“I think it might be time for us to have the talk,” he said. “You seem ready.”
To her surprise, Monica felt a sob catch in her throat. “Oh, Zak, I’m sorry for what I said to you in Los Angeles.”
He put his arms around her. “I’m sorry, too, if I haven’t been as supportive as you needed me to be.”
“I know you want another baby as much as I do,” cried Monica, burying her face in his chest.
“Are you ready to try again?” he asked softly.
She pulled away so that she could look at his face. “I think we’ve given it our best shot,” she said quietly. “But if you want to continue trying, then I will go along with your wishes.”
Zak wiped the tears from her cheeks, then sighed. “Are you sure you’d be okay about giving up now? I don’t want you to regret it years down the line when it’s too late.”
“I’m blessed to have Sipho and Mandla and to be a stepmother to Yolanda.”
“They’re great children.”
“I’ve finally decided what I should have known all along. The boys are all the babies I need.” She began to cry again.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’ll need some time to grieve, because it’s the end of my dream of having a baby, but I know this is the right decision.”
Zak handed her a tissue and she blew her nose. He took her face in his hands. “I’ve missed you, Monica—and I don’t mean this weekend, I mean these past months.” He kissed her gently.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too.”
“Are the dishes done?” Mandla stood in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Strange how that happens, isn’t it?” said Zak.
“I was going to help,” said Mandla with a smile.
“We knew that, didn’t we, Monica?”
She pinched Mandla’s cheeks. “Of course we did.”
That morning at church, with the cries of the migratory birds coming in through the open windows from the lagoon, Monica asked God to forgive her for losing faith in Him. Reverend van Tonder, although he could not have known it, chose the perfect scripture for her: the story of the prodigal son.
The family took a walk together on the beach after lunch. Monica did not tell Zak how she had flung herself into the ocean, fully clothed, after learning that Jacqueline was pregnant. She did not mention Jacqueline at all, not only because she didn’t want to think about Zak’s ex-wife having a baby, but because Monica didn’t know if Zak had told Yolanda about it yet.
When Yolanda and Mandla went down to the water’s edge, Monica asked him if he had.
“I didn’t want to tell her in front of Mandla, so I was waiting till you got back.”
“Have you spoken to Jacqueline again?”
Zak nodded. “I don’t think she has any intention of coming back. She’ll make all the excuses she can think of until the baby…” He paused to check the effect his words might be having.
“It’s okay, Zak.”
“And then it will be the end of Yolanda’s school year and Jacqueline will try and persuade her to go to university in Australia.”
“Do you want me to take Mandla for a walk?”
“Please.” Zak sighed.
“There was something Ella used to call the ‘Ella Nkhoma Shake and Bake,’” Monica told him. “It was her expression for trying to put a positive spin on something.”
“I don’t see how I could in this case. Jacqueline lied and now she’s prepared to live without Yolanda for a while.”
“Yes, but having Yolanda full-time has been a dream of yours since the divorce.”
A smile appeared on Zak’s face. “You’re right. If I present it to her like that, the blow might not be as bad.”
Mandla was always eager to go farther than usual on the beach, but he wanted to know why Yolanda and Zak weren’t accompanying them on their walk. Monica told him what Yolanda was about to learn.
“Yolanda’s mother is too old to have a baby,” he said.
“Not really.”
“Well, then why can’t you have one?”
“Some people just can’t.” She stopped and took his hand. “But I have two wonderful boys. You and your brother are all I need.”
He squinted at her in the bright sun. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He resumed walking, and for a second she was disappointed that he hadn’t done something dramatic like throw his arms around her and tell her that he loved her. Then she noticed the tiny smile at the corners of his mouth and realized he hadn’t pulled his hand away from her. She took this as a sign that at long last they had returned to normal.
At the golf resort, they stopped and sat down on the sand.
“Why is Mama Dlamini working here now?” Mandla thumbed in the direction of the hotel.
“I wish she wasn’t, but Francina says it’s a chance of a lifetime.”
Mandla thought for a while. “Like I had in Hollywood.”
So things were not quite yet normal between them.
“I’m sorry you were disappointed about not staying,” she said.
He nodded. “Sipho wouldn’t want to live there. He’d miss his birds and animals and snakes and whales.” Mandla gave an exaggerated shiver. “So when can I go to Cape Town to audition for a movie?”
Monica told him that she would look into it first thing the next morning.
“And I suppose I’d better do what that director said—go for acting lessons.”
“I’ll find out about those, too. What about losing your South African accent?”
“I’ve been trying.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“But it’s too hard to keep up. And there’s no point if I’m not moving to Hollywood.”
Monica had to suppress a smile at the serious tone with which he said this, as though it had indeed been a possibility.
“I like the way you talk,” she told him.
Mandla rested his head on her shoulder. “Of course you do. You’re my mother.”
Monica saw a dive boat bobbing on the water about two hundred yards offshore. It was probably James, her friend Kitty’s husband, with a group of tourists.
