Rachel Weeping (10 page)

chapter 11

Rachel stared at
the tiny brass urn, its polished surface reflecting the light that streamed in from the large windows of the Jordaans' church. It was the first time she had been in a church that looked like this but she was not in a frame of mind where she was able to appreciate the beauty of the structure. She looked up from the urn, still unable to comprehend that Maia was inside of it. In normal circumstances cremation would not have been her first choice but, given that she wanted eventually to bury Maia in Mozambique, she knew that she had had no other option. Chris had recommended it to her and, after signing the necessary papers at the crematorium, she had watched as Maia's body was wheeled through one door in a casket and the little brass urn was brought from another. Rachel switched her gaze from the urn to a large canvas a few metres away that was propped up on a wooden art easel.

The canvas was a print of one of Maia's class photographs, taken last year when she had just been enrolled at Jollyjammers. A warm smile was spread across her face and her hair was done up in two small pigtails, a style that she had asked for after seeing all the other girls at school with pigtails. Below her smiling face were two lines Rachel had never in her life expected to read:

Maia Nyaga

2009 – 2014

A tear ran down Rachel's cheek and she slowly wiped it away, turning to Tapiwa for another tissue. She was sitting in the front row, flanked by Tapiwa and Maria, who had managed to get the day off so that they could be with her. They were the only ‘friends and family' she had in Johannesburg, a realisation that made her suddenly miss her mother with a searing ache.

Chris and Michelle were seated a few rows behind them, their presence an awkward necessity since it was Chris who had managed to get permission for them to use one of the side halls of the church the Jordaans attended. One of the pastors had agreed to perform the ceremony and Michelle had printed out the canvas with Maia's photo on it that morning.

Rachel didn't process a single thing that came from the pastor's mouth, his words floating over her head and passing through the echoing hall like a breath of empty wind. He had asked her if she had wanted to say anything but she had declined, knowing that she had said all she needed to say to her child at the crematorium. To Rachel this was just a ritual that needed to be completed for completion's sake.

The pastor finished the ceremony and stepped down to extend his condolences to Rachel. Tapiwa took her arm and Maria gathered up their things, neither of the women speaking. Rachel picked up the urn. It was heavier than it looked. Maria handed Rachel's bag to Tapiwa to carry, and walked back and lifted the canvas from its easel. Then she led the way out of the building.

As the women walked past Chris and Michelle, who hadn't yet moved from their seats, Rachel stopped to thank them for the hall. They were empty words, they all knew that, but it made the interaction between them a little bit manageable. Michelle had avoided all eye contact from the moment she had arrived, while Chris had tried to shield his wife with his body and draw attention away from her.

The Jordaans had arranged for a driver to transport Rachel and her two friends. He was standing at the door, waiting for their instructions, and Rachel was vaguely aware of Maria saying something to him.

In the back seat of the Toyota Corolla that would take them home, Rachel sat sandwiched between Maria and Tapiwa, Maia's ashes positioned securely on her lap. The driver started the car and the melancholic sounds of a gospel choir strained through the crackling speakers, covering the silence in melody. As they drove out the church parking lot Rachel looked back and saw Chris and Michelle standing beside their car. Tears were running down Michelle's face and Chris appeared to be comforting her. She turned back around. Tapiwa felt for her fingers and held Rachel's hand loosely in hers.

They drove through the streets of Johannesburg until they reached the Jordaan house. Rachel did not have a remote to open the electronic gates so the driver pulled up at the kerb, where he put the car into neutral, giving the three women time to get their things together. He gave Rachel a solemn nod, then put on the Toyota's indicator and pulled off into the street.

The late afternoon sun bathed the women in gold as they turned to face each other to say their farewells.

‘What are you going to do with her?' Maria asked, handing Rachel the canvas before hugging her.

‘I'll take her to Inhassoro when I go back.'

‘I still think you should tell your parents,' Tapiwa said.

‘There's nothing they can do from there and if they know they will only try to come and help, which will cost money that we don't have. I will tell them when I go back.'

The women stood in silence, accepting Rachel's decision.

‘What happens now?' Tapiwa asked.

‘We haven't spoken about it yet.'

‘What do you want to do?' Maria asked.

‘I don't know.' Rachel held the urn against her chest. ‘If I leave, I lose my home, my income, my visa, and I won't be able to take care of my parents.'

Tapiwa stepped forward and hugged her. Maria followed suit again, rubbing Rachel's back this time in big comforting circles. Then Rachel opened the side gate and walked down the driveway to her room, not looking back. Once inside, she laid the canvas on the table and stood the brass urn in front of it. She pulled out a chair and sat down. She stared at the urn, the small receptacle that now contained the ashes of her child.

