“What? You’ve never cleaned a floor before?”
“Not with water,” she says mysteriously, and scratches her head. What kind of floor can’t be cleaned with water? “You show me how to use it,” she says, and I laugh and laugh.
“Not bloody likely. We’ll wait for Dee to come home. She can show you how to use all of this. For now, just vacuum and dust and then clean the kitchen and bathrooms.” Once I have Zodwa sorted, I turn to Mandla. “Come, my angel boy. Let’s sit over here.”
Mandla looks up from his building blocks and I have to resist the temptation to pick him up. Now that he’s finally started crawling, the next step is to get him walking; that won’t happen if I coddle him, which is what Dee constantly accuses me of. Instead, I hold my arms out to him and he crawls over to where I’m sitting in the lounge.
With him being almost fourteen months old, I’m also focusing a lot of energy on trying to get him to talk. I know Dee says it will come with time but a child like Mandla, one who’s likely to experience more pain and discomfort than healthy children, needs to be able to communicate better than those kids. Being able to explain what hurts will help a doctor understand what to treat him for, and it will also go a long way to lessening my sense of helplessness.
I pat the couch to see if Mandla will pull himself up. “You can do it, my boy. You’re my own little Superman.”
He gives me a rare toothy grin before his face puckers into a frown. I’ve never seen a child with such expressive eyebrows. It cracks me up. He’s frustrated that he’s down there and I’m up here, and I know I should let that motivate him to stand but I hate seeing him upset. I can’t help it; I reach down and pick him up, putting him on the couch next to me.
Jez comes running over and hops up next to him. Zodwa may be the new cleaning maid but Jez continues to be Mandla’s nursemaid and most faithful companion.
“Okay, little man. Look at me.” I make eye contact with him to ensure that I have his full attention, then I point to myself and say, “I am Mama.”
Mandla blinks back at me.
I try it again. “Mama. Now you say it.”
He shakes his head.
“Mama,” I repeat, nodding and pointing to myself while smiling winningly. I feel like I’m in a beauty pageant and am trying to win over one of the harsher judges. “Mama.”
Mandla smiles. Yes, I’ve gotten through to him! He opens his mouth just as Zodwa thwacks something in the bathroom. His head snaps to the side and the moment is ruined.
“Zodwa,” I call. “All okay in there?”
“Yes, Madam Ruth.”
“Could you keep it down a bit? I’m trying to teach Mandla how to say my name.”
“Yes, Madam Ruth. Sorry.” Her voice sounds strangled but it’s probably because she’s bending over the toilet scrubbing it.
I get Mandla to focus again. “Okay, Mandla. Say it. Say ‘Mama.’”
“Kaka,” he says, and then smiles widely.
“What the f—” I manage to stop myself just in time, laughing at how proud Mandla looks. “You little rascal. You can’t even speak yet and you’re already making jokes.” I grab his chubby cheeks and squeeze them while leaning in for a nose bop. God, I love the smell of him. And now that Zodwa has shared the secret of her lovely skin—Vaseline instead of moisturizing body cream! Who would have thought it?—I love the silky soft texture of him too. “Come, let’s try again. Say it. ‘Mama.’”
“Kaka.”
“Mama.”
“Kaka.”
There’s another noise from the bathroom but this time it sounds like laughter. I must be mistaken, though, because when Zodwa comes out of the bathroom a minute later, her expression is solemn.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Delilah
3 July 1995
Drimolen, Muldersdrift, South Africa
Three months after our first trip to the Drimolen site, Riaan and I were sharing sleeping quarters because one of the visiting experts needed somewhere to sleep. I’d offered up my tent, much to Riaan’s surprise, but it didn’t feel like too much of a sacrifice. I felt safe with him and we’d steadily been getting closer. He’d been so patient with me and I wanted to thank him by showing him that I trusted him.
When we slipped into our sleeping bags that night, each of us cocooned in our own individual one, I told myself to relax. I still had all my clothes on, plus there was a barrier of fabric between us. I had no reason at all to feel scared. Riaan flicked the switch on the camping light secured above us and the darkness rushed in to fill the void. We lay motionless for a few moments and then Riaan reached out to me, feeling for my hand. He squeezed it once and then turned on his side, propping himself up on his elbow.
“It’s been a good day,” he said, sighing happily.
“Yes, it has.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” And I was. I loved watching him on the site, where he was in his element. It fascinated me the way he came alive there among all those dead things.
Riaan cleared his throat, and as I turned my head toward him, he bent down and kissed me. It was nice at first and I liked the sensation of his goatee tickling my face, but then he leaned in farther and it was the pressure of his shoulder against my chest that made my breath catch in my throat. I tensed up, my eyes wide with fright, and Riaan froze before pulling away.
“Delilah? Are you okay?”
I wasn’t, but that wasn’t his fault. It was because of what had happened all those years before.
* * *
• • •
Saying goodbye to my family when I left for the convent in January of 1955 had been easy. I wish it hadn’t, as that would’ve shown some degree of feeling but all I’d felt was relief. Saying goodbye to Riaan the night before had been much harder and my eyes were still puffy and tender from the tears I’d cried throughout the night. I told myself that I was all cried out and that’s why I didn’t have any tears left in me.