“Is Yolanda going to stay with us for good?” asked Mandla.
“I hope so. But it won’t be for good, because next year she’ll be going away to university.”
“Do you think I can go away to university? To America?”
“I suppose so. If we can afford it. Or maybe you’ll win a scholarship.”
“Don’t forget to find out about the acting lessons tomorrow.”
Monica assured him that she wouldn’t forget. Ever since he was little, she had predicted that he would leave the nest first. Sipho had beaten him to it, but Sipho would return; when Mandla went, it would be for good.
Monica stood up and shook the sand from her skirt. She didn’t want to think about that now, when she was just getting her family back on track.
“I hope Yolanda will be happy to stay with us,” said Mandla.
“Me, too, Mandla. Me, too.”
When they returned to the others, Yolanda was crying. Monica indicated to Zak that she and Mandla could turn around again and leave, but he put up his hand for her to stay. Monica went to Yolanda and laid her arm across her shoulders.
“Dad says he wants me to live with you,” said Yolanda, sniffing.
“We both do,” said Monica.
“My mom—” Yolanda began to cry again.
Monica pulled her closer. “Don’t cry. It will all work out. You’ll see.”
Monica thought about how these words, which she had once despised hearing from well-meaning friends, had turned out to be true for her life. She had decided to give up her wish for a baby, yet had gained a daughter—at least until Yolanda went away to university. One mother had given her the boys, another had lent her Yolanda. Monica thought of Anelle, Kholeka and Jo, who were still at the workshop, and prayed that they, too,
would be blessed with children, their own or those born to others.
After Mandla and Yolanda had gone to sleep that night, and Zak was in the living room, reading the latest issue of a medical journal, Monica went into the bathroom, gathered up her ovulation predictor kits, pregnancy tests, basal temperature thermometer and unused ovulation charts. She put them in a plastic shopping bag, which she set down next to the front door for Zak to take to the hospital the following day. Someone else might need them; she no longer did.
When she awoke the next morning, she told herself it was Monday, not day eight of her cycle. Never again would she count off days on her calendar unless it was to show Mandla how many there were till his birthday or Christmas, or until his grandparents arrived.
Shirley had told them at the workshop to look after their bodies, and today would be the start. From now on she would eat well, exercise more, breathe fresh air outdoors whenever she could, and control her anxiety. It was time for her to take back her life.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Francina leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her tea and watching Zukisa complete an essay for her English homework. Zukisa was a good student, not exceptional like Sipho, but among the best in her class. Unlike Sipho and Yolanda, she did not aspire to go to university, and Francina was secretly disappointed. She was touched that Zukisa wanted no more in life than to join her behind the counter at Jabulani Dressmakers, but Francina wanted her to attain what she had never been able to, a degree certificate with a fat gold medallion. In her attempts to persuade Zukisa, Francina had shown her exactly where the certificate would hang, on the wall in the shop next to the one she herself had obtained just three years ago, for completing high school.
Francina had not told Zukisa of her plan to bring the girl’s family to Lady Helen, not for fear that it wouldn’t be possible, but because Francina was not quite ready to see the joy on her daughter’s face that such an announcement would bring. Even after all these years as Zukisa’s adopted mother, and against her will, Francina still felt jealousy when she saw her daughter with her blood relatives.
Lucy had taken over her mother’s job cleaning the cafeteria after the breakfast shift, and she had also been hired as the cook for the dinner shift, which was usually quiet because most of the dockworkers returned to their homes at the end of the day. While Lucy was away, Xoli was supposed to be in charge, but he often didn’t come home until after his mother, and then would not reveal where he had been. This past weekend, Lucy had shared with Francina her suspicions about Xoli’s involvement in a gang, which was why Francina had decided that now was the time to bring her plan to fruition. If she didn’t, Xoli would be lost, just as his mother had once been.
The success of her plan depended on the cooking skills of Mama Dlamini. Her Zulu friend’s apprenticeship at the golf resort was almost up, and if Mama Dlamini was offered a job as head chef, Lucy could take over from her at the café. Mama Dlamini knew nothing of this, but Francina would use all her skills as a negotiator to persuade her.
Hercules would be able to tell Mama Dlamini that it was difficult to escape Francina’s persuasive skills, or what he called nagging. She had been on at him for a year to submit his name as a candidate for the mayoral election that was set to take place in a month. Only a week remained for him to register as a candidate.
“What are you plotting, Mother?” asked Zukisa. “I know that look on your face.”
“Never mind. Have you completed your homework?”
She nodded. “Let’s go downstairs and work on Gift’s dress.”
Gift had been invited to exhibit her work at a gallery in London, and she wanted something new to wear to the opening of the show.
Francina followed her daughter down the stairs to the shop, where the Closed sign hung on the door. Late summer sunlight streamed through the windows, giving the polished wooden floor a golden hue. Dinner was ready upstairs, but Francina and Zukisa were waiting for Hercules, who had gone to church to discuss the upcoming visit from a choir based in Mpumalanga Province.
