The rest of you, p.17
The Rest of You, page 17
She had already gotten used to the chilly nights, to the sounds of drunk people shouting at each other late at night outside Golders Green station, and to the tinkle and gruff motor sounds from the milkman making deliveries early in the morning. She even tried to get used to the neighbour who refused to take care of his garden and, she suspected, the rest of his home. She only caught glimpses of him when she left the house with Bobo to visit the supermarket, his curtains twitching as she walked past, his face only a flash of something sinister. But then she found Bobo outside in the garden again – the third time in as many weeks – this time talking to what looked like a family of rats. Gloria buried her scream deep down in her throat so as not to scare Bobo, but she locked the back door securely every day afterward until Uncle Derek came by to ‘have a word’ with the neighbour. Eventually, the council was called. The neighbour’s home was overrun with things living and dead; the filth had piled up and was now reaching over into Gloria’s new home. He was evicted soon after, and Gloria stayed away from her own curtains that day, the guilt of it weighing on her as she pressed a finger into her Bible, trying to summon forgiveness and reason from its pages. She was only stirred some weeks later by the sound of a van pulling up outside. Gloria watched as a colourfully dressed woman of about her age climbed out of the passenger seat carrying two lamps, quickly followed by a tall man carrying two boxes balanced on top of each other. The woman fumbled with a key before opening the front door of the neighbouring house. Gloria stayed by the window watching them in the morning light, unloading box after box into the house – the woman picking up all the loose items, her husband (Gloria assumed) doing most of the heavy lifting. At some point, the woman turned and waved at Gloria through the window, and Gloria found herself waving back, smiling at the only other Black woman she had seen on their street since moving in.
These were the things that kept her busy, watching the street and watching Bobo as she waited for university transcripts to come through so that she could properly begin to look for work. Eventually, Paa Kweku began coming by. He was staying with a cousin in Lewisham and never complained about the number of buses he had to take to reach Gloria on the other side of London, though she knew it was plenty. It was him who coaxed her out of the comfort of the small home she was creating. They rode the bus together, the three of them – to the bigger shops in Brent Cross, the stalls in Finsbury Park, and then to visit distant aunties and uncles, cousins and second cousins of Gloria and Paa Kweku’s parents in Tottenham and Peckham and Deptford. Initially eager to fulfill her duties of visitation as the eldest daughter, Gloria found herself hesitant as she faced more questions about her journey to London with Bobo in tow. She became afraid of that family connection, of something else following her from Kumasi to London. Now she was standoffish with them, reluctant to visit with Paa Kweku, not answering the phone when they called. What if they had heard about the circumstances around Bobby’s death? What had they been told about Tina’s passing, about Mommy, about the things Auntie Vida had stirred up with her big talk? Gloria made this journey to get away from all that, to keep Bobo away from it. She would avoid any spark of connection with her hometown, then, if she had to; Bobo was more important than all of that. She didn’t care that her new attitude bothered Paa Kweku.
‘Glory, I’m trying to build a church community here. I thought you came to help me.’
They were heading back home after a visit to an elder in Edmonton, and Gloria was already planning how to get out of all future visits, so she dismissed his words.
‘I came to make a life for us.’ She pointed at Bobo, who was standing quietly by the bus stop, staring into space in a way that had begun to make Gloria a little worried. ‘You also being here – it’s a help. But you are the pastor, not me.’
She shrugged, not meaning it with any malice, but Paa Kweku looked annoyed.
‘London is a lonely place, trust me. My first few months here? Hey! I was my only friend. It wasn’t until someone told Auntie K I was here that I found other Ghanaians. But I did not come to run a church of one.’
Gloria rolled her eyes at his dramatics.
‘And so am I this one you’re referring to? Why are you so obtuse, PK?’
‘You think I don’t understand why you are being this way with them? Where this new rudeness for your elders has come from? I’m not a fool. I am just saying–’
‘You don’t want me to be alone, I get it. But I am not alone, am I, Bobo?’
Gloria crouched down so that her face was eye level with Bobo’s, regaining her attention so that the child looked at her and smiled as Gloria pulled faces to make her laugh. Gloria heard Paa Kweku sigh above her, but he said nothing more. When they returned home, Paa Kweku still came in to eat, chopping vegetables and cooking rice while Gloria headed upstairs to put Bobo to bed.
She tried hard not to think about the other thing then – that perhaps they could be a family, that it already felt like they were. She remembered with painful clarity the last time she had trusted that feeling, what she had missed when her eyes were only on Paa Kweku, even if just for a night. She needed now to stay focused, to build a life that was good. She needed to stop thinking about the past and face her front, once and for all.
Chapter 21
London, Present
Whitney
There had been a momentary feeling of relief. After you and Chantelle had cried together on the sofa and you had discovered the truth about who Paris really was, you were sure something had shifted for you both, and you could move forward. But then Ma Gloria visited. And in the days that followed, Chantelle told you that she was thinking about going away for a while, maybe visiting family in Jamaica. She hadn’t thought it all the way through.
