ways to snoop. ‘How come you have to take him, anyway? Why can’t his mother do it? You do know you’ve got next to zero sick leave days left. And why are you at the doctor’s so often these days? I know you’re not preggers … you’ve actually lost weight. Your ass is turning white.’
Vee lowered Ikenna to the floor. He latched onto her leg and began a half-hearted whimper. ‘Chari, I already told you: she’s tied up.’ Vee could only imagine what her best friend was up to her eyeballs in. New stock arrivals turned her into a monster, knee-deep in merchandise for her boutique and hollering at her staff. Connie Adebayo put nothing before her child, except on days she could happily prioritise being a businesswoman after bribing his loving godmother with discount clothing. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m just … running some tests. Routine.’
‘Isn’t that just like these modern mothers? Inconsiderate. Always finding ways to foist their kids and their needs on single friends. Exactly what my cousin did! She wants to be here for the 2010 World Cup next year, right, so she packed up with her kids, left Harare and pitched up one clear blue–’
‘Chari, I’ll call you back,’ Vee lied, and hung up.
Where the hell
, she wondered, striding up to the nearest enquiries desk. The woman on a call behind the counter stalled Vee’s question with a brusque ‘one-minute’ finger before she wrapped up and supplied directions to the makeshift pharmacy. Vee rounded the next corridor and ran into an impossibly long line.
Please Lord, don’t let that be the pharmacy
.
It was the pharmacy.
Vee swore under her breath. The line was moving fast, but not fast enough. Close to three years in South Africa and their policy on lines, queues they called them, was still an amusingly annoying mystery. Everyone patiently waiting their turn, smiling completely inane and unnecessary smiles at one another as if in agreement about the absurdity of the wait, admiring the ceiling, taking ever-so mincing, obedient steps closer to their big moment. With the exception of a passport office, nonsense like this would cause a bust-up in West Africa. The hustle and flow of her kinfolk was as chaotic and yet as organised as a thumping bloodstream. Everybody got what they were after, some jostling and hackles raised, no mental gymnastics. This was asking too much, even for a Monday.
The bright, messy collage of bulletins on the board nearest to the pharmacy caught her eye. Vee quit the line and wandered over, keeping Ikenna, alert and at heel, in sight. In the years to come she would think back to that moment, scouring her memory for a reason, a jolt or inkling that had drawn her over, and would never be able to pinpoint one. What had made her move out of line and what would have happened if she’d stayed put. No reasons besides boredom and impatience ever presented themselves.
Vee scanned the wall-mounted board, one eye on the line (five more people to go, almost there). There was a farewell announcement – a much-loved specialist moving to greener pastures, good luck in California! – two postings for research nurses and a notice from admin apologising for any inconvenience caused by parking restrictions during the construction phase. The left section of the board dedicated itself to interesting
times, chronicling through a splatter of photographs the happy moments between patients and the staff.
One snapshot stopped her mid-turn, pulled her in with such authority it felt as though it reached out with one hand and tilted her chin in its direction, then pressed pause on her entire day with the other. Vee froze. She blinked until her eyes started to water. The photo was still there. Her hand went up of its own free will and her fingertips traced its borders, confirming it was real. Not all of what she saw these days was.
Before her was an image of a birthday celebration in a hospital room.
A bunch of kids and two nurses, one middle-aged and the other dew-fresh, a huddle of grins around a huge cake propped on the lap of a bald, prepubescent boy. A few of the other children were bald too, but unlike the boy in the middle, they wore bandanas or caps. A girl stood near the boy’s elbow, at the edge of the photo but somehow in the middle of it, as central as the boy himself. Her smile and stance were uncertain compared to the other kids, like she knew herself an outsider here – her hair too full and glossy, her complexion too rosy. As the girl crouched to fit into the frame, her hand rested on the boy’s arm, fingers curled around his bony shoulder as if he were a reservoir of strength she hungrily drew on. Even without the knitted red hat and the knife of time to carve away the baby cheeks, the girl’s face was unmistakable. An animal groan made Vee start and look around in surprise, until she realised the sound came from her own throat. A couple nearby looked up from their conversation and squinted in her direction.
‘Teelinglingling. Teeleeeelingling,’ sang Ikenna, tugging on her jeans. Dazed, Vee looked down as if she’d never seen him before in her life. It took a moment to sink in that he was mimicking a ringing cell phone. Hands shaking, she fished the Nokia out of her handbag.
‘Miss Va … um, Viona … Vaija … uh, Miss Johnson,’ spoke a hesitant voice. ‘Tamsin here, the receptionist from upstairs. Dr Kingsley’s almost done with the last patient, so he’ll see you in ten minutes. That okay?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Vee croaked. ‘On my way.’
Her face was hot, melting, sliding off, the combo of plastic and glass of her phone icy against her skin. This Air Girl, this Smiling Everywhere Girl, she lived here, inside this picture, in this hospital. She’d been inside this building at one point. There was no mistaking it, no question about that smile. The girl in the photograph was the younger mould of the tormentor, but nonetheless it was her. The one Vee kept seeing when there was nothing to see. This face was the ambassador of last week’s jogging meltdown and all the other unwelcome sightings. The force in the ominous undertow she sometimes felt when sitting alone, of being watched, hovered over, the one that pricked up tiny anthills on her skin.
Vee wiped a clammy slick of moisture off her forehead. Anxiety rolled, fogging her vision.
Not here. Not now.
God no no no no no no no …
