by Karen Botha
This is getting us nowhere.
Jessie returns. She’s making sluggish progress, sliding one gradual foot in front of the other in a bid to ensure the contents of three plastic cups remain intact.
I rush to help her. “Here you go Papa, not that you deserve this.”
He pushes himself up in bed, each movement the creak of old bones pushed to their limits by the fire of someone unwilling to give in. He holds out a shaky hand for the cup. It’s become mottled over time.
“I’ll put it here until it cools down.”
He retracts his hand, and as he does, the hospital nightgown rides up to his shoulder and I see his aging flesh which was once a toned tricep from the wheelchair, hanging loose under his arm.
“Now, you have something to say to Jessie, don’t you?” He needs to at least make the effort to apologize to her even if he doesn’t believe it. He expects the same from others, this is his time to deliver.
But, his watery eyes remain downcast, his expression one of frustration and fatigue.
“Pa!”
When he looks at me, he’s assessing how much he can get away with. Wondering if he can be the one who can act out without retribution. And if that retribution comes, will it be something he’s prepared to trade for maintaining his pride?
I raise my eyebrows.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you earlier young lady. It was not my intention to hurt you by simply speaking the truth.”
Fuck him.
“Come on, we’re going. You can rot in here for all I care. I’m done.”
With that, I stand and walk out of that hospital with Jessie at my side and not a backwards glance.
Jessie
This is not good. We’ve been seeing each other a matter of weeks and already Zac and his father have become estranged because of me.
“You can’t leave, Zac. What if something happens to him? They still haven’t identified why he’s sick.”
“I cannot be around a person for whom I have no respect, simply because he gave his sperm to my mother twenty-odd years ago.”
“He’s more than a sperm donor. He loves you. It’s just he has an alternative view. You know that.”
“Knowing it and feeling it are entirely contrary emotions. I can’t be around him. He’s so pig headed.”
“He’s proud. He just wants the best for you. Go back and make your peace before you walk out.” I do not want to add that fate has a sick sense of humor and if he doesn’t we can pretty much guarantee that the stakes will raise on his dad’s health.
“I left my coffee,” he mumbles without changing his direction. The helplessness of wanting to come to the rescue of a situation that is causing pain for the one you care about, but that you cannot help weighs heavy in my heart. I do not miss the fact that I am at the center of their dispute. They’re like a pair of lost boys searching for peace among two sets of opposing rules, and minus the lifeline of middle ground.
Much as I hate to say it, I see they are very similar. It’s either right or wrong; there can be no middle ground in this game. One must compromise or as his father sees it, give in and accept a lesser future for his adored first son.
There’s a tea room over the road. I point. “Come on, let’s grab a coffee to replace the one you left in the ward. It’ll give us both a chance to recharge and calm down.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and I love that he trusts me with seeing his vulnerabilities.
It’s cool inside the cafe. The air con is blasting out, and it feels like it’s washing away the sickness that breeds within the hospital.
“I can see why your dad doesn’t want to be admitted.”
“Yeah, they’re depressing places.”
The barista hands us one latte and one cappuccino and we head to an empty table by the window. I let the silence hang while we busy ourselves with blowing the tops of our drinks and taking our first tentative sips.
“I hadn’t thought about your religion and how that could affect us before,” I start.
Zac peers at me over the top of his steaming mug.
“Obviously your skin is darker, and your name once I learned that, is a dead giveaway to your heritage, but cultural differences just didn’t occur to me. Even when we spoke about our families on the island that day...” As I speak the words I feel like a complete idiot.
I didn’t think it could cause issues. There’s always a tribe of other people involved somewhere along the lines. How many mother-in-law jokes are there, and that’s within families with the same histories? Note to self, I need to start looking outside my own box a bit more.
“I’ve seen too many friends and family members end up in relationships because it’s what was expected - and it makes them miserable. My cousin fell in love with an English girl and never told his family for fear of being cast out. After three years, they broke it off because he knew in his heart his parents and elders would never accept it. And then, another three years later, he was still broken and missing her. There are some people you can, and should, never forget. You’re one of those, Jessie. We have to see this through. Sure, it could be an easier road with my father if you had the same cultural upbringing, but then you wouldn’t be you. Life just isn’t that simple anymore. Sometimes it’s necessary to choose happiness over history.”
“And you want your dad to feel the same way, you want him to place your happiness over his culture?”
“Exactly. I don’t think he ever will. He’s already had my mother cast the shame of divorce upon him. That was bad enough. It will be difficult for him to accept his son is rebelling against all his values too. I can see that, but times change.”
