Francois is leaning in the pedestrian gate, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Why don’t you come inside? We need to talk.”
Before I can answer, he strolls down the garden path that cuts through the tiny but pristine garden to the house. Abby skips along. I don’t have a choice but to follow. Debbie stands in the open door, dressed in shorts and a tank top. From the way her nipples press out from the fabric, she’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts are perfect–firm and round, much bigger than mine. Her dark skin glows. She wears heavy eyeliner and dark eyeshadow. It suits her, enhancing her exotic features. Debbie is a struggling poet now that she’s a kept woman and no longer working as a secretary, or that’s how Francois introduces her to everyone. She’s only ever published one poem in a magazine, but I suppose that qualifies her for the title.
“Hi, Jane,” she says in a bright voice, shaking her dreadlocks over her shoulder. “Come on in.”
Francois enters first, and I sheepishly follow. We stand crowded in the tiny entrance–Francois, Debbie, Abby, and me.
Debbie goes on tiptoes, draping an arm around Francois’ shoulders and dragging her fingers through the hair scraping his collar. “Would you like something to drink?”
I’m about to decline, but Francois says, “Coffee, please.”
I don’t miss the flash of warmth in his eyes as he looks down at her, dragging her closer with an arm around her waist and kissing her temple before letting her go.
Uncomfortable is too mild a word for what I feel. Loser is more like it. It’s as if they’re rubbing their affection in my face, and I’m still too raw to deal with it. The only thing I can do is put on an act, pretending I don’t notice.
“Come help me,” Debbie says to Abby, and it irks me that my daughter obliges without as much as an argument, when I can’t get her to set the table at home.
“Let’s have a seat,” Francois says when we’re alone.
He leads me to their small lounge. The ugly part of me would’ve liked to find fault with Debbie, but everything is clean and tidy.
He takes a seat on the couch and indicates the single chair opposite the coffee table.
“I don’t have much time,” I lie, glancing at my watch. “I have work to finish.”
“The Monroe presentation?” he asks, reminding me of how intimately we’ve been involved until a month ago. Yet, now it seems like a lifetime has passed with him so stiff and cold, like there’s a world instead of a coffee table between us.
“Yes,” I admit reluctantly, wishing I could bring up something else that he isn’t familiar with, something that will prove I’ve moved on, that my life is my own and not part of his.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We need to talk.”
“So you said.”
He has custody of Abby every second weekend. I’m not giving him more. I need my weekends with her as much as he does.
Inhaling deeply, he regards me with a steady gaze. “I’m taking back the house.”
3
Jane
A cold weight settles in my stomach. I try to swallow, but my throat won’t cooperate. I must’ve misunderstood. We got married out of community of property, and since I didn’t work when we bought the property in Groenkloof, the house was put in Francois’ name. Still, he’s not a spiteful or unreasonable man. The house was never his dream. It’s mine. It’s the only place I can see myself grow old, where I visualize grandchildren running in the yard and Christmas lunches on the deck. I can’t imagine him being this cruel. Our divorce went smoothly, because we easily agreed about the splitting of custody and property. The investments and savings went to Francois. The house was supposed to remain mine. All I’m waiting for is the transfer deed. I signed the divorce papers without the transfer of property in place, because I trust Francois. I trusted him to be fair.
“You promised you wouldn’t do this,” I say when I manage to speak again.
“I know.” His gaze is unfaltering, unapologetic. “We need the space.”
“Why my house?” Francois designed that house for me. He did it the way I wanted. I supervised the laying of every brick and floorboard. “Why not buy or build something new?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Debbie wants to live in Groenkloof, doesn’t she?” And there are no empty plots up for the taking.
Again, no answer, which confirms my assumption.
Groenkloof is a green, hilly, privileged neighborhood overflowing with purple Jacaranda trees, but there are other fancy neighborhoods springing up all over the place, like the new golf estate properties that are in fashion.
