Dee’s voice is devoid of emotion when she replies. “It was meant to be a punishment, Ruth, and I accepted it as such. Doing penance is an integral part of faith, but I wouldn’t expect you to know the first thing about it.”
I mean to say something biting in response but surprise myself with, “I used to watch you when you prayed sometimes, you know. When we were kids. You’d close your eyes and get all still like the bushveld does before a thunderstorm.”
Dee smiles wistfully. “I used to imagine that I was gathering up the four corners of the room and wrapping it around me like a blanket to hide me away from the world.”
“My favorite part was always when the furrows of your forehead would smooth out. Your mouth would turn up and you’d nod once, and that’s when I had to look away because I knew your eyes would open in a second or two and you’d be cross if I was staring at you.”
“I thought you hated my praying.”
“I just hated being left out.” The confession feels too personal and so I quickly add, “Do you still pray?”
She shakes her head and I’m not surprised. The sister who has come back is not the sister who left. I suppose it’s understandable considering everything but for some reason, it makes me sad.
“Are you going to tell me who the father is?”
Dee winces as if I’ve insulted her by suggesting her baby was the result of a sexual dalliance with a man, but it wasn’t a divine conception, I can promise you that. Still, it’s probably a stupid question. I saw her with Riaan van Tonder in the avocado orchard the night before she left and things looked pretty hot and intimate between them. I’d just assumed it was nothing more than heavy petting, but clearly my teenage sister was wilder and more interesting than I ever gave her credit for. Hell, even I was positively virginal when she left home. Okay, one or two blocks west of virginal, but not so far off that it wasn’t within walking distance.
“So, what happened to Daniel?” I ask when it becomes clear that Dee won’t be answering my question about his paternity. “Where’s he now?”
Her voice cracks. “He’s fighting for his life in hospital.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “What happened?”
“He grew up and became a priest, and then he was shot during a break-in at the rectory a little over a month ago. He’s been in a coma ever since.”
“I’m so sorry.” And I am. Shit, if I had the money to move him to a private hospital with better neurologists, I’d give it to her though it’s probably this generosity of spirit that’s contributed to my current financial predicament. Vince always said my heart was like a clown car: always room for one more.
“Thank you.” She stands up, wipes a tear away, and walks to her room. She turns back when she gets to the threshold and looks at the baby. “You now know everything, which is why I’m sure you understand why it’s too much having him here.”
“But . . . you managed to be around all those other orphaned children for so long without it getting to you, maybe you’ll get used to—”
“No, Ruth, I’m done with punishing myself like that. My days of doing penance are over. I can’t be around him. The baby needs to go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Zodwa
12 May 1994
Big Hope Informal Settlement, Magaliesburg, South Africa
When Zodwa rises again, Leleti is back and she’s lying next to her. It was her mother’s coughing that woke Zodwa but she feels well rested and clear-headed for the first time in as long as she can remember. It’s as though she’s coming out of a fugue state, one in which everything felt numb and distant, and has gone from feeling nothing at all to feeling too much.
I have a son.
The thought makes Zodwa smile. She sits up and rubs her eyes. Something feels wet against her chest and she looks down to find the front of her nightgown saturated. Milk leaks from her aching breasts. She’s ready to nourish her son willingly now and looks around for him, suddenly desperate to hold him.
When she can’t find him, Zodwa assumes he’s cradled next to Leleti, who’s lying on her side. She leans across her mother to peer over her shoulder, surprised to discover there’s nothing there. Looking around the shack, she notices that the bags of baby things that she stuffed under the table are also gone. The dog is nowhere to be seen either.
Zodwa feels a jolt of alarm as she jostles Leleti awake. “Mama.” Her mother is hot to the touch.
Leleti rolls over, her eyes glazed with fever. The pillow is stained red. She groans and then closes her eyes again.
“Mama, wake up.”
Leleti’s eyes open again and seek Zodwa’s, though when they meet, it feels as if Leleti is looking right through her.
“Where’s the baby?”
The corners of Leleti’s mouth twitch upward. “Dumisa, my son, is that you?”
Dread washes over Zodwa. Her mother is clearly delirious, and who knows what a person in her state might have done.
“No. It’s me, Zodwa. Your daughter,” Zodwa says, shaking her gently. “Where is my baby, Mama?”
“Baby?” The ghost of a smile disappears.
“Yes, the baby. Don’t you remember? Where is he? Where is my son?”
Leleti’s eyes widen in what appears to be a moment of clarity. She opens her mouth to answer, and Zodwa strains forward to hear what her mother will say.
“I took . . . I took him . . .” She stumbles over the words.
“You took the baby?” Zodwa prompts, trying to keep her voice calm despite her rising panic. “You took him where?”
“He . . . he . . . is gone.”
“Gone? Gone where, Mama? What did you do with him?”
“I did it for . . . you,” Leleti answers. “And for him.”
“What? What did you do?”
