Rachel Weeping (15 page)

Rachel nodded. She walked over to the large red velvet cake that was on the table. The words ‘Say Goodbye To Your Sleep' were written on the white icing in chocolate sauce. Karlien took one side while Rachel took the other and together they walked with great care through to the lounge, Karlien's high heels clicking on the tiles as they made their way.

‘Time for cake!' Karlien said excitedly, navigating towards the table while the others made room for it. ‘Do any of you know if we're meant to sing anything?'

Everyone laughed and clapped their hands as Karlien and Rachel lowered the cake to the surface.

‘This looks incredible,' Chantelle said, picking up a knife and handing it to Michelle. ‘Where did you get it, Karlien?'

‘Bianca made it,' Karlien said, pointing to a blonde woman who was sitting to the side on one of the dining room chairs. ‘Glutton free.'

‘Gluten free,' Bianca corrected.

Karlien winked. ‘Isn't that what I said?'

They all laughed and excited chatter broke out again, most of it in Afrikaans.

Feeling more intruder than participant in the moment, Rachel stepped back. She was about to leave the room when Karlien motioned for her by clicking her fingers in the air.

‘
Ag
, Rachel,' she called in English, ‘can you just help us clear these cups and plates? It'll give us some room to serve the cake.'

‘No, it's fine, Karlien,' Michelle said, placing a hand on her friend's knee. ‘Let Rachel – '

‘Don't be silly,' Karlien said. ‘There's no room here and it'll only take her a few seconds.'

Karlien began to scrape and stack the dirty cups and cutlery, piling them onto Rachel's outheld arms until she was balancing a large mass of porcelain almost up to her chin. She left the lounge and made her way towards the kitchen, her back straight and her breathing steadier than her heart. Standing in the empty kitchen, she listened to the women's voices. They had reverted to Afrikaans again and as they spoke, the foreign words making the difference between her world and theirs even starker, she was filled with an all-consuming anger.

Rachel stood dead still, waiting for the emotion to pass, but her arms under the heavy load were shaking. The dirty cups and plates began to rattle. When a shriek of laughter came from the lounge something inside of her snapped. Lifting her arms to increase the momentum, with one fierce, vicious movement Rachel jerked them apart and all the dishes, as well as a few wineglasses that were in the crossfire on the counter top close by, crashed to the tiled floor. The glass and porcelain shattered upon impact, while pieces of the heavier crockery bounced before breaking and shot to all corners of the kitchen. In the hush that followed, the only sound coming from one stubborn saucer spinning and slowly clunking to a stop, Rachel allowed her arms to fall to her sides. She heard cries of fright and then high-pitched voices coming from the lounge. Rachel stayed where she was, not moving, although her heart was pounding. She took a few more seconds to savour the moment before kneeling down on the tiles. She began to gather up some of the larger broken pieces. She heard high heels hurry into the kitchen and then stop.

‘What on earth happened?' Karlien asked, her eyes wide.

‘They slipped,' said Rachel. She kept her eyes on her task.

Karlien took in the damage. The kitchen floor was strewn from one end to the other in broken pieces of glass and porcelain.

‘You almost gave us a heart attack!'

‘I'm sorry,' Rachel said.

‘Are you hurt?'

Rachel shook her head and Karlien, taking in the carnage one last time, left the kitchen to report back to the others. Rachel sat back on her heels, waiting and listening. No one else was coming to survey the scene of disaster, it seemed. Not Michelle either. The adrenalin was slowly seeping away. As she listened to the sound of the women resuming their festivities, although more muted now, she marvelled at what she had just done and how easily she had gotten away with it. She felt empowered, as though she could move through the house and do the same to every item the Jordaans owned.

She fetched the dustpan and brush from the broom cupboard and started to sweep everything into one central pile, satisfaction moving steadily through her.

She felt stronger.

 

 

 

Michelle was putting on her heels when Chris walked into the bedroom, holding up a red tie and a black one against his shirt for her to comment on. They were going to a stage production at the Montecasino Teatro and the event called for ‘smart casual' attire.