“Why not Waterkloof?” It’s right next door, and there are properties becoming available as the mansions grow too big for older people who prefer to move into retirement villages.
“I can’t afford to start from scratch.” His tone is firm, not open for negotiation. “It’ll cost too much, and as I said, we need the space. You don’t.”
“You’re only two people, just like Abby and me.”
He keeps on looking at me with the quiet intensity I know so well, the demeanor he adopts when we’re heading for a fight. This is part of what drove me nuts about him. He never talks to me. When we disagree, he grows quiet, turns his back on me, and walks away. There’s something else, though, because there’s also a glint of compassion in his eyes. He’s not walking away. He’s sitting there staring, waiting for me to catch on to something.
Oh my God.
It hits me like a ball of snow in the face. “Debbie’s pregnant.”
He doesn’t have to confirm my deduction. The truth is splayed all over his face. Pride, warmth, excitement…all the emotions he didn’t show when we found out I was expecting Abby. The protective way he held Debbie earlier in the entrance and the secretive look they shared now make sense.
His voice is level. “It’s not like I’m throwing you out. You have three months to find a new place.”
My lips part in shock.
He lowers his head, staring at his hands. “Debbie wants to start the nursery before she’s too far into the pregnancy.” He rubs his fingers together and adds softly, “You never know. The baby can come early.”
The calculation falls into place in my head. I’ve barely dealt with the fact that my husband kept a mistress for over a year before asking me for a divorce. I’m not sure I’m ready for more. Although, I should’ve known.
Cursing my own ignorance, I ask, “How far is she along?”
“Four months.”
That means she was three months pregnant when our divorce went through. The knife twists a little deeper, the cut bleeding a little more. “Is that why you left me?”
“No.” The word sounds sure and strong. “It would’ve happened regardless.”
“Did you know when you asked me for a divorce?”
There’s a longer hesitation before he answers. “Yes.”
He knew she was pregnant when he asked me for a divorce, and he didn’t tell me. I shoot him a beseeching look, because I don’t understand the man I thought I knew.
“Why?”
“Why what, Jane?”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Were you planning on taking back the house all along?”
“No,” he says with irritation. “I didn’t plan on taking back the house at the time, but Debs and I discussed it since. It makes more sense, this way. You don’t need all that space. I doubt you can afford it. The reason I didn’t tell you about the pregnancy wasn’t to hide a ploy to take the house. It was because I didn’t want to put extra stress on Debs in her fragile state.”
I gape at him, trying to digest the two facts he’s just told me.
I have to give up my home.
Debbie is pregnant.
This is not the time or place for this discussion, not with Abby and Debbie a few paces away in the kitchen. As if on cue, Debbie appears in the doorway with a tray, Abby short on her heels with a cake. Francois jumps to his feet to take the tray from
his pregnant girlfriend, and it dawns on me why he once again chose to tell me now, here, and not in private. This way, I don’t get to show I’m upset or make a fuss. Selfishly, he picked the worst moment so he doesn’t have to deal with my feelings.
Debbie kneels on a cushion in front of the coffee table and picks up a knife. “Carrot cake?” She gives me a bright smile. “I baked it myself.”
“Thanks, but I…” I want out. I need air. I need to think of an excuse. “I’ve got dinner in the oven.” The oven is programmed to shut down, but technically the dinner is in the oven. It’s not a lie.
“Mom,” Abby exclaims as Debbie’s face falls. “She baked it especially for you.”
“I’m sorry.” I jump to my feet. “Maybe I can take a piece to go?”
“Sure.” Debbie’s voice is deflated.
Francois doesn’t look at me as he offers her a hand and helps her to her feet, his arm going around her shoulders. She glances up at him, and I see what their wordless look communicates.
I’m trying so hard, she says.
I know, he replies.
“Do you have everything, Abby?” I ask.
She stomps past me into the hallway. Her footsteps fall hard on the wooden stairs.
