by Jen Thorpe
‘Joyce? Ag, Ruby, I’m not sure what you mean. Are you feeling okay?’
‘Mel, I feel tremendous. In fact, let’s give everyone the day off tomorrow, shall we? We can take a day to relax and get to feel ourselves again.’
‘What if I make you some tea? Maybe a nice cup of warm sweet tea, and then you sit and explain slowly.’ Mel moved towards the kitchen, beckoning Ruby to follow as though she was a crazy person. Ruby got up out of the chair and walked with her.
‘Here it is in plain English. My new best friend, Minister Joyce Cambada, called to apologise for not coming yesterday. She wants me to call her urgently. As in, right away. Any time. I have the Minister’s personal cell-phone number. To call – any time. So you see: something has happened to turn the tables. I’m not sure what. But we’ll be fine. I just know it.’
Mel opened and closed her mouth, trying to process what Ruby just said. She sat down on a kitchen chair and slowly put her handbag down next to her, looking like she was about to cry. Ruby rushed towards her to rub her back.
‘This is good news, Mel. Good news.’
‘But, Ruby,’ Mel said, head in hands, ‘just because she wants you to call her urgently doesn’t mean everything is fine. What if it means that everything is not fine at all? What if it means she has to pull our funding straight away?’
Ruby paused for a moment. Her mom used to tell her to close her eyes and figure out how her stomach was feeling so she could assess what she really felt about something. She sat down and closed her eyes. Her stomach was warm and unstrained. She opened her eyes to find Mel watching her again, concern plastered on her face.
‘I just know it, Mel. I have a good feeling about it. Jericho just didn’t know what he was talking about. That’s all.’
‘Now I don’t know what you’re talking about again.’
‘A few weeks ago … ag, never mind. Just enjoy the moment.’
The rain hammered on the windows, and when the other two arrived the news was explained to each in turn. The four of them sat around the table and planned Ruby’s call to Cambada. By the end of it, relief was pulsing through their veins. But the downpour resisted their optimism, continuing into the evening and night. Observatory was washed clean; winter gave the suburb its last outpouring, and the next day, when it was time to get up, the air was fresh and the wind cool.
30
Sam
Atelophobia: Fear of imperfection
Sam had been the last to arrive at CIL the previous day. The other group members were waiting around in their usual seats, with the two seats where Simon and Nazma would have sat gaping between them. Aiming to avoid drama, Fairouz simply explained that she would be leading the session and that Sam and Johnson should work together for any partner activities. Most of her time was spent going through the coping strategies for panic attacks. When it came time for partner work, to identify the current stumbling blocks in dealing with their phobias, she directed Sam and Johnson towards each other.
‘Where’s Simon?’ Sam whispered.
‘No idea. He didn’t say anything about not coming. Nazma?’
‘She didn’t say anything to me either.’ His voice returned to normal volume. ‘How did your last session go? You’re afraid of heights, hey?’
‘Ja. We went for a drink at that bar at the top of the ABSA building. We must have looked an odd couple in that stylish joint, but it was the highest place we could think of where I could look out the window and see if I could stomach it. It was actually pretty fun. Simon was a good sport about it. He’s not so bad when you get to know him. Afterwards we went to watch a Nollywood film at the Labia. It’s as close as he got to enjoying a different culture, I think. He even laughed a few times, but of course he denied it. He said he was coughing. How did yours go?’
‘Nazma was great. She’s afraid of driving, and she managed to drive us out for a pizza. But when we went for … a cup of coffee at my place afterwards, I was still worried about having the alarm on. So it didn’t go as well as we’d hoped. Better luck next time I guess.’
‘So she didn’t disarm you? As in, disarm your alarm …’ Johnson laughed at his own joke, but could see Sam was feeling worse for it. ‘Don’t take it too hard. It all takes time. It’s not like I was out on a bungee or anything. I just went for a drink at a bar.’
‘Thanks, bro.’
