The Death of Vivek Oji(50)

“You look terrible,” I said, sitting up next to her.

“Your father,” she shot back, wiping at her face.

I smiled and smoothed back some of her hair. “Are you okay?”

She leaned her head against my shoulder. “I’m fine. I haven’t cried like that for him in a long time. Since I first heard.”

“I hadn’t cried like that for him at all.”

She looked up at me. “Really?”

I nodded. There wasn’t much else to say. Juju put her arm across my chest and squeezed a little, like she understood.

“What are we going to tell your mother in the morning when she sees me?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, she leaves around eight. She won’t disturb us.” She slid off the bed and went over to her CD player.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You’re putting on music? At this time?”

Juju laughed. “Mumsy is used to it. I like to fall asleep listening to something.” She slid in a Mariah Carey album, Daydream, skipped a song, then pressed play.

I tensed as the music started with a tinkle of chimes. “Not that one,” I said. It was Juju’s favorite—she used to play it all the time when Vivek was alive. It hurt to hear Mariah’s voice singing over a slow piano and soft percussion, but Juju didn’t turn it off. Instead, she danced slowly over, a relaxed two-step, the nightgown swirling gently around her. Her hair was down and swaying at her shoulders. “I said, not that one.”

Juju climbed on the bed and straddled me. The pain in my chest was near overwhelming, but she took my face in her hands and her eyes fed on the hurt seeping out of my skin. “It’s okay,” she whispered. I closed my eyes because I didn’t want to cry again. “It’s okay.” I felt her kiss me and she tasted like she was already crying. I slid my hands to her back and dug my fingers into her spine, kissing her back. I could almost feel the brush of his hair dragging over my shoulders, his strong palm on the back of my neck. Before I knew it, my tears were pooling at the corners of my mouth, she was eating them along with hers, we were filling our mouths with salt and tongues and wet grief. I pulled off my singlet and Juju raised herself enough for me to take the boxers off as well, then raised her arms to let me pull off her nightgown.

Mariah’s voice was wrapping high notes around us and it felt like heartbreak washing in a thousand pinpricks over our skin. Juju leaned sideways for her bedside drawer and I kissed the arch of her neck, the wing of her collarbone, the flesh of her shoulder. She returned to my mouth and tore open the condom, lifting herself again to roll it on. I gasped when she slid back down, her knees digging into the mattress, her hands like brands burning me. I imagined Vivek behind her, his legs mixed up with mine, his mouth against her back; imagined I could reach beyond her and meet his forearms, pull him closer until we were all pressed against each other.

But when my hands reached out, there was only air, unmoving and hot.

“He’s not here,” Juju whispered, as if she read my mind.

I returned my hands to her, settling them on her hips as she rolled them forward.

“I know,” I said. “I’m here for you.”

But he was there, somehow, even if just in our memories of him—he was there because his absence was there. We didn’t mind. He wouldn’t have. He would have smiled that annoying little smile, lain down next to us and watched, happy. How could he be gone when he’d overtaken us so completely while he was here?

Afterward, Juju lay with her head on my chest. “I didn’t tell anyone,” she said quietly.

I turned my head slightly. “You didn’t tell anyone what?”

“That you came looking for him the day he died. After he left here. I didn’t tell your aunt.”

I brought one of my hands in to stroke her shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You didn’t find him, abi? That’s what you told me.” She sounded like a little girl.

I kissed the top of her head, grateful that she couldn’t see my eyes. “No,” I said. “I didn’t find him. Go to sleep.” She snuggled in and I listened until her breathing evened out. Still, I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was doing the right thing by lying. The darkness stared back at me and said nothing, as always.





Twenty





Vivek



He was right. Of course I watched them—they were so beautiful together. I put my hands on the small of her back and on the solid stretch of his chest. I kissed the sweat of her neck and his stomach.

They were keeping me alive in the sweetest way they knew how, you see.





Twenty-one



Chika repainted Ahunna’s house for Vivek’s burial, a bone white everywhere, drops of it splattering on the soil around the walls. Ekene had since built his own house just down the road, but Chika remained attached to their mother’s house, renovating and expanding it, like a parasite customizing its host’s body. In the years since her death, he had planted hedges and trees in the compound, built a fence and topped it with rolling barbed wire. He chose white even though he knew it would have to be repainted often, as dust from the untarred road coated the walls a dull, gritty red. Chika did all this in a flurry of activity, in the weeks before he collapsed into his bed and succumbed again to the familiar stupor of grief.