“How am I going to get your father to run for mayor?” Francina asked as they sewed shimmering silver beads onto Gift’s black chiffon dress.
“Oh, Mother, I think that is one plot you should give up. He’ll never willingly submit his name.”
Zukisa’s words gave Francina an idea. Hercules was a man of honor; if she were to put in his name, he would never withdraw it. That was it! Just before the deadline, she would submit her husband’s name as a candidate for mayor of Lady Helen. The town deserved him, and his integrity deserved recognition. Francina decided that this, too, would have to be a secret to keep from her daughter.
A week later, as Francina and Zukisa returned home from watching Mandla for the afternoon, Francina asked her daughter to go upstairs to their flat and peel the potatoes for dinner while she popped into the general store to buy some milk.
“There was plenty of milk this morning,” said Zukisa.
“We need more because I want to make baked custard for dessert this evening.”
Francina waited until Zukisa had gone inside before crossing the street and hurrying into the mayor’s office. It was five-thirty. Only half an hour remained before the deadline expired for entries into the mayoral race.
“Hello,” said Mayor Richard. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to register for the election,” said Francina.
She tried not to look at Mayor Richard’s naked calves as he got up from behind his desk to open a large ledger on the windowsill. At that moment, the telephone on his desk rang, and he hurried to answer it.
While he was talking to the caller, Francina filled in the entry form on behalf of Hercules. She didn’t need him here to help her with any of the answers; as his wife, she knew all there was to know about him. Mayor Richard was still on the telephone when she reached the line where Hercules was supposed to provide his signature. Pushy she might be, but she was not a fraud, and so, using her most legible script, she wrote her own name on the line and put the letters pp next to it, as the secretary at Green Block School did when the principal, Mr. D., did not have time to sign his name.
Mayor Richard waved at her as she left, but did not interrupt his telephone conversation. Outside on the sidewalk, she gave a sigh of relief. It was done. Everything else would fall into place. There was not much time to campaign, but Hercules was so well-known in town there would be little need for it.
“You lucky people,” she said under her breath as she watched shop and gallery owners close the doors and pull the blinds for the night. The merchants did not know it, but the leadership of Lady Helen was about to change for the better.
While Francina and her family ate dinner that night, the telephone rang, and Zukisa rose to answer it.
“It’s for you, Dad,” she told Hercules. “It’s the mayor.”
Francina felt the blood drain from her face.
“Are you okay?” her mother-in-law asked, as he hurried off to take the call.
“I’m fine,” replied Francina, taking another bite of roast potato. She strained to catch Hercules’s conversation, but could hear nothing. Then she noticed Zukisa observing her. “Eat up,” she told her. “Your food is getting cold.”
Her husband returned to the table. He did not look angry, so perhaps Mayor Richard had wanted to talk to him about some other business. Hercules sat down and spread his napkin on his lap.
“Congratulations, Francina,” he said.
“For what?”
“I understand you’re running for mayor.”
Zukisa and Mrs. Shabalala broke into big smiles.
Francina dropped her fork onto her plate. “There must be some mistake,” she said.
Hercules shook his head. “Mayor Richard said you signed your name on the dotted line of the entry form.”
“Yes, but…” Francina trailed off in misery. How could she admit in front of her daughter and mother-in-law what she had done?
&nbs
p; “I think you’ll make a fantastic mayor,” continued Hercules.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” said Mrs. Shabalala. “I’ll make some signs to put up around town.”
Zukisa gave her mother a lingering, questioning look. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” Her words were supportive, but her tone was just curt enough for Francina to notice. Her daughter was upset that she had not confided in her.
“There’s been a mistake,” said Francina, getting to her feet. “I’m not running for mayor.” She rushed to the bathroom and locked herself in.
What had she done? She didn’t have time to run for mayor, let alone be the mayor. And now Hercules was upset with her and Zukisa was disappointed in her. What an impetuous fool she had been. Tomorrow she’d tell Mayor Richard that there had been a mistake, and ask him to withdraw her name from the race. And now she would do what she did whenever she was upset: run a hot bath and climb in for a long soak.
When she emerged from the bathroom in her robe, Mrs. Shabalala and Zukisa had gone for a walk to the park, and Hercules was sitting on the couch in the living room, waiting for her.
“I’m sorry, Hercules,” she said. “I shouldn’t have put your name down without your permission.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. That’s fraud.”
“But I didn’t forge your signature. I wrote mine very legibly.”
“And that’s why you’re the candidate now and not me.”
Francina sat down on the couch next to him. “Tomorrow I’ll ask Mayor Richard to withdraw my name.”
Hercules turned to look at her. “I think that would be your second mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“I meant what I said at dinner. You’d be a good mayor.”
“Yes, but what about the shop and looking after Mandla and—”
“Yolanda’s old enough to watch Mandla in the afternoon.”
He was right about this, but not about her being a good mayor.
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