Zak put his other arm around Monica and held her tightly. He didn’t say anything and she was glad. No words could comfort her.
She pulled away. “We’d better leave so you can get back to the hospital.” Her voice sounded thick. She saw that her mascara had run all over Zak’s shirt. Once more, she found herself wishing that Dr. Jansen had a rear escape route for patients who had received crushing news.
Zak wiped her eyes with another tissue and brushed the hair from her face. As his gaze met hers, she felt that she would start sobbing all over again, but she couldn’t. There were sick people waiting for her husband in Lady Helen.
Ivy put an arm around her waist as they came out of Dr. Jansen’s office. “I’ll give you a call,” she whispered.
Monica could not bring herself to respond.
She could feel the eyes of every woman in the waiting room on her, and knew that they, too, were probably wishing Dr. Jansen had a rear entrance for his failures.
Outside, the morning had warmed. Two joggers wearing T-shirts and shorts passed on the sidewalk.
“Spring is definitely here,” said Zak.
Monica said nothing.
Not even the riotous display of color that greeted them as they reached the top of the koppie outside Lady Helen lifted Monica’s spirits. Zak stopped the car so they could get out and enjoy the view, but she told him to drive on. He had done his best to console her on the journey home from Cape Town, but nothing he said gave her comfort, or even a reason to reply, and eventually he, too, had settled into silence. She knew that she was being selfish—Zak had wanted this pregnancy as much as she had—but the fact that he already had a biological child made her feel entitled to nurse her own grief. It wasn’t a mature reaction, she knew, or a healthy one, but she no longer felt in charge of her own emotions.
Zak returned to the hospital and, although it was lunchtime, Monica went home and to bed without bothering to call Dudu to explain that she wasn’t coming into the office. The receptionist knew where she had gone this morning and would put two and two together. With birds singing the joys of spring outside her drawn curtains, Monica drifted into a heavy sleep.
She awoke to hear Mandla’s voice in the house and, after a short silence, Francina’s. There was a quiet knock at her bedroom door. They had noticed her car in the carport.
“Monica? Are you okay?” Francina’s voice was full of concern.
Monica did not trust herself to answer. Her friend tried the door and opened it a crack.
“It didn’t work, Francina.” She burst into fresh tears.
“Oh, Monica, I’m sorry.” Francina sat down on the bed and took her hand.
Monica realized that Mandla was at the door, and held out her arms to him. He came to her. He did not cry, but she could feel the tension in his body.
Francina stroked his back. “Go and eat your lunch, baby,” she told him. “And tell Zukisa to stop watching television.”
He hesitated in the doorway for a moment and then slowly walked back down the hall.
Monica took the tissue Francina offered, dried her tears and then blew her nose.
“I’ll bring you something to eat,” said Francina. “I bet you didn’t even have breakfast.”
A short while later, Mandla pushed open Monica’s bedroom door. She had brushed her hair and was sitting on the bed, and when she patted the space next to her, he came to sit down.
“How come everyone else has babies and you can’t?”
“Not everyone can have their own children. Francina didn’t.”
“But she didn’t have a husband. You do.”
Monica knew he was being petulant because he was disappointed, but his words stung.
“I know, sweetie.”
He gave her a withering look. “God’s not fair.”
“Don’t say that,” said Monica, but her tone did not match the admonition of her words, because she had started to think this herself.
Mandla got up to answer a gentle knock at the bedroom door. Francina had returned with a tray bearing dainty little crustless sandwiches and a cup of strong tea.
“You’ve got to eat,” she told Monica sternly. “And when the children have finished their homework, you’ll come with us for a walk to see if there are any wildflowers left.”
From her tone Monica knew that it would be senseless to argue.
“Come, Mandla, time for your lunch, too.”
When Monica was alone again, she opened the curtains and sat down at her dressing table to eat her lunch. She found she was hungry, and by the time she had finished she was feeling stronger.
She called Dudu to let her know that she wouldn’t be coming in that afternoon. The woman didn’t need to ask about the result of the pregnancy test.
Francina was right to force Monica to take a walk that afternoon. There was a breeze coming in from the ocean, and although she couldn’t see any flowers on the koppies from here, it felt good to be out in the fresh air. They waved to Peg, whose dairy farm they had chosen to walk through to gain access to the koppies. Peg didn’t mind; in fact, none of the other farmers and homeowners whose properties ran up to the base of the koppies minded the townsfolk taking shortcuts across their land.
The two women left Mandla watching Peg clean the milking machine, and with Zukisa, walked behind the barn to the fields where half of Peg’s herd was grazing.
“Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to come here,” said Monica, eyeing the large cow closest to her.
“Nonsense,” said Francina, whose father had raised cattle his whole life. “They won’t hurt you. Walk faster and we’ll be out of the field and on the koppie.”
With her eyes on the ground, searching not for flowers but for cowpats, Monica picked up the pace and climbed over the stile at the end of Peg’s property. A short way up the side of the hill, Francina sat down on a flat rock and motioned for Monica to join her. Zukisa, who had only taken her nose out of the novel she was reading when Francina had warned her of a step up or down, came to a stop close by.