Leleti seems to consider the question, but before she can answer, her eyes roll back as she begins convulsing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ruth
12 May 1994
New Beginnings Baby Sanctuary, Rustenburg, South Africa
There’s been no swaying Dee about the baby. She’s called the police and arranged a time for us to meet with social services to hand him over today.
“How dare you do that without discussing it with me first?” I’m on my hands and knees bent over the little plastic bath that’s placed in the tub. The baby is on the changing mattress on the floor next to me.
“For God’s sake, Ruth. You don’t even know what you’re doing. You shouldn’t be bathing him yet. Not until the umbilical cord falls off.”
“Oh really? And just how am I supposed to keep him clean?”
“By dipping cotton wool in warm water and running it over him.”
Oh.
I feel a bit stupid considering I have my elbow dipped in the bathwater trying to figure out if it’s the right temperature. Trying to save face, I say, “I knew that. I was planning to wrap his stomach in ClingWrap to keep the umbilical cord dry. Besides, babies love baths, everyone knows that. It reminds them of being back in the womb.”
She shakes her head and mutters, “All you’re doing is proving my point that you’re not equipped to care for this child.”
“It’s not like he’s come with an instruction manual,” I snap. “And I could learn, couldn’t I? I could get a book, or how’s this for a really crazy idea? Instead of you doing nothing but criticizing me all the time, you could actually help me look after Angus since you know so much about bloody babies!”
“Angus?”
I feel my cheeks color. “We can’t just keep calling the poor little thing ‘he’ and ‘it,’ so I named him after Da.” Dee’s face contracts into such a scowl that I feel some of my bravado evaporating. It probably wasn’t the best idea considering Dee’s feelings for our father but since I never got to name a son for him, it
felt like the least I could do.
“You’ve honestly named a black child Angus?” She shakes her head like it’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard.
“What’s wrong with it? I know you had issues with Da but—”
“That’s beside the point. Has it not occurred to you that this child has his own culture? His own people and a whole history that has nothing to do with us? You should have given some consideration to that, or at least tried to respect it, by naming him something more appropriate.”
“How the hell am I supposed to know what culture he’s from?”
“He’s damn well not descended from a redheaded Scottish drunkard, I can tell you that much!” She shakes her head and crosses her arms. “You know, I really don’t understand you at all.”
“Well, of course you don’t, but what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Your infatuation with this baby doesn’t make any sense. You know he’s black, right?”
“I have eyes, Dee. I’m not blind.”
“Well, you’ve never been color-blind, that’s for sure.”
“You’re calling me racist?”
“If the shoe fits . . .” Before I can reply in my defense, she adds, “We either go and voluntarily hand him over today or they’ll come here and get him. You decide.”
Her words strike a chord and I retaliate without thinking. “Just because you gave your baby up doesn’t mean you can force me to give up mine.”
Dee’s face drains of all color. “This is not your baby, Ruth. You might do well to try and remember that.” With that, she turns and leaves.
* * *
• • •
The meeting with social services is at an orphanage half an hour away. We don’t have a car seat for a newborn and so Dee is buckled up into the backseat holding Angus while I drive. I’ve put the roof up to protect him from the wind, but the window of the passenger seat is open and Jezebel has her head hanging out.
The directions lead us to a large face-brick building hunkered down in the surrounding earth, as squat as a mound of cow shit and just as offensive. A forlorn playground takes up most of the outside space, which would traditionally be called a garden, though a garden by its very nature implies the presence of grass and trees, neither of which I can see anywhere on the property. It’s called the New Beginnings Baby Sanctuary.
“Well, isn’t this lovely?” I say dryly as we pull up and park. “Give Angus to me and you can lead the way since these are more your people than mine.”
“I’m not going in.”
“What? For God’s sake, you’re the one who set this up. I’m not going in by myself.” I turn around in my seat to glare at her. Dee resolutely avoids my gaze. She looks like she’s on the verge of tears again, which almost pushes me over the edge. She’s forcing me to hand Angus across and yet she’s the one crying? I get out of the car and pull my seat forward so she can pass Angus to me. Jezebel steps forward to jump out with us.
“Stay, Jez.” She whines in response but obeys.
As I stand in the parking lot, taking it all in, I know I’m stalling for time. When I finally shake off the paralysis, I head to the entrance and go inside. A black woman is waiting in the reception area. She has a cherubic face and graying hair that she wears in a short afro.
She immediately reminds me of someone but it takes me a moment to figure out who. “Hello. Has anyone ever told you you look like you could be—”
“Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s sister?”
“I take it that’s a yes,” I say.
She laughs. “Many, many times. But there’s unfortunately no relation that I know of. Are you Mrs. Richardson?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m Lindiwe Nkosi, the social worker. The police liaison called to say they’re running late,” she says. “I’ll give you a tour of our facility while we wait.”
We walk along a corridor and as we near a yellow door, I hear the muted sound of a baby crying from inside. It’s alarming because it’s so pathetic, more whimper than wail. The door has a sign that says Do Not Enter. They may as well wave a red flag at me.
