I give her all the time she needs to get over her shock. It takes the few seconds she trails her gaze over me, pausing on the suit, shirt, and lastly the tie.
When she’s finished her evaluation, her lips are slightly parted. “What are you doing here?”
Her voice is a little breathless. It’s soft, like her rose gold hair and the picture of her kneeling amongst flowers in the dusk. So is the hint of perfume that reaches my nose. She smells of vanilla and amber. Warm. Clean.
“I got your letter,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
Her hair whips around her face as she looks over her shoulder at the trailer and back to me. “I live here, as always.”
“Why aren’t you in the house?”
She rests her gloved hands on her thighs. “What house?”
“You returned the money I sent.”
“Jake,” she says softly on a sigh.
Everything inside takes notice when she says my name. My dead soul rises like a zombie.
She gets up and dusts her knees, non-verbal language that clearly dismisses me. “It’s time for Noah’s dinner.”
“I need to talk to you.”
Her eyes dart between Noah and me. “Not in front of him.”
“He’s four.”
“Children are sensitive to atmosphere. They sense conflict and stress.”
“I won’t say anything that will upset him. I just want to catch up.”
She makes a snorting sound. “Catch up?”
“You know how it works here. If you don’t fill me in, someone else will.”
She watches me for a couple of seconds with scrunched up eyes as she battles to make a decision. After some obvious mind-wrestling, she says, “You better come inside for a drink.”
She sounds so much like her mother did all those years ago when my father hit Kristi with his belt. The scar is still there, a tiny, L-shaped, silver line on the curve of her cheekbone. I itch to reach out and swipe my thumb over the mark, but she’s already packing the spade, watering can, and pruning scissors in a wheelbarrow. She lifts Noah from the swing, clutching the kid to her chest. He puts his finger in his mouth and stares at me, drool running over his chubby chin. He’s as cute as fuck.
“Noah.” She kisses his temple to get his attention. “This is Jake. He’s going to come inside for a second.”
When she starts walking toward the trailer, I rush ahead to get the door.
She mumbles, “Thank you,” and lowers Noah into a toddler’s eating chair by the table.
It’s the same table and bench I remember. Not much has changed, except for the crib crammed in next to Kristi’s bed where the vanity used to be.
The space is too small for the three of us. Leaning on the doorframe, I cross my ankles and watch her move around. It’s oddly calming. I’ve never felt comfortable with being quiet like people do when they claim to get in touch with themselves, but there’s a warm humming in my chest as I study Kristi, and for once the tormenting thoughts are absent.
She opens the freezer compartment of the mini-fridge and takes out one of six plastic dishes neatly stacked by twos and lined up in rows of three. Then she removes a pan from a cupboard and puts it on the gas stove.
The little man is still staring at me, something new in his environment he’s not used to. The acknowledgment rips a little part of my heart out, but I don’t give the emotion breathing space. It’s best not to let such sentiments grow. I wink, and he looks away shyly.
How does one talk to a child? I don’t know why I have an urge to make conversation. “What are you having for dinner, little man?”
Kristi quickly looks at me from where she’s stirring the frozen contents in the pan. Her expression is a mixture of hurt, disappointment, and accusation.
“He doesn’t speak,” she says, dragging her hand in a tender gesture obviously meant to reassure over his curls.
I still. Questions run through my mind, none of which I can ask in front of the kid. Why? Has she seen a specialist? At what age do kids start speaking anyway? Of course, if I’d read her letters, I would’ve known this.
“What would you like to drink?” she asks as I stare at her, dumbfounded, unable to come up with a suitable reply. “I have tea or coffee.”
Her hand shakes on the pan handle as she serves what looks like veggie mash on a plate. My presence makes her nervous. Who can blame her? I didn’t warn her of my visit. I squeeze past her, open the fridge, and scan the contents. There’s a carton of milk, two eggs, and some dinosaur kiddies’ brand yogurt. Taking out the jug of water, I fill a glass from the drip tray and turn back to watch her while she puts the plate and a spoon down in front of my son. He utters a happy grunt and attacks his food like a little starving caveman.
“How’s your mom?” I ask.
“Good.”
I glance over at the bed with the orange bedspread. “She still stays with you?”
“Yes. She’s out getting groceries.”
She takes a packet of two-minute noodles from the shelf above the stove where two more in the same red flavor are aligned. “Do you mind if I have dinner? There won’t be time after Noah’s bath.”
“What happens after Noah’s bath?”
“It’s story and bedtime.”
I take a gulp of the water, my eyes pinned on her. “Let me buy you dinner.”
She stills in the middle of ripping open the packet. “I can’t do that.”
“We need to talk, and we can’t do it in front of Noah.”
“You could’ve just called or sent an email.” She rests her hands on the counter. “Why are you here, Jake?”
“Just dinner, nothing more.” I’m not going to let her eat a fucking cup of instant noodles.
“The answer is no. Anyway, I have no one to babysit.”
The logistics of having a child significantly imposes on a person’s freedom, something I’ve never had to deal with. Fuck, it’s never even crossed my mind. My life has always been conveniently free. Selfish. I’ve fucked up in the biggest way ever, lost millions as well as my professional reputation, but I’ve never had to eat a cup of noodles for dinner.