‘I just need to be somewhere else, to do something else. Find me again, I think.’
Her words were pleading, and all you could do was nod. You considered telling her about Ma Gloria in that moment, about her health and all the things you didn’t know yet and all the things you were worried about. You hadn’t even begun to process what she had told you about how your father died. But you told Chantelle nothing, decided it was best to wait, that she was already carrying a lot. Instead, you slipped out to meet up with Jak, and on a canal walk from Camden Town to Paddington, everything about Ma Gloria fell from your mouth. Jak listened, and then their own concerns spilled out, about their mother and some tests she was going for. It was the first time Jak had really expressed a desire to be back in Australia, even if it wasn’t for a nice thing. You were both quiet afterward, but the silence was affirming somehow. You were grateful for the camaraderie in the concerns you and Jak shared, and it temporarily soothed your maddening thoughts. When you returned home, the sun had been down for a few hours, and there was no sign of Chantelle. But the following day you woke up to a text message.
Helping with some salon paperwork until late tonight but will pick up milk on the way home. I think I need more than a holiday; I think I need to move out. Sorry Whit. Chan x
You could think of nothing to say in reply, so you sent an X. Two weeks later, she was on a cheap flight to Kingston, Jamaica, to visit her grandmother for a while. It was the best thing for her, you knew that. But you struggled with the way you missed Chantelle as soon as she was gone.
You tried to face your front and pay attention to Ma Gloria. She was finally letting you ask about her treatments, about what was creeping through her veins and trying to destroy her from the inside. She said you were being dramatic when you described your fears to her.
‘We’ve been through bigger challenges. This is a thing so many people have survived. Why should I be any different?’
But she was different, and that was the point. She chose not to see it that way and acted sometimes as if she were invincible. You had to bully her into letting you come to the hospital appointments, to sit in on the consultations. You insisted that you wanted to know everything that was happening, and after a day of blood tests and scans, you finally had a full picture, and now you felt numb. You wanted to be strong for her, but she cradled you in her arms as if it were happening to
you.
‘Psalm 46, verses 1 and 2: God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in times of trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth is transformed and the mountains are toppled into the depths of the seas.’
Perhaps she had meant it to be reassuring, but it sounded to you as though she had all but given up. She was the mountain toppling, and who were you to control the sea? You stayed with her in the house that night, though she protested. You lay down in your childhood bedroom and cried. You felt small and stupid. You blamed yourself, that you hadn’t picked up on it before, hadn’t found some way to cure her. You would search for help wherever you could get it, even in prayer.
‘I just wanted to check in. See how you are doing?’
Pastor P spoke to you in a familiar way, as if you were his own child. A closeness had returned that you hadn’t felt with him in a while. You had entered his office reluctantly, showing up to Holy Grace Church once service was over to pick up Ma Gloria and take her to the next hospital appointment. You were happy to be her aid, to pay for a taxi and accompany her if it meant she would actually make it there, give herself the best chance of getting better. Some members of the congregation were still chatting in the main hall when you arrived, and Pastor P waved you over while Ma Gloria disappeared to use the bathroom. Now he looked at you from across the desk, his office freshly cleaned and filled with the smell of pine and lavender, mixing with his aftershave. You noted that his eyes were a little bloodshot, even though he wore a freshly pressed suit and shining shoes – his Sunday best. It was the first time you wondered how he might be feeling about everything, about Ma Gloria.
‘I’m fine, thank you, Pastor.’
You wanted the exchange to be brief, noncommittal. You were afraid he was expecting to see you at the next service; you hadn’t attended in years, and Ma had even stopped mentioning it to you, except to tell you she was always praying for you.
‘And you don’t need anything? Either of you?’
‘Not at the moment, but I will let you know if we do. Sorry, we should get going, I don’t want Ma to miss her appointment. It took ages to get–’
‘Yes, yes, of course. We have prayed very well today, so maybe you can also pray again for her at home. Yes?’
He looked so expectantly at you that you just nodded, noting the salt and pepper on his temple, the dot of it on his cheeks, exposed by his close shave. His eyes crinkled into a smile, and you felt bad, wondering if you would keep your loose promise. As you stood to make your exit, your eyes fell on a colourful bird-shaped pin on Pastor P’s lapel. The bird was looking back at its own tail with an egg in its mouth. He followed your gaze and a genuine smile appeared on his face for the first time since you’d arrived.
‘A gift from Glory – Ma Gloria – when we had the twentieth anniversary for Holy Grace here in London. You must know this proverb of Sankofa? It’s one of her favourites.’ You half nodded and then shook your head. You recognised the image of the bird; it looked just like the wooden clock that Ma Gloria had gifted you years ago, the one Chantelle would always take from your bedside table and bring into the living room after a night out because the colours ‘soothed her’, apparently. But you hadn’t realised there might be meaning behind it. ‘Ah! I was sure Glory would have told you. Se wo were fi na wosan kofa a yenkyi: it is not taboo to go back and fetch what you have forgotten.’