‘Black,' Michelle said as she struggled to get her foot into the shoe. The weight she'd put on during this pregnancy had made her a whole shoe-size larger than she'd been when she'd bought these heels. If she could have had it her way, she'd have gone to the theatre in tracksuit and slippers but she knew this wasn't really an option.

Exhausted from the effort it took to jam her feet into the shoes, Michelle sat back on the bed and looked up at Chris unenthusiastically.

‘Do we have to go?' she asked, not for the first time.

‘You're the one who bought the tickets,' Chris pointed out, talking to his reflection in the mirror as he assessed his outfit. ‘Which reminds me: did you print them out yet?'

‘No, they're still on my laptop,' Michelle answered. She sat up. ‘Can you do it, Chris?'

After he left the bedroom Michelle got up and moved to the dressing table. She began to apply her make-up. She grew less attractive with each month that passed, she decided as she stared at her reflection and the bloated version of the woman she used to be stared sullenly back at her.

‘I booked it about three months ago,' Michelle called out in an attempt to help Chris find the tickets. ‘Search for Marie …'

There was no response and she continued applying her make-up, the transformative effect of red lipstick and mascara making her a little more confident about her appearance. She brushed her hair, then got up to go and see what was keeping Chris.

He was standing in the doorway, her laptop in his hand.

‘What is this shit?' he asked in a tone she'd never heard her husband use before.

Confused, Michelle approached him. She looked at the screen, trying to see what he was talking about, what had upset him so much that he was literally shaking with emotion.

It was the email response from the women's clinic.

‘Oh, that ... it's nothing…' she began. ‘Chris – '

‘The fuck it's nothing.'

‘That email was from three months ago,' Michelle said. ‘I was in a strange place and I just wanted to …'

‘Kill our fucking baby? After all we went through to fall pregnant?'

‘No, that's not what – Chris, please, it was just a query.'

‘To an
abortion
clinic, Michelle! Do you have any idea how messed up that is?'

‘I was confused …'

‘That's why you didn't want to find out the sex of the baby, wasn't it?'

‘No – but –'

‘It's my child too.'

This last statement hit its mark. The desire to remain calm and be rational was instantly replaced by Michelle's default position: the need to fight back.

‘
Your
child?! But I'm the one who has to carry
your
child!' she shouted, tears causing her freshly applied mascara to run down her cheeks. ‘
I'm
the one who had to give up my job!
I'm
the one who had to change everything and sit here all day while you spend your time flirting with that … that …
slut
, whoever she is!'

Chris stared back at her, impassive.

‘Oh, you don't think I know?' Michelle was still on the attack. ‘You don't think I saw all the little comments on Facebook?'

‘Do you blame me?' Chris replied calmly. ‘The last time you and I had sex, Michelle, was when we made that baby, the one you want to kill. Guess it's just another child to add to your list.'

Chris's words cut through like knives, piercing straight through to the hurt and guilt that had been growing like a tumour inside her ever since ... ever since ...

‘It wasn't my fault.' Michelle still felt the need to defend herself.

‘No? Whose fault was it then? Who was it who was meant to be looking after Maia that day? Me? Rachel? Richmond? No, Michelle, it was you! Maia was
your
responsibility! Yours alone.'

‘I told you I was busy!' Michelle screamed back, trying to block his words out.

‘A five-year-old girl died because you were “busy”, Michelle.'

Michelle lashed at Chris then, her hand flying through the air towards his face, but he caught her wrist in mid-air. He held it tightly and then, controlling her hand like a puppet master, used it to slap himself in the face, striking himself methodically, over and over again until he was satisfied that he had proven his point. Michelle's palm stung from the force with which he struck himself but she refused to acknowledge the pain. She glared at her husband. Her eyes were dry now but she had gone very pale. Chris held her hand against his chest for a second and then slowly forced it to travel down his stomach towards his belt line, his eyes not leaving Michelle's. He didn't blink or look away from her face and the pain in his eyes was raw. He waited for her hand to reach his crotch before he let it go, tossing it to the side contemptuously.