“I can understand how it’s hurtful to him. You know, even in the purest of hearts there is a seed that can grow into vanity. I wonder if he isn’t just using fear of you being cast out to gain power over you. It’s unfortunate that the only way to find out is to push him far enough where he has to make a decision either way. But, you know...” I take a sip of my drink, and he waits. “There is hope. Even the blackest of hearts also possess a seed of purity. If it's nurtured, it can grow. I believe he loves you, so when it comes down to it, his love will feed the right seed and it will grow. He maybe just needs time.”
We fall silent. What was clear today, even to me as a newcomer to the family, is that Zac’s father doesn’t have all that much time left.
“I don’t know what the answer is, Jessie, but I won’t give you up. I will not live a lie on the side like so many men of my culture feel they need to do in order to feel some kind of wholeness. My father will grow old and die, that is certain, if not unwelcome. But what then? I’m left living his life.”
Jessie
“I need to go swimming, burn off some of this...” he loses the right words, settles instead for circling his hand.
I understand. “Would you like to go alone, or for me to come with you?”
“I have never been with anyone else, I normally enjoy powering through the water, feeling the bite against my muscles, but come with me. It could be fun.”
And so I do. We buy a costume on the twenty-minute walk up there. I take my time choosing one which will be most flattering from the selection of two in stock at the small local shop. It doesn’t occur to me that it’s odd that a small local shop would stock one, let alone two swimming costume options.
“Put it on here; it'll save time when we get there,” Zac suggests.
And so, again without thinking, I de-tag my new attire and dress over the top of it.
So many red flags, and yet I spotted none.
An hour after deciding a swim is the order of the day, we’re taking a cut through Hyde Park.
“Almost there.” He squeezes my hand as I struggle to keep up with the brisk pace he adopted since leaving the cafe, so invigorated as he is with the promise of exercise.
I muse at the gray squirrels running free, scuttling up the numerous trees with packages to store for hungrier times.
&
nbsp; “It’s lovely here at this time of the year, isn’t it?” My voice is wispy in contrast to Zac’s newfound purpose.
And then he stops. He doesn’t say a word, just positions us so I’m staring at a plaque pinned to a metal post.
‘SERPENTINE LIDO’
“Oh, I do hope you’re joking, we’re going swimming in the Hyde Park lake?”
He laughs. He bloody laughs. He knew what he was doing. “Of course not. You offered to come swim with me, you didn’t ask where. I assumed it didn’t matter.”
I shove him. “Bull, you thought it didn’t matter. You’re such an ass! You didn’t say we were swimming in a freezing cold lake in the middle of Hyde Park.”
He’s bent over laughing and I have to be thankful that the tension of the last few hours have evaporated. If that happens to be at my expense then I’m good with it; I suppose.
“You were happy swimming in the lake in Norway?”
“That’s different,” I scream, shoving him again for good measure.
“Yeah, the water’s colder.”
“But this is in the middle of Hyde Park. People will see, I’ll be a public spectacle.”
“Only if you make yourself one. Come on.”
His mouth is still bowed upwards as he grabs my hand and drags me through the entrance. Getting dressed in advance makes sense now. I look around for cubicles for later.
Thankfully, there's only a few individuals lying around the pool and the lifeguard. As long as I ensure I hide away from the blasted bridge which has not gone unnoticed, all should be well. I wave to a car, making a silent point to my better half, who shakes his head while slipping down his jogging bottoms.
Zac
I dive into the icy water off the wooden jetty which juts out to a deeper section of the lake. My brain freezes as I submerge; my lungs contract and my heart seizes up momentarily before firing back to life as I clear my mind and allow my limbs to do the thinking for me.
In the water I have no sick father, no external pressures to conform to a life which will make me miserable, and no worries about the multiple complications of the multiple relationships which are inextricably linked.
I move with a robotic precision, my limbs making strong strokes which require my muscles to tense, in turn removing the strain from my consciousness. The nip of the lake requires my body to think, demanding my attention be nowhere but the present. This is where I get my therapy, in the water, not on an overpriced doctor’s couch.
I hate standard swimming pools. I could drown in their chlorinated humidity. Out here, the peace of nature adds a purity which exercise alone cannot provide.
“Come on then, I’ll race you.” Jessie splashes me with a grin spread wide.
She takes off in the direction of the farthest end rope.
“You’re on.” I set off in pursuit, scooping the water with one hand after the other, dipping my face in the ice until my lungs feel fit to burst with exhaustion and I need to suck in another gulp of air.
I kick my legs, keeping my tendons taut to create maximum impact against this fluid barrier. My muscles begin to burn as I push harder and faster, concentrating on maintaining a technique which will allow me to cut through the water and glide with speed.
I’m racing Jessie, but this isn’t about beating her.
This is about beating myself, about not allowing the anger and frustration which blazes inside my father to seep out and taint me with the same characteristics.
This is about disengaging pain from my life. To acknowledge it and by so doing, be able to move away from it and live as liberated as if I were floating face up in this lake with only the openness of the sky to restrict me.