He was beaming as he said it, as the fond memory washed over him, but you stared back blankly, not quite getting it.
‘I don’t think I understand.’
He looked at you and chuckled as if you were a child not quite getting the lesson. At least, that’s how you felt under his gaze.
‘We need to know our past in order to look to the future.’
The irony wasn’t lost on you, that Ma Gloria held dear something related to acknowledging her history. When you met her outside, you said nothing. There was not much you had to say, anyway.
You became used to your childhood bedroom again. You stayed there with increasing frequency after learning of Ma Gloria’s diagnosis. Visits to the hospital were illuminating, but one day in particular left you feeling blinded by it. You tried to sleep when Ma Gloria did, but she was turning in much earlier than you these days, and you spent several hours staring at the whipped cream swirl patterns in the ceiling, unchanged since you and Ma Gloria had first moved into the house. Eventually, you wrapped yourself in one of the robes you had left behind when you had moved out six years ago; it was still hanging on the back of your bedroom door as if you had never left. You headed downstairs to the kitchen, taking with you some books you’d bought recently, hoping to do something better with your busy mind than just stare at your phone. Closing the kitchen door behind you and switching on the kettle, you sent a message, and Jak arrived exactly thirty minutes later. They buzzed your phone to let them in, neither of you wanting to disturb Ma Gloria’s slumber by flapping the letter box. Jak immediately made a beeline for the kitchen as if they had been there before, putting down the two plastic bags they were carrying, containing what looked like multiple cupcakes. Jak did a lap of the kitchen, pulling out the drawers, eyeing the gas top and the small oven, somehow locating a mixing bowl and a whisk, into which they poured the contents of a smaller bag they had brought with them. You sat at the table sipping your tea, not wanting to interrupt whatever was now brewing in the kitchen. Ma Gloria was a keen baker, always taking a pie, pastry or cake to a church function. She saved the best ones for you, though.
You listened to the steady rhythm Jak was making with the hand whisk, unsure of what was being created and not really caring. You wanted to offer them tea but thought better of it; they seemed to be in some kind of trance. And the silence was nice, being with someone without having to really be present.
‘You’re not gonna try the cakes?’ Jak finished the mixing, and now they were looking at you, leaning against the kitchen counter and smiling softly. Before you could answer they put the plastic bags on the table in front of you carefully, rolling the edges down until the covered trays of cupcakes were fully revealed. ‘This one is lemon, berry and white chocolate. This one is red velvet chocolate chip, with a citrus icing that I haven’t put on it yet.’
Jak removed one of each cupcake and placed them in front of you, as if you were a competition judge.
‘So, this is a bad time to tell you I don’t like cake, right?’
Your attempt at a joke was ignored. Jak chose instead to grab a paper towel from the roll in the middle of the table. They placed it in your left hand and put one of the cupcakes in your right.
‘You’ll like my cakes.’
You took a bite and found they were correct. The cupcake was gone before you could even utter a ‘thank you’. You suddenly realised you hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
‘Wow. How did I not know you baked?’
‘You never asked.’
‘And who are all these cakes for?’
‘Oh, a bridal shower. Just a little catering gig I’ve got going. Extra cash and all that.’
‘No wonder you don’t sleep.’ Jak grinned and pushed the second cupcake toward you eagerly, and then brought the mixture of icing over to the table, a piping bag appearing as if from nowhere, ready to be filled. ‘Can I?’
You hoped you were asking in your sweetest voice, and Jak looked you up and down doubtfully before handing the bag over to you.
‘Here. Use the spoon to fill it, and then you can do a practice one on your cake, if you don’t eat it first.’
Jak stuck their tongue out at you, and you fake-guffawed back. You tried to delicately fill the bag with the icing, but soon splotches of it were all over the table, and Jak just watched you struggle, laughing as you did it. You flicked a stray bit of icing at them, which hit their cheek with a comical pfft sound. You both burst into laughter and then immediately fell into whispered chuckles, aware that it was getting late in the evening. Afterward, you both returned to a calm quiet.
‘How she going?’
Jak threw out the question you’d been hoping you could avoid all night. They took the almost full piping bag from you, wiped the excess icing away neatly with another paper towel and expertly twisted the opening closed. You stood up and walked over to the sink to wash your hands, running a finger under the cold stream, waiting for it to heat up.
‘She’s not great. I think… I think she’s known for a while. Not sure what to do with that, to be honest.’
By the time you took your clean hands back to the table, Jak had already iced half of their cupcakes with rosettes that now looked too pretty to eat. They passed the bag back to you.