“If your mom has nothing planned for tonight, I’m sure she won’t mind.”
She glances at Noah.
“Has your mom never babysat?”
“Of course she has.”
I don’t like the statement. It confirms she’s been out, maybe with other men, and unjustified as my jealousy is, especially coming from a man who’s bought sex as frequently as breakfast, I can’t help the darkness spreading in my chest. It festers and burns, churning the rot into something far more ugly than failure. It’s so severe I have to press a palm on the aching point between my breastbones.
I force my face to remain blank. “Then what’s the problem?”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“I do.”
“I don’t care about what you want.”
“We need to talk about logistics. A divorce has all kinds of implications.”
Her eyes flare as she quickly looks at Noah again, who’s made a big mess all over the floor. “I need to talk to you outside.” She takes a tub of yogurt from the fridge, peels back the lid, and leaves it in the empty plate. “Mommy’s just going to step outside for a minute. I’ll be right back.” She goes out ahead of me.
When I follow, she’s standing three steps away from the door with her arms crossed.
“What’s up?” I ask, knowing damn well what’s bugging her.
“Are you talking about custody? Is that the implication you’re referring to?”
“Relax. I’m not here to take Noah away from you.” Enough money could do that, especially to single mothers who earn just enough to afford a trailer and noodles for dinner.
“You can’t just walk into his life like this. I won’t see him hurt or disappointed when you pack up and disappear in a couple of days.”
It’s going to be a hell of a lot longer than a couple of da
ys. I had no real plan coming here, but the intention springs on me as I’m standing face to face with her, close enough to smell, see, and hear her, close enough to touch her if I reached out.
“Dinner,” I say. “We’ll talk then. When is Noah’s bedtime?”
“Seven,” she says, the word hesitant, reluctant.
“Seven-thirty. Will that give you enough time?”
Her tense shoulders and troubled face tell me she doesn’t want to agree, but she knows I’m right. Eventually, we’ll have to talk.
“Fine,” she finally says. Without another word, she enters the trailer and shuts the door in my face.
With an hour and a half to kill, I book into the only hotel in town, have a shower, and dress in a clean pair of slacks and shirt. Then I drive up the hill to the house in which I grew up. At the gates, I sit quietly in the car for a moment. A part of me hoped for change, but the stagnant similarity is sadly familiar. The sight of the pretentious house with its square, stiff walls and the pristine lawn with the crystal blue pool in which no one ever swims still leave me with a sense of detachment. My father died a year ago. Heart attack. I didn’t come back for the funeral. What would’ve been the point of pretending? I felt nothing then. I scour my sentiments carefully, not hard to do when there’s so little of them. Dissecting the threads left of my humanity for sadness, loss, or regret, I don’t find a shred of compassion or caring. One more thing that hasn’t changed.
Winding down the window, I take a wild gamble and punch in the old code. What do you know? The gates swing inward, giving access to the kingdom my father lived and died for. High blood pressure. Too much stress. That’s what my mother’s telegram said. Who the fuck sends telegrams in a world of modern technology?
I park in the visitor’s spot and crunch my way over the gravel to the imposing door. Did my parents make it that size to show the world how important they were or to hide how small they felt? I ring the bell and wait. Inside, heels clack over the floor. The steps are hard and unhurried, indicating they’d let whoever stands in front of the door wait. It opens on the scowling face of my mother. Despite a few wrinkles, she looks the same. It startles me. I don’t know why I expected her to be different than my unflattering memory. Her hair is dyed the same yellow shade of blonde, stiffly curled, teased, and plastered in place with hairspray. I can smell the chemicals all the way to the step where I’m standing. Not even her French perfume can mask the odor. Chanel no. 5. A cliché, if there’s ever been one. She’s wearing a sleeveless dress, stockings, and heels, all black.
No shock registers on her face as she looks me up and down. “I was wondering who got through the gates.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” The question is mocking, not a request for a scrap of a welcoming.
“What brings you back to town?”
“Who’s living in the house?”
“What house?”
“Spare me the games. You know which house I’m talking about.”
“Mrs. Coetzee and her husband, I think. I’m not sure if he’s still alive.”
“Why are you sub-letting a house I’m renting for Kristi?”
“She didn’t want it.”
“I just saw her. She doesn’t even know about the damn house.”
Her lips thin. “What did you expect? Your father is dead.” She spits dead at me like an accusation, as if I killed him. “His life insurance barely covers the bond on this house. It’s tough times for the business. How am I supposed to live?”
For four years, she’s been pocketing the money for the roof I meant to put over her grandson and Kristi’s heads. Judging by the contents of Kristi’s food cupboards, my mother has been stealing the monthly allowance too. When Kristi returned my first payment, I’ve stupidly transferred it to my mother’s account with the instruction to use the money to take care of my kid. My mother has always been a status-driven, luxury-hungry bitch, but she’s never been selfish, at least not when I was living under her roof. I’m going to do the righteous thing and give her the benefit of the doubt without coming to nasty, premature conclusions.
“Did you ever give Kristi a cent of the money I sent?”
