by Jen Thorpe
Ruby stood up, her pants sopping from crouching in the rain. She looked back at the driver, still sobbing into her steering wheel as the remaining paramedic talked to her. She was misting up her windows with the force and steam of her wails. Ruby, shocked and unsure what to do with herself, walked down to the Spar, bought herself a boerewors roll, and ate it outside in the pouring rain.
24
Sam
Nostophobia: Fear of returning home
Sam’s mother opened the front door a little to look out and see who it was, even though she was expecting him. Then she opened it all the way to let him in as she walked away. This was typical behaviour from her. Her life was a series of artificial social encounters, programmed into her by her wealth, but the required etiquette did not extend to family members.
‘Wipe your feet. It’s pouring!’ she called back to him, almost in the lounge already.
The house looked the same as always. Thick carpets, white-washed furniture, ornaments in the appropriate places next to paintings by local artists. Dorothy, their live-in domestic worker and Sam’s former nanny, waved to him as he passed the kitchen, and he walked in to give her a hug.
‘It has been a long time, Dot.’
‘Too long, Sammy. Where have you been?’
‘Busy. And you know how Mom is. She doesn’t want me home all the time.’
‘You know you can come any time. We’ll sneak you in after cocktail hour and she’ll never know the difference.’
‘Thanks, Dot. At least you want me here,’ he laughed.
‘Ag, she does. She doesn’t know how to show it. Too much time around your dad … sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Do you want some tea, Sammy?’
‘I’d love some.’
Dot performed the ritual of tea-making. Saucers were put onto a tray. Tiny spoons were placed adjacent to china cups. Shortbread was laid out on a small plate, and a sprig of lavender picked from the window box to lie across it. Sugar cubes were stacked like pyramids in a bowl, honey placed in a pot. The kettle was boiling as Sam left the room to join his mother in the lounge.
He couldn’t remember a time when Dot wasn’t there, watching over him, while his mom and dad attended the parties and events required of people of their income level. They must have enjoyed them. He didn’t think they regretted not seeing his and Nadia’s lives progress as they grew from children to adults. When his father, Charles, passed away, his mother couldn’t wait to get them out of the house.
Gillian was stretched out in the day lounge, her slippered feet up on the sun lounger. Her pearls were strung around her neck as usual.
‘How have you been, Mom?’ He sat down opposite her in his dad’s old chair.
‘God. I’ve been so exhausted. It’s fundraiser season and I’ve been attending some or other event night after night. Last night I went to one for animals with disabilities. Incredible what they can do with three legs, dogs and cats. They are resilient. Much more resilient than people. Much more cheerful too. Affectionate little things. There was a cat with no back legs, but it had a sort of wheelchair attached, and it just rolled and rolled around chasing a ball. But yes, the charities never stop. So that’s what I’ve been doing, and of course I still play bowls twice a week. Bridge on Fridays.’
‘Well, I guess charities need support now more than ever, what with the recession and stuff.’
‘Some of them are just nonsense though, so you can save the lecture, thank you, Samuel. These organisations that spring up every day and spend a year waiting for their registration to be approved, only to find their original cause has disappeared, but now they must keep going for lack of better things to do. And I do know things are getting worse. It’s like a flea market at every robot.’
‘So you’ve been out driving then at least?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I have been? In fact, I hired a driver. All that pushing in and out of the clutch is so tedious.’
‘You drive an automatic, Mom.’
‘Well, the indicating and things then. No freedom on the road to just turn where you want to. It’s like a police state.’ Dot placed the tea tray down between them. ‘Oh no, Dot, it’s too early for tea for me, that’s for after dinner. I’d love a gin and tonic, though. Extra lemon. Thank you.’
‘Yes, madam. I’ll bring it.’
‘On the sauce already?’ Sam asked when Dot was out of earshot, though she knew as well as he did that his mother was far too inclined to drink before dinner time.