The choice she had to make was not a complicated one; in fact it was quite simple. It was just difficult.

Looking over to the kitchen area, she saw the dishes from the previous week, piled up and dirty. She stood up and walked over. She put the plug into the hole in the sink, turned on the tap, and poured a little dishwashing liquid into the stream of hot water. She stood and watched as bubbles started to form. Then she put the dishes in one by one and started to wash them, her empty eyes gazing out the window into the driveway as night began to fall.

 

 

 

The pile of dirty dishes seemed to have grown by itself. All of the surface area beside and on the kitchen sink was occupied and – Michelle couldn't deny it any longer – there was a distinctly unpleasant smell coming from that corner too. Resigning herself to the fact that she would have to do some cleaning if she and Chris were going to have plates to eat off, she cast around helplessly. Bending, she opened the cupboards below the sink and poked her head inside, then straightened up again, sighing despondently.

‘What's wrong?' Chris was at the window looking out into the garden. The surface of the infinity pool was looking scummy.

‘We don't have any tablets for the dishwasher.'

‘Don't worry about it. I'll pick some up tomorrow.'

Michelle accepted that they could probably last another day and she switched the kettle on, opting instead to have something hot to drink. She didn't much feel like dinner anyway.

‘Tea?' she offered.

Chris was sitting at the table in the breakfast nook now, scrolling through messages on his iPhone.

‘Yes, please,' he replied without looking up.

Michelle opened the cupboard where they stored their crockery but found empty shelves staring back at her. How had that happened? Irritably, she closed the cupboard door, hard enough to cause Chris to look up.

‘What's wrong now?'

‘What are we going to do, Chris?' Michelle turned to face him, trying to hold back tears of frustration.

‘Let's just have some tea and talk things through,' Chris said. He put his iPhone down and stood up to help her.

‘We can't have tea,' Michelle said, pointing accusingly at the cupboard door. ‘Don't you get it? There are no more clean mugs.'

Chris wasn't sure whether to laugh or not, but he knew better than to point out the obvious. This was definitely not the time to talk logistics.

‘Um ...'

‘I'm going to bed.'

‘No, no, no,' Chris said, stepping forward and blocking Michelle's exit. ‘Just sit down and let me handle things.'

Too tired to resist, Michelle slumped onto the chair Chris pulled out for her and watched as he went through the row of cupboards above the counter tops. He glanced back at her, his eyes twinkling, but Michelle wasn't in the mood. Even when he pulled out a wine glass and a gravy boat and put them on the counter with a flourish she didn't raise a smile.

‘You can't drink tea fr…' Michelle protested when she realised what he was doing.

Chris ignored her. He placed a teabag into each of the containers, poured in hot water from the kettle, and then carried them across to the table, where he added milk and sugar.

‘Glass or gravy boat, madame?' he asked solemnly.

Michelle smiled weakly and reached for the gravy boat, lifting it to her lips and blowing on the hot tea. Chris went back to the cupboard and extracted a packet of ginger biscuits which he brought back to the table. Then he pulled his chair close to Michelle's and leaned in to whisper into her ear.

‘It was an accident.'

‘I know,' Michelle said automatically.

‘It was an accident,' Chris repeated, not moving away from her.

‘I know, Chris.' Tears threatening, Michelle set her chin defiantly and tried, but failed, to look at him.

‘It was an accident.'

Tears started to roll down Michelle's cheeks. She hated crying. Chris knew how much she hated crying.

‘It was an accident,' Chris said again, tenderly kissing her hand and holding onto it before she could pull it back. He waited for Michelle's breathing to steady.

‘I just wish I could go back to that moment and change it,' Michelle said, wiping roughly at her face. ‘Just change one thing so that it wouldn't have happened.'

‘I know.'

They sat in silence while Michelle's tears ran their short course. She blew her nose loudly into a tissue. Then she picked the gravy boat up by its handle and took a sip of her tea. Her composure returning, she turned her face to her husband.

‘You know we need to talk to her,' she said.

Chris nodded.

‘I'll call Riaan tomorrow and find out what the legalities are.'

 

 

 

 

Rachel lay on her bed in her nightgown and two pairs of socks on her feet, listening to the night sounds of the suburbs. Where once, long ago it seemed, she had fallen asleep to waves and tavern music, she had never got used to how little noise there was here at night. Aside from the occasional car driving past or police siren, the suburbs were void of noise, the thick trees swallowing whatever sound there was. In summer there was the buzz and clicking of insects in the garden but in winter everything was hard and still.

She didn't even have Maia's heavy breathing to mask the loneliness anymore.

It had been six days. For the first time since Maia's passing, Rachel was truly alone. The last week had been filled with funeral arrangements and the presence of Maria and Tapiwa who had managed to come by every day. Chris had also been a constant companion, helping her with all the police and hospital administration as well as the setting up of the cremation and the service at his church.