‘No problem.’
‘I really wonder where they are though, and where Ruby is.’
‘It’s a pity Ruby’s not here. She’s so … cool,’ Johnson said, shrugging his shoulders, suddenly shy.
‘Oh … I didn’t realise …’
‘No, um, it’s not like that – not like I’ve said anything, or anything … I don’t think she’s even noticed me.’
‘You should take the chance, guy. You never know.’
‘I know, but who’d want to date someone who’s … you know … in a study because they’re not well?’
‘Hey, why not take the risk? What’s the worst that could happen?’
Sam thought about Nazma again, and hoped that he hadn’t blown it for good.
‘Maybe they caught the last of the winter flu,’ he said, trying to reassure himself as much as Johnson.
‘Maybe. But it seems weird that it would be all three of them at once.’
The other pairs continued to go through their progress. Sam and Johnson did their best, but they didn’t really know enough about each other to do it properly. When it came time for the end-of-session tea, they were presented with fancy fruit sticks on top of the regular biscuits and coffee, and everyone seemed excited by the spears of strawberries and pineapple. Sam texted Nazma, asking where she was, but she hadn’t replied by the time he left. He realised they only had one more session together, so instead of missing out on her company, he decided to go and visit her at work.
At the station, the subway to the other side of the tracks smelled like urinal cake and the lights weren’t working. It was still early enough in the afternoon that tentative light crept down the stairs and through to the other side. Sam weighed the chances of an imminent mugging, and ran down the stairs. Breathing heavily, partly from smoking and partly from terror, he noticed that someone had drawn a giant cartoon bear from ceiling to floor on the wall of the subway. It had an equally giant circumcised erection. His laughter echoed in the darkness, and he felt silly for being afraid. He could hear the train announcer squawking through the speakers but couldn’t understand a word she was saying. She sounded just like Charlie Brown’s teacher.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Sam walked onto the platform. Pigeons were picking their fleas and searching for crumbs. He saw a new sign outside the kiosk: the colours were bright and it was in calligraphy – very 1990s high school. It was advertising pepper steak pies. He considered eating one, but after the heavy breathing from running under the subway, he decided against it. He obviously needed to consider his health more. As he was looking at the sign, the door of the kiosk opened and he started to retreat. He wasn’t even sure whether Nazma was there or not, and if it was her dad it would be awkward. Instead, an older woman came out, about to light a cigarette. When she spotted him, she dropped it casually into her pocket as though she didn’t want him to see.
‘Hello,’ she said, eyeing him. ‘We’ve got plenty of nice treats inside. Something to warm you up?’
‘No thanks. I was actually … just coming to see if Nazma was around today.’
Abigail looked at him, and he watched her realise who he was. He imagined her assessing him as any mother contemplates the man her daughter is interested in, taking in the things she thinks her daughter might like about him, noticing things she doesn’t.
‘She’s not here I’m afraid.’
On the platform the pigeons moved around again, making gentle sounds. Sam wondered where Nazma was, but wasn’t brave enough to ask.
‘I should have realised she wouldn’t be here. Sorry, that was silly of me. Thanks, I’ll give her a call later.’
‘Are you rushing somewhere?’
She seemed thrilled to be talking to someone. Her eyes were large and illuminated, and, as she smiled, her hands opened and closed, opened and closed, as if waiting for him to place his own hand in hers. He shook his head, stepped towards her, and asked for a Fanta Orange. She walked back inside the kiosk, turning just before she went in the door as though she expected him to run away.
Her arm extended like a circus elephant’s trunk through the bars. He took the cold Fanta from her and sat down on the bench facing the mountain. The air hummed and zinged with the electricity coursing through the wires overhead. He wasn’t sure what he was doing there, only that he felt like being close to Nazma, and this was as close as he was going to get. He had come for the woman afraid of driving, but found the woman afraid of flying.
‘Are you Sam?’ Her voice emerged from within the kiosk.