We were all standing on the veranda. Father Thomas had already said his goodbyes, shaking my father’s hand and patting my mother’s shoulder, while giving a wide berth to Ruth, who’d stepped forward to hug him. He was sitting in his Plymouth Fury to give us some privacy.
The car wasn’t what you’d expect a priest to drive. It was a bright candy-apple red with matching seats, dashboard, and steering wheel, but he’d explained to my father that the church had managed to get a very good price on it at an auction and they were planning to respray it once they had enough funds to do so.
Da surprised me by coming to the farmhouse to say his farewell. It was the third day of the new year and there was much to be seen to after the Christmas break. With a productive two hours of sunlight remaining until dusk, I’d expected him to take full advantage of them.
Da was many things—a violent drunk who had absolutely no farming acumen or business savvy, a man who was not well-liked or even grudgingly respected—but I’d never considered him to be a hypocrite. I could only conclude then that his tears at my departure were genuine, and that they either came from some well of feeling he’d always managed to keep hidden, or that what he was feeling was regret.
Perhaps he looked back and saw himself for what he’d been to me: a brutish father who, though he’d shown himself capable of tenderness toward Ruth, had never shown me anything but disdain.
“Ah made ya a key,” he said in his thick brogue, holding it up. Its gold contours glinted in his dirty fingers, the nails permanently rimmed with mud. “In case ya ever change ya min’ an’ decide ya wan’ to come home.”
“I won’t,” I said, surprising myself with my boldness. It stung that he thought I’d fail at the one thing I wanted most in the world.
“Still, it’s always good to ken tha’ ya have options,” Da said. “I’ve chiseled oot a hole in this here statue,” he said, ind
icating one of the concrete angels Ma collected. It was the only one that didn’t look somber, so I’d be able to tell it apart from all the others.
“Trust Da to pick the one that looks drunk,” Ruth said, and I smiled.
“It’s wedged tight in here, see?” Da said, slipping the key into the hole at the angel’s base and then letting it drop with a thunk. He came over to me and I thought for a moment that he was going to embrace me, but his arms never rose higher than his ribs before he dropped them again. “It will always be there. Ah promise ya tha’.” He leaned forward to give me a quick peck on the forehead. He smelled of a mixture of sweat, manure, and tobacco. “Goodbye an’ good luck.”
“I won’t need luck,” I said. “I have God. He’s all I need.”
“Goodbye, little sister,” Ruth said loudly, stepping up to give me a hug. Her long red hair was hanging loose and a strand of it flew up and tickled my nose. She lowered her voice so our mother couldn’t hear her. “Have fun with your sexy priest.”
“Ruth,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. “It’s not like that.”
“Of course it is,” she whispered. “I see how you look at him. You saucy minx.” Her blue eyes were brimming with tears when she stepped back and I was touched.
“You’ll come to my novitiate ceremony?”
“Of course,” she said. “A room full of virgins and sacrificial wine? Sounds like a hell of a party. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“You mean ‘sacramental’ wine,” I corrected.
“You’re absolutely right. It’s the virgins who are sacrificial.” She winked.
And then the only person left to say goodbye to was Ma.
And it was leaving her that I had hoped would be hardest to do because I knew how much she loved me, how much she’d pinned all of her hopes on me after she’d been forced to get married and bear children when all she’d wanted was to live a life of servitude to the Lord.
“You will have the life I never had,” she’d said after sitting with Father Thomas one Sunday a year before and agreeing to let me join the convent. “You will be happy.”
My mother was only thirty-six when I left and yet I remember her as an old woman. Being a farmer’s wife, and a supremely unhappy one at that, had aged her prematurely, both in appearance and in spirit. Her hair was completely gray and her skin was worn and blemished. Her brown eyes looked like muddy pools as the tears gathered, ready to fall. She was wearing her usual old housedress because it was a working day, but she’d put her fancy apron on over it to mark the occasion and the special guest.
“Delilah,” my mother whispered fiercely as she cupped my cheeks with both of her calloused hands.
That’s all she said but I knew everything she meant by it. Ma wasn’t a demonstrative woman. I couldn’t recall her ever having told me that she loved me. She was the kind of woman who showed her love in scoldings and smacks against the backside because those were the things that she felt forged a person’s character in the eyes of the Lord. She mostly let our father discipline Ruth (which didn’t amount to much discipline at all) because she just didn’t care enough to ensure that Ruth had moral fiber. To her, Ruth was always a lost cause, but I was the one thing she’d done right, and she wanted to ensure that my path to heaven was free of obstructions.
The truth was that as much as I loved my mother, I’d found her love to be stifling. It was weighted with so much expectation that it sometimes felt as though a vise had been clamped around my throat. I was her everything, her reason for living. I know people said that all the time like it was a good thing, as if they were bestowing a blessing, when in fact what they were saying was, You are my air. Without you, I can’t breathe.
No child should have to carry the burden of being their parent’s oxygen.
“I love you, Ma.”
