The strawberry jam has left a stain on Mandla’s suit lapel but there’s nothing to be done for it. I’m just considering whether I should try to pick a flower from the garden to pin over it when I hear Zodwa’s raised voice from the lounge.
“You knew!”
Lindiwe’s voice is raised in response. “What are you doing here?”
I carry Mandla from the bathroom to find the two of them squaring off against each other at the front door.
“You recognized him but you lied to me,” Zodwa says, clenching her fists like she’s trying to stop herself from hitting someone.
“Whoa!” Dee says, rushing to the door from the kitchen. “What’s the problem? Is everything okay?”
“What is she doing here?” Lindiwe asks Dee. She looks panicked.
“That’s Zodwa, our maid that I told you about,” I reply on Dee’s behalf. “What on earth is going on here?”
Zodwa speaks to Lindiwe as though the rest of us aren’t here. “Why did you lie to me?”
“I didn’t lie,” Lindiwe says but she looks shifty as all hell. “He wasn’t there when you came. He’d left the day before.”
“But you knew who he was! You knew! And you didn’t tell me.”
“Only because I knew you were sick, sisi!”
There’s suddenly a deathly hush as the two women glare at each other, each breathing heavily with barely contained emotion, but neither speaking.
“Okay, let’s all calm down.” Dee is galvanized into action, taking Zodwa by the elbow and steering her away from the open door toward one of the couches. “Come in, Lindiwe,” she says, beckoning for her to follow. Once they’re all seated, she looks to me. “Ruth?”
I’m frozen in the bathroom doorway. The worst sense of foreboding is anchored in my stomach.
“Would anyone care to tell us what’s going on? Zodwa?” Dee asks once Mandla and I sit down.
Zodwa doesn’t say anything. She clamps her jaws together so tightly that the muscles at her temples bulge.
“Lindiwe?” Dee asks, turning to her for answers.
The social worker is quiet for a moment, as though deciding how much to divulge, and then she sighs. “She came to the sanctuary looking for him. She arrived the day after he went home.”
“He? Who’s he?” Dee asks, looking confused, but I know the answer before Lindiwe provides it.
“Mandla,” Lindiwe says, and then follows up with, “Zodwa’s his mother.”
No. It can’t be true. No. “His mother?” Dee struggles to keep up. “You’re saying Zodwa is Mandla’s biological mother?”
“Yes,” Lindiwe says. “Ask her.”
“Zodwa?” Dee’s voice is a horrified whisper.
Zodwa nods and a tear falls onto her lap. She reaches up a hand to brush more away from her face. “It’s true. I am his mother.”
My boy chooses that moment to squirm from my lap and reach out for her. His grabby hands—those perfect ten fingers extended toward her—are the most crushing thing I’ve ever seen. I close my eyes and clutch him tightly to me as Zodwa begins to speak.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
Delilah
17 July 1996
Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa
I was raped,” Zodwa began by way of explanation, and I felt what little grip I had on the situation get wrenched from my grasp.
How many of our stories begin that way, I wondered, with violence rather than with love? How many of our lives are ruined because some man somewhere decided he would lay claim to something that wasn’t his?
“It was in August of 1993 and Mandla was born on May 10 in 1994,” Zodwa continued.
“That’s the same day he arrived on our doorstep,” I said. “But why . . . why did you bring him here to us?” I asked while shooting a concerned glance at Ruth.
She was deathly pale. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her dumbstruck and yet it seemed that Zodwa’s revelation had robbed her of speech. It would be up to me to get answers.
“I didn’t bring him here,” Zodwa said. “My mother did.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes, you knew her. Leleti Khumalo.”
I had begun to shake my head no, indicating that Zodwa was mistaken, when she corrected herself.
“You knew her as Precious. She grew up here on the farm with you.”
Precious! “Oh my God.” I turned to Ruth. “I didn’t tell you but I ran into her two years ago when I got a flat tire outside the squatter camp.” It dawned on me then. “That was about two weeks before Mandla arrived. That’s how she knew I was back.”
Ruth looked pained but still didn’t say anything as Zodwa began speaking again.
“After I gave birth that day, I fell asleep and when I woke up again, my son was gone.”
I shook my head, trying to understand. “But why would Precious do that to you? Take your baby away and bring him to us?”
“She knew I didn’t want the baby. I was so traumatized after . . . what happened . . . that I didn’t want to be a mother. Mama knew that. And she knew about the rape. She was so upset when I told her. All I can think is that she knew she was about to die . . .”
I gasped. “She’s dead?” And then I wanted to smack myself for my own stupidity. Zodwa had told me before that her mother had died. This was just the first time I was putting two and two together.
“Yes,” Zodwa said. “Two days after Mandla was born. She had TB.”
“I’m so, so sorry.” That explained how terrible Precious had looked when I saw her.
“She knew she was about to die,” Zodwa repeated. “And that she wouldn’t be around to help me take care of the baby. She must have thought he would be better off without me.”
Zodwa went on then, describing how she was told that her baby had died, but how she wouldn’t believe it, how she’d searched for him at mortuaries and at orphanages until she met Lindiwe.
