The Peculiars

by Jen Thorpe

  ‘I want to. Well, actually, I don’t want to. I want you to stay.’ He reached for her hand, hoping to pull her back to him. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay? We can always try you staying without an alarm another night. Does this have to be a no-go situation? Can’t we do baby steps?’

  He could hear the desperation in his voice. It looked, for a second, as if she was going to say yes. Instead, she shook her head.

  ‘Let’s just sit and have our tea for a few more minutes and that way we’ll be spending a few more minutes in your house without the alarm on. Baby steps, like you said.’

  He felt the pressure of frustration build up around his heart. Dejected, he made a pot of rooibos. Its smell replaced the cucumber of her skin, the citrus of her hair. Passing Nazma her tea, he touched her hand and she looked up at him.

  ‘I’m sorry this didn’t go as planned. I am so so sorry.’

  ‘Nothing ever does. It’s not the end of the world.’

  Neither of them had the energy or nerve to finish their tea before she stood up to leave. The drive to her place was slow, and he felt angry at the distance between their two metal bubbles. There were only two more sessions at the Centre, and two more outside of it; he wasn’t sure if he was going to get better. Nazma was literally in front of him, and the distance was growing. He watched her park, badly, on the pavement. As she got out, she turned back and waved to him.

  The drive back home was dark and lonely. Rain still hung back above the mountain. He imagined it slowly dripping into cold streams. He opened his car window a crack and smoked a cigarette, the toxins burning his lungs. When he got home again and turned on the outside alarms he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. But sitting down on the couch, where a little more than an hour before a beautiful woman had straddled him, he watched the lit red bulb in the corner with doubt. He had lost an opportunity over a tiny flashing light.

  27

  Ruby

  Gelotophobia: Fear of being laughed at or ridiculed

  Early the following week Ruby got the call to say Jericho had died. It was days since the accident, and he had been in a coma since they took him away in the ambulance. At the hospital, they’d done tests to find out why he wasn’t recovering faster, and found a huge brain tumour. The size, they said, of a grapefruit. She imagined a giant citrus inside her own head, filled with cancerous segments. It would probably be red and juicy. She shuddered at the thought, leaning her head side to side to dislodge any small things that might be growing in there.

  With the physical stress of the accident, and she was sure the prodding and poking, Jericho died of ‘respiratory depression’ a few days later. Ruby wasn’t even sure what that meant but it sounded medical enough to be a legitimate cause of death. The doctors thought he wouldn’t have lasted more than a week longer out on the street anyway, or at least that’s what they told her. If not for the accident, it was likely he would have dropped down dead in the middle of peeing on their wall.

  She had phoned and visited daily but had been treated with suspicion by the hospital staff. She could understand their reticence – she wasn’t family or next of kin – but she wished they were more supportive in some way. The doctors had tried to reach someone in his family but failed. He was all alone when he died, but Ruby sensed that the nurses and doctors pitied her more than him. They probably wondered why she was worrying so much about a homeless man, as though she didn’t have anyone more important to care for.

  When the call finally came, she felt a sense of loss that she had not expected. It was for him, alone and bathed for the first time in years, dead in a hospital bed on scratchy sheets. She would never know if he really knew what he was talking about or was simply mad because of his tumour. She knew she was also sad because in some way she felt guilty: she had enticed him with a boerewors roll that day. Maybe if she hadn’t he’d still be alive.

  The weight of her responsibilities pressed down on her shoulders, and her neck and head ached. She liked having some higher plan at play – someone who might know more than her, who could possibly predict the future for her, absolving her of thinking too hard about what she was doing. It gave her the feeling that it was all worked out, that nothing she could do would really change things. She knew believing Jericho was that one person was more than a little crazy, but what belief in a higher power didn’t require faith over logic?

