What It Means When a Man Falls from the Sky(9)

If possible, the table got quieter.

The woman stared at me for a long minute.

“And what is her son’s name?” She nodded at Chinyere.

I was quick to answer, caution dulled by the wine and eager to clap back to the insult I expected to hear.

“Jonathan.”

The woman gave us a wide, knowing smile, suspicions confirmed. Her hands still trembled—victory now, or excitement—as she rose and returned to her flock. The other women leaned into her, then stole glances at us, some dabbing their smiles with napkins, others openly snickering.

Chinyere’s hand dug so deep into my thigh I was sure she drew blood. Nobody at the table would look at us. I hadn’t cried since the time Leila stopped speaking to me for a month after I said I found her annual memorial for her mom a little much. The time before that, I was seven, on the plane that took us away from Nigeria. Half my tears had been imitations of my mother’s, and the rest were for friends left behind, soon forgotten. I felt like crying now. Chinyere scraped her chair back, grabbed her purse, and left. I sat, lost. I glanced at the woman who had ruined more than just the evening and she seemed to have moved on, laughing and coyly patting the belly of the man who stood over her, no doubt jesting about the food. Someone touched my hand. The woman in red. She spoke in a low, concerned tone.

“You should probably go after her.”

I grabbed the gift bags Chinyere had forgotten.

“Here, take mine too,” she said, as though a third clock could turn back the minutes and undo catastrophe.

I thanked her and left, feeling eyes on me but not daring to look around.

In the elevator, my limbs began to shake. I crossed my arms and the trembling moved to my lips. I’d always thought myself so savvy and grown, smoking in Leila’s basement, kissing boys in hidden corners, maneuvering my mother with my smart mouth. I’d never felt as much of a child as I did just now.

The elevator opened. A small crowd had gathered in the lobby. Chinyere wasn’t among them. As I walked outside, a few photographers mobbed me, waving blurry photos of Chinyere and me that we hadn’t posed for. I went over to where we had parked and made two turns around the small lot before realizing that no, I hadn’t gotten the spot wrong; the car was gone. Chinyere had left me.

Panic billowed in my belly as I walked back to the event center. Inside, I stopped a young woman in usher red and asked if she had a phone I could borrow. At her cagey expression, I explained my predicament (stranded) without going into the why of it (I’m a walking disaster), and between my American accent and my panic, she must have believed me. She looked to the right and left, then pulled a small phone from her bodice. It wasn’t until I had it in my hand that I realized I didn’t have any Nigerian numbers memorized. Shit. I dialed my number, hoping Chinyere would answer, but it rang and rang until I was listening to my voice mail asking me to leave a message. I took a deep breath and texted.

Chinyere, it’s Ada, please call this number right away, please, I’m so sorry.

I hit send, then remembered what Chinyere would see if she checked more of the messages—My cousin is a bitch and worse—and began to cry.

The usher had returned to her duties but stayed close enough that she could keep an eye on me. I turned away, embarrassed at my sniffling, and leaned on a decorative pillar, my back to the lobby. Then I dialed Leila, who always knew what to do.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me, I’m such an idiot; I really fucked up.”

“What did you do now?”

I was only a quarter of the way through the condensed version when the phone beeped, then cut off, all the credit used up. The usher, who had been waiting to catch my eye, approached me, smiling softly.

“Did you reach your cousin?”

“Yes,” I said, resisting the urge to drag her into the orbit of drama that revolved around me. I handed her the phone, relieved when she slipped it into the front of her dress without seeing the out-of-credit text that had no doubt come through.

I must have looked as awkward as I felt, unmoored, the pillar my only companion, because I kept drawing stares. After a third man nodded and lifted his glass to me, I realized they thought I was a high-class runs girl scoping out her market. I began to see most of the gawking for what it was. This is a children’s fund-raiser, their looks said, couldn’t this ashewo find somewhere else to lift her skirt?

I went back outside and stood at the lip of the entrance, just off to the right. Chinyere would come back for me, she wouldn’t risk being buried under the avalanche of shit that would shake loose for stranding her visiting cousin in the middle of the night with no way to get home.

The air was muggy and soon a fine dampness settled on my skin. I was partially hidden by a large potted palm, but the electric blue of my dress drew every exiting eye in my direction. Most gave me quick glances before turning to more pressing matters, like studiously ignoring the pushy photographers. But some lingered, and a kindly woman even asked if everything was all right, to which I responded yes, my cousin is coming to get me.

Idleness did what it always did, and I found myself unable to ignore the disquieting information the night had brought me. I’d always believed that any secrets between my mother and me were mostly mine, indiscretions I might confess long after they lost the power to draw her ire. She had always avoided talk of what happened after my father’s death and faked cheeriness during what must have been a tumultuous legal battle. What else didn’t I know?