Lindiwe keeps walking but I stop. “What’s in here?”
She clucks and says, “You don’t want to go in there.”
“Why not? Isn’t this a part of your facility?” If she’s trying to hide something, I want to see it. “I thought we were doing a tour.”
“Yes, but there are only two babies in here. Come, let’s go to the angel sanctuary where all the rest of the children are.”
“But I want to see the babies in here.”
“It’s actually a quarantined area. Only qualified nurses are allowed inside.” When it becomes clear that I’m not going to move, she sighs loudly and says, “Okay, fine, but the baby isn’t allowed inside with you. And you’ll need to wear a mask and gloves.”
I’m nervous now but don’t want to back down considering the fuss I’ve made. She reaches for a cubby next to the door and pulls out a surgical face mask and latex gloves. “Here, put them on,” she says.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I go inside, but it’s not the antiseptic smell of a hospital. Three incubators line the walls and as I look around at them, I notice the ominously still bundles inside two of them. Tubes of fluids creep like vines around oxygen tanks and other kinds of lifesaving equipment that you’d expect to find in a geriatric ward at a hospital, not in the pediatric ward in an orphanage.
I step toward the nearest incubator and bend over to peer inside, slowly and quietly so as not to wake the sleeping newborn, which is what I judge the shape inside it to be. I am wrong. Two black sunken eyes stare back at me, the pitiful creature looking unlike any baby I’ve ever seen. Its cheekbones jut out obscenely on a too-large head, and I realize I’ve never thought of babies as having cheekbones until now. It’s not a feature of their skull that should be visible.
Where’s the angelic face and chubby cheeks? This child looks like an alien and is undoubtedly terminally ill. I step back, revolted at the sight of it and even more revolted at myself for my response. I sway as I struggle to control my mutinous thoughts and reach out to balance myself. Within a second, a nurse is next to me, stabilizing me. She too is wearing a face mask and gloves.
“It’s very sad, hey?” she says kindly, nodding at the shriveled child. “His name is Themba, it means ‘hope.’ He’s two years old and has been very sick. We are surprised he has even lived this long. There isn’t anything we can do for him except manage his pain and wait for him to pass.” She shrugs as if this is a perfectly reasonable course of action.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“AIDS.”
AIDS. That at least explains the latex gloves and the air of sickness that permeates every inch of the room. But it doesn’t explain much more. “But AIDS is a gay men’s disease.” Everything I’ve read about it says so. “How can a baby have AIDS?”
“It’s no longer a homosexual disease,” she says. “Women are very susceptible to it, and anything they’re at risk of getting, they’re likely to pass on to their unborn children.”
Jesus, talk about a double whammy.
“I think I’d like to go outside now,” I say, and she nods.
Once I’m back in the corridor, I rip off the mask and gloves while taking great big gulps of air.
“I told you that you didn’t want to go in there,” Lindiwe says. “Don’t worry, as you can see, we keep the dying ones far away from the living. Come, let’s go see the others.”
I take Angus from her and struggle to regain my equilibrium as I follow her down another corridor. I can hear what sounds like a raging battlefield coming from the other end of it and it’s getting louder with every step.
“It is now bath and feeding time. They are very busy.”
She takes a sudden right turn and then we ar
e in another room, no closed door barring our way this time, no door at all, just an open doorway.
The first thing I notice is the chaos. The long and narrow room includes over two dozen shabby, mismatched cribs, six metal trestle tables, five high chairs, two rusting zinc bathtubs as well as piles and piles of sad, gray terry-cloth nappies, baby grows, and blankets.
Seven women, all equally sweaty and disheveled, tend to approximately two dozen babies, who range in age from a couple of months to about two years old. A definite assembly line has been set up. One woman lifts a baby from a crib, brings it over to a trestle table, undresses it, wipes its bum, and then passes it to one of the two women sitting on the floor in charge of the washtubs.
The baby is then dipped into the water by one of the washers, has a cloth rubbed over it a few times, and is then passed up to another woman at the next trestle table. Here the baby is patted dry, rubbed with a few creams and powders, has another nappy applied, and is then passed to the next woman, who dresses it.
Once this is achieved, the baby is either placed back into a crib and given a bottle to hold for self-feeding, or it’s placed in a high chair, where it’s quickly spoon-fed a vegetable-and-maize mush. The only babies who are crying are the ones who aren’t being held.
I’m just marveling at the fact that Angus can sleep through all the noise when he stirs and wakes up. He starts crying and from the pitch of it, I know he’s hungry.
“I just need to feed him,” I say to Lindiwe.
She points me in the direction of another room. “That’s the kitchen. You can mix his formula there.”
When I come back, ready to feed Angus, another woman is standing next to Lindiwe. She’s wearing a police uniform and introduces herself as Mandy, the social services liaison. “Mrs. Richardson, I’ll need you to come with me to the office to give me your details and write a statement about how you found the baby. After that, you’re free to go.”
Free to go.
As if leaving Angus will be that easy.
If You Want to Make God Laugh Page 10