I reach the rope barrier and grab it with both hands as though this were a race.
“Winner!” I shout when I don’t see Jessie there first.
I turn, thrusting one arm up in the air as I tread water.
But she’s nowhere to be seen.
It takes more seconds than it should for me to register what has happened. Jessie is somewhere under the surface. There’s a commotion going on, the life guard is running with his buoy. I'm aware of it, but somehow it doesn’t seep through into my consciousness.
Ducking under water, I search the dismal space for any sign of her, any movement to guide me toward her.
Jessie
I can no longer hear the music playing on the side, nor the shouts of the children clowning around in the park.
Instead, I’m conscious of how my hair rises up like seaweed and every section of my scalp is enveloped by the cold liquid and of the bubbles which steal valuable oxygen from my body, sending it upwards toward the sun speckled surface.
No one is aware, Zac hasn’t seen me. He was focused on racing through the pain of his family. I’m alone with a gun to my head telling me that my heart should not beat. But of course it beats even faster than normal, just like my chest cavity continues to inhale regardless of the air being replaced with briny water.
And then my mind goes blank.
Zac
I see nothing.
Nothing, but black.
I freestyle underwater in the direction I just came from. She was following me, she must be around here. I cut through that tide faster than I’ve ever moved. My lungs are begging to be refilled, but I will not allow myself to rise to the surface until I find her. Any long second I am submerged is a greater time for Jessie.
I don’t spot her until the last minute. She's sinking.
I kick my feet like I have never swum before, so totally focused on reaching Jessie before… I ignore the other option, the one that will destroy everything if I cannot reach her in time. And instead, I relish the ache in my chest as I strive to power through the freezing water. The rest of the world blurs, my eyes are only trained on the few remaining ripples that mark the spot from where Jessie disappeared.
My lungs feel like they’re about to burst, but I expel all the remaining air and suck in as much as I can in the second it takes me to dive under the surface.
I’d been aware of shouts in the background which close off, like the electricity to speaker has been cut. I see her falling towards the bottom of the lake, a trail of algae attached to one listless arm.
The sight of her snags at my breath and I suck water in, biting back a startled choke as it hits the back of my throat. I tense my thighs, searching for that extra burst of power which will catch her before it’s too late.
I’m almost there. One last push. She’s almost in reach. Come on, you can save her.
I ignore the peaceful expression on her face, don’t worry that it could mean something far more sinister and that the time for saving is long since past. Instead I force my legs to power faster, stretching my arms out as far as they will reach before snapping them back and then repeating.
When I wrap my arms around her torso. She doesn't respond. I slip under her arms and snatch my legs backwards and forwards in a backlash against the lake. Only a few minutes earlier these cool waters had been the source of my calm. How quickly the good can switch up to bad.
Jessie
I wake myself choking, spitting out bitter fluid from my lungs.
There’s a weird feeling of floating, of being dragged through nothingness, I'm out of control.
This is not my time to die.
My eyes spring open and I struggle to free myself from the restraint around my chin.
I kick, and I punch, and I fight, with every ounce of life left in me. I will not give in.
“Jessie, it’s Zac. It’s OK. I’ve got you. Don’t fight me baby. You’re safe.”
I hear the words, but they don’t sink it. I continue to paddle against half-air-half-water until I remember.
The cold sucked all the oxygen from my lungs when I submerged my face to race Zac, rendering my arms and legs immobile until the depths of the lagoon consumed me.
I tried. I really tried to move, to propel myself back to the surface. But after only a few seconds, I’d
used every last ounce of energy and I found myself sinking again, watching with wide eyes as I allowed the lake to swallow me whole, helpless to resist.
Until now.
I’m on that surface, with that same sun streaming into my watering eyes as I wretch the poison free from my lungs, allowing me to gulp in the summer breeze.
I’m being towed. Zac is towing me. He’s talking to me, soothing me, asking me not to fight. It’s hard. Last time I gave up fighting I lost. And I want to live.
I’m aware of being manhandled, of my support changing from water to land. Of hands rolling me onto my side and digging around in my mouth but I’ve already expelled most of the foreign matter from my lungs and redeposited it back into the lake in disgust.
“I’m OK.” I hear the words; the voice isn’t mine. It’s hoarse, swollen from the invasion.
Strangers are speaking to me, but then Zac strokes my face. His hand is cold like my blue skin, but his touch still manages to warm my bones all the way through to my soul.
“You had me worried there.”
My eyes focus. He’s there, wet and bedraggled. Men don’t usually look bedraggled; their short hair has a knack of looking the same whatever the weather. But now, it’s flat to his head, his curls not yet having sprung back up and he looks the most handsome I have ever seen him. His dark skin has managed to take on an ashen appearance and in that moment I know I have fallen in love with him, and he has with me.