Holding Up the Sky (57 page)

‘I want him to. I'm not prepared to give up on us, on our family. If I walked away, then I'd be saying that mixed marriages don't work. I want to believe that they can.'

‘That's a lot of pressure on two people.'

It was my turn to pause and look out over the valley, green and fertile. I could just make out the vineyards from where I stood, knowing that generations of families had made their lives here, tending these vines.

‘If I walked away I would feel like such a failure', I said at last.

‘It's not about failure, it's about what you want, what will be enough to sustain you and enrich you. Some people are able to work through infidelity and come out the other side, knowing they aren't perfect, knowing that betrayal is always possible, but choosing to have a life together anyway.' Colleen turned to face me, her kind smile opening up her face while her eyes pinned me down. ‘It's a choice, Sandy, to stay and make it work, knowing what you know. But staying without taking it on is not a choice, it's just avoidance.'

We turned then, as if by sudden mutual consent, and headed back down towards the Hydro, lost in our own thoughts for a time.

After a week at the Hydro, detoxed and relaxed, we drove down into Stellenbosch for our new start. Colleen was caffeine and nicotine free and I was armed with a list of things I needed to do differently in my life to achieve better balance.

I wasn't ready to walk away from Teboho. I wanted us to evolve into a new stage in our marriage, one in which we were no longer adolescents–ideological, impulsive and afraid–but mature adults.

MY
RETURN HOME FROM STELLENBOSCH WAS A JOYOUS REUNION, AS WAS OFTEN THE CASE FOR US AFTER A LONG SEPARATION. I COULD SEE IN TEBOHO'S EYES THAT HE WAS NERVOUSLY AWAITING THE OUTCOME OF MY TIME ALONE, MY TIME TO THINK. I SHOWED HIM MY DREAM BOOK, TALKED HIM THROUGH WHAT I HAD BEEN THINKING, WHAT I FELT WOULD MAKE ME HAPPY IN OUR LIFE TOGETHER. HE LISTENED PATIENTLY TO THE WORDS THAT FELL FROM ME LIKE DROUGHT-BREAKING RAIN. I SPOKE OF THE NEED FOR BALANCE AND HEALTH, FOR TIME OUT AS A COUPLE SEPARATE FROM TIME OUT AS A FAMILY.; I SPOKE ABOUT THE NEED TO PULL THINGS BACK AT WORK AND STOP TAKING ON SO MUCH THAT I HAD TO WORK ON WEEKENDS–ABOUT ASKING FOR HELP TO GET THINGS DONE.

But I lacked the courage to speak about how we would move forward, knowing that neither of us was perfect; knowing that we could not live up to our own expectations of the world, of each other, of ourselves. Idealistic as we both were, could each of us accept our own imperfections and love the humanity in the other, rather than just the dream? Could we face up to the details of where our lives had taken us, step through the minefield of broken promises, and emerge intact?

I had considered the consequences of opening up all the baggage our marriage had packed away, especially in the last four or five years. The thought of picking through it piece by smelly piece made me turn away in fear. But I also knew that unless we did this, we would never be able to move forward into a different type of relationship, one based on truth and a mutual respect for each other's boundaries.

Contemplating the possible failure of the marriage was another kind of nightmare for me. I imagined the look on Teboho's face if I said, ‘I can't stay with you anymore', and the thought of the pain I would cause made my legs buckle. I still did not want to be the one to inflict pain. I did not want to be the one to say, ‘Our marriage isn't working, the dream is over'. And underneath all that, I was deeply afraid of the stigma of failure bestowed by the title ‘divorced woman'. Somewhere in my childhood, I had come to believe that where there is failure, there is no love.

For all these reasons, I spoke only of making resolutions for better health and work–life balance, more time together–as if that was all it would take.

Whether Teboho saw through my long list of superficial changes or not, I knew he was also trying to pull things back together. I knew he felt the distance between us and mourned what we had lost. Yet I also knew that the township, and his need to be needed by those without hope, were powerful forces that kept pulling him in, allowing him to feel worthwhile and whole in service to others.

I knew he was making a huge sacrifice by living in the white suburbs where he could never feel at home. His personality was loud and boisterous and the suburbs quiet and peaceful; like oil and water, they would never blend, despite all the stirring and shaping on my part.

I also knew that until we acknowledged what was really going on, there was no hope of emerging from the deep hole we had fallen into.

