If You Want to Make God Laugh

by Bianca Marais

  Riaan started speaking about the latest developments at the Gladysvale Cave site and how they’d found fossils of an extinct giant zebra. As he spoke, I thought about how sad it was that his wonderful scientific mind had been wasted on farmwork. It would have been fine if farming was his calling, but it wasn’t.

  There was something to be said for duty, though. His giving up his own dreams so that he could be there for everyone else was very honorable and I wouldn’t have expected anything less of him. It was another reason I would never have come back to the farm pregnant; I knew that Riaan would have done the honorable thing.

  The people I’d encountered during my aid work across Africa thought I was a supremely selfless person to give up having my own life so that I could improve the lives of others. Perhaps there were other aid workers for whom this was true but it never was for me. Dedicating my life to others was a purely selfish act on my part. I’d only done it to uphold my side of the deal I’d made with God.

  I’ll do this for you, God, if you do that for me. I’ll dedicate my life to helping others if you protect my son.

  I’d told myself that in keeping up my end of the bargain, I’d have to give up my own family and their needs entirely, but really it was shame and fear rather than sacrifice that kept me away. Shame for what I’d done—both in falling pregnant and leaving my son behind, as well as dropping out of the convent and breaking my mother’s heart—and fear of having to answer all their questions in the process.

  When Da got sick and Ruth and Ma begged me to come home, I said that I was tied to a contract and was needed there, and since there was nothing I could do for Da, there was no point in coming home. But that wasn’t the point, was it? They’d needed me and I’d let them down. I’d let Ma down too when she was dying, knowing full well that all she wanted before she died was an explanation for what I’d done and to see me one last time. Even that, I couldn’t do for her. I just couldn’t face up to how badly I’d let her down.

  Riaan interrupted my thoughts. “Are you okay, Delilah?”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “You seem a million miles away again. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, sorry. It’s just been a tough eight months.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?” Riaan asked.

  Suddenly, I did. So badly.

  I wanted to tell him about Daniel’s death and the emotional ice-age it had brought on, freezing my feelings and making them so numb that I was only distantly aware of them. I wanted to express how I’d realized that shock is a kindness that your body grants you; how it allows you to distance yourself from the kind of heartbreak that would otherwise cleave a jagged hole down your center, one big enough for you to fall through and never claw your way out of again.

  Instead, I said, “I’m fine. Really. There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Okay,” he said, looking like he didn’t believe a word of it. “Did Ruth tell you I’ve been checking in on you?”

  “Yes, she did, and I appreciate it. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch to thank you. It’s been a bit crazy, what with the Coetzees and Ruth and the baby.”

  He was quiet for a moment and then tentatively said, “She mentioned that you lost someone? Which is also why you’ve been so upset?”

  I nodded.

  “Was it . . .” He trailed off and then looked away. “Was it the priest?”

  The priest.

  I froze, unsure how to answer, when Riaan said, “Look, never mind. It’s none of my business. I actually came here for a reason . . . a specific reason, I mean . . . not just to stop by for a chat.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going to the site on Sunday, the one at Gladysvale, and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me for the day? It’s a fun outing and you learn a lot in the process. And I’ll pack a picnic basket for afterward so we can have lunch. It’s very pretty there and I think you’ll enjoy it—at least I do . . .” He was rambling, which is how I realized how nervous he was.

  “Are you asking me out?” I teased, trying to defuse his discomfort.

  “No, of course not,” he stammered.

  “Ah, so then you might well be married after all?”

  He flushed. “No, I never married.”

  For some reason, the admission made me sad and I was suddenly sorry that I’d carried the joshing too far.

  Riaan gazed intently at his nails before looking up again. “I’m just asking you as a friend, nothing else.”

  “Okay. Yes, I’d like that,” I said, and found, to my surprise, that I meant it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Ruth

  28 January–4 February 1995

  New Beginnings Baby Sanctuary, Rustenburg, South Africa, and Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

  This is it,” I say, not quite sure if I’m more likely to throw up or burst into song.

  “Yes,” Lindiwe says. “Are you ready?”

  “Not even close.”

  I wish Dee were here. Doing this together would be so much less scary than doing it alone. She can’t go back in time and save her son, but we can save this child who needs us.

  I follow Lindiwe down the corridor and into what looks like a classroom, and my first thought is that we’ve walked in on a birthday party and are in the wrong place. Toddlers, babies, and care workers stand around tables draped in green tablecloths and covered with cupcakes, sandwiches, sweets, and cold drinks. They all wear festive party hats and start cheering when we enter, which is when I see the huge cake at the center of the table.

  Happy Foster Day Mandla! is written across it in blue icing.

  A care worker crosses the room with my boy. He has his arms draped around her ample neck and is beaming at her. She’s wearing latex gloves and gives me a pair to put on before she hands him across. Mandla, once in my arms, immediately tries to pull away.

