Fly Away Home (12 page)

“Is your mother-in-law going to work at the café permanently?”

“I hope not. Jabulani Dressmakers needs her. If Mama Dlamini decides to hire a permanent replacement, I have just the person for her.”

Monica listened as Francina revealed her plan to move Zukisa's sick aunt, Lucy, and her three children to Lady Helen so that Lucy could become the new cook at Mama Dlamini's Eating Establishment.

“How will she take care of her sick mother if she's busy at the café?” asked Monica.

While Lucy worked the lunch shift, Francina would check on the aunt, before collecting Mandla, Zukisa and Lucy's boys from school. And Lucy's daughter would just have to go to the café with her. In the evenings, Zukisa could get the little girl ready for bed and make sure the boys did their homework. The café was not open late unless there was a concert in the amphitheater, so Lucy would be home by eight to put her children to bed.

“My mother-in-law has volunteered to do the breakfast shift,” said Francina. “She doesn't start work at my shop until I leave to pick up the children from school.”

“How can Mama Dlamini look that man in the eye?” asked Monica, and Francina shrugged.

Zukisa had wandered off a little, still reading her book. “Careful you don't trip over a rock,” Francina called to her. “Why don't you stop reading and take a look at the view?”

Zukisa looked up briefly and then went back to her book.

“Ah, children,” said Francina. “They take beauty like this for granted.” She waved her hand toward the glint of the ocean in the distance.

“Except Sipho,” Monica reminded her.

“That boy is not a child, never has been,” said Francina. “What's his latest news?”

Monica told Francina her suspicions that Sipho was intimidated by the confidence of his new friends in Houston. “There's a big difference between fifteen and seventeen. I hope he doesn't do anything silly.”

“If there's anyone who won't be led by the nose like an old donkey, it's Sipho,” said Francina. “He knows his own mind, just like his mother did. Oh, Monica, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”

“Ella was his mother. You're right.”

“But today of all days. Me and my big mouth.”

Monica found herself using the words she had dreaded hearing from Francina. “It'll be okay.”

“I meant to take your mind off your disappointment by telling you about Mama Dlamini.”

“You did.” Monica stood up. “Shall we go and find Mandla before he gets into mischief?”

They found him helping Peg put fresh hay in the milking stalls.

“Don't tell me he helped you muck those out,” Monica said to her.

Peg nodded.

“And I can't even get him to clean his room.”

Mandla wanted to pick up one more load of hay with the pitchfork before leaving. Afterward he washed his hands with a garden hose and dried them on his jeans.

“All that work made me hungry,” he announced.

Zukisa rolled her eyes. “You're always hungry.”

“That's because I move around and don't have a book in my face all the time.”

“That's what we get when our children spend so much time together,” said Francina. “They start to fight like brother and sister.”

Monica told Francina to go home, since she would not be returning to the office that afternoon. Zukisa's eyes brightened at the suggestion and for the first time Monica wondered if the girl saw this daily arrangement as a chore.

At the entrance to Peg's farm, Monica and Mandla waved goodbye to Francina and Zukisa and started toward home.

“Are you going to keep trying to have a baby again?” asked Mandla.

The brief interlude of respite was over. Monica felt grief settling over her like fog off the ocean.

“I don't know.”

“You always tell me not to give up.”

How could she explain that sometimes giving up might be the best option?

Arriving home, Monica stared at the contents of the fridge, trying to think of something to make for dinner. Eventually, she closed the door without taking anything out. There were leftovers from last night's roast pork. Sandwiches would have to suffice tonight.

That night she left the dirty dishes in the sink, went to bed early and lay awake listening to the sounds of Mandla and Zak talking. When Zak was in charge of the bedtime ritual, he always allowed the boy to stay up late.

When Zak finally slipped into bed beside her, she pretended to be asleep. She was unsure why, but felt herself withdrawing from her family. It was selfish and futile but she couldn't stop herself.

Please help me, God,
she prayed silently. She had doubted Him lately, even accused Him of being unfair, but she knew that she was losing her way and needed His help.

M
andla was already dressed when Monica awoke the next morning, and he'd attempted to make his own sandwiches for school. Peanut butter was smeared across the cupboard where she kept his lunch box.

“I overslept. Why didn't you wake me?” she asked.

“I tried but you groaned and rolled over. I'm already late for school. Maybe it's better if I just stay at home.”