Monica guessed what was coming. More advice not to worry.
“I want to tell you something before you find out from someone else,” said Francina.
Monica was both surprised and relieved to discover she was wrong.
“Mama Dlamini is moonlighting as a chef at the golf resort.” Her friend folded her hands in her lap and sighed.
“I thought something was going on when I went to the café the other day and your mother-in-law was cooking. Mama Dlamini is working for Mr. Yang?”
“I know, I know. I was as shocked as you are now when my mother-in-law told me.”
“After everything that happened.” Monica shook her head.
“If they like her, she’ll get a permanent appointment. That’s a big deal for a woman with no official training.”
“But there are so many hotels up the coast, or even in Cape Town. How can she forget that Mr. Yang tried to destroy Sandpiper Drift?”
Francina sighed again. “Opportunities like this one don’t come looking for a woman like Mama Dlamini. I can’t defend her. All I can tell you is that she was once a girl in a village, with no prospects except for becoming a maid.”
“Is your mother-in-law going to work at the café permanently?”
“I hope not. Jabulani Dressmakers needs her. If Mama Dlamini decides to hire a permanent replacement, I have just the person for her.”
Monica listened as Francina revealed her plan to move Zukisa’s sick aunt, Lucy, and her three children to Lady Helen so that Lucy could become the new cook at Mama Dlamini’s Eating Establishment.
“How will she take care of her sick mother if she’s busy at the café?” asked Monica.
While Lucy worked the lunch shift, Francina would check on the aunt, before collecting Mandla, Zukisa and Lucy’s boys from school. And Lucy’s daughter would just have to go to the café with her. In the evenings, Zukisa could get the little girl ready for bed and make sure the boys did their homewo
rk. The café was not open late unless there was a concert in the amphitheater, so Lucy would be home by eight to put her children to bed.
“My mother-in-law has volunteered to do the breakfast shift,” said Francina. “She doesn’t start work at my shop until I leave to pick up the children from school.”
“How can Mama Dlamini look that man in the eye?” asked Monica, and Francina shrugged.
Zukisa had wandered off a little, still reading her book. “Careful you don’t trip over a rock,” Francina called to her. “Why don’t you stop reading and take a look at the view?”
Zukisa looked up briefly and then went back to her book.
“Ah, children,” said Francina. “They take beauty like this for granted.” She waved her hand toward the glint of the ocean in the distance.
“Except Sipho,” Monica reminded her.
“That boy is not a child, never has been,” said Francina. “What’s his latest news?”
Monica told Francina her suspicions that Sipho was intimidated by the confidence of his new friends in Houston. “There’s a big difference between fifteen and seventeen. I hope he doesn’t do anything silly.”
“If there’s anyone who won’t be led by the nose like an old donkey, it’s Sipho,” said Francina. “He knows his own mind, just like his mother did. Oh, Monica, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Ella was his mother. You’re right.”
“But today of all days. Me and my big mouth.”
Monica found herself using the words she had dreaded hearing from Francina. “It’ll be okay.”
“I meant to take your mind off your disappointment by telling you about Mama Dlamini.”
“You did.” Monica stood up. “Shall we go and find Mandla before he gets into mischief?”
They found him helping Peg put fresh hay in the milking stalls.
“Don’t tell me he helped you muck those out,” Monica said to her.
Peg nodded.
“And I can’t even get him to clean his room.”
Mandla wanted to pick up one more load of hay with the pitchfork before leaving. Afterward he washed his hands with a garden hose and dried them on his jeans.
“All that work made me hungry,” he announced.
Zukisa rolled her eyes. “You’re always hungry.”
“That’s because I move around and don’t have a book in my face all the time.”
“That’s what we get when our children spend so much time together,” said Francina. “They start to fight like brother and sister.”
Monica told Francina to go home, since she would not be returning to the office that afternoon. Zukisa’s eyes brightened at the suggestion and for the first time Monica wondered if the girl saw this daily arrangement as a chore.
At the entrance to Peg’s farm, Monica and Mandla waved goodbye to Francina and Zukisa and started toward home.
“Are you going to keep trying to have a baby again?” asked Mandla.
The brief interlude of respite was over. Monica felt grief settling over her like fog off the ocean.
“I don’t know.”
“You always tell me not to give up.”
How could she explain that sometimes giving up might be the best option?
Arriving home, Monica stared at the contents of the fridge, trying to think of something to make for dinner. Eventually, she closed the door without taking anything out. There were leftovers from last night’s roast pork. Sandwiches would have to suffice tonight.
That night she left the dirty dishes in the sink, went to bed early and lay awake listening to the sounds of Mandla and Zak talking. When Zak was in charge of the bedtime ritual, he always allowed the boy to stay up late.
When Zak finally slipped into bed beside her, she pretended to be asleep. She was unsure why, but felt herself withdrawing from her family. It was selfish and futile but she couldn’t stop herself.