  In a melancholy mood she prepared for the session, drawing up charts about the differing symptoms and progress of the participants for the Ministry. It read like a report card, without the emotion or personality of any of them. It was hard to capture how ornery Simon could be, or how delectable Sam was, despite his quick temper. The gentle nature of Johnson could hardly be summarised in a checklist of symptoms or list of steps. Nazma’s strange humour and quirkiness couldn’t be included in the comment, She continues to try to drive. Ruby’s reporting procedures seemed insufficient. They couldn’t express the essence of the change. They were just hollow words on a page.

  Giving up, she went to the gym to try to spice up her routine with a new class. She watched the women moving to the beats of a drum in a Zumba class and the crowd sweating over the handlebars in spinning, but everyone looked too happy in their tight spandex. The air was pungent with sweat and hormones, but she didn’t have the patience to ignore all the fake breasts in the change room, or all the waxed vaginas in the sauna, and so left without doing anything. When she got home, she felt worse than before. She stood and bent forward, hoping to relieve the pressure from her lungs and back. It still lived there, between her bones, when she sat down for supper. The Calmettes didn’t help.

  After a dinner she could hardly taste, she attempted to sleep but couldn’t. Browsing the Internet for recipes for cakes and pastries she was never going to bake didn’t make her feel any better, and there was nothing on television, as was always the case. She needed to be still with her shaking thoughts. Some time around midnight, she fell into a fitful sleep on the couch.

  The morning of the second-to-last session, she arrived at the office in the drizzle, and the lack of harassment from Jericho brought her close to tears. For eight years he was there almost daily to insult her, or shout something ludicrous at her. She had treated him like an annoying puppy, and now there was an uncomfortable absence where his uncomfortable presence had been. The street seemed normal for the first time. It had lost some of its magic.

  At work she typed up her report from the third session and tried to be deliberately vague about the near-fisticuffs between Sam and Simon. Her head was stinging from scratching it, and around teatime she sat and cut her nails with clippers to prevent herself from doing any further damage. The tiny curls of keratin were brushed into her wastepaper basket, to be transported to a dump somewhere and be eaten by seagulls. She almost reached to take them out, worrying about choking gulls, but the phone rang, and she forgot about her nails for a moment.

  ‘Ruby, I have Janet on the line for you from the Ministry. Shall I put her through?’

  ‘Does she know I’m here already? I’m really not in the mood today.’

  ‘Yes, she knows. I’m sorry, Ruby. You didn’t say to say that you were out.’

  ‘Not your fault, Mel, put her through.’

  Ruby took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose, imagining tiny air freshener sprays inside it.

  ‘Pssshft. Pssshft.’

  ‘Hello, Ruby?’

  ‘Sorry, Janet. A bit of a bad line there.’

  ‘Nice to speak to you again so soon.’

  ‘You too, Janet. What can I help you with today?’

  ‘Well, Minister Cambada was impressed by you in the meeting the other day. She would like to come and attend the meeting this afternoon if that is possible? See your work, in practice, as you suggested.’

  ‘Fine.’ She searched her mind for some reason to dissuade the Minister but couldn’t find anything. ‘Just please do let the Minister know that we are at a very sensitive part of the process where emotio
ns may be high among the participants. This can lead to conflict, but this conflict shouldn’t be a cause for worry. It’s all part of the process of healing, as they say.’

  ‘Do they say that? Well then, I will let Minister Cambada know. Though I’m sure with her years in the field she already knows.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you, Janet. Would the Minister like anything particular for her snacks during the tea break? Does she have any preferences we should be aware of?’

  Ruby gagged with the effort of being polite – Janet made it all the more difficult with her blatant condescension. While Janet talked, Ruby made fake vomiting motions, lifting her shoulders and lurching forward, sticking out her tongue. Mel appeared at her glass door, and Ruby stopped and waved her away.

  ‘The Minister only drinks Twinings Tea. She prefers to eat pastries, croissants specifically, that have been baked no more than one hour before she eats them. She also enjoys fruit kebabs, but not with green melon. She says the odour smells like shower-curtain mould. I hope none of that will be too much trouble?’

