“Your foot sore?” he asks.
“No, Mandla,” Delilah says. “My heart is sore.” And that’s when Zodwa realizes that Delilah is crying.
Before Zodwa can pick Mandla up, he runs into the room and she calls out to him, “Mandla, no! Come back here.”
But he doesn’t listen. He’s running through shards of what looks like a broken mug, toward Delilah, who sits on the floor cradling Ruth’s head in her lap. Jezebel sits whining next to them. Ruth is deathly pale and isn’t moving, and Delilah weeps silently. She has a bad cut on her foot that’s bleeding.
Zodwa tries to speak to ask what happened but finds that she can’t, as a vision comes to her of her own mother lying immobile on the floor of the shack.
Mandla sits down next to Delilah and reaches out a hand to run it over Ruth’s face. “Mama sleeping?”
“Yes, my boy,” Delilah says. “Mama’s sleeping.”
He leans over then and kisses Ruth on the cheek. “Night. Sleep tight. Don’t let bedbugs bite.” It’s what Ruth always says to him before she puts him to bed.
Delilah reaches out her hand to draw Mandla in against her, kissing the top of his head as she rocks back and forth. And then she beckons for Zodwa to join them.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
Delilah
6 August 1997
Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa
I didn’t know how it was possible but a whole year had somehow passed since Ruth left us. Not a day had gone by without my missing her with an ache so fierce it felt like a rock lodged beneath my breastbone.
It felt so strange at first knowing a secret about Ruth that she never even knew, one that if revealed to her would have changed her entire perception of herself. All those miscarriages were a genetic inevitability and her repeated attempts to conceive were futile. She would never have been able to carry a baby to term for the same reason that a pulmonary embolism misdiagnosed as pneumonia had killed her.
Ruth had a genetic mutation called Factor V Leiden, which was only revealed in the autopsy. It’s probably what killed Da too though we never knew it then; we just thought he’d had a heart attack. The gene gave Ruth a much higher risk of developing blood clots and of having miscarriages.
Ruth could have been saved if only we’d known. A blood thinner instead of antibiotics would have broken down the clot. If only I hadn’t called that ancient town doctor to see her. If only I’d insisted on putting Ruth in the car and taking her to a specialist in Joburg earlier. If only she hadn’t been on bed rest, which just made the clotting worse.
If only. If only. If only. Life spun on an axis of regret.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Ruth had a premonition of her death or saw some sign; she was always so good at recognizing them. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she made her first will a mere six months before she died. It’s as if she knew what Zodwa would one day need and selflessly provided it. Didn’t sound like Ruth, though, did it? Selfless, my ass.
Zodwa was surprised by the provision Ruth had made for her in her will but she shouldn’t have been. After all, Zodwa saved Mandla’s life more than once and Ruth was more grateful for that than she was ever able to express. Vince invested the money so that it could continue paying for Zodwa’s antiretroviral therapy. She’d started it six months before and had picked up some weight, which was probably Ruth’s revenge; she never liked living among such skinny women. I wish it had all been smooth sailing since then, but Zodwa had good days and bad days, with the side effects from the ARVs sometimes being worse than the disease itself. It was a waiting game but we hoped for the best. At least she wasn’t alone.
Jezebel continued to pine for Ruth. She walked from room to room searching for her and it was the most pitiful sight in the world. Jez still protected Mandla fiercely and was always just a split second behind him, like his shadow. Zodwa told me that’s what Jez’s name had been when she still belonged to her mother. Precious named her in honor of my own childhood dog, who she must have thought of when she adopted her.
Jez had also taken up where Ruth had left off all those years ago, spying on me when I prayed. I didn’t do it on my knees next to the bed anymore, which was just as well. I suspected Jez would hop up on the mattress while I was busy and lick me in the face. Now that I thought about it, I was surprised Ruth had never done the same.
Ruth would be so happy to know that her boy continued to thrive. His beauty astounded me, as did his quick mind and easy nature. He did her proud every single day, and still sometimes called her Mama when we went through the photo albums and he saw pictures of her. How lucky they were to have each other despite how fleeting their time together was. Perhaps Ruth’s love for Mandla was so fierce because she always suspected how temporary their union would be.
Ruth left most of her money to Mandla in a trust and stipulated in her will that I should oversee it as Mandla’s guardian in the event of her death, but she wrote it before we knew the truth about Zodwa. She had asked me to legally adopt him but I couldn’t do that. Not with Zodwa being his mother and with her living with us in the farmhouse. We were all seeing a family therapist to try to figure things out. One of the last things Ruth said to me was that it would all be fine and I believed her. It would be.
There was an article in that day’s paper commemorating the one-year anniversary of Ruth’s death. It was a small article, but still . . . she was being remembered. All the press she got after she died would have made her insufferable. She always did like attention. I’d made another two collages from all those tributes to “South Africa’s Wild Child” and they hung next to the one I made her for Christmas. Mandla was most impressed with the picture of a clothed Ruth with the snake.