“Ruth had just taken Mandla home the day before Zodwa arrived,” Lindiwe said, cutting in. “He’d tested positive for HIV and so I knew that Zodwa was positive too.”
Oh, God. Zodwa was also HIV positive. Of course, she had to be since Mandla was.
Lindiwe kept talking. “Do you blame me for wanting that child to be with someone healthy who had the means to support him, rather than—”
“Lindiwe!” I was horrified by how matter-of-fact she sounded, and the degree to which she’d rationalized her deceit.
She shook her head stubbornly. “I did the right thing for Mandla. For him, I did the right thing.”
I thought Zodwa would protest, but she just sat there silently, a sail emptied of wind.
“How did you know Mandla was here?” I asked Zodwa. “How did you know where to find him?”
“Someone told me there was a black baby here, and so I came that day to check if it was true.”
“The day you saved Mandla from choking.”
“Yes.”
Ruth suddenly stood up, clutching Mandla to her. “Enough.”
“Ruth—”
“No, I’ve heard enough.” She was crying, her whole face contracted into a mask of grief. “Are you here to steal my son?” Her voice broke. “Is that why you’re here because—”
Zodwa stood, eyes blazing. “He’s my son, not yours. I can’t steal what is rightfully mine. And I could have taken him anytime I wanted to over the past year if that’s what I planned to do. Anytime!”
“So, what then?” Ruth demanded through her tears. “Why play this game and toy with us like this? What is it that you want?”
“What do I want?” Zodwa cried. “I want to live. I want to live to raise my son but that’s not going to happen now. And if I can’t have that, then all I want is for my son to be taken care of. I just want him to have a mother when I’m no longer here for him.” The fire in her eyes dimm
ed then as her legs buckled beneath her. I reached out and grabbed her, steadying her.
As she began to cry, I pulled her up and I wrapped my arms around her. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s all going to be okay.”
Sometimes that was all we needed to hear even if it was the biggest lie ever told.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Zodwa
18 July 1996
Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa
There’s a knock at the door and Zodwa leaps to her feet, rushing to open it. It’s Delilah and she’s alone.
Her sad smile answers Zodwa’s unasked question. “She wouldn’t let me bring him, but give it time, Zodwa. It’s early days still.”
“Please come in,” Zodwa says, stepping aside. “Would you like to sit?” She indicates the table with its two chairs.
“Thank you,” Delilah says.
It would probably be more polite to skirt the issue, and the last thing Zodwa wants is to make Delilah feel uncomfortable, but she can’t help blurting out, “Does Ruth want me to go? Is that what you’ve come to tell me?”
“No. She’s upset at the moment, but it will pass. We just need to be patient with her. Give her a bit of time.”
Time is the one thing Zodwa doesn’t have but that’s not Delilah’s fault and so she doesn’t say so. Instead, she says, “Thank you for helping me. I don’t know why you’re doing it but . . .” Zodwa trails off, trying to find the words to express her gratitude.
Delilah smiles but it’s a sad smile. “I have an inkling of what you’re going through.” Zodwa must look skeptical because Delilah laughs. She gets a far-off look and then says, “I was also raped, Zodwa. Probably at the same age that you were. And I too fell pregnant from that.”
Zodwa’s eyes widen. Whatever she might have been expecting Delilah to say, it wasn’t that.
“I also had a son,” Delilah continues, “but this is where our stories differ. I gave mine up whereas yours was taken from you. I wish that I’d fought as hard as you have, that I’d been as strong as you are.”
Zodwa shakes her head. She’s not strong. She’s the weakest person she knows and she can’t allow Delilah to think otherwise. “No, I—”
“Please don’t sell yourself short. Do you have any idea what strength of character it’s taken you this past year to live with us like this? To be a maid in your son’s home, all so that you could be around him every day?” Delilah shakes her head. “I was up all last night thinking about it, how impossible this situation must have been for you.”
Zodwa shrugs, uncomfortable with the praise. As difficult as it’s been, being away from Mandla would have been infinitely harder.
“Anyway,” Dee says, clearly sensing her discomfort and changing the subject, “I wanted to check if you need a ride to the bus terminal tomorrow?”
“I’m not going anymore.”
“What?”
“How can I leave now when things are like this between me and Ruth? She could take Mandla and—”
“She won’t. I promise you that. I’ll be here to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Delilah says. “Also, Ruth is many things but she isn’t stupid. She knows you could have taken Mandla by now if you’d really wanted to. She knows you aren’t a threat to his safety but she’s feeling backed into a corner. Your going might actually be a good thing. It will give her some space to calm down and think things through. She’ll realize that there’s a way for you both to be a part of his life.”
Zodwa sighs and shakes her head. There’s a lot at stake.
“Look, I know everything’s really messed up. Precious should obviously never have taken Mandla from you and brought him here. That goes without saying. I have absolutely no idea what was going through her mind when she did that, Zodwa, but I can only imagine that she thought she was doing what was best for you after the rape. Believe me, she didn’t do it because she thought you wouldn’t be a good mother or to punish you.”