‘What do you mean already? It’s after four. Twelve is acceptable – at four o’clock I’m already late to the party. It’s the only way I’ll survive the monstrous boredom. Anyway, my new driver’s name is Thomas. Lovely chap, comes from the Congo. They’re still warring there, I believe. I watched a video on Kony.’
‘That’s Uganda.’
‘Same thing.’
He poured his tea, wondering if she’d ever stop for a second to ask him anything about himself. Thinking it was unlikely, he took a sip of tea, and said, ‘I’ve been going for some group therapy, Mom.’ He sat forward.
‘Oh, thank god.’ The ice clinked against her glass as she placed the gin and tonic back down next to her. ‘For what exactly?’
‘How can you say “Oh, thank god” and not even know what you’re thanking him for?’
‘Just glad you’re seeing someone.’
‘Yes, but why are you glad? For what exactly do you think I should be seeing someone?’
‘Well, I’m waiting for you to tell me what you are seeing someone for, and when you’re done we’ll talk about that dreadful haircut. You look like a diaper baby, with your hair all swished to the side like that.’
‘God, Mom, you never change.’
‘Why would I?’
He sighed. ‘I’m going to therapy about my fear about security and stuff.’
‘Yes. You always have been a bit skittish. Probably too many of those damn TV games when you were younger, and all those orienteering outings. It was our fault really. We should never have let you stay indoors all day playing games. So much violence, and you were always a bit, well, sensitive.’
Sam remembered playing Doom when he was about ten years old, feeling strong and powerful. His dad had stood behind him, shouting at him, telling him what to do. He’d been in the private security business – a man of few positive words and lots of anecdotes about what a real man should do.
‘Don’t get carried away now,’ said Sam. ‘Anyway, I’m really enjoying it.’ He contemplated telling his mother about Nazma, but changed his mind. Gillian would either be overtly rude, or say something like, Oh, I have Indian friends – the one that sells me my spices is all right. ‘Have you had any more problems with security since the incident?’
‘God, Samuel. Why so formal? The incident sounds like you’re describing some time I walked around with toilet paper stuck on my shoe. I was mugged for goodness’ sake. Anyway, no, now that we’ve … I’ve hired that boy’ – Sam cringed – ‘with the bicycle down the road, we’ve had no trouble. He cycles up and down every now and then, and apparently that scares muggers away, though I can’t see how. He and Thomas get along well. I’m glad they can be friends.’
‘Good. Well, that makes me feel better.’
‘Honestly, Sam, there is no reason for you to worry about me. I was perfectly safe here for over fifty years, so I’m not sure why one blip should have upset you so much. Really, don’t overestimate yourself.’
‘I just wish I’d been there, you know …’
‘To protect me? What good would that have done? Would you have brandished your Mace? Whipped out your tiny army knife? Fought them to the death with the bottle-opener attachment?’
‘I don’t know, Mom! I guess I just feel like I should have been here at least to try. What if something worse had happened?’
‘Charles would have said just the same. You and your father acted like you were in the bloody military. At least you’ve got rid of that godawful trench coa
t you wore when you were younger. I was worried you were going to become a bomber or something. At least, I knew that’s what the other mothers were thinking. Those boots as well – Doctor Martin. God’s truth, those were murderous shoes.’
Sam reached for the pocketknife. He sat back in frustration on the huge high-backed chair and sipped his tea. Perfect Earl Grey. He looked across the lounge for Dot to thank her, but she had ferreted herself away somewhere.
‘And have you heard from Nadia?’
‘That spoilt child never calls me, so I never call her. I’m not going to be the first to cave.’
‘It goes both ways, you know.’
‘Nonsense. She’s the child and I’m the adult. It is her duty to call me.’
‘She’s not a child any more. And anyway, you have nothing better to do, do you?’
‘That was rude, Samuel. And even if you and your sister believe you are not children, you are still my children.’