  He stretches his arms out toward the woman, calling for her in baby speak. She doesn’t turn to take him back, she just keeps on walking. The parting is clearly as painful for her as it is for Mandla because she wipes at her face as he bursts into heartbroken sobs.

  “Not off to the best start, are we?” I ask Lindiwe.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “The doctor who comes is a white lady and she looks a bit like you. She was here earlier to look him over and he didn’t like it. He’s worried you’re going to hurt him.”

  “He and I both,” I mutter. “He and I both.”

  * * *

  • • •

  A week passes in a sleepless blur.

  It feels like an accomplishment when, in the early hours of one morning, I get Mandla to settle facedown on my chest, his head turned awkwardly to the side to accommodate two fingers in his mouth. I’ve heard of thumb sucking before, but he’s taken it to a whole new level by sucking on his middle and index fingers simultaneously.

  His room, which I went to so much effort to set up, remains empty. I hoped so much he’d like it, since I painstakingly decorated in a way that’s “culturally sensitive” to appease Dee, but he won’t sleep there. The first few nights he screamed every time I put him down in the crib until eventually I gave up. My bed is where he’ll quieten down, either lying on my chest or next to me with one arm reaching out and touching me. Mandla craves constant contact and I’m so terrified that I’ll smother him in my sleep that I barely manage to get any rest myself.

  The insomnia hasn’t helped the constant worry. The new security measures mean we feel safer in the house but they haven’t stopped the threats. Some of them arrive as letters but most of them come via phone calls. The voices change and some are issued in English while others are in Afrikaans.

  We’re coming for you. Die kaffirtjie moet op pas. We’ll show you what we do to women who don’t listen.

  They’re all bad enough but yesterday’s courier delivery w
as especially chilling. I signed for the package, thinking it was one of the items I’d asked Vince to ship, but the box contained a life-sized plastic doll that had been spray-painted brown. There was a hunting knife buried in its head.

  The threats would be easier to deal with if Dee and I were united against them, but she continues to treat me as though I’m the enemy. True to her word, Dee hasn’t been any help with Mandla at all. When she’s home, she shoots me disapproving looks as though everything I’m doing is wrong, yet she won’t offer any help or advice. The rest of the time, she makes herself scarce, either out hiking or with Riaan.

  I know she’s sulking right now but she’ll come around. How can she not when Mandla is so ridiculously lovable?

  I never understood why the universe deprived me of a child for so long, or why it allowed all those infertile years to carve away at me, but I know the reason now: None of the babies that I miscarried were meant to be mine. Not one of them. The universe wasn’t hollowing me out, it was whittling away a Mandla-shaped space so that when he came, he’d slot right into me like a missing puzzle piece.

  All those years of being barren were preparing me to recognize my soul mate when I finally met him because that’s what Mandla is. Forget all the husbands and the boyfriends who I hoped would make me feel whole. Those were all dead-end streets. The road leading me away from Vince was the only road I was ever meant to be on because it led me home.

  Mandla is home. The universe was right in keeping me here.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Zodwa

  29 January 1995

  New Beginnings Baby Sanctuary, Rustenburg, South Africa

  This is the sixth and last place on Zodwa’s list. Leleti was already very near death on the night Zodwa gave birth, and so it’s highly unlikely that she would have caught a taxi to travel for an hour there and back to deliver her grandson to an orphanage so far away. Still, Leleti used to work in Rustenburg and it’s possible that she knew someone at this place.

  Zodwa is ushered into the social worker’s office. As she waits for her, she thinks about everything she’s been doing to make Leleti proud and wonders if it’s enough: trying to finish her studies; working a semi-respectable job as a means to an end; having a boyfriend who, despite being a small-time gangster, is at least a man. All that Zodwa has left to do is find her son and bring him home, proving to Leleti through her actions that her mother was wrong and that Zodwa hasn’t wasted her life.

  “Zodwa?” A woman is seated across from her saying her name.

  “Sorry, sisi. My mind was far away.”

  The woman smiles. She has a cherubic face that makes Zodwa think of someone. It takes her a few seconds to realize who she bears a striking resemblance to, and then it comes to her: Desmond Tutu. “I don’t suppose you’re related to—”

  “No,” the woman says, laughing, “but I get that a lot. I’m Mrs. Nkosi. How can I help you?”

  And so Zodwa begins talking, telling her everything and pulling out the photographs of herself and Dumisa as babies to show her. The woman listens intently, a small frown creasing her brow, and then reaches out for the pictures. Zodwa wonders if she’s imagining the woman’s intensity as she gazes at the photo of Dumisa.

  Mrs. Nkosi clears her throat. “The baby disappeared from the Big Hope Informal Settlement in Magaliesburg?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And that’s where you still live? In a shack?”

  Zodwa bristles at the question. “Yes.” She isn’t homeless. Still, she feels the need to explain her situation. “I work at a shebeen there and am saving money to try and move somewhere better. But it’s not easy, I’m still trying to finish high school. The exams and textbooks are expensive.”

  The woman nods like she understands and Zodwa feels a bit better until the social worker asks, “What’s your health like?”