  Ruby grimaced, and through pursed lips responded, ‘Not at all. We will of course make the arrangements that will suit her. Would you like me to prepare any reference material for her to read after the session?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. She has done her research on your organisation. All of what you have said in the past has been noted. She will be with you in about two hours. Her security guard will wait at the door. He enjoys fresh fruit as well.’

  ‘Great. All sounds perfect. Thank you, Janet. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to join us?’

  She snorted. ‘No, no time I’m afraid. I have to set up the site visits for tomorrow.’

  ‘Well thank you for organising this. Take care.’

  Ruby hung up, releasing the loud vomit sound she had been holding back – ‘Bleugh!’ Then she screamed for Mel as loud as she could. She heard the thumps of her racing back up the stairs followed by Fay and Welly. They arrived together, out of breath.

  ‘Number one, next week we’re starting a staff fitness programme so these stairs don’t kill us. Number two, we have an emergency. The Minister will be here in two hours, let’s say one and a half to be safe. We need to make sure this place looks clean, sterile hospital clean, and we need to order a bunch of specialised food for her. Mel, I’ll give you the shopping list. Me, Welly and Fay will start cleaning. We need to look our best here.’ They stood still, staring at her, mouths open. ‘Move! We need to get to this right away. It has to look so good that she needs to want to move in here, not just visit. This is crisis time.’

  As a group they ran down the stairs, got out equipment, and began to clean. Mel took the money from petty cash and a list that Ruby had scribbled down, and left for the Spar. Ruby lit some vanilla-scented candles and put on Whitney Houston to clean to. The room smelled delicious. Panic-laughing as they danced and sang to ‘I’m Every Woman’ with their mops and brooms, they didn’t hear the phone ringing.

  By the time Mel arrived with the Minister’s specific dietary requests, they were almost done with the cleaning and were in a good mood. Stress had united them. Ruby brushed the sweat from her forehead as she walked down the stairs to put away her dustpan and broom. Mel laid out the food on the table, with their best printed tablecloth. Their finest crockery and cutlery were placed around it, and the fancy teapot was bleached and polished and ready. The pastries would be ready for delivery as Cambada arrived. All seemed to be in good order.

  Mel walked back over to her desk, ready to start welcoming the participants. She turned off the CD player, and a sudden silence fell on the building, disturbed only by the creaking door in the gentle breeze. The light on the answering machine was flashing, and she pressed play to hear what it was.

  ‘Ruby, it’s Janet. The Minister will not be coming today as planned. She has had a personal emergency. We will be in touch within the week to reschedule. Have a great afternoon.’

  Ruby dropped the broom she was holding, letting it fall to the ground with a loud smacking sound. Nobody moved. Everyone stood silently, waiting for her to react.

  ‘Play it again,’ Ruby hissed through clenched teeth.

  Mel pressed the rewind button and they listened to Janet again.

  ‘She set us up. That batshit bitch set us up. She knows we can’t afford all of this crap. Pastries baked no more than one hour before, se gat. She knew we would jump to it, and she doesn’t care. I can’t fucking believe it. I can’t believe she would be so cold. No wait, I can.’

  Mel reached out her hand to pat Ruby’s back but Ruby flinched, and Mel chickened out, her arm hovering above Ruby’s shoulder. Ruby walked away slowly, trying to muster as much dignity as she could while Mel called after her.

  ‘No, Ruby. Don’t think that. Maybe something serious happened. It might not have been deliberate, Ruby. We should give them the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘Pack all this extra shit away,’ Ruby responded, ‘and let’s get out the regular things for the participants. We’ll just have to cancel the pastry order or defer it or something, so that when she comes it’s all organised.’

  When she got to her office, she closed the blinds one by one and bent forward at the hip, hanging her arms to the ground, trying to hold back the fury and sadness within her.

  28

  Nazma

  Kinetophobia: Fear of movement or motion

  Her mother was treating her as though she were fragile. Despite her protests that it was just a date that had gone badly and that Abigail should get over it, her mother took it upon herself to make all of Nazma’s favourite dishes and fawn over her like a mother tiger over an injured cub. That morning, Nazma couldn’t take it any more. Abigail’s persistence was making her feel worse.

