“No it isn’t! I don’t want that!”
Noah watches me, then slowly folds his arms over his chest. “Then you’re deluding yourself. You’re hanging onto this idea of the perfect family that you’ve had since you were little, and you’re pinning all your hopes on one person, hoping he can make everything come true. And you know what? You’re probably going to wind up disappointed.”
I push my door open as wide as it will go and press my back against it. “Get out of my room.”
“Andi …”
“GET OUT!”
He walks past me, and I slam the door shut after him. Who the freaking heck does he think he is coming in here and telling me all that crap? He barely knows me, and he sure as hell doesn’t know Damien like I do.
I march across the room, pull out several drawers of craft supplies, and dump them on the floor. I remove my gumboots and sit cross-legged in the middle of everything. Miniature books. That’s what I’ll make. I can use them later for necklaces or charm bracelets or key rings or … something. I need that container with all the tiny pages I cut out one afternoon while catching up on episodes of Game of Thrones. And leather. I need to cut leather into rectangles to wrap around the pages to form the book cover. I’ll stitch the cover and pages together, then tie a leather cord around the book to hold it closed.
I should set a timer on my phone and see how long it takes me to make each little book. I’ve estimated before, but it might be helpful to get a more exact—
Ugh, how could Noah say that Damien isn’t right for me? How could he suggest that all this time I’ve simply been in love with an idea of happiness rather than with Damien himself? Clearly he doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Who does he think he is? Some kind of amateur psy—
Stop thinking about that, Andi!
The leather. Cut the leather into little rectangles. Try to make them all the same size. Gather a small pile of papers. Place a leather strip on top of the papers and fold the whole lot in half. Thread the needle. Push the needle through both the leather and the—
My mother didn’t want a child. She wanted my dad. But he ended things with her because he came to his senses and remembered he already had a family. Then she found out she was pregnant and thought she could use it to lure him back. It didn’t work. She was left alone and pregnant. She didn’t want that child. She wanted to get rid of it. She wanted to have an abortion, but she was too scared. So I was born to a mother who wished I didn’t exist. I’ve always been—
“Stop it!” I say out loud.
I drop the tiny book onto the floor and stand up. Focusing on my crafts usually helps to soothe and distract my mind, but it isn’t working this time. I slip my feet back into my gumboots and cross the room to the door. I’ll go out into the rain. I’ll walk and walk and walk until I’ve pushed this afternoon so far back into my mind I’ll never remember—
“No,” I mutter, swinging around before my hand touches the doorknob. I walk back and drop into my desk chair. I open my laptop and log into Skype. I click my mom’s name. My breathing quickens as the dialling tone sounds. She’d better answer. This is her last chance. If she doesn’t—
The dialling tone stops. A second or two later, Mom appears on the screen, leaning over her computer as if she hit the answer button before even sitting down. She pulls her chair out and slides into it while saying, “Andi, darling, it’s so wonderful to—
“Make me understand,” I say. “Make me understand why you did everything you did. You knew he was married. Why did you ever start a relationship with him? Did you get pregnant on purpose in the hopes that he’d leave his wife? And if you honestly didn’t want me, why didn’t you go through with the abortion? Or put me up for adoption? And why the bloody hell did you think it was a good idea to tell me you ever considered an abortion? Because I could seriously have done without knowing that bit.”
“Andi.” She gives me a helpless look while running her fingers through her grey-blonde hair. “Baby, I’ve told you so many times how grateful I am that I never went through with that. I wish I could explain how much I love you, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea to bring up all that—”
“You’d better try,” I say, “or this will be the last conversation we ever have.”
“I met him at a party at my friend June’s house,” Mom says. “I’d done some interior decorating for her when she first bought the house years before, and somehow we ended up friends. The party was for her work colleagues, but she invited me because one of them was single, and she thought I might hit it off with him. I didn’t. I ended up spending the entire evening talking to Martin. I remember telling him how much I enjoyed his company and that his wife was a lucky woman. I never planned for it to be anything more than that.
“He travelled to Joburg a lot, so we ended up seeing more of each other over the months that followed. When we eventually … ended up together, it wasn’t something either of us planned. I felt terribly guilty about it, but there was also a part of me that believed he was the right one for me and that he’d simply ended up marrying the wrong person. I secretly hoped he would come to the same realisation at some point and leave his wife. And I know—I KNOW—how wrong it was to wish for that. But I was in love, and I managed to justify my thoughts and actions.
“When he ended it, I was heartbroken. Deep down, I knew he was doing the right thing, but I was still crushed with grief. A few weeks later, when I found out I was pregnant, it was like the sun coming out after weeks of heavy clouds pressing down on me. I thought there was hope. I thought it was a sign we were meant to be together.
“Martin didn’t see it that way. He told me he already had a family and didn’t need another one. He said it was my decision to keep you or not, and that he’d help out financially either way. I decided that if I couldn’t have Martin, then I wanted to move on completely. I didn’t want to be reminded of him in any way. I looked into—” her voice wavers “—getting an abortion. But in the end, I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t end the life of my own child.