  “My health?”

  “Sorry, it’s an occupational hazard. I noticed you have a cough and just wanted to make sure you’re taking care of it.”

  “It’s just a cold,” Zodwa says. “It’s almost gone.”

  “Good. Maybe get some Borstol for it.”

  “I will.”

  They’re both silent for a moment and Zodwa wonders what the woman is thinking. Her mind seems to be racing and yet her expression is guarded.

  “So,” Zodwa prompts. “Can you check your files to see if there are any possible matches?”

  “I don’t need to,” Mrs. Nkosi says. “I know all the children here and none of them fits the description.” She hands the photos back to Zodwa, but doesn’t meet her eyes when she says, “I’m sorry that I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Delilah

  3 April 1995

  Drimolen, Muldersdrift, South Africa

  We all sat clustered around in camping chairs, our encampment of tents and vehicles spread out behind us. The moon, a waxing crescent, resembled a closing parenthesis missing its mate.

  It was the fourth dig I’d joined Riaan on but the first one that required us to sleep over for a few nights. We’d started off as a boisterous group of approximately two dozen scientists, students, and volunteers sitting around the fire, but the conversation got more muted as people started drifting off to bed. Only five of us remained and after I yawned for the third time, Riaan stood and held out his hand for me. I took it and stood, trying to ignore the frisson of nerves I felt at his touch.

  It was a crisp, cold night and the farther we retreated from the fire, the chillier it got.

  “I’ll wait here for you and then walk you to your tent,” Riaan said as we split up to go to the bathrooms.

  He was waiting for me when I came out, his hands tucked into his pockets and his head tilted back looking at the stars. I stood still for a moment, just watching him and thinking how he’d retained so much of his boyish charm.

  “I pitched our camp over there.”

  When Riaan had first invited me, he’d made it clear that we’d be staying in separate tents, which had alleviated some of my anxiety. He’d arrived a few days before me along with some of the scientists, so everything was already set up, and I was grateful to have my bed ready and waiting for me.

  I’d spent the day doing grunt work, and even that had required special training beforehand. My muscles were sore from spending the day crouched over buckets of sand, sifting through them to find bones or other artifacts, which had to be documented and bagged so that they could be sent for analysis. It was backbreaking but rewarding work.

  “Don’t worry, the tents are built for winter conditions and the sleeping bags are made for subzero temperatures, so you shouldn’t be too cold,” Riaan said, leading me to a tent on our site. He unzipped the flap and stepped through, and I could hear him shuffling around on the groundsheet. “Aha,” he said as torchlight flooded the tent. “Here you go.”

  I stepped inside behind him and sat on the inflatable mattress, groaning as I stretched my legs out.

  Riaan laughed. “Getting stiff?”

  “Yes. I felt it when we were sitting by the fire but now it’s much worse. These old bones may be too old to be sifting through anicent bones.”

  I expected a laugh or some kind of protest, but he was staring at me intently as he crouched in front of me. I knew that expression; I’d seen it the night before I’d left for the convent.

  Then, we’d been sitting on a blanket in one of the avocado orchards after sneaking out there at midnight to say our goodbyes. Riaan had packed a picnic basket, but neither of us had touched any of the food. It was a warm night and the orchard would soon be flowering. When that happened, bees would flock to it, but right then the grove was quiet, as though it was holding its breath. I knew how it felt.

  We’d been reminiscing, murmuring softly, when Riaan suddenly sat up, a look of anguish on his face. �
�What can I say to make you stay?” Tears filled his eyes as he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. He did it so tenderly that I had to look away.

  “Nothing,” I said. “You know this is my calling. You’ve known for years.”

  He was quiet as he blinked back the tears and then he said, “No, this isn’t about that. This is about the priest. I know that you’re in love with him, Delilah.”

  “No, I’m not!” The blotches of color blooming across my neck had betrayed me. The truth was that I’d been thinking of Father Thomas even as we sat there together, knowing that he’d be fetching me the next day to take me to the convent, and feeling both excited and terrified at the prospect of being alone with him in a car for a few hours.

  “I see the way you look at him. You’ve never looked at me that way.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “And you only decided to become a nun after you met him.”

  “That’s only because I didn’t know about converting to Catholicism until I met him!”

  “Have you ever loved me?” Riaan asked, his voice raw with emotion.

  “Of course I have. Of course I do. You’re my best friend—”

  “Not like that. Not like a friend. You know how I feel about you, Delilah, how I’ve always felt about you. I love you and I think you could love me too if you just tried to see me as a man. I’m not that little boy anymore, the one you became friends with all those years ago.” He took my face and turned it back to his own so that I was forced to look at him.

  It was uncomfortable, meeting his gaze like that, but it achieved what he’d wanted it to. I was looking at him, really focusing on him in a way that I hadn’t in years. That’s what happens when someone is so much a part of the fabric of your daily existence; you begin to look through them, not because they aren’t important, but because they become as essential as oxygen and just as easy to take for granted.