“Walk me to my car,” I say to Francois.
When Debbie takes a step forward, I say, “Do you mind giving us a moment? I need a word with Francois about Abby.”
“Abby concerns Debs, too,” Francois says stubbornly.
Fair enough. I suppose she’s part of Abby’s life, and it’s in everyone’s interest, especially Abby and the unborn baby’s, that we all get along. Taking a deep breath, I say, “Congratulations, Debbie. Francois told me.”
A flush darkens her cheeks. “Thank you.”
I turn back to Francois. “We need to talk about how we’re going to break the news to Abby.”
“She already knows.”
“What?”
Francois and I saw a child psychologist about how to best convey the news about our breakup to Abby, and he and Debbie told her about the baby without talking to me first?
“She took it well,” Debbie says quickly.
“In the future, I expect you to have these discussions with me before involving my daughter.”
“She’s my daughter, too,” Francois says, his posture as stiff as a lamppost.
Abby comes down the stairs, and for now the subject is closed. While Francois helps Abby with her bag, Debbie disappears into the kitchen. She returns with a piece of cake shrink-wrapped on a plate, which she hands to me before we make our way to the car. Abby slams the door of the car unnecessarily hard.
At home, my daughter dumps her bag in the entrance and goes straight to the fridge. I leave the cake on the counter and lean in the door as she goes through the contents, eventually deciding on a bottle of water. The atmosphere smolders with tension.
Unscrewing the cap, Abby regards me from the other side of the room. “I hope you weren’t rude because of the baby, because that’ll just be mean.”
“Of course not. It came as a surprise, that’s all.”
“Is it because Debs is black? ‘Cause that’ll make you a racist.”
“Abby! It’s got nothing to do with any of that. The news has, well, other implications, things I have to deal with, and it’s difficult.”
“You mean giving up the house.”
My God. If Francois already told her this, too, he had no intention of ever giving me a choice.
“I didn’t know you knew.”
“I know you love this house, but you can still visit as often as you like.”
I’m not going to correct her misassumption. Francois and Debbie need to build a new life and reconstruct their own family. There will be no place for me here.
“Can you at least try to get on with Debs for Dad’s sake?” she asks, leaving the water on the counter and yanking open the cutlery drawer. With a fistful of knives, forks, and spoons in hand, she marches to the eating nook and, surprisingly, starts setting the table. “This is hard enough for me as it is.”
Abby’s too young to understand the feelings I’m wrestling with, and she’s crazy about her father, but bloody hell, since when did I turn into the villain in all of this? I don’t want to be the bitter, disgruntled ex-wife.
“You’re right.” I take the glasses from the cupboard–my beautiful, backlit, glass door cupboard–and ignore the pang of pain that pinches my chest as I finish the setting of the table. “There’s no reason why we can’t be friendly.”
I’m not saying friends. It’ll take a lot of time before I’ll be able to forgive Debbie for cheating with Francois when she’s been a guest at my dinner table so many times in this very house. Abby’s smile makes up for all the hurt festering in the cavity between my ribs as she takes the promise I halfheartedly offer.
When Abby’s in bed, I call Dorothy to tell her the news about the house, omitting the part about Debbie’s pregnancy. As always, she offers me the sympathetic ear I need, but it’s Brian’s words that bring my solace. A home doesn’t have to define me.
Brian
After dinner, I wash the dishes before making us each a cup of extra strong Rooibos tea and settling on the sofa bed with Sam and Mom, who are watching a romantic comedy. This is our Sunday evening downtime, a family tradition, and for once Mom doesn’t have a glass in her hand. It’s good to hear them laugh. It’s good to be here, together. It makes it easier to pretend we don’t have problems that won’t go away, such as earning enough money to give Sam a better future, or the fact that Mom can’t step out of the house.