A few weeks later, I suggested we go to couples therapy to get some support as we worked on our marriage. Teboho had been to see a therapist a couple of times in 'Maritzburg before we met. Although he found the experience helpful, it also opened a Pandora's box of past hurt and trauma that could not easily be closed up at the end of the hour. After a few sessions, he just stopped going back. When he agreed to go to counselling with me now, I was reminded once more that he still loved me.

We were referred to a marriage therapist by Rags and Barry–a woman who lived in the northern suburbs, a forty minute drive from our home in the west. We had a nine o'clock appointment and left early to allow for peak hour traffic. What we hadn't allowed for was a major accident that meant we arrived almost forty minutes late. The long drive served only to heighten my fear of speaking the words that needed to be said and by the time we got there, all I was capable of doing was sobbing in this stranger's office. I cried for all that was at stake, for all that had happened, for what we had already lost and what else could possibly disappear if the truth were spoken. As the therapist had another appointment, she guiltily sent us away, with me still quietly weeping, unable to get control of myself.

The drive home was long and silent. I'm not sure that before this Teboho realised how close to the edge we were. He knew things weren't as he would like them to be, but my outburst had really spooked him. Perhaps he believed I had been through so much in my life in South Africa that my shoulders were broad enough and my back strong enough to bear anything. I know that's what I wanted to believe, but I also accepted that the space that had opened up in me in Tasmania had continued to grow. It was no longer a matter of whether I could bear it, but whether I chose to bear it.

We arrived on time for our second session and the therapist was able to get a coherent download of our history. If she was at all surprised by the events we outlined, she was professional enough not to show it. At the beginning of our third session, she wanted to focus on why we had come and what we hoped to get out of therapy. She listened patiently to our half-hearted explanations before launching in as if to lance a wound.

‘Sandy, I believe what you really want is help to end this marriage', she said fatly, as if her eyes were like an ultrasound, able to bounce off the space inside me that held the truth even I was afraid to see. ‘Teboho, I'm not sure that you're in the same place.'

I forced myself to look at him in the heavy silence that followed, though I could feel his heart breaking into pieces like shattered glass. I stole a glance and saw that he was looking into his lap, tears in his eyes. In that moment, I wanted to take it all back, make it OK again. I wanted to say it wasn't true, that I still was committed and wanted to work it through. But I knew this was the legacy of my mother's generation once more: adapt, accommodate, accept. My real self said, ‘Yes, maybe it's that. I'm afraid to go there, but it might be true.'

Teboho turned at last and in a barely audible voice said, ‘Why? I thought we were happy', then turned his face to look at the wall so I could not see what emotion was written across it. Sorrow, anger, blame?

I suddenly remembered another dream I'd had at the Hydro a few months before. In it, I was driving down one of Cape Town's steep hills with Mello in the car, my foot heavily on the brake, barely in control, feeling as if at any moment the car could get away from me and send us both over the edge. That same feeling choked me now: everything was out of control, there were no brakes I could apply, and the edge of the cliff was very near.

‘I was happy, but it's been harder and harder to stay that way. I can't trust you to be there for me, to choose me over other people because
I'm
your wife. I know other people need you, but I need you too. I've been so incredibly lonely', I said, almost pleading.

‘But you have more resources than the other people, more ways to cope. They have nothing, you have it all.'

I had often wondered how Teboho reconciled marrying a white person, someone who symbolised everything he was denied while growing up. I know he appreciated the fact that I was willing to share what I had, willing to use my influence to help others. I know he loved me. But perhaps a subliminal resentment of what I represented lay alongside that love.

As he said these words–‘they have nothing, you have it all'–I wondered if his actions were a subtle punishment for being white. His making me wait, putting others' needs in front of mine, keeping promises to others but not to me, his love affairs with black women– countless memories flooded in. I knew he had a powerful rage against the white society that had kept him impoverished, divided his family. Is it possible to sleep with the enemy and never once take up arms against them?

‘I think we have both made compromises to be together, to find common ground, but I'm afraid we may have compromised our relationship out of existence. I think you're very angry with me for asking you to move away from Mohlakeng', I said, tentatively stroking a subject that had not been raised.

‘It's not what I wanted, no', he replied firmly, ‘but if it's what makes you happy, then I'm OK with it.'

‘I think you want to be OK with it, but you're not and you take it out on me in other ways.' I watched him think for a moment, then dismiss the idea like shrugging off an old coat.

‘What other ways, Sandy?' the therapist interjected. ‘Be more specific.'

