The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories (22 page)

She hadn't liked Darryl that much. But she had loved them. She had loved the idea of being part of a close-knit family. Her own father had left when she had been in primary school. The idea of a family in which the mother and father were still together, in which the brothers were best friends, was intoxicating. She had wanted the Christmas-card, picture-perfect family so badly.

With the memories of Darryl came the memories of Jonny. Jonathan Schmidt. She allowed her thoughts to drift while the order list loaded.

‘Valerie?'

It took her only a few seconds to place the woman. She remembered the words:
Safe in the arms of Jesus.

‘Good morning, Mrs de Klerk.' Valerie stood up and smiled. She felt silly for being caught daydreaming. ‘How can I help today?'

‘Could I maybe speak to you?'

‘Yes.' She indicated a chair on the other side of her desk. ‘Is there a problem with the design of the headstone?'

‘No, no. It's not about that. I think the stone is fine.'

Valerie took a seat and waited for the other woman to speak.

‘I'm not sure why I came here. It just seemed the natural thing to do. We've met so many people the last few days, everyone with something to say or sell or sympathise about. I just liked you, I suppose.' Mrs de Klerk smiled. She was even paler than she had been the day before. Or maybe it was more noticeable since she wasn't looking down at her lap. Her red hair, thick and flowing, was also making her face seem colourless. ‘Thank you for your help yesterday.'

‘It's a pleasure.'

‘And sorry for being such a wreck. It's so strange. When we first heard that Corné was sick I was the one who took charge. I argued with doctors and teachers; I was in complete control. And now I just can't seem to stop crying. I keep wondering if I wasn't too bossy. Maybe, ag. Just maybe.'

Valerie wasn't sure how to answer.

‘I think that Corné held me together. I couldn't let him see his mama crying the whole time.'

‘Everyone grieves. It's natural.'

‘Yes, that's true. But nothing feels right, you know. It all feels so fake. Like it's all just part of some act.' She paused and took a deep breath. ‘I just keep wondering what I'll remember in a few years. What do you think? I know it's unfair of me to ask. But I thought … well, you have a son, as well. And you see people dealing with grief all the time. Do you think that one only remembers the hospital beds, the tests, the bad news the doctors kept giving with straight faces? Or do you remember taking him to the park, curling up to read a story together, family holidays and all the funny things he did or said?'

Valerie cleared her throat and shifted in the chair. She knew what the answer was. But a deep discomfort made her stomach twist.

‘You remember everything. But you decide which memories you want to hold on to. In the end you choose how you want to remember him.'

Mrs de Klerk opened her handbag and pulled out an envelope. She made no move to open it or to hand it over. ‘These are photos of him while he was in the hospital. My husband thinks I'm obsessed. He thinks that we should focus on the good, and try to forget …' She swallowed. ‘Forget the last few months.'

Valerie looked at the woman seated across from her. She leaned forwards and put her arms on the desk. ‘Mrs de Klerk, it's hard enough to carry on while trying to remember only the good things. Sometimes your hands are so full of the memories you want to hold on to, that you have to decide which to pack away in a box and which to keep holding.' Valerie pointed to the photos still in the envelope. ‘You'll have to decide which memories to keep alive.'

Valerie sat in silence for a few minutes after Mrs de Klerk had left. Yes, you remember everything.

 

They'd been out celebrating. He'd proposed and she had accepted. And they'd only been going out for eight months. She loved him. She loved the idea of them. She could imagine raising children with him. She could imagine his parents as grandparents. She hadn't yet told him that she was pregnant. The timing of the proposal was perfect. They could still decide if they wanted to keep the baby or not. If he said that he wasn't ready yet, that was fine. They could always try again in the future. She pretended to drink with him. Her glass of Coke got emptier and her sparkling wine was untouched. Jonny didn't even notice. He was too excited; he kept talking about their future, where they would live and work and how their kids would be brought up. He told her to go ahead and give notice at her job. They would be getting married soon, and she'd need all the time she could get to arrange the wedding. When the restaurant was closing, she led him out to the car.

‘Come on, Jonny. Give me the keys. You're too drunk to drive.'

‘No.'

‘Come on. Then you can sleep until we get back to the flat.'

‘No. I want to drive. You don't think I can't drive my new wife home?'