  ‘Stop it, Mum. Just stop. I am fine!’

  ‘I’m just trying to help, my girl. Just making sure you have enough food in you to mend your heart.’

  ‘My heart is just fine. And food is just going to make me fat, not happy. It’s not heart glue.’

  ‘If you are so fine why is your shirt on backwards? Why did you put vegetarian samoosas out yesterday at the kiosk when it was mince day? Why are you moping around? You are the only daughter I have to fuss over, so let me fuss. Pretend it has nothing to do with you if you must.’

  ‘I’m not your only daughter, you know. Nafeesa exists, Mum, right over the ocean.’

  ‘Enough about that. Now, are you sure you feel up to going to the session today?’

  ‘Really, Mum. Let’s talk about why I’m the only one you can fuss over. You know you have another daughter waiting for you to call her, or even better – we could visit.’

  ‘That’s in the past. We both know what happened there and it is not worth worrying about it.’ Her mother began to pack things away and tidy the kitchen, avoiding Nazma’s eyes.

  ‘I disagree. I think it has been just long enough for you to start over. To try again.’

  ‘What are you talking about? All this heartache has made you crazy. Have another muffin, and everything will be fine.’ She extended a plate of apple and cinnamon muffins. Nazma took one, and then put it down on the counter.

  ‘I’m not hungry, and I am speaking sense. Why don’t we go and visit Nafeesa? It has been such a long time. They will be having a baby soon, Mum. Don’t you want to know your grandchild?’

  ‘I will know my grandchild when you have one.’

  ‘If my dates keep going like they are now, you won’t be having one. Visiting Nafeesa may be your only option.’

  Her mother cleaned the plates away and put the kettle on. She got out her favourite spiced tea, a packet of biscuits and the teapot from the cupboard. The kettle switch clicked, and she poured the boiling water into the teapot over the nutmeg-spiced teabag.

  ‘Mum.’ Nazma was determined. ‘You can’t avoid it forever. Are you really ready to forget about Nafeesa? Could you ever? And can you just stop feeding me already? Flip.’

  ‘
Of course I haven’t forgotten her. Don’t be ridiculous, child. I will never forget her. But she has chosen to put this distance between us and that is her burden to bear. Not mine.’

  Nazma was tempted to bring up the fact that it wasn’t Nafeesa’s choice that had made a mess of things.

  ‘But we can get through the distance. We just have to book a flight. I can teach you all the things I’ve learned about breathing and taking beta blockers and everything. You can do it, Mum. You can get on a plane. I know it. Nafeesa didn’t choose this, Mum. You are both just too stubborn.’

  The tea was ready and Abigail poured two cups. She whispered something to herself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘But I’m scared. I don’t want to fly anywhere.’

  ‘I know. I know how you feel. And the more scared you are, the more you react; and the more you react, the more embarrassed you feel. But you can let it all go. We could all go there together. Nobody here knows what happened before, only us. Nafeesa would love to see you. I know it. You don’t have to have only me, Mum.’

  ‘But you are wonderful.’

  ‘Thank you. But you know what I mean.’

  ‘Why can’t she come here?’

  ‘Because she’s pregnant, Mum.’

  ‘Finish your tea. You are going to be late.’

  ‘Think about it, Mum, just think about it. A month ago I couldn’t drive, and last week I drove myself home. No crashes or heart palpitations. Or at least none related to the driving. Nothing. I drove home.’

  They sipped their tea for a while. Nazma put her hand over Abigail’s, which was trembling. Time passed meticulously, each second punctuated by the ticking of a clock.

  ‘I am so proud of you,’ Abigail said. ‘But finish your tea and go, because you only have two more sessions to learn things. If you don’t go now, how will you teach me?’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘It is not a no. Let us see if what you learn convinces me. But don’t go getting your hopes all up in the air. That didn’t work out on your date, and I can’t deal with your moods after further disappointment.’