The movie not being a good enough distraction to keep my mind from darker thoughts, I type Jane Logan in the internet search engine on my phone. A few subjects come up. Some are aliases. She’s not on Facebook or any of the other social media sites. An article toward the end of the second page makes me pause. My thighs bunch in a mixture of excitement at hitting the jackpot and dread at what I’ll find. The girl in the photo is definitely Jane, albeit a younger one. Her hair is long and sleek, her face chubbier, but no less gorgeous. The headline reads, Judge’s son dies in crash after fallout with fiancée. I scan the subtext. Evan James, oldest son of Judge and Mrs. Richard James, dies in a motorcycle accident after an argument with his fiancée. Their wedding was scheduled to take place next week. The date confirms the article was published twelve years ago. I quickly read the rest of the text, which explains how Evan James took off in a rage and crashed his bike after a party at his parents’ house that ended in a fight with Jane Logan, his future wife. Family witnesses said the couple argued about her infidelity, but no names were mentioned. Miss Logan refused to comment. There’s not much more to the article, but it was clearly the scandal of the year.
The rest of my search is futile, except for Jane’s name popping up here and there in media articles about her clients and an obituary for each of her parents. The Logans were locals from Camps Bay, Cape Town. I dump the phone on the table, trying to put her out of my mind, but it’s futile. Jane Logan already rules my thoughts. I wait until the movie’s finished before ordering Sam to go brush her teeth.
She comes out of the bathroom in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes. “I want to sleep with Mom, tonight.”
She often sleeps in my Mom’s bed, but I always look at my mother for approval. Mom won’t smoke in the room with Sam there. She also won’t drink. If she knows she’s not going to resist, Jasmine will tell Sam no. A slight nod of Mom’s head says it’s going to be one of her better nights.
After I’ve tucked Sam in, Mom kisses her forehead. “Sleep tight, my angel.”
Sam grabs her hand. “Aren’t you coming?”
Mom’s smile is reassuring. “After my shower.” She pulls the blanket up to Sam’s chin. “Sweet dreams.”
On her way out, she pats me on the shoulder.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, making the tired bedsprings creak. “Want a story?”
“Of course, silly.”
> “Hey.” I place a hand over my heart, faking a wounded expression. “Why would you call me silly?”
She giggles. “You tell me a story every night.”
I drop my hand and the mocking façade. “I’m just checking.”
“For what?”
“The day you don’t want a story, it’ll mean you’re all grown up.”
She punches my arm. “You really are silly. You can see when someone’s grown up.”
“Not always, Sam. You might be all grown up before either of us realize.”
Shit, that fills me with dread. For now, I can lock her up at night and protect her, but how am I supposed to protect her when she starts going out on dates?
Her yawn propels me into action. “Do you know the story about the slime man?”
“Slime man?” She wrinkles her nose. “Yuk.”
“Once upon a time, there was this green slime dude.”
“As in the squishy stuff?”
“Yeah, the kind that goes as flat as a pancake when it hits a wall.”
“Where are his eyes and mouth?”
“What?”
“If he’s as flat as a pancake, where are his eyes and mouth?”
“He’s only flat when he hits a wall, otherwise he looks like you or me, except that he’s green and slimy.”
“Slippery?”
“Yeah, slimy.”
“Slimy can also mean sly, so you need to say he’s slippery.”
“Slippery can also mean difficult to catch, so shut up, Miss Wise-ass, and let me tell the story.”
She crosses her arms on top of the blanket in a defiant gesture, but keeps quiet.
For the next five minutes, I make up shit as I go until Sam’s eyelashes start to flutter, not even the gore of Slime Man enough to fight the pull of sleep. I finish with the same line as always, “And he lived happily ever after,” and kiss her cheek before I turn off the light.
God knows, I want happily ever after for Sam. And for Mom. No one deserves it more than Mom, but we are what life made us. Reality isn’t a fairy tale. The best I can do for my sister is make the fairy tale last as long as possible.
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