‘Yes. I am. Are you Abigail?’
‘Yes.’ She sounded surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘Nazma speaks about you a lot. Plus you look just like her, so it was a calculated guess.’
‘Ooho-ho, I should be so lucky. I look like the unironed version of her, all crinkled and wrinkled.’
He laughed, and the kiosk door opened again. Abigail came out, her hand in her pocket. Her pale yellow dress was old and worn, comfortable. She looked down the line at a few small birds eating something on the tracks. Her hand was still in her pocket as she moved closer towards him.
‘I won’t tell anyone that you smoke if you’d like to have one?’
‘I don’t smoke,’ she said sharply. She sized him up. And then, ‘Oh, all right then, but don’t you dare say anything to Nazma. I don’t do it often, but there are just some days when it seems like a good idea. I always enjoy it when I do smoke.’
She sat down next to him and lit up a Vogue cigarette, holding it to her lips as though she was in a black-and-white film. For a moment he wished he was a photographer because there was something defiant in her face that he thought deserved to be captured. The end of the Vogue glowed with each inhalation, and the glow receded as she exhaled.
‘Mind if I have one too?’
She shook her head and smiled conspiratorially, tilting her box towards him in offering. They sat smoking together for a few minutes, just watching the birds and the slow drips of leftover rain from the cables overhead.
‘I think I may have messed it up with Nazma.’ He put out his cigarette on the cement tiles beneath their feet and stood to leave. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Never mind. Please don’t tell her I was here.’
‘Oh, young man. Sit down and calm down, and let a woman smoke her cigarette quietly.’
He did as he was told, the blood colouring his ears and cheeks. He reached into his pocket for the pocketknife, giving it a reassuring squeeze before releasing it. Abigail didn’t make eye contact, and smoked her cigarette right down to the filter. Then she stood, went into the kiosk, and came back out with a handful of peppermints and sweets. She extended her hand to him in offering.
‘Take one and tell me what happened?’
He took a watermelon-flavoured sweet out of its luminous green wrapper, putting the wrapper into his pocket and the sweet into his mouth.
‘It’s only that I really like her. I think she is … something special. I don’t have the right words, and that sounds tacky. She has done so well with getting through this fear of driving of hers, and I am struggling to do the same with my fear. I think I disappointed her.’
Abigail examined him and then stood up. ‘I think that we all disappoint people in our lives at some point, and we shouldn’t let our shame at our own failings prevent us from letting them move on. They often get over their disappointment faster than we get over disappointing them. To let them move on, we must move on. We are only human after all.’
She patted him gently on the shoulder, and then walked back into the kiosk with no indication of coming back out again. He sat for a few moments, waiting to see if she would, but heard only the hum of the microwave, and smelled the spices and oil of reheated samoosas.
Sam walked back under the subway, singing quietly to himself and holding on to his pocketknife. He drove back home, disarmed the alarms, and did some work. He had been given articles to write about the latest in laptop and cell-phone technology, and he wrote them without even looking up the things he was supposed to be describing. Somehow, that made them a little less tedious, and a little more real. Advertising was mostly lies anyway.
The rooibos tea he made reminded him of Nazma, and he checked his phone again to see if she had messaged. She hadn’t. He sat around, passing the time, and eventually went to the DVD shop and rented 127 Hours. When he got back home he found that his microwave popcorn was stale and full of weevils. Chastising himself, he wrote a reminder on his fridge list buy some more. The movie was average but entertaining enough to pass the time before he went to sleep. He set the external alarms in his usual ritual, making sure to close and lock all the doors, then double-check them.
He lay in bed for a while, reading and checking his phone to see if Nazma had messaged. Just as he was about to fall asleep, he reached over to turn on the internal alarm, but something in him shifted. Pulling up the duvet, he switched off the bedside light and stared at the unlit alarm, listening, on full alert, to the sounds outside his room. He could hear the humming of his fridge as clearly as if it were in the room with him. The rustle of leaves sounded like a million footsteps climbing up the stairs. At some point, what felt like many hours later, he fell asleep.
