“That must feel a little tight,” he said. “Remember how sexy you used to look in it?”
My reaction must have registered in my face.
“Oh, let’s have a cuddle, anyway.” Raj gestured for me to sit next to him, then kissed me on the forehead, his hand wandering to my moving belly.
“I need you to be nice to me,” I told him. “I’m doing my best here.”
There was silence, then Raj pulled me onto him, his lips caressing my neck. “And I need to go out later when we’re done,” he said. “I promised the boys a game of poker. You can buy a new nightie with my winnings. Just think how that will cheer you up.”
Sanusha (aged 6): Going for it
My mom has lines on her wrists. They’re pale white, like spider webs. I’ve counted them. On the arm with the watch on, she has 7. On the right (the one she writes with) she has 5.
7 + 5 = 12
There are 12 months in the year. 12 in a dozen, which is how Mom buys eggs. But you want to hear something funny? A baker’s dozen is not 12, it’s 13! That’s because bakers in England a long time ago, maybe even when there were dinosaurs, used to give away extra bread in case they got into trouble for being mean. So if Mom had 13 lines on her wrists, she’d have a baker’s dozen. Numbers are so cool!
When I ask my mom where her lines come from, she says they are scars from getting hurt.
“How?” I say.
“What?”
“How did you get hurt?”
“It was an accident,” she tells me. “Like when you fell off your bike and broke your tooth.”
“My tooth is going to grow back,” I say, putting my finger in the hole.
“Lucky you,” she says with a smile.
“But if I break it again, no more chances,” I tell her.
“Who told you that?” she asks.
“Asmita Ayaa. She says I must act like a lady, and not go too fast.”
“Mmphhh,” Mom says. “I used to go on my bike down our driveway with Robbie. We had races. I won sometimes, but mostly only after he got sick.”
“Maybe that’s where you got your lines,” I offer.
“No,” Mom says, very clearly. “That wasn’t it at all.”
Then she starts tickling me on the grass and I giggle.
Today we are at Kirstenbosch. Mom doesn’t have any tourists, so she has lots of time for me. We already packed a picnic, with real junk food! Viennas. Chips. Jelly worms. And Melrose cheesies. Also apples and naartjies, and a big bottle of passion fruit juice. We put a big blanket on the lawn and we watch the view. It’s a sunny day, and we look for animals in the clouds. I find a lion and lizard, but the lizard has wings. Mom sees a unicorn, which is a horse with a horn like a rhino.
It’s nice, just us. And then this man comes running along, and stops. He’s very sweaty. He’s dripping like a tap when you forget to turn it off properly.
“Thea?” he says.
And Mom answers. “Hi Clay! You look thirsty.”
“I am,” he says. “Been along the contour path.”
“Keep running,” I say, very, very softly, because I want him to go away.
“Sanusha!” Mom says with her scary voice. “Would you like some juice, Clay?”
“Sure,” he says, but I didn’t like the look of his big eyes that stare at Mom.
“This is my daughter, Sanusha,” she says.
“Hello, Sanusha. You look just like your granny.”
Boring! I stuck my tongue out the corner of my mouth. Who is this guy?
“Clay manages the coffee shop where I have my coffee in the morning,” Mom tells me. “He makes pictures in my cappuccinos. It’s a new type of art!”
“So what?” I say, and Mom’s face goes hard like a piece of rock.
“Please just ignore her,” she says to the sweaty man, and holds out a cup of juice.
“A quick sip,” he says, “thanks.”
He sits down next to Mom. His hair is going grey at the edges, and he has very big muscles on his arms and legs. So I’m a bit confused. His face looks quite young but his hair is old.
He has to drink from Mom’s cup because we only brought 2, which is a pair. You get lots of things in pairs – socks, shoes, trousers (because there are 2 legs), stockings. Even a knife and fork make a pair because there are 2.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-seven,” he says. “How old are you?”
“I’m 6.”
“Wow, six,” he says. “You’re so old, you’re almost a teenager.”
“That’s rubbish,” I say. “Teenagers are 13. That’s, like, only in 7 years. There are 7 days in the week. And 7 colours in the rainbow. They are red, orange, yellow –”
“Sanusha,” Mom says, which is her way of telling me to keep quiet.
I get up and go to a tree to hang myself upside down, close enough to hear what they are saying.
“You haven’t come in for a few days,” the man says.
“Lots of groups, and I’ve been busy with the family.”
“How is Rajit?”
Mom doesn’t say anything, so I shout from the tree: “Appa’s fine! He’s got this big fancy job in the city and I went to his office and I photocopied my hand and it looked exactly the same as the real thing except it was black and white.”
“Cool,” says the man. “Maybe you could show me some time.”
“Why?” I say. “You’re not even invited to our house.”
“Sanusha!” Mom says and she gets up and pulls me down from the tree and gives me a paddywhack on the bum. It isn’t even sore, but she never gives me hidings so I start to cry and I make it go really, really loud with real tears. Then she puts me on the grass, and tells me to keep quiet right now or so help her, she will not take me to the park for 2 weeks. That is 14 days, which is a lot, so I shut my mouth and reach for a jelly worm and Mom smacks my hand and says enough of that – I can have an apple and say sorry to Clay for being such a rude little girl.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay,” he says, but I can see I’ve hurt his feelings so I am glad.
But by then Mom’s scarf has untwisted and I can see the man looking at the ugly blue mark on her neck. She quickly rolls it up again.
“Mom is very clumsy,” I tell him. “She, like, bumps herself all the time. I told her she should switch on the light.”
“So I see,” the man says.
“It really is nothing,” Mom says.
“If you say so,” Clay says.
“I do.”
That man slurps his drink and he doesn’t even say pardon and then he stands up and says he must go because he’s meeting