‘We're not married yet.'

He ignored her and unlocked the car. ‘I'm driving.'

‘I really don't think that's a good idea.'

‘Just get in. Stop complaining.'

She stopped complaining. She'd talk to him the next morning about delaying the announcement.

His gravestone flashed into her memory. She had spent enough time in front of it over the years.

In loving memory of Jonathan Schmidt. Son, Brother.

She sometimes felt guilty that she hadn't written
Father
on it as well.

 

 

It was the girls' idea, getting them together, Lilly's and Vanezu's. They set it all up, booked a table for four, organised their respective parents.

‘Can't your wear a dress, rather?' Lilly fussed at her. ‘It's Eataly we're going to, Mom, near Union Square. Think fancy.'

Adeela stands in her underwear, hair still wet, a favourite pair of jeans in her hand. It's hard to please a teenager, and though she generally tries to be accommodating, she draws the line at dresses. ‘Nope. I don't do dresses, not even for you,' she says, ‘not even for a blind date.'

‘Okay, then how about this?' Lilly takes down a heavily embroidered silk shirt Adeela hardly ever wears. ‘This will zhoosh your jeans up a little, and with my big silver earrings and your long boots, you'll look all right. It's not a date exactly. We just think it's a good idea you two finally meet.'

 

Victor and Adeela like each other immediately. Though they avoid any talk of nationality, there is an ease between them, a familiarity, a feeling of belonging. The girls buzz around, filling the slightest pause with chit-chat. They speak about their favourite New York haunts. The wonders of living in a first-world city. Lilly loves the Museum of Modern Art best, Vanezu the shops in Soho. Adeela the bookshops, and Victor the people.

‘If you'd asked me twenty, ten, even five years ago, I would have told you I hated Americans and all things American. But somehow, in their own country, they aren't so bad,' he says.

 

Now here is Victor: she knows it's him without turning around. He crosses the small space between her front door and her chair in only nine paces, bends down to kiss her.

‘I'm happy to see you looking so well this morning,' he says. It's a lie, but he feels compelled to say it. He pulls up a footstool and sits at her feet. Still Adeela has to tilt her head up a little to see his face. He takes off his steel-rimmed glasses and carefully polishes the lenses, puts them on, and with a little nudge, edges them into place. He watches her come back into focus, but finds she looks the same as when he first came into the room. The joints in her fingers are swollen, the skin along the top of her hands taut over the bones. Her arms limp on the side-rests of the old corduroy-covered rocking chair are as spindly as the topmost branches of the tree at her window. She is wearing an old grey cardigan of fine wool, and on it she, or more likely Lilly, has pinned a white, heart-shaped brooch made from springbok hide. He gave it to her, last Valentine's or the one before. The space where her breasts were is concave beneath a cotton T-shirt. Like sinkholes, he thinks, where the earth has suddenly collapsed, swallowing whatever was there … houses, people, animals, trees – whole lives disappearing in an instant.

‘Your tree is especially beautiful this time of year.' Victor nods towards the elm, takes a sip of the tea Lilly made them before going out. He wishes Adeela would dress like a dying woman, cover her deformity with a robe or a blanket, for Christ's sake. Wear a scarf or a hat of some kind over the fine hair that pushes so pathetically from her scalp. To Victor's complete surprise, he begins to cry. First the rise of heat up his pockmarked cheeks, then the tell-tale burning at the back of his eyes. The blurring of his vision. God, this woman could always reduce him to an almost unbearably sweet state of rawness. He feels naked, always naked when he is with her. They will be refugees again, Vanezu and him, when she is gone.

 

‘I think I made a friend today. Her name's Lilly.' Victor can picture Vanezu the day she'd told him that. She sounded so formal. So hopeful. So homesick. ‘Sounds positive,' he'd said. ‘Sounds positive' was how he'd greeted all good news since arriving in the States. They'd only been there two months or so, and something about the place, the sheer size of it maybe, made him feel, well, cautious. Since Adeela's diagnosis he'd given up using the word positive altogether. He and Vanezu had stopped joking about how the Americans can turn their own words inside out and upside down. It didn't seem funny anymore.