“I’m your mother. I have bills. Have you ever offered me a cent?”
“Have you ever bought the kid a toy, a jersey, food, anything?”
“As I said, I had expenses.”
My control is unraveling. I’m doing a shit job of keeping it together. “Have you even seen him? Have you ever visited Noah?”
“Have you?” she deadpans.
Guilty as charged. It doesn’t prevent anger from whirling in my chest, squeezing until the air in my lungs hurts.
Slamming my fist against the doorframe, I hurl an insult. “Goddamn you.”
My mother flinches at the outburst. “You will not use that language with me. Your father may have disowned you, but I’m still your mother.”
“A title you don’t deserve.”
Bunching her fists and stretching to her full height, she hisses, “How dare you?”
“You used my money, the money you clearly knew was meant to take care of my child, to keep up your life of luxury and pay for a monstrosity of a house you live in alone.”
“You wanted neither the girl nor the child, or you wouldn’t have wiped your hands clean of them. You ignored their existence. I didn’t do anything you didn’t do first.” She points at her chest. “You have a responsibility toward me.”
Pain travels through my knuckles up my forearm as the adrenalin from the physical blow starts wearing off, but I welcome the sting. “If you’d asked, I would’ve given you what I had, but this I won’t forgive.”
I’m done. I can’t stand here any longer, breathing the same air as the woman who claims to love me. The problem with that love is that it’s always been conditional. Love is only given to kids who behave, who act as they’ve been taught, adhering to the values of their parents, regardless if they believe in them.
Turning my back on her, I walk back to my car.
“Who took care of you, huh?” she yells, running after me. “Who bought your clothes and paid for your meals?”
She bangs a fist on my window as I close the door and start the engine, staring at me with helpless anger in her ridiculous heels on the gravel as I point the nose of the car to the gates and get the fuck out of there.
I arrive early at Kristi’s trailer. Parking at the main entrance, I make a few quick transactions on my phone, canceling the monthly transfer to my mother’s account and giving the rental agent notice on the house. It’s the quickest way of getting rid of the illegal lessees. I’ll find another house for Kristi and Noah.
At five minutes before the agreed time, I knock on Kristi’s door.
Gina opens. Her expression isn’t hostile. It’s something between anxious and disappointed. “Jake.”
“Gina. You look well.”
She places a palm on her nape. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I hope babysitting isn’t a problem.”
“I understand you and Kristi need to talk.” She hesitates. “It took Kristi a long time—”
“I’m right here, Mom,” Kristi says behind Gina, kissing her on the cheek and pushing her aside with a warning look.
“Just don’t mess it up for her again, okay?” Gina says.
I look over Kristi’s shoulder and find the little man I’ve been looking for. Dressed in pajamas with an airplane motive, he sits in his crib, quietly playing with a plastic truck. Fuck me if that scene doesn’t shred me up inside.
“I won’t be late,” Kristi says.
She kisses the top of Noah’s head and grabs her handbag from the bed. I study her as she walks ahead of me to the car. She’s wearing a lilac summer dress with sandals. In the light from the lamppost, the fabric is slightly see-through. The curve of her hips and outline of her thighs are visible. It reminds me of the day we got married when she showed up at the town hall in the pink dress with the white floral print
she wore to our last Spring Day at school. It was the only day we were allowed to swap our uniforms for casual clothes. The thin fabric of her dress was translucent in the sun. I couldn’t stop staring. I almost gave Jan a shiner for looking for a second too long. There was no sun on our wedding day to highlight the shape of her body under that dress, but I knew those curves by hand and heart. With the passing of time in Dubai, I forgot how her softness fitted in my palms. The memory I religiously revisited in my mind eventually started fading, its potency diminished as the stress of a failing project and flunking grades took the foreground. Being back makes those repressed memories vivid again, as if they happened yesterday. Only, it’s not yesterday. A lot of dirty water has run into the sea between then and now, and it’s going to take a hell of a lot to fix what I’ve broken, if I even stand a chance.
I get the door for her, something I haven’t done for a woman in a while, four years to be exact. She doesn’t ask where we’re going, and I don’t offer. There seems to be new things in Rensburg after all, one of them the steakhouse I noticed on the drive from the hotel. I didn’t make a booking, but it’s a weeknight. Few people will be out.
It turns out I’m right. There are plenty of free tables. The night is warm, so I ask for one in a secluded corner on the terrace where we’ll have more privacy to talk. The checkered tablecloths and soft lantern light are cozy. It could’ve even been romantic under different circumstances.
“Have you been here?” I ask as I pull out her chair.
“Once.” She doesn’t offer more, like with who she came with, for instance.
I don’t like it, but I have no grounds for starting an interrogation. “What do you recommend?”
“The ribs were delicious.”
I scan the menu for the most nutritious meal I can find. “The steak sounds good. Will that do?” She can do with a healthy portion of protein.
She nods as if to say whatever.
The waitress who approaches our table looks vaguely familiar. “Have you decided, sir?”
“We’ll have the steak with the salad and a side order of baked potatoes for the lady.” After she’s taken our cooking preferences, I look at my date. “Wine?”
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