‘Well, don’t feel special that you haven’t heard from her. I used to speak to her all the time but haven’t heard from her in ages. I’ll need to call her soon to find out whether she’ll be coming for Christmas.’
‘Oh, don’t bother. She’s become a Buddhist or vegan or some such nonsense, and won’t be celebrating. I think she’s going to a retreat in the Transkei to be silent for six weeks, so she doesn’t have her phone. I have to hear all of this through Dot! Lord knows what she’s planning on doing after that – you wonder if there is something a bit wrong with her. Why does she want to constantly search for some group or something to make her home in? She has a perfectly good community of people here.’
‘It’s who she is, Mom. In any case, it’s not like we’re such good Christians. What’s stopping us from having a different type of Christmas? We could have a vegan braai out on the terrace. We hardly ever use that side of the house any more. I drove past the aviary on the way in and it looks as if everything has died in there.’
‘Nonsense. Just hiding from the rain.’
‘So I’ll call her and tell her we’ll have a Buddhist vegan Christmas. That settles it.’
His mother looked over the top of her glasses at him with an expression of disbelief, as though not having a conventional Christian Christmas would be akin to riding an elephant through Constantia Village, or worse, walking in public barefoot.
‘Turkey, Brussels sprouts and roasted vegetables are the way Christmas is done.’
With the final placement of her glass on the table, she closed her eyes and flung her head back to signal the end of the discussion. Sam stood up to take the tray of tea to the kitchen, passing Dot, who was doing the ironing in the laundry. The room smelled of fabric softener. The radio was playing softly in the background. He sat down on a stool, where he had completed countless hours of homework as a child, and looked up at her.
‘Thanks for the tea, Dot. Have you heard from Nadia?’
‘She texted me yesterday. She’s at home. Just avoiding your mom as usual.’
‘I thought as much. I’m going to check out my room for old times’ sake.’
‘Don’t let her get to you.’ She patted him on the back as he stood up.
He walked up the staircase holding onto the banister he’d slid down a thousand times before. Now, there was nobody around who would tell him he wasn’t manly enough, or dare him to arm-wrestling matches he would certainly lose; but the threat of those challenges heaved in his memory, unwilling to settle. It didn’t matter how often he came here, he still felt like a child. Nadia had got off easily, Gillian having taken barely any interest in grooming her. Charles, on the other hand, had worked at his task of grooming Sam with gusto. Sam could hardly remember a school holiday when he hadn’t been orienteering, hiking, or doing survival exercises. All he’d wanted back then was to stay home and relax. Then there were the computer games he was encouraged to play to learn ‘tactics’ and ‘strategy’. What these skills were to be applied to Sam never found out. Charles died of a heart attack, at his desk, while playing solitaire.
Sam’s room was a living snapshot of the past. The TV that was way ahead of its time back then was still in place, with his old PlayStation connected to it. All the ‘latest’ CDs were in his rack, now dusty and outdated, and a signed poster of Jacques Kallis Prestiked to the wall above the bed. It was yellowed and torn from the hundreds of times he had re-stuck it after the Prestik expanded and contracted with Cape Town’s seasonal temperature changes.
He lay back on the single bed, his feet hanging over the end, and looked up at the ceiling that had been his view the first time he’d cried himself to sleep, when he’d dreamt of becoming an inventor, when he’d masturbated, and when he’d lost his virginity to his matric dance date. He closed his eyes and was asleep within minutes.
When he woke up it had stopped raining and the house was quiet. He walked downstairs to find his mother asleep on the couch, the second and third glasses of gin and tonic empty, on the table. He couldn’t find Dot, so left her a note to tell Nadia he’d like to chat, and then walked out into the fresh air. It felt saturated with possibility. He got into the car, lit a cigarette, and reached for his phone in the cubbyhole. There was a text from Nazma:
Hope you’ve recovered from today. Dinner tomorrow? I’ll drive us in my car if you meet me at the train station and will be my experienced driver?