Please help me, God, she prayed silently. She had doubted Him lately, even accused Him of being unfair, but she knew that she was losing her way and needed His help.
Chapter Fifteen
Mandla was already dressed when Monica awoke the next morning, and he’d attempted to make his own sandwiches for school. Peanut butter was smeared across the cupboard where she kept his lunch box.
“I overslept. Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked.
“I tried but you groaned and rolled over. I’m already late for school. Maybe it’s better if I just stay at home.”
“No, I’ll take you now and explain to your teacher that it’s my fault.”
Sighing, Mandla went to brush his teeth, and Monica pulled on some clothes and scraped her hair into a ponytail. She’d come back and shower before going to work.
Dudu was not at her desk when Monica arrived at the office, more than an hour late. She was relieved to sit down at her desk without answering any questions.
She could hear the receptionist singing in the tiny galley kitchen, where she was presumably making a cup of tea. Monica took out a blank sheet of paper. It was time to start planning the next issue. She sat for a few minutes, pen in hand, thinking of events coming up in Lady Helen. Nothing seemed exciting enough to warrant a story. On her computer, she found a list of topics that she added to whenever a new idea came to her, but although these possibilities had excited her when she’d thought of them, they now seemed better suited for a newsletter than the town paper.
Dudu walked past her open door and stopped in surprise. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I overslept.”
“Are you okay?”
Monica nodded.
“If you want to talk, you know where to find me. Do you want some tea?”
Monica shook her head. Dudu had come to the correct conclusion—that Monica’s absence from work yesterday afternoon was confirmation that her fertility treatment had been unsuccessful.
The next day Monica overslept again, but this time Mandla was more persistent in his attempts to rouse her.
“Either I go to school on time or I don’t go at all,” he said.
Even in her sleepy state Monica realized that he was losing patience with her.
That day at work she tried again to think of story ideas, and jotted down a few weak ones, but by lunchtime she was ready to leave, and took her sandwiches to the park, where she sat on a bench next to the statue of the town’s founder, Lady Helen Gray. The warm sun on her face felt comforting and before long Monica dozed. When she awoke, it was past two o’clock and she had a crick in her neck from sleeping sitting up.
Dudu said nothing when Monica walked into the office, but clearly wanted to talk. She kept walking by Monica’s open door, ostensibly to fetch new ink cartridges or reams of paper from the stationery storage room, all of which could have been collected in one trip. But Monica did not want to talk. Zak had tried, too, after Mandla had gone to bed the night before. Talking was futile. Either Monica must throw herself into one more attempt at getting pregnant, or she had to give up the idea of ever having a child of her own.
By the end of the week, when it was time to turn copy in to Dudu to be laid out for the next issue, Monica had completed only two stories.
Dudu read them quickly and said, “I thought we did a piece on Justice’s new job last month.” Justice was the son of Gift and David, the couple from whom Monica had bought her house and with whom she now shared a close friendship. Gift was one of Lady Helen’s most successful artists. Justice had been a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford University in England and had recently been promoted from his lowly clerk’s position at the African Bank to deputy director for Southern Africa.
“Did we?” asked Monica.
Dudu nodded.
“I forgot.”
“Do you have any other stories you’re working on?” asked Dudu.
“No, that’s it.” Monica could not remember how she had spent the past few days.
“We don’t have enough copy for a whole issue.”
Monica n
odded.
“Monica, do you want to talk to me now?”
She feigned ignorance. “About what?”
“Let me make us a nice cup of tea and we’ll have a chat,” said Dudu.
“You’re very sweet, but I just can’t. Not yet.”
“You don’t have to talk to me, but you must talk to someone. We don’t have a newspaper to bring out next week. The other day I had to beg the electricity company not to turn off our power because you forgot to pay the bill.”
“I did? I’m sorry, Dudu. What would I do without you?”
“I have a few ideas for stories. If you want, I’ll write them this weekend. Do you think you can give me at least two more by Monday?”
Monica promised she would. “Thanks, Dudu.”
“The Lady Helen Herald has to come out. People in this town depend on it.”
Monica’s good friend Kitty called that evening to ask if the family wanted to come for lunch at the inn on Sunday, but Monica declined, claiming other plans.
“We don’t have any plans,” said Mandla, who had overheard the conversation.
Monica said the first thing that came into her mind. “There’s lots of work to do around the house, you know. Spring cleaning.”
“But Mom—”
“It has to be done, Mandla.”
She knew that he was disappointed and confused by her response. He loved going to Kitty’s inn, the first place they had lived when they’d arrived in Lady Helen. Plus Kitty’s four-year-old daughter, Catherine, adored him. Monica knew she was being selfish, but she wasn’t in the mood to see Kitty with her two children, especially her youngest, one-year-old Jimmy. Kitty, the onetime fashion model and entrepreneur, always acted as though she was surprised to find herself with a family, as though her husband and babies had appeared in a puff of smoke with no effort at all. At first, Monica had found it mildly amusing, but now she found it painful. “Just look at me,” Kitty would say. “And to think that not long ago I was partying until dawn with the jet set in Milan.”
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