Vince insisted on funding Mandla’s ARVs and he visited regularly from Cape Town to check on him. I’d never seen a man more crushed or more filled with regret. However evolved Ruth had become in the last year of her life, I knew there was a small part of her that would have been happy to know that Vince was suffering. He refused to listen to any suggestion of his moving on, which was understandable. Ruth was one hell of a tough act to follow. It was harder for him because he thought she was truly gone; he didn’t see her as often as I did because he wasn’t looking for the signs like I was. My sister had taught me well.
She was the red butterfly matching the exact shade of her favorite Dior lipstick, that settled on Zodwa’s wrist as she sat in court to testify against the Coetzee brothers before they were sentenced to twelve years in prison. She was Jezebel’s wet snout against my leg when I heard that the canned-lion-hunting operation had fallen through and we no longer had to live under the constant threat of persecution. She was the voice whispering, and then yelling, that it was time to finally allow Riaan to love me. She was the anger that fueled me to drive to Johannesburg last month, and the courage that fortified me, when I finally confronted Father Thomas after all those years.
Ruth was there with me when I rang the doorbell that day, and I felt her holding my shaking legs up when I didn’t back down in my condemnation of him, not even when Father Thomas started raging, and then still not when he started weeping. Ruth was there when I called it “rape” and knew it to be true, finally laying that burden down to free up my hands so I could embrace the future.
I’m going to be brave today, Ruth. For you.
I pulled my reading glasses and the envelope from my bag, inhaling deeply as I did so in order to steel my nerves. Jezebel huffed reassuringly, leaning in to my leg as though to remind me of the promise of bravery I’d just made.
Have courage, she said, and of course she was right.
I opened the envelope with trembling fingers and unfolded the pages inside, beginning to read the words that were written to me almost three and a half years before.
8 April 1994
Dearest Delilah,
This letter may come as a complete surp
rise to you or it may be one that you’ve been waiting thirty-eight years for. Regardless, I hope that its arrival is a welcome one and that I’m not imposing on you as that’s the last thing I would ever want. If you choose not to reply, I will respect that completely.
Where to begin? With an introduction, I suppose. My name is Father Daniel Da Silva and I am your son. How strange it feels to write that, yet how wonderful too, to claim you: you are my mother.
I suspected for many years that the young nun, Sister Mary Teresa, who was excommunicated from the convent where I grew up was you, but it was only recently confirmed. Still, even after learning this, I may not have tried to reach out had I not discovered my father’s identity and come to suspect the circumstances surrounding my conception.
Let me start by saying that I had a wonderful childhood. I was coddled and spoiled more than a child raised in a convent ever should be. Sister Marguerite, who you may remember, has served as my surrogate mother and I’ve wanted for absolutely nothing over the years: not love, affection, moral guidance, or material things.
While I was growing up, I viewed Father Thomas Da Silva as a father figure. I was given his last name, and I can’t remember a time that he wasn’t a part of my life. I worshipped him as a child and it was his influence that led me to the seminary. Being a priest like him was all I ever wanted to be. So, you can imagine how shocked I was two years ago to hear of the allegations the young congregants made against him.
I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t believe them at first, because Father Thomas immediately went on the attack, vehemently denying their version of events. He further went on to use personal information that they’d confided in him in order to discredit them. It was only once I planned to speak out in his defense at his request that Sister Marguerite shared her own experiences with him and what she suspected your similar experience may have been.
It was devastating discovering that the man I idolized, and had tried so much to emulate, was a monster. As was finding out that I had been conceived by such a violent act of treachery. I cannot even begin to imagine how devastating it must have been for you, being a young woman on your own, wanting to dedicate your life to God and being so terribly betrayed by both Father Thomas and the church.
I want you to know that I don’t blame you for leaving me. You were frightened and alone, and had all choice taken from you. I know you were threatened and that Father Thomas used his considerable influence to keep me with him while excommunicating you.
I went in search of you last month after Sister Marguerite gave me your last-known address before you left for the convent. I knew it was a long shot, but there was always a chance that you may have returned. At the very least, I hoped to find family there but as you know, they are all long gone.
My only hope now of making contact is through this letter. I hope that it somehow makes its way to you and that you would consider writing back. While it’s true that I had an idyllic childhood, I always felt as though something were missing. Is it possible to miss something you never had? To yearn for and love someone you’ve never met?
I believe so.
It would mean so much to me if we could have a relationship. I hope you will consider it.
Your son,
Daniel
I couldn’t help it then, I broke down. I’d never had the chance to know him, neither as a child nor as an adult, and I would have given everything to go back in time and change that. He’d grown into a kind man, a compassionate priest, and I could claim no responsibility for that, as I’d had no hand at all in shaping the person he’d become.
And even as I wept for Daniel, I cried, too, for all that I’d lost besides him: my girlhood, my innocence, my vocation, and my God. Looking back on my life, I had almost nothing but regrets. I finally understood that I hadn’t had any control over what Father Thomas did to me or what followed with the church, but I’d chosen to excommunicate myself from my own life as a form of punishment, flagellating myself with guilt to the point where nothing else existed beyond that corrosive emotion.