31
Nazma
Prosophilia: Love of moving forward
Nazma’s relief at a clear day was shattered when Abigail surprised her by announcing she had booked a driving licence test date for her, one week away. The deal was that if Nazma passed, Abigail would consider flying to London. Nazma tried to pretend this didn’t make a difference, and that her passing or failing would be independent of their arrangement, but the pressure of what her failure would mean caused her to make stupid mistakes in her lessons that week. Tony continued to be patient with her, but her patience with herself was wearing thin. Her hair was frantic, and her nails were bitten to shreds.
The incident with Simon meant she had missed the last meaningful session, and would only have the wrap-up session to speak to Sam again. He had texted her a few times since then, but she just didn’t know what to say. She felt embarrassed by their encounter, and she just wanted to focus on her own issues. Partly she was mad that he cared about an alarm’s light bulb more than her breasts (and feelings). Partly she just wanted to succeed with her driving. She knew she should probably give him a second chance, but she had left it so long that it had become even more awkward.
Abigail kept unexpectedly bringing up their date and prying to find out what had happened, but of course she had to do this without Zubair understanding what they were talking about, so Nazma was usually able to avoid the persistent questions. She wasn’t sure why her mum was so interested in the first place.
Nazma had been studying the road signs in her K53 book in the kiosk all morning, to ensure she didn’t make a mistake if she saw any on the route. Some of the signs seemed too obscure to enter into her test, but it was impossible to know. Nobody in her family had taken the test in town before, so they couldn’t advise her on the practice route. She and Tony never got far enough to practise it, but she scheduled a double lesson for the day before the test to go through it a few times. The prospect of the double lesson required a double dose of Rescue Remedy while she studied. For the rest of the day she felt slightly suspended above her body. At least it was school holidays and the roads wouldn’t be too busy.
All she could think about were five-point checks, indicating, shuffling her hands around the steering wheel. It all seemed so tedious and unrealistic, and she was sure nobody else on the road was delicately placing their hands at ten and two just to avoid veering off the road. She was pretty
certain there was a part in a car that was responsible for making it go straight.
She put on the Smashing Pumpkins in the kiosk and started dancing, making sure not to bump the tray of sausage rolls her mother had baked that morning. The smell of fresh pastry was tempting. Approaching the kiosk in his usual stealth mode, but foiled by the pigeons’ flight, her father gave her just enough time to turn off the music, slip her study material beneath the counter, and begin dusting the shelves beneath the newspapers.
‘So good to see you hard at work, Nazma. I believe your mother has agreed to a wager of sorts with you? This is very exciting, isn’t it?’
‘Do you think she’ll do it if I pass?’
‘She’s stubborn enough to try.’ He was working hard not to betray too much hope, but Nazma could tell he wanted to go to London as much as she did.
‘And what will we do if she agrees?’
‘I guess we’ll be glad and relieved, and we’ll get to see Nafeesa again. Isn’t that enough? You’re not nervous now, are you?’
He flung his hips forward, Thai pants swishing around, and placed one hand on his hip and raised the other into the air. It was a sequence of gestures Nazma knew would mark the beginning of a lecture. He wagged his finger in preparation, as though he was revving his engine for take-off. Before he could begin Nazma interrupted.
‘So anyway, when Mum says yes, we’ll start planning the holiday. Maybe we could organise something where she could practise sitting in a simulator or something. I’m sure I’ve seen that in the movies. She could practise, and then when the time comes, she’ll be ready.’
Her father released his hand from his hip, gently folding both arms across his chest.
‘So you’re convinced you’ll pass this test then, Nazma?’
She looked up at him and shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t sure that she would fail, which, she supposed, was close enough to believing she could pass. For the first time, failing didn’t seem like the only option available, but she knew that the stakes had been raised. If she failed, so did Abigail.