‘OK. When it's suppertime during the week and I don't know where you are. Your phone is off so I phone the office and Paul says you have left two hours ago. When you do come home, you breeze in full of laughter and light, play with the kids, tell a few stories around the table, make everyone laugh, but say nothing to me about where you've been. I feel as if I'm being punished; I want you at home, so you do the opposite.'

‘I often make a few stops on the way home, nothing important. If it's only about getting home earlier, I can do that.'

‘It's more than that', I replied, frustrated by his desire to put my feelings back into a box when it had taken so long to get them out.

‘Well, what exactly?' he said, suddenly attacking.

‘It's trust', I spat out, close to tears again. ‘I don't trust you to put me first, to choose me. I don't trust that you will be faithful. I don't trust you to keep your promises to me. I don't trust you to understand me and what it is I need.'

‘Well, if you don't trust me, then there's nothing more to be said', he stated icily, as if shutting a steel door in my face.

I was suddenly afraid. I had been struggling with being in the marriage for a number of years now, but I had always felt it was my choice to stay or go. I had suspected Teboho wasn't faithful, but I never thought he would leave. Suddenly, I saw it was possible that he would pull back and be the one to end it. I felt out of control once more, careering down a steep hill, feet pumping useless brakes.

Perhaps seeing the panic in my eyes, the therapist took control of the conversation. ‘Trust is important, but it can be rebuilt if both parties are committed.'

‘Is it what you want, Sandy? I think you've given up and just want to walk away, clean and easy', Teboho said accusingly. ‘How could you do that? What about Mello and Chaba? What about our family?'

I felt the tears spill from my eyes, although I was trying to hold them in, to keep calm. I had to stop myself thinking about the kids– what a divorce would do to them. I knew it was a distraction at this moment, a barb meant to hurt me.

‘I don't think we want to jump to any conclusions just yet', the therapist said calmly. ‘Let's call it a day for now. Let's agree that no decisions are made while we are still in this process. We are working together to understand how each of you feel before any action is taken. Can you both commit to staying with the process for now?' she asked, as I sat wondering how it had come to this so quickly.

I didn't feel ready to put a stake in the ground about what I wanted or didn't want. I felt that the discussion had leap-frogged over my intention and now Teboho had placed himself in opposition to me, on the other side of a fence that hadn't existed an hour before.

The therapist was still looking at us both searchingly, waiting for a response. ‘OK', we said in unison. ‘Can I also suggest', she added as we stood, ‘that you don't discuss this during the week. We'll talk again next week, but just take a break until then.' We nodded our agreement and left the room quickly, eager to get away from the words that hung in the air like threads of a spider web, sticky and clinging.

We did as the therapist suggested, almost finding relief in returning to the day-to-day. We both worked a little longer in the evenings, found a reason to be busy over the weekend and generally kept things above the line. All the while, I was challenged by what the therapist had said. Was the suggestion of therapy really a way to get help to end it; to allow a professional to diagnose a fatal flaw, saving me from being the one to call it? I knew it was possible. But I was oscillating between wanting a return to the way things had been in 'Maritzburg, yet feeling we could never get that back, and that what we had now was not enough.

The following week I was in the kitchen preparing supper when the phone rang. Mama was watching Chaba in the bath and Mello was in her room changing into her pyjamas. I knew Thabo, the man on the other end of the phone, as the partner of one of Teboho's female friends at work. Thabo and his partner had been together for many years and had a six-year-old son. He was phoning to tell me that they had broken up. As Thabo and I had never met, I was struggling to understand why he would phone me to tell me this. But suddenly a bell chimed inside me and I went on the attack.

‘Why are you telling me this?' I demanded.

‘We broke up because she is having an affair with your husband', he said calmly, without venom.

‘Thabo, I don't think you should be phoning me like this, making trouble', I said, failing to convince even myself that I could hold the high ground here.

‘Think what you like. I just thought you had a right to know', he said roughly, before the phone went dead.

I walked back over to the stove and continued with supper, weighing up what Thabo had said as I added beans to the stir-fry. It might be true, it might not. It didn't really matter. I knew from my own experience that an affair was an empty promise, like searching in the wrong place for what has been lost. I also knew that I could not judge, having made my own mistakes in the past. So there was no raging at the possibility of another infidelity–just a quiet knowing that for me, the marriage was over.

Perhaps, for Teboho, loving me was enough. His mother had chosen to stay, to invite Ma Ellen into her home because she loved her husband. The love between them was strong enough to survive even his relationships with other women. But I was not like Mama. I was not willing to live that life, not anymore.