‘Guess what?' Chris said, snapping the laptop shut and putting it on the dressing table. ‘That's the first time you've tried to touch me in months.'

Michelle massaged her wrist and said nothing as she watched Chris walk out of their bedroom. A minute later she heard the jangle of keys and the slam of the front door.

 

 

 

Chris rolled down the windows of the Z4 as he drove onto the N3 highway, the night wind beating against his face as the car picked up speed. He didn't care where he was heading as long as it took him away from the house. Music blared through his sound system, aggressive rock music with dark tones that complemented his emotion. The anger was on him like a second layer of skin, a tangible presence that clung to his body. It made him want to scratch at it, claw at the anger until his arms bled, like Michelle had wanted to claw at his face.

He pushed his foot down on the accelerator and watched as the dial rose from 120km to 140km, the engine roaring as the car sped along the highway. He opened his mouth and screamed out loud, his frustration swallowed up by the wind that rushed through the windows and tugged at his hair. He put his hand on the horn and pressed hard, holding it there while the harsh, ugly sound blared into the night. He beat the horn with his palm, and kept beating it until the rage started to subside.

He was about 10km into his journey to nowhere when a light came on on the dashboard, indicating that he was close to running on empty. Taking the off-ramp to the closest petrol station he knew of, Chris pulled in and filled up his tank. While he waited for the attendant to clean his windscreen and his breathing steadied, he took out his phone and opened his Facebook account. It was reflex more than intention. He noted that Anja had just checked into a nightclub called Movida, the address telling him that it was only a few blocks away from where he was.

Chris paid for the petrol and prepared to drive back out onto the road. He stopped at the T-junction. Right would take him home; left would take him in the direction of the club. He looked down at the phone on his lap. There was a photo of Anja on the dance floor with her friends, a drink in her hand, smiling for the camera.

‘Fuck it,' Chris muttered to himself and took a left, using the Google Maps app to help orientate himself. He was at the club in less than fifteen minutes. He turned into the parking lot and, after tossing a piece of gum into his mouth, climbed out of the car and walked briskly towards the red carpet that led to the entrance. He paid the entrance fee and the bouncer stamped his wrist with a large ‘M' before stepping aside so that he could enter.

Chris hadn't been in a club for well over a decade but, from the look of things, nothing had changed. He scanned the dark venue for Anja, the Moulin Rouge-themed decor glittering red and gold and the music thumping around him. He was about to move to the second dance floor when he saw her standing at the bar. She was wearing a black cocktail dress and laughing as she took a shot of something. The blonde girl from her Facebook photos was standing beside her.

Breathing in, Chris approached the bar and watched as Anja's eyes grew wide when she recognised him. She beckoned for him to join them and, wrapping her arms around him, greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.

‘What on earth are
you
doing here?' she shouted over the noise, standing close to him so that she could be heard. ‘It's a school night!'

‘I could say the same thing,' Chris shouted in response.

Anja stepped back and gave him one of her big, lovely smiles, then took him by the hand so that she could introduce him to her friend.

‘Elize! This is my boss!'

Elize was even prettier in person. She extended her hand and gave Chris a slightly lopsided smile. Her eyes were heavy from alcohol.

‘Hello, boss,' she drawled.

Chris took the hand Elize held out to him and smiled back, looking over his shoulder for Anja, who burst out laughing. She put her hand on Chris's shoulder and touched her mouth to his ear.

‘I guess I'm going to have to behave myself now ... boss.'

‘Oh, don't let me spoil your evening – and I'm not your boss,' Chris said. He looked around the club casually as though he were searching for somebody. ‘I'm actually here to meet up with a friend for his birthday but I can't see him anywhere.'

‘Well, that just means you'll have to have a drink with us until he gets here.'