“And I have not regretted that decision, Andi. Not for a moment. You’re beautiful and talented and kind and a more wonderful daughter than I could ever have asked for. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.” Tears slide down her cheeks. They slide down mine. “And I wish I could take back the moment when I told you what I almost did. But I was so angry when I found out you’d been through my things and contacted Martin. I know our life wasn’t perfect, but I was happy with just the two of us, and I thought you were happy too. Then you told me what you’d done and that his wife and daughter now knew about us, and I was angry that you might have ruined their family and angry that I’d ever let any of this happen in the first place. You were shouting at me, demanding to know everything, and I was shouting at you, and somehow the almost-abortion ended up being one of the things that came out.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry it was something I considered. But since the moment I decided not to do it, you have been wanted. Don’t ever believe anything else.”
I nod slowly, sniffing and wiping tears from my cheeks. I think I believe her. I want to believe her. I just need a little more time. “Um … I need to go now, Mom.”
“No, Andi, please talk to me. Are you still mad at me? What can I—”
“Please, Mom. I’ll … I promise I’ll call you later.”
I end the call and stand up. I leave my room and walk out of Fuller. Across the parking lot, down the stairs, onto the rugby field. I walk around it. Around and around. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. The rain is nothing more than a drizzle, and my hood keeps my head dry.
I walk and walk and walk. And I remember. I remember Mom reading to me every night until I learned how to read to myself. I remember standing on a stool in the kitchen helping her bake. I remember the two of us sitting in front of a computer trying to figure out how to do my homework because she didn’t know enough to show me what to do, but she wasn’t goi
ng to give up without trying. I remember her teaching me how to use a sewing machine. Teaching me never to worry about what other people think and to be friendly rather than fighting back.
I’ve spent so much of the past year focused on everything Mom did wrong and the idea that I was nothing more than an inconvenient accident, that I forgot about the things she did right. And there were a lot of those things.
I climb the stairs, lean against mem stone, and search for Mom’s name on my phone. After touching the call button, I tuck the phone beneath my raincoat hood and wait for her to answer.
Four rings, and then I hear her voice. “Andi?”
I bite my lip and wait a few moments for the tightness at the back of my throat to release. When I can speak, I say, “I love you, Mom.”
I hear a sniff on the other end of the line. “Oh, I love you too, baby.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been so mad at you. You’ve been a great mom, and I shouldn’t have forgotten that just because of the things I found out last year.”
“And I’m sorry I was so angry when you told me you contacted your father,” she says. “I shouldn’t have responded the way I did.”
I nod, even though I know she can’t see me. I wipe a tear from my cheek. “Mom, do you think … do you think there’s such a thing as a perfect family? Or do you think that even when two people love each other and get married and have meaningful jobs and enough money and their children are planned and everything works out the way it’s supposed to, do you think even then they do stupid things and mess up what they’ve got and hurt people?”
“Oh, of course,” Mom says. “I always used to look at Damien’s parents and wish I had a marriage like theirs. It seemed perfect. But when Laura told me why they were moving to Simon’s Town, I was shocked.”
I frown. “What do you mean? I thought they moved to be closer to Damien.”
“Oh, well that was another reason, of course.” She hesitates. “I’m sorry, I thought you and Damien talked about everything. I assumed he would have mentioned why his parents moved, but if he didn’t say anything, then I shouldn’t either.”
“Um … okay.” I know she’s right not to elaborate if it’s something confidential, but that doesn’t mean I’m not dying to know what she’s talking about. And why didn’t Damien say anything? He’s always talked about his parents as if they’re the most annoyingly happy couple in the world.
“The point is,” Mom says, “to an outsider, anything can look perfect. I imagine most things aren’t, though. We all make mistakes.”
“Yeah. And then we say sorry.”
“Yes. We say sorry, and we still love each other, and we move on.”
I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep—a problem that’s new to me—which is how I find myself sitting outside on mem stone a little after 3 am on Sunday morning. Campus crime statistics run through my head, and I wonder if I’m being stupid sitting out here. A minute or two after that thought, a security guard strolls past on Rugby Road, so I pull my blanket tighter around my shoulders and don’t bother going back inside.
I’m trying to come up with reasons why I love Damien, and it’s proving to be harder than I thought. Is it Damien I want, or the idea that with him I’ll be happy and secure? If it had been someone else with a kind, loving family who’d moved next door and been a good friend to me, would I be just as ‘in love’ with him as I think I am with Damien?
I try to imagine my life without him. He used to be the only one I’d confide in about anything serious, but now I’ve got Livi and—more recently—Carmen. I’d miss our text message exchanges. I’d miss simply being around him. I’d miss dinner with his family—which somehow reminds me of having dinner with Noah’s family. ‘Bring on the most boring couple of the year,’ he said. I can’t help smiling. Maybe Damien and I would be completely boring. I’ve spent so much time dreaming about the point when he’d finally notice me and finally kiss me and we’d finally get together, that I never considered what we’d actually be like as a couple.
