Maame(54)

She takes her shoes off once she’s in. “You’re alone? You didn’t go with?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t want to. I don’t want to talk to people.”

“Same,” Shu says, heading into the kitchen. “Every day.”

From the bag, she takes out a giant container of soup, a one-kilogram jar of Nutella, two bags of popcorn, a bunch of colorful flowers, three “share” chocolate bars, and two bottles of fruit cider. “I also found … this.” Finally, she pulls out two bottles of Supermalt.

I smile, say, “Thank you, Shu,” and search for a bottle opener, putting the other things in my section of the cupboard.

“How are you doing, Mads?”

“Well, I feel like shit,” I say. “I look like shittier shit and I smell like the shittiest of shits. How are you?”

She smiles. “So you’re what that smell is?” Her shoulders suddenly drop. “I’m really fucking sorry, Maddie.”



* * *



Mum LONDON

Maame I have not heard from you today. What are you doing?



Maddie

Sat in my garden with Shu



Mum LONDON

Who is that?



Maddie

Friend from uni. Meixiang-Shu.



Mum LONDON

Is she Asian?



Maddie

Yes



Mum LONDON

I’ve not heard of her before have I? It’s not good for you to have friends who are faceless to your mother. I need to know who they are and what their intentions are so I can pray and ask God if they’re the right friends for you.

Where does she live?

I need her number. Thanks.



Maddie

No, you don’t



“Who’s that?” Shu asks, pointing at my phone.

“My mum.”

“She okay?”

“She’s fine.” I throw my phone onto the garden table, careful not to knock over our Supermalt. “She always is.”

Shu begins throwing some very questionable gang signs. “I almost forgot, I also brought what you asked for.” She takes two joints out of her pocket and passes me one. “Was kinda surprised, I’m not gonna lie. Didn’t know this was your thing.”

“It’s not really,” I admit, “but I tried it once and I just remember feeling…” I think of the brownies from that night. “It was nice.”

Shu lights our joints and I inhale. I cough twice, but it settles quicker than the brownies did—delivering a loosening, an ease I’ve been in desperate need of.

I lean back into my chair, inhale again and show the sun my face. “Did you know compassionate leave is only one to two days long?” I tell her. “Companies aren’t obligated to give you any more time than that.”

Shu pulls the sunglasses from her hair. They’re Ray-Bans. I remember she’s on a fifty-thousand annual salary. Sometimes I forget because Shu doesn’t like to spend a lot of money now that she’s saving for a mortgage.

Fifty thousand a year.

Shu is five months younger than me but earns more than twice as much. But she has a business degree. So? I have one in English literature. Reading and analyzing Middlemarch and Ulysses was no walk in the park. Shu works hard. I hardly recline on a beach sipping mai tais. What’s even in a mai tai?

“Only two days?” Shu repeats. “I think the fuck not.”

“Right? Can you imagine a mother losing a child and then going back to work on Tuesday to listen to Steve ramble on about commuter traffic?”

“Fucking Steve. How much time did OTP give you?”

“Two weeks,” I answer. “Then I can slowly reintroduce myself part-time and then full-time again when things start to feel normal.”

“It doesn’t ever feel normal, Mads. It’s just less shit on some days.”

I lower my unbranded sunglasses to look at her.

“Don’t,” she warns.

“You never talk about your grandmother,” I say quietly. “But I know you loved her more than anyone.”

“It’s not my style,” she says. “I get that some people like to talk; my sister still won’t shut up about her and it was three years ago, but that’s not me.”

I let it go. “I’m going to change that law,” I announce. “The compassionate leave thing. Is it a law? Whatever it is. I’m going to change it.”

“How?”

“Become prime minister? Although I am a Black woman with immigrant parents from a working-class background who went to state school, so it’s unlikely I’ll ever get voted in. But maybe I could marry a rich man who went to Eton, then poison him and garner the sympathy of voters before taking over?”

“Wasn’t that the series finale to Politician, Corrupted?”

“Oh yeah, it was.” I shrug. “The wife’s lawyer managed to get her off the murder charges though, so it’s still worth considering as a plan B.”

“Mads, the wife was sentenced to life and then suffered a heart attack in her prison cell.”

“Plan C then.” I rest my head on the back of my chair, inhale again. “You’re Christian, Shu. Do you always believe in God?”