“No, I'll take you now and explain to your teacher that it's my fault.”

Sighing, Mandla went to brush his teeth, and Monica pulled on some clothes and scraped her hair into a ponytail. She'd come back and shower before going to work.

 

Dudu was not at her desk when Monica arrived at the office, more than an hour late. She was relieved to sit down at her desk without answering any questions.

She could hear the receptionist singing in the tiny galley kitchen, where she was presumably making a cup of tea. Monica took out a blank sheet of paper. It was time to start planning the next issue. She sat for a few minutes, pen in hand, thinking of events coming up in Lady Helen. Nothing seemed exciting enough to warrant a story. On her computer, she found a list of topics that she added to whenever a new idea came to her, but although these possibilities had excited her when she'd thought of them, they now seemed better suited for a newsletter than the town paper.

Dudu walked past her open door and stopped in surprise. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“I overslept.”

“Are you okay?”

Monica nodded.

“If you want to talk, you know where to find me. Do you want some tea?”

Monica shook her head. Dudu had come to the correct conclusion—that Monica's absence from work yesterday afternoon was confirmation that her fertility treatment had been unsuccessful.

 

The next day Monica overslept again, but this time Mandla was more persistent in his attempts to rouse her.

“Either I go to school on time or I don't go at all,” he said.

Even in her sleepy state Monica realized that he was losing patience with her.

That day at work she tried again to think of story ideas, and jotted down a few weak ones, but by lunchtime she was ready to leave, and took her sandwiches to the park, where she sat on a bench next to the statue of the town's founder, Lady Helen Gray. The warm sun on her face felt comforting and before long Monica dozed. When she awoke, it was past two o'clock and she had a crick in her neck from sleeping sitting up.

Dudu said nothing when Monica walked into the office, but clearly wanted to talk. She kept walking by Monica's open door, ostensibly to fetch new ink cartridges or reams of paper from the stationery storage room, all of which could have been collected in one trip. But Monica did not want to talk. Zak had tried, too, after Mandla had gone to bed the night before. Talking was futile. Either Monica must throw herself into one more attempt at getting pregnant, or she had to give up the idea of ever having a child of her own.

By the end of the week, when it was time to turn copy in to Dudu to be laid out for the next issue, Monica had completed only two stories.

Dudu read them quickly and said, “I thought we did a piece on Justice's new job last month.” Justice was the son of Gift and David, the couple from whom Monica had bought her house and with whom she now shared a close friendship. Gift was one of Lady Helen's most successful artists. Justice had been a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford University in England and had recently been promoted from his lowly clerk's position at the African Bank to deputy director for Southern Africa.

“Did we?” asked Monica.

Dudu nodded.

“I forgot.”

“Do you have any other stories you're working on?” asked Dudu.

“No, that's it.” Monica could not remember how she had spent the past few days.

“We don't have enough copy for a whole issue.”

Monica nodded.

“Monica, do you want to talk to me now?”

She feigned ignorance. “About what?”

“Let me make us a nice cup of tea and we'll have a chat,” said Dudu.

“You're very sweet, but I just can't. Not yet.”

“You don't have to talk to me, but you must talk to someone. We don't have a newspaper to bring out next week. The other day I had to beg the electricity company not to turn off our power because you forgot to pay the bill.”

“I did? I'm sorry, Dudu. What would I do without you?”

“I have a few ideas for stories. If you want, I'll write them this weekend. Do you think you can give me at least two more by Monday?”

Monica promised she would. “Thanks, Dudu.”

“The
Lady Helen Herald
has to come out. People in this town depend on it.”

 

Monica's good friend Kitty called that evening to ask if the family wanted to come for lunch at the inn on Sunday, but Monica declined, claiming other plans.

“We don't have any plans,” said Mandla, who had overheard the conversation.

Monica said the first thing that came into her mind. “There's lots of work to do around the house, you know. Spring cleaning.”

“But Mom—”

“It has to be done, Mandla.”

She knew that he was disappointed and confused by her response. He loved going to Kitty's inn, the first place they had lived when they'd arrived in Lady Helen. Plus Kitty's four-year-old daughter, Catherine, adored him. Monica knew she was being selfish, but she wasn't in the mood to see Kitty with her two children, especially her youngest, one-year-old Jimmy. Kitty, the onetime fashion model and entrepreneur, always acted as though she was surprised to find herself with a family, as though her husband and babies had appeared in a puff of smoke with no effort at all. At first, Monica had found it mildly amusing, but now she found it painful. “Just look at me,” Kitty would say. “And to think that not long ago I was partying until dawn with the jet set in Milan.”