He’s not right for you.
I don’t sense the thought forming. All of a sudden it’s simply there, as though it were a sign hanging in a dark room whose light I never bothered to turn on until now. I examine the thought and find that it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.
He’s not right for you.
Perhaps he isn’t. Perhaps we were only ever meant to be friends. Perhaps there’s someone a whole lot better waiting out there for me.
I drop my head into my hands and massage my temples. My head aches. I can barely keep my eyes open. Perhaps I’m tired enough now to sleep. I climb off mem stone and pull the blanket around my shoulders. Behind me, a noise disturbs the silence. I swing around, my heart speeding up and causing my head to ache even more. But it’s only someone closing the door to Smuts.
The someone stands outside Smuts and does a few stretches. Then he jogs towards me. He’s about to run past when he stops and says, “Andi? What are you doing out here?”
“Mike?” I take in his running shoes, shorts and T-shirt. “Okay, when you said you exercise early in the morning, I didn’t realise you meant—” I check the time on my phone “—4 am.”
“Yeah, I like to get a head start on days when I need to study. Running wakes me up and gets the blood pumping to my brain. Helps me concentrate better.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Yeah, well, test tomorrow. I haven’t done any work for it yet. I generally do no studying at all until the day before a test or exam—then I do a LOT of studying in one day.”
“Uh huh.”
“Are you okay? Why are you out here?”
“Um … couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh. Well, if you want to go change, I’ll wait here and you can join me for an early morning run.”
An early morning run? Is he insane? “That’s not gonna happen.”
He laughs. “Cool, well, I’ll see you around.” He pauses, then adds, “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You and Damien … You’re happy with him, right?”
My facial muscles manage to find the energy to frown. “Why?”
“Well, it probably isn’t my place to say—”
“Probably not.”
“—but sometimes you guys seem kind of … forced when you’re together. As if it doesn’t come naturally to you. I was thinking … maybe he’s not the guy for you?”
I’m not sure how long my mouth hangs open before I respond. “And … you think you are?”
“Oh, no, don’t worry.” Mike laughs. “I’m not interested in you.”
“Um. Okay.” I feel the frown returning. “Are you—”
“Anyway, I’ve gotta get going. Enjoy sleeping in.” He jogs down the stairs below mem stone and disappears.
“What the …” I murmur. That was one of the weirdest conversations I’ve ever had. Yet another reason I shouldn’t be awake at 4 am.
I stagger back to F flat and manage to write a note to Carmen, which I stick on my door.
Please don’t wake me for breakfast. Bad night. Didn’t sleep. No, I didn’t tell Damien what I was going to tell him. Chat to you later.
***
By lunch time on Sunday, I’m showered and dressed and ready to face the world. I need to tell Carmen what I’ve decided, I need to tell Damien this fake relationship has to stop, and I need to apologise to Noah for getting so upset with him yesterday. Some people hate it when they’re proven wrong; I, on the other hand, am strangely excited to tell Noah he was right about Damien not being the guy for me.
I meet Carmen in the lunch queue, and she hands me a tray. Noah walks past with Yashen and another guy I don’t know, and I reach out and grab his arm. He looks around, his expression becoming wary when he see it’s me. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say quickly. “For shouting at you and … all that.” I let go of his arm, and he steps closer. “You, um, you were actually right. And I spoke to my mom yesterday.”
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Noah smiles. “Andi, that’s great.”
“Yeah, anyway, I’ll chat to you later?” I say as the queue moves forwards.
“Yes, sure.”
Carmen and I wait for our plates of res-version-of-Sunday-roast before finding a spot to sit down. I tell her about my argument with Noah, the conversation with my mom, and what I realised in the early hours of this morning. “Sounds good to me,” she says when I’m done. “If you’ve decided that’s the right thing to do, then that’s great.”
“Well, I think I have. I hope I’m doing the right thing. I mean, I’ve wanted to be with him for so long, I hope I’m not making a mistake walking away from that possibility now.”
“Andi,” Carmen says with a sigh, “just make up your mind. Do you want to be with the guy or not? Oh, man, is that a feather?” She pokes at her roast chicken.
“Ew. I think it is.” I examine my own piece of chicken for feathers.
“Hey,” Kimmy says, sitting down next to Carmen. “You know Georgia and I are watching Lumo Fox play at Kirstenbosch this afternoon? We have two spare tickets. Want to go?”
“Sure,” Carmen says. “If I haven’t died of food poisoning by then.”
“And you, Andi?” Carmen must have told Kimmy and Georgia she was wrong about my lying, cheating ways because they’re once again talking to me.
“Oh, well, I need to talk to Damien …”
“Tell him to come too. He can probably get a ticket there.”
“Okay.” Perhaps it’s better if I tell Damien while we’re in a public setting. Then we can have a pretend argument in front of a bunch of people we know so word gets around quickly that we’re no longer together.
The Trouble with Faking Page 11