He hoped this meant she hadn’t heard him say earlier that they weren’t in a relationship, because something about being at home again made him realise he did want to be grown up in all the important ways.
25
Nazma
Deipnophobia: Fear of dining or dinner conversation
She didn’t know why she’d offered such a stupid thing. Especially when Sam had made it quite clear earlier that they weren’t together. She’d fled the session, confused and hurt. Running down to the train she had nearly collided with the homeless man, who’d stepped in front of her.
‘Sometimes we don’t mean what we say because we’re too scared to say what we mean,’ he bellowed.
‘Um. Thanks?’
‘It’s totally fine. This message was brought to you by David Bowie.’
‘That’s pretty impressive.’
He had given her a bow and walked away whistling. When she came home and thought about it a bit more, she decided it couldn’t hurt to give Sam another chance. Maybe he had only said that to shut Simon up. So in her haste to find out, she’d texted him, and now her message was out there in the world and it was too late to take it back. He took ages to reply and she composed several texts cancelling her previous one, but didn’t send them. When he eventually replied with Awesome idea. Can’t wait, she’d screamed and put her head under her pillow.
Nazma didn’t know how she was going to appear attractive when just the thought of driving caused her to perspire all over, made her palms damp, and gave her heart an erratic beat. She knew that sweat was pooling between her thighs because her antiperspirant deodorant was blocking its armpit exit; she could feel the tension exiting her body via her hair, which, she was sure, was standing on end. She felt like a popcorn kernel dropped into a hot pot.
But she still had to get through one more shift at the kiosk, taking the early one so that she could leave in time for her driving lesson and dinner. On her way to work, she walked across the Pick n Pay parking lot, which was was full of students and middle-aged women. Inside the Indian restaurant, which always smelled of curry spices and ghee, metal chairs and tables glistened. She had eaten there hundreds of times alone – so often in fact that a couple of regulars had even tried to fix her up with their oestrogen-enhanced son, whose breasts were bigger than her own. She’d politely declined over semolina pudding.
Taxis pulled up at the curb, calling passengers to them though they were already packed to capacity. She continued walking, wondering where she and Sam could go that was nearby for their date that evening. Was it a date? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just the third work session. They had to t
ry something that really scared them, and driving with a passenger was what terrified Nazma the most. Not only would she be unsure of her own safety while behind the wheel, but she’d have to worry about someone else judging her mistakes and criticising her driving. Of course, nobody ever did this out loud, but she just knew they were thinking it. It was all contained in the sidelong glances, the way they held onto the door handle, and the tension in their bodies. She hoped Sam would be different.
Time at work seemed to pass even more slowly than usual because she was waiting for it to be over. The trains were delayed and passengers were complaining and talking loudly on the platform. She longed for peace and quiet. On the bridge over the tracks someone had scrawled ‘love is all you need’, and someone else had crossed out ‘love’ and written ‘drugs’.
She packed up her things as Zubair arrived, questioning her placement of the pies and moaning about the weather and the wickedness of the world. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss further plans for getting Abigail on a plane, but, as she rushed out the door, she made him promise he would attempt to come up with something by the next day. He grimaced and said he’d try.
The afternoon air was dense with moisture, but it looked as if the evening would be rain free. Sun hit the mountain at just the right angle, so that it released rays in neat lines into the sky. When she arrived home her mother was watching soap operas and ironing, and they exchanged brief hellos. Abigail didn’t look up as Nazma went into the kitchen and made some tea.
Nazma called out to her, ‘I’m going out for dinner, Mum, so don’t worry about cooking for me.’
‘Out for dinner?’
‘Yes. Out. For. Dinner.’
‘With who?’ she said over the hiss of the iron releasing steam.
‘A friend from the study. His name is Sam.’
‘His name is Sam?’
‘Yes. He’s going to be my passenger, so I’m going to take my car. I’m going for a lesson now.’