She nodded and kissed me quickly before stifling a sob and wrapping her arms around herself. I waved to Ruth, who was staring at Ma like she wanted to touch her, but also like she knew her comfort wasn’t wanted. It was a hungry look. It was the way Ma looked at me.
When I got to the car and grasped the handle, I turned back for one last look. Ma’s face was scrunched in misery, but it was the kind of martyred misery that makes a person feel perversely good. Like they’re suffering for a worthy cause.
I blew her a kiss, thinking I’d see her again soon. The plan was that she’d come to the convent to visit me, but of course that never happened. I didn’t know then that it was the last time I’d ever see her and so I suffered no guilt that leaving made me feel like I could finally breathe. Like I’d become my own oxygen.
Father Thomas and I had never been alone together, and I’d found it disorienting that our thighs were almost touching in the confines of the car. I was used to his being dressed in his vestments and standing in front of a congregation in the church. That day, though he wore his clerical collar, he was wearing trousers like any other man, and there wasn’t a stained-glass window or altar boy in sight.
Forty minutes into the journey, just as I was beginning to relax, Father Thomas turned to me and asked, “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what, Father?”
“That grinding sound.”
I listened carefully, not wanting to get it wrong, but I didn’t hear anything.
“Something is definitely wrong,” Father Thomas said just before he signaled to turn into the parking lot of what looked like a cheap motel. It was the kind of place Ma would never have allowed us to stop at.
I straightened up, alarmed. We weren’t even out of Randfontein yet. I didn’t want to have to turn around and go back to the farm less than an hour after we’d left. “Are you sure?”
He sounded annoyed. “Of course I’m sure. Unless you think you have more experience with automotive problems than I do?”
“No! Of course not. Sorry, Father. I just didn’t hear the sound before, but now that you mention it . . .” I convinced myself I could hear it too.
He told me to sit tight as he got out of the car, lifting up the bonnet and tinkering around under it for a few minutes. I cranked my window open. I was wearing a dress and skirt that Ma had sewed using material too thick for the summer heat. Beads of sweat had begun to gather at my temples and between my breasts, and the backs of my thighs were sticking to the leather seat.
I’d just hitched the side of my skirt up to wipe at the sticky perspiration when Father Thomas dropped the bonnet and walked around to my side of the car, leaning in through the window. I yanked my skirt down but saw his eyes flit to my bare thigh.
“We’ll need a replacement part,” he said.
I was crushed that we’d have to turn back.
“We’ll stay here for the night while we wait for it, and then we can leave tomorrow.”
“Oh!” I was so relieved to hear that I wouldn’t have to return to the farm that I tried not to think about what my mother would say about such arrangements. The place looked seedy and run-down, but it’s not like I was there by myself. Father Thomas was there to protect me.
“Stay here and I’ll go and see if they have rooms and if I can phone around for that part.”
He returned five minutes later with two keys. “There’s room at the inn.” He smiled, reaching into the boot for my suitcase before pulling out another bag for himself. Its presence confused me. Why would he have packed a bag for the night when the plan was to return to the convent the same day he’d set out?
“This is apparently the better of the two rooms,” Father Thomas said, unlocking one of the doors. “You can sleep here. I’ll head out a bit later to see what I can find us for dinner.”
The motel room was clean, which was a relief. A small Gideon Bible was placed next to the bed. It was the first time I’d ever stayed in a hotel room on my own, or had any kind of room to myself. I was used to sharing with Ruth and knew that I wouldn’t have much
privacy at the convent, so I felt intoxicated with the freedom of it.
I ran a bath, the old pipes clunking as it filled, and then soaked in the cool water, washing off the sweat of the drive. When I was done, I could see out the window that the sun had set and I wasn’t sure what to get dressed into. I’d have to wear my suit again the next day and besides my convent garb, which I couldn’t wear until I got there, I didn’t have any other clothes with me except my nightgown and robe. I’d be taking vows of poverty and so I’d left all my worldly possessions behind.
Deciding that my flannel long-sleeved, floor-length nightgown was modest enough, I pulled it over my head and then knelt with my rosary to pray. I still remember how buoyant I felt in that moment. Despite the stuffiness of the room and the cloying heat of the nightgown, I remember feeling as though every prayer I’d ever uttered had come true.
As my lips moved, murmuring all the gratitude I was filled with, I lost track of the time. My knees were aching when a knock at the door startled me. I whipped my head to the side and felt a muscle in my neck pinch.
Checking through the peephole to make sure it was Father Thomas, I pulled on my robe over my nightgown, wincing as I moved my head too sharply, and unlatched the chain. I opened the door a fraction, hiding most of my body behind it. I expected Father Thomas to pass me my food and then to bid me good night, but instead he pushed the door open. I stepped back to let him pass, pulling the gown tighter around my neck to ensure that all my flesh was covered.
Father Thomas was carrying two parcels and the smell of deep-fried fish and slap chips drenched in vinegar made my stomach growl. There was a small table in the room to set everything down on. He pulled the single chair out and sat on it. I was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.
“Sit, Delilah.”
I looked around, unsure of what the etiquette was, and he nodded at the bed. “That will have to do since there isn’t another chair.”
If You Want to Make God Laugh Page 23