What We Lose(32)

As soon as I get home, I call Aminah and tell her what the therapist said.

“Can you believe how glib she was?” I ask. “Aren’t I paying her for something a bit deeper than that?”

“Well . . .” Aminah trails off.

“Excuse me?”

“Thandi, you know how much I like Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“But you guys did get married very fast.”

“My parents got married after two months.”

“But do you really think you would’ve done it if you hadn’t gotten pregnant?”

I’ve had that exact thought so many times, in the depths of arguments with my husband, in my loneliest moments. I’ve never actually failed anything in my life; even when I was irresponsible, I still managed to earn decent grades by most standards. But throughout our time together, I’ve had the uncomfortable feeling that with Peter, I’d somehow done everything wrong.

“You know I love you. Maybe it’s worth thinking about.”

I pause, look again out the window, where the branches are bare and wet and the sun is now shining with full strength. If not for the frost on the window, it would look like spring.

“Well, not all of us are lucky enough to fall in love with our high school sweetheart, who also happens to be rich.”

“I thought we were talking about you, not me.”

“I meant what I said, Aminah. Your life has been pretty fucking charmed, all right? You can’t exactly identify with what I’ve been going through . . .”

“Look,” Aminah says, breezing past me with her usual resolve, “I know this is really hard, and I wish I could be closer to you right now. Why don’t you bring M down for a weekend so that we can watch him, okay? And take it easy, try to get some rest. Thandi?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Everything will be all right, I promise.”





I dream that I am in my middle school cafeteria. There is an assembly at which I am supposed to speak. My mother is standing over in the corner, wearing her pajamas, turban, and slippers. She is as thin as she was just before she died. She tries to pull me to the corner to give me advice, but she can’t speak. She becomes more frustrated and starts weeping. I try to hug her but I can’t get my arms around her. The more I try, the more translucent she becomes. I realize that she is a ghost, a hologram, and eventually she disappears, and I am left with nothing but the feeling of emptiness that I knew so long ago.





Sometimes, my dreams of my mother are pleasant. They are peaceful dreams. In them, I barely register her presence, but her presence is what colors them with warmth and comfort. It is enough to make me still feel warm and nurtured after I wake up.



My father marries Elma, who, I realize with time, is a kind and practical woman. My father sells the house in South Africa. The VW he gives to my mother’s brother whose car was totaled in an accident. He says he can’t afford to keep it up anymore, but I know it’s because his new wife has given him new interests. He retires from his job and they travel to South America together. They send M and me postcards from Brazil, Panama, and Chile. Once in a while, a box wrapped in brown paper and colorful stamps arrives containing a rag doll or sugar candy. My father does his adventuring through women, I realize.

Before their marriage, Elma moved into the apartment in Philadelphia, but curiously all my mother’s furniture and knickknacks stayed. In personality and taste, she is a woman far simpler than my mother. I’m sure this was a deliberate choice on my father’s part. Most people can handle only one truly difficult woman once in their life. I realize the same is probably true for anyone I date.

At first, the idea of the wedding irks me; I have all kinds of one-sided debates with M where I pose him frustrated existential questions and he answers me with gibberish.

One day, Aminah comes over to visit.

“Isn’t this what you want too? Someone to take care of your dad?”

She is right, dousing the flames in my mind. I relax after that.

I notice that she has a wobble to her walk. The small of her belly is kissed with roundness. She smiles when I ask her. “It’s true,” she tells me. We hug and inform M he will have a cousin soon, and he giggles blissfully. He has no idea what we’re talking about.

After this, I take my father’s marriage mostly in stride. I am grateful that one of us has a happy ending.



I receive an e-mail from Lyndall: We heard about the breakup here, we are all very sorry, eh? It’s a good thing Papa isn’t alive because he hated divorce so much. I swear, not trying to make you feel worse. Even though we never met in person, Peter sounded great. A real nice guy, but, hate to say it cuz, you could do better. And you will. Come over to SA and I’ll find you a real nice chap with the right kind of equipment :) :-o ;) No joking I ain’t married but I know it’s the key to a happy one. If it wasn’t working it means it wasn’t working know what I’m sayin!! ;) ;) ;)))) I wasn’t going to tell you this but Uncle Bertie and his wife were talking about you at Stasia’s christening. They said Peter probably cheated on you because your ass got so fat after the baby blah blah blah, that’s why the marriage is over. Can you believe that? I told them, the last time Bertie saw his own dick it was still apartheid. He almost knocked me but it was worth it. I’m so sorry to tell you cuz but you had to know. Can you imagine? He said Peter was only with you for your money, that’s the only reason a white boy would be with a black girl. Shoo, I got so angry, but don’t worry cause I stood up for you.