 

The next day, Saturday, Monica tried to appease Mandla by taking him and Yolanda to lunch at Mama Dlamini's Eating Establishment. Zak had to be at the hospital for an hour or two. Mandla always acted as though the café were his own private club, and would leave the table to greet friends and neighbors. Today was no exception; he had spied Francina, Hercules and Zukisa in a booth.

Yolanda ordered Mama Dlamini's speciality: snoek done West Coast style over an open fire, served with lemon juice and homemade apricot jam.

“I'm not sure if Mrs. Shabalala is up to cooking that,” said Monica.

Yolanda shrugged. “I'll try it anyway.”

When the food arrived, Monica tasted Yolanda's snoek and found it surprisingly good—up to Mama Dlamini's standards, even.

“I should apologize to Mrs. Shabalala,” she said.

“Francina told me she's not here,” said Mandla. “Mama Dlamini is cooking today.” He pointed at the door to the kitchen. “There she is.”

Mama Dlamini wiped her hands on her apron and began to greet her patrons, as always.

“Mmm…I'm in the mood for a chocolate milk shake,” said Mandla. Mama Dlamini always gave her “two favorite boys” a milk shake on the house.

“Who's my best boy?” Mama Dlamini called out to Mandla. She came over and pinched his cheeks. Sipho hated that and had been grateful when she'd stopped doing it to him, the day he turned fifteen.

“We haven't seen you for a while,” said Monica.

“Yes, yes, I've been busy,” replied Mama Dlamini vaguely. “How about a milk shake, you two?”

“Yes, please,” said Mandla and Yolanda in unison.

“Busy with what?” asked Monica.

Mama Dlamini's eyes followed Anna as the waitress moved about the café. “Business stuff.”

“What business stuff?” persisted Monica.

Mama Dlamini studied her face. “If there's something you want to ask, just ask it, Monica.”

Monica knew that this was not the time to confront Mama Dlamini about her divided loyalties, but she had started it and now she'd finish it.

“How can you work for Mr. Yang? Have you forgotten that he tried to bulldoze Sandpiper Drift? How do you think Daphne, Miemps and Reginald would feel if they knew you were cooking for the man who tried to destroy their home?”

“That's their business, not yours, Monica.” Mama Dlamini's tone was curt.

“Have you told them? No, you haven't. It's because you're ashamed, aren't you?” Monica noticed Francina and Hercules staring at her.

Mama Dlamini raised her voice. “Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't be ashamed of? I shouldn't have to remind you, Monica, of the differences between you and me.” She wagged a finger in Monica's face. “My daddy didn't send me to university. The only way I would have gone to university is if I'd got a job cleaning classrooms.”

“What's that got to do with—?”

“You've had opportunities I could only dream of.”

“But—”

Mama Dlamini did not give her a chance to finish. “If you think that I'm going to say no when someone offers me a chance to prove myself in a world-class restaurant, then you're a foolish woman.”

“Well, I just think Mr. Yang should ask forgiveness of the people he has wronged,” said Monica, her tone defensive.

“Enough, ladies,” interrupted Francina, stressing the word
ladies
as if to remind both women that they were behaving badly.

“I'll go and make the milk shakes,” mumbled Mama Dlamini, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Francina sat down at Monica's table. “How are you, Yolanda?” she asked, as though nothing had happened.

The girl looked nervously at Monica before speaking. “Okay, I suppose.”

“And you, Mandla? What are your plans for the weekend?”

Mandla glared at Monica. “Spring cleaning.”

Anna arrived with the milk shakes. While the youngsters were unwrapping their straws and arguing over which glass had the most whipped cream on top, Francina put her hand on Monica's arm and dropped her voice. “What were you thinking, Monica? Why argue with Mama Dlamini here, at lunchtime, in front of all her customers?”

Monica sighed. “I know, I know, I was wrong.”

“You and I both know that this is not just about Mama Dlamini working at the golf resort. You're upset with your life. You're angry, you're disappointed. But you can't take it out on other people. Mandla tells me you don't get up on time in the morning, you forget to make him lunch for school, you don't sign his homework. You have to pull yourself together.”

Monica knew Francina was right, but what she advised was easier said than done.