 

Victor is usually able to stem his tears before they show; a nail pushed into the palm of a clenched fist or into the soft tip of his thumb; the removal of his spectacles, the methodical polishing of their lenses on a corner of his shirt. Then he is ready to look up, to resume the distant stance of a respected academic, the authoritative look of a father. Or in this case, the detached fondness of an ex-lover. But this time, his tricks do not work. This time, almost before he knows it, Victor puts his head on Adeela's lap and sobs.

She strokes his head with a hand she doesn't fully recognise. She feels the familiar prickle of his recently shorn head under her fingers. She watches a finch flit from branch to branch before it drops two storeys down to Mr Cohen's bird feeder. It is quiet inside, just the rasp of Victor's sobbing, and the slight rumble of the refrigerator as its motor kicks in across the room. The street noises seem far away.

 

‘I used to think,' Adeela says when Victor is quiet. ‘I used to think I'd like my ashes to be buried here under the elm. It's an alien, you know, like you and me.'

They sit quietly for a moment looking out at the English elm that doesn't really belong.

‘Somebody probably brought this tree over from England. Somebody unwrapped the roots from the damp sacks bound around them, soil still clinging to them in great clumps, crumbling and trickling away as it dried. Someone dug a hole and planted it, a little, withered, homesick sapling, right here. Planted it, watered it, tended it. That somebody had conviction, didn't they, Victor?'

Victor doubts the tree sailed across the Atlantic with some early settler. Hell, that would make it hundreds of years old. More likely, it was grown in a nursery somewhere closer at hand. Central Park was full of elms, wasn't it?

‘Do you want Vanezu to put her roots down here, Victor? Lilly has. She's never lived anywhere else. And I thought I had roots here too. I thought I was as well transplanted as that tree. But now, I'm not so sure.' Adeela chuckles. ‘Anyway, old Mr Cohen won't let anybody into his yard and I don't want to make things harder for Lilly, so now I'm thinking of asking Sukey to take my ashes home with her. There's a place I used to go every Christmas when I was a kid. Maidens Cove. Sukey knows it; she grew up near there. She can just tip them into the Atlantic. What do you think?'

Victor says nothing. He puts his head back onto her lap. It feels to Adeela as heavy as a rock. The grey spikes glint like quartzite against his black dome. And she feels it crushing her legs. Feels her legs disintegrating, turning to sand beneath the weight. She is short of breath again. Feels the weight move up to her chest. She focuses on the tree. On her breathing. The finch is back. It hops along a twig away from her, then flies off.

‘I'm sorry,' Victor says, lifting his head.

Adeela looks down to find her lap as it was, not crushed, not crumbling away. Just two very thin legs cased in faded blue denim. She motions for her tea which is just out of reach. He passes it to her, waits until she has a firm grip on the handle. It steadies her a little, this ancient ritual of drinking tea. Not American-style tea, but proper English tea, with milk and one sugar.

‘We used to go there, to Maidens Cove, every year on Boxing Day, until we moved away from the city.' She's speaking to Victor, but her eyes are on the tree. ‘Half the neighbourhood would go. Ma would pack all our stuff: blankets, towels, shorts, warm jerseys for the trip home, into a big string bag. The rotis and sandwiches, bottles of Fanta or Coca-Cola went into plastic OK Bazaar packets. We'd walk down Constitution Street, right into Buitenkant and then along Darling, into Adderley Street, where we'd catch the bus to just past Clifton, but before you got to Camps Bay proper. Those were whites-only beaches back then.'

‘Hmm,' Victor says.

‘There wasn't exactly a beach at Maidens Cove – but there was sand here and there between the rocks, and a huge tidal pool. My cousin Ryder was the only one of us who could swim. He would run along the white-painted walls and dive into the pool just before the huge waves knocked him off. It was a game the big boys played, a bit like Chicken.' Adeela pauses, takes another sip of tea. Victor's mug is already empty. ‘We used to explore all the nooks and crannies between those rocks, Amina, Huda and me. They were just granite boulders, but to us, they were castles, the walls studded with diamonds. We would go back one day and get those diamonds out, we promised ourselves. We would chip them out and be rich as princesses. I can't remember what Amina wanted to buy, nor Huda, but I wanted roller skates, like the white girls I'd seen when the bus drove past the Sea Point Boulevard. I didn't know what they were called, nobody I knew had them, but Ryder told me.'