Maame(92)

“You were barely there,” I say. “How can you be sure?”

“It’s like you said—he always smiled at you. When it was just me and him, he was cool, but he’d always ask, ‘Is Maddie home?’ and then not say a lot after. You made him feel safe, maybe—I don’t know. More than I did, anyway.”

Hearing James say it like this makes me feel proud, comforted. All the years I spent at home weren’t for nothing. I made Dad happy in a world that likely didn’t make much sense to him.

“I hope I can do better for you now, when you need help,” James says.

“Help with what?”

“Anything,” he says, undeterred. “See what comes up.” There’s one more pause before, “Mum told me about you going to therapy and I think it’s great, Mads. Please keep going. Especially since it’s free.” One more shoulder squeeze, then he looks at his shoes. “I … I love you, yeah?”

My lip wobbles and I have to swallow to keep my voice steady. “I love you, too.”



* * *



When the grave is filled, we put our flowers on top. James lifts the heavy ones and won’t leave until they’re all positioned well on the uneven ground.

I’m the last in the line to leave and I turn round for one more look at the mound of flower-adorned earth. “Bye, Dad,” I say. “I love you, okay?”



* * *



Auntie Mabel calls hours later in the evening when I’m lying on Mum’s bed alone.

“What you have to remember, Baaba, is who looked after him when Mum was in Ghana and James was never in the house?”

I answer, “Me.”

“That’s right,” she says, “and he was grateful. No parent wants to rely on their children, but your father was so grateful to have you. Whenever I mentioned your name, I did not even finish my sentence before he would smile. You were so true about that. It is a sad day, but never forget what I said, do you hear?”

“Thank you.”



* * *



In the living room, I trail a black bin bag alongside me, emptying plates straight into it. I can’t wait to get into bed and fall asleep. The funeral was the hardest part and now that it’s over, things will get better from here, I’m sure.

I walk into the kitchen and Mum’s washing dishes, her wrists deep in soapy water. She turns to look at me. “Hello, darling. How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I answer. “What about you?”

She nods. “Also fine.”

I’m clearing the countertop when she says, “I overheard you and James at the cemetery. And I want to say it again—I’m sorry that I was not here more.” Her eyes seem to search the gray water. I don’t think there’s anything left in the sink to wash, but she keeps her hands submerged. “Maybe things would have been different, if I were here. But I would come back and see how well you were doing without me and it was easier to stay where I had a purpose, in Ghana. I have my own life there now, and you have yours here.”

Tears race down her cheeks. “I have made many failures in raising you children,” she says, still not meeting my eyes. “I am better than most mothers, but I should have done better by you, at least. You, Maddie, are special. God is in you. And everything you do, you do without being hounded to do so. You have a selfless heart and sometimes James and I, well, we are not so different, that’s all.”

As she sniffs in desperate attempts to control herself, my mother looks incredibly vulnerable, even more so than she did at my flat, or at the coffee shop. She’s always been stubborn and self-assured but, right now, she looks tired and just plain human. I look around the kitchen and realize that after signing the forms at the funeral directors, I’ve done nothing else to prepare for today. The order of service, the invitations, the food, the house prep, even my mourning dress … none of it was me and I doubt it was James.

I feel an overwhelming surge of love for my imperfect mother. I place a shaking hand on her back and submerge the other into the sink. Mine rests on top of hers and we stare into the blurry water together.

“It’s done now,” I whisper. “You’re right. Your life is in Ghana and mine is here. But just because it’s done, doesn’t mean it’s over.”

“I am here, though,” Mum says. “For you. I don’t show it well and that is my failing, but I am your mother always, and I will always do my best, okay?”

I kiss her cheek. “Okay.”

“Before, when you were asking about your grandad—I see now that I expected you to take on all that responsibility alone, without complaint, because that is what I had to do, but the lives of my children were meant to be easier than mine. I forget that. Your boss, Krissyline—”

“Kris.”

“It is the same. On the phone, she told me about the counseling—that you go regularly.”

I did wonder when this would come up. “Yes, I do.”

“But you didn’t tell me and I know why.” She sighs. “At first, I didn’t like the idea of strangers—Godless strangers most likely—directing you. I hoped you’d find your answers in God, but maybe this will help you seek Him, for answers to the bigger questions. Therapy can help the smaller things. I don’t want you to struggle with … mental problems, so if this opportunity means you won’t, then you should take it.”