Michelle had spent most of her time inside the house, receiving visits from her friends, who brought with them flowers and food for Rachel, which she in turn had shared with Maria and Tapiwa. Rachel had only met Michelle's friends, these women in her employer's life, in passing and she was touched by their kindness.

Maia's nursery school had sent Rachel a book that the children had made for her, a collection of crayon drawings each of them had done of Maia. The teacher had had the drawings bound together and had written a letter to Rachel, expressing her condolences as well as sharing her memories of Maia from her short time at Jollyjammers.

Rachel picked up the book now and read the letter from Maia's teacher once more. It said that Maia was a joyful girl, one who was quick to share her things with others and make friends with new children. She added that Maia loved to play with the dolls in the toy box and that she had a beautiful singing voice. The theme song from
Frozen
had been her favourite.

The book had been accompanied by a gift basket with chocolates, soaps and candles, as well as all of the art Maia had done. Rachel flipped through the simple drawings, the bright colours jumping from the pages. The teacher would title each of the drawings with a marker pen, showing the parents what the theme for that day's project had been. The drawings told stories of princesses in castles and trips to holiday destinations that Maia must have heard about from the other children. One of the drawings under the title ‘My Family' showed Maia standing between a mother and a father as they walked along the beach. The three of them were holding hands and had big smiles on their faces. The sun in the corner of the page was also smiling as it shone down on a picture-perfect family that existed only in Maia's imagination.

A tear rolled down Rachel's cheek and landed on the drawing, the moisture causing the watercolour pencil to dissolve and run. Rachel put the book down, wiped her face and reached over to turn off the lamp.

 

chapter 12

Rachel adjusted her
weight on the cheap plastic chair she had been sitting on in the Home Affairs office for the past two hours. Her back hurt. It was just after lunch and those of the fluorescent lights that were working flickered noisily in the dingy room. She had arrived at the unkempt building at sunrise and had stood in line outside for three hours with about 50 other foreigners who were applying for or renewing the visas that allowed them to live and work in South Africa.

Once inside the building she had filled out her forms before making her way to the floor where the processing of work permits was handled. She took a seat with the rest of the crowd and waited as the queue inched closer and closer to the three uninterested-looking officers who had been tasked with the processing of permits for the day.

Rachel clutched her papers and purse tightly, looking to see who was seated on either side of her. Some of these people, having travelled from neighbouring towns, had arrived the previous night and had ended up sleeping in the streets outside the property so that they could be the first in line to get their status extended. It was a dangerous choice, given the crime in the area, but it was one many people were forced to make. Rachel had done it once herself and ever since then had done everything in her power to make sure she wouldn't have to take that risk again.

This was also an environment she didn't want Maia to experience, a place that would show her where they really fit in the hierarchy of this world that her daughter knew as home.

‘Next.'

Rachel looked up and saw that one of the officers, a pudgy black man with a plastic badge that read ‘Thomas Mabuza' pinned to his shirt, was looking at her through the glass window that separated him from the foreigners. Quickly scooping up her things, she approached the counter and slid her papers, passport and money through the gap in the glass. Officer Mabuza picked up the papers and began to flip through them slowly, squinting up at Rachel when he got to her passport photograph. He proceeded to pick up her employment letter and read through it.

Then he asked her a question in Zulu, a tactic Rachel had often observed the officers employ to try and intimidate applicants who, like her, could not understand the language.

‘I'm sorry, sir,' she responded in English, trying her best to appear submissive. ‘I don't speak Zulu.'

It was all a power play. She knew that the worst thing she could do was challenge the officer's authority or appear rude. She watched as Officer Mabuza sucked his teeth and stared down at the employment letter for much longer than was surely necessary.

‘How long have you been working for the Jordaan family?' he asked again, switching to English this time.

‘Four years.'

Rachel could see he was about to ask another question when all of a sudden the air was filled with shouting and commotion. Behind her three officers were busy dragging a crying woman through the waiting room to where Rachel knew there was a holding cell. The woman was resisting, crying out in Portuguese, begging them not to take her, but the three men ignored her pleas, pulled the woman into the room and closed the door behind them. Her cries could still be heard in the waiting room. Rachel turned back to face Officer Mabuza, trying to remain calm and put what she had just witnessed out of her mind.

The officer smiled as he said something in Zulu to his co-worker in the next cubicle and the two men laughed at what Rachel could only assume was a derogatory joke about the woman. He picked up a rusty office stamp and marked her paperwork with ink, the sound of the impact on the page loud and authoritative. Without saying another word, he slid the papers and Rachel's passport back through the glass, motioning for her to move on.

She had six more months.