It was too late for Daniel and me, but he’d given me the gift I’d sought my entire life: forgiveness and absolution. He hadn’t blamed me or hated me. My son, despite everything, had somehow seen me as worthy of love. What more could any of us ever ask for?
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
Zodwa
6 August 1997
Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa
Zodwa wakes to find the single bed next to hers empty. She gets up and goes to the lounge, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she does so. Mandla is sitting on the couch watching television. He’s too transfixed by the flickering light and colors to notice her as he drinks from a sippy cup, but Thembeka immediately rushes over to Zodwa from the kitchen, where she’s been making tea.
Thembeka places her palm against Zodwa’s brow. “You feel cooler.”
Zodwa has been having night sweats. It necessitated bringing back the sisters’ two single beds from Delilah’s old room to replace the queen bed because Thembeka can’t sleep when Zodwa is thrashing around. Thembeka kisses her cheek and Zodwa closes her eyes to savor the softness of it. As long as she lives, she’ll never get used to the sensation of Thembeka’s lips against her skin.
As long as she lives.
Who knows how long that will be? There are days when Zodwa feels like she’ll live forever and then ones where the ticking of the clock feels like a countdown to her last breath, days she feels so terrible that she’d almost welcome death if it was merciful enough to come for her.
She hasn’t responded to the ARVs the way Mandla has; apparently adults have a harder time on the meds than children do. Still, she’s grateful that Thembeka was spared contracting the virus. The thought of having sex with a man was so distasteful to her that she’d told Mongezi she wouldn’t have sex before marriage, knowing full well he had no intention of marrying her. It was this that saved her.
There are many who are not as lucky, and the news from the squatter camp is bleak. Dozens of their mutual friends have either passed away or are dying slow, painful deaths as their bodies are ravaged by opportunistic infections. The fear surrounding the disease has intensified to the point that no one dares disclose their status for fear of persecution. Those who are close to the end, and cannot hide their condition even if they tried, have been threatened by lynch mobs and even dragged from their homes.
Mama Beauty reports that she fears an entire generation is systematically being wiped out, leaving behind orphans to be raised by women like her: mothers in their golden years whose children should be taking care of them, but who are now raising their grandchildren as they helplessly watch their children die, one by one.
Zodwa pulls Thembeka even closer, grateful for her vitality. “Where’s Delilah?” Zodwa asks once they part.
“It’s the anniversary,” Thembeka reminds her. “She took Ruth’s ashes on a hike and said not to wait for her for breakfast.”
A whole year.
How has it been that long since Zodwa came inside and saw Delilah’s stricken face? Then again, what’s a year when so much has changed in the past four years since Zodwa was raped? She thinks back to the day she went to see the nyanga so that she could change her fate. How naïve she was to think that such a thing was possible.
Zodwa remembers the dream the healer asked her about, the one that had woken her from her sleep and made her decide to see the healer in the first place.
What did you dream the last time you slept?
I dreamt I was being chased.
By what?
Two white owls. Their wingspan stretched across the sky, blocking out the sun.
And then what happened?
I thought they were going to kill me, but it wasn’t me they wanted.
What then?
The baby. They snatched it from me and flew awa
y.
Zodwa knows now that the two white owls were Ruth and Delilah, and that they took Mandla not to harm him but to try to save him after Leleti left him with them. She knows too that there is no such thing as curses; they’re just self-inflicted prisons that only have power over us as long as we believe in them. Our luck is what we make of it and all we can ever do is make the most of the time we have.
Zodwa can’t help but think how cruel the world can be that it could give a child two women who would do anything to mother him and then take both of them away, allowing neither one the opportunity to raise him. Yet before all the loss comes all the love, and if heartbreak is the cost for loving as much as we do, then it’s a price Zodwa’s willing to pay.
“Mama!”
Zodwa turns to find Mandla standing on the couch waving at her. His smile is so beautiful she wants to cry. Instead, she walks over to him and picks him up. “My son. My little man,” she says, kissing him all over.
He squeals and then kisses her back, blowing a raspberry against Zodwa’s cheek as Delilah taught him. And in those few seconds, it doesn’t matter that Zodwa is dying or that Mandla is sick. It doesn’t matter that their entire lives and all their struggles amount to less than the blink of an eye in the greater scheme of things.
What matters in that brief wondrous moment is that they are there at all and that their hearts beat in proximity to each other. Each day is a blessing; each breath of air, a gift. Zodwa doesn’t know how many of them she has left. All she knows is that she will fill them by trying to equip her son for a time when she’ll no longer be there.
She will love him so completely that love is all he remembers even after loss is all he knows. She can only hope that it will be enough.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While it’s true that writing is a solitary endeavor, it takes a supremely kick-ass team to get a book published. All my time spent alone talking to (and arguing/laughing/crying with) my imaginary friends wouldn’t have been possible without a wonderfully supportive tribe.
If You Want to Make God Laugh Page 34