Zodwa wipes a tear away. It’s so good to hear that absolution.
“You don’t need Ruth’s permission to see Mandla. You realize that? He’s your son. I mean you can’t just take him now, for legal reasons, but after you’ve gone through the right channels legally, you could get him back.”
Zodwa nods. “But then what? We move into our shack at the squatter camp and then? Mandla needs specialized care, which I can’t afford. And I’m dying, Delilah. It’s just a matter of time. I know it’s selfish but I want to spend what’s left of my life being a part of his life. After that, I want what’s best for him.”
“It’s not selfish at all and if anyone will understand that, it’s Ruth. Please don’t cancel your trip. Go and bury your brother. Put him to rest and then come back. It will all work itself out. You’ll see.”
Zodwa wants so much to believe her. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll go.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Ruth
3 August 1996
Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa
Dee knocks and when I answer, she comes into my room carrying a glass of water and the antibiotics that the local geriatric doctor prescribed me after doing a house call. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Not really. This pneumonia is a bitch, that’s all I can say. No wonder Mandla was so sick when he had it.”
She passes across the pills that are the size of bombs. “Here, swallow these.”
“I’m more of a spitter than a swallower, to be honest,” I retort, forcing a wink, before taking them from her. I manage to get them down but then my chest hurts again, my hand instinctively rising up to massage it.
“Still sore?”
I nod and lie back down. Jez jumps onto the bed, curling up next to me as I nestle my fingers in her fur. “How’s Mandla?”
I haven’t held him in two days, not since I started feeling so terrible. As much as I miss him, I don’t want him near me if it means he might get sick. Dee held him up at the door earlier this morning so he could blow kisses to me.
“He’s fine. He’s having a nap but he should be up soon,” Dee answers before changing the subject. “Vince called again to check on you.”
“He’s a sweet man.” He’s been calling a lot lately. It feels like the old days when I was being wooed.
“How did you two meet?” Dee surprises me by asking. “You never told me.”
“In rehab,” I say, expecting to see Dee’s eyebrows go up but they don’t. “I was addicted to drugs and booze. He was addicted to prescription painkillers from a car accident he’d had. They say you should never start relationships in recovery and that suited me just fine. I was done with men by then. Done, I tell you!”
Dee smiles. “Of course you were.”
“Of course I wasn’t.” I snort, setting us both off again, and then wince at the stab of pain the laughing elicits. When it passes, I continue. “He waited a year, until after we both got clean, to call me up, and then he just kept on doing so until I agreed to go out with him.”
“So, what happened?”
I shrug. “We fell in love and got married, and it was wonderful until I messed it all up.”
“How?”
“I started drinking again. Popping pills.”
“Why?”
“Same reason why I probably started drinking in the first place and why I always fell off the wagon. Not being able to get over wanting what I couldn’t have.”
“But surely he understood that?”
“He was sympathetic, but he thought we were enough, just the two of us, so he didn’t understand. Not really. And he told me time and again that he couldn’t be with someone who wasn’t sober. Each time I apologized and promised I wouldn’t do it again, he gave me a second and a third chance, but of course I kept on relapsing until I ran out of chances.”
After telling Dee about it, how I
’d been expecting it and yet was still surprised when the bottom finally dropped out of my world, I surprise myself by saying, “He deserves better. He always did. He’s a good man who should be with someone who doesn’t drag him down.”
Dee sighs. I suppose there’s nothing I can tell her about wanting what’s best for someone else and knowing that you aren’t it.
“You’re sober now,” she says.
“Mostly.” I color with embarrassment remembering my lapse that Dee knows nothing about as well as the one that she does, and then I change the subject. “When did you last hear from Zodwa?”
“She called yesterday. Her brother’s burial is going to be on Saturday.”
“Good. I’m glad they’ll all finally have some closure.” And I find that I actually mean it.
I’ve been so angry these past two weeks and almost all that fury has been directed at Zodwa. Though, to be fair, I’m almost equally pissed off with the universe. It seems a cruel joke to grant me what I’ve always longed for most and then to snatch it away. I suspected something was strange about Zodwa’s unwavering devotion to Mandla but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Then again, who am I to talk? Didn’t I fall in love with Mandla at first sight? Despite our differences? Despite everything?
My excuse was that I refused to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hers was . . . well, she didn’t need an excuse, did she? She has more claim to him than I ever will. It doesn’t matter how much I love him, or how unfair this all is. She’s his mother and that’s what it boils down to. She’s his mother and children belong with their mother. Fucking illness is making me altruistic or forgiving or some other bullshit. I hope it passes as soon as I feel better.
“Have you given any thought to Zodwa coming back on Monday?” Dee asks now, reading my thoughts.
I’ve thought of nothing else. Still, Dee’s been so worried lately and I hate seeing that crease cleave its way into her brow again so many months after Daniel’s death. “It will all be fine,” I assure her. I have nothing to base this on except the fact that it has to all work itself out. It just simply has to. “You know what the crazy thing is?”
If You Want to Make God Laugh Page 32