The rest of you, p.21
The Rest of You, page 21
‘Do they go out?’
You drew your head back a little when you noticed how close the two sparkler candles were to your face. Chantelle laughed as she replied, ‘Make a wish and I’ll magic them away.’
You obeyed and closed your eyes again, wishing what you’d been reciting for months now. It never came true, but that wasn’t the point. You could still wish it. You reopened your eyes as Chantelle licked her thumb and index fingers and then put both candles out before the spark made contact with the cake. You felt Jak beside you, gesturing to the waiter who’d brought the cake over to take a picture on the phone he’d been
given.
‘Wait, wait, you gotta get my good side.’
You laughed as Jak twisted themselves to be at an angle, and Chantelle moved in closer to you on the other side. The two of them flanked you protectively.
You watched the cake being whisked away back to the kitchen just after you cut into it – red velvet with chocolate chips. Jak had made it special for you.
‘I don’t understand. Are we not eating that?’
You pointed, looking longingly at the door labeled STAFF that the waiter had just disappeared behind, cake in hand.
‘Full disclosure, Laces? I thought you might bail before we got to the mains, so I got them to do the cake early, just in case. We’ll have it for dessert, though. No worries!’
Jak wasn’t looking at you as they spoke, perhaps afraid you’d be offended by what sounded like an accurate description of your recent actions. Even when stepping into the restaurant, you had calculated how far you’d get in thirty seconds if you just bolted in the other direction. These days, you were a flight risk. Before you could attempt to reassure Jak, the waiter returned with your mains in hand. You all waited in polite silence for the plates to be placed in front of you.
‘So… why do you keep calling her “Laces”, by the way?’
Chantelle made air quotes with one hand, and then pointed at Jak with her fork in a mock-accusatory manner.
‘Just a little in-joke.’ Chantelle waited for more. ‘Every time Whit came by the cinema, she’d get through, like, four or five packs of strawberry laces before we were halfway through the film.’
You poked a playful tongue out at Jak in response, but seeing Chantelle’s blank face, you suddenly felt embarrassed at the flat landing of Jak’s words. You tried to dismiss it, to diminish its importance.
‘Five is an exaggeration.’
‘Hmm, but you did wax the ones in those bowls at the Tuck Shop last year, to be fair.’
Chantelle’s comment caught you off guard, a reminder of what she had seen, of what you’d never really talked about.
‘Yeah, well, that’ll teach me to take pills from strangers.’
‘Oh yeah, that redhead, forgot about her! Rah, that was so unlike you, Whit.’
Chantelle’s volume decreased as she said your name, and for a moment the three of you were struck by silence again.
‘Haven’t touched the stuff since. Don’t worry. Scout’s honour – well, Brownies.’
You pressed two fingers against your chest as if signifying an invisible badge, and you heard Jak scoff beside you.
‘No way did you go to Brownies!’
Jak gawked as you took a big bite out of your burger, trying to chomp and look affronted at the same time. You started to retort, but your mouth was too full, so Chantelle interjected for you.
‘Nah, she did. I’ve seen the pictures. What were your skills again? Sewing and starting a fire? Useful stuff.’
‘The sequinned pyro – that’s what we should call you, Whit! Kind of a shit superhero, though.’
‘You know she’s still got the badges, yeah?’
‘I think you’ve achieved a bit more in your life. You could let those go, surely?’
You watched Chantelle and Jak going back and forth as they took the piss out of you, each getting louder with their quips. You had to defend yourself.
‘Bits memorabilia!’
Your mouth full of food only caused them both to burst into more laughter. Chantelle threw a napkin your way with a chuckle as some bits of brioche bun flew from your mouth onto the table. You’d missed this, the three of you together, time stopping in good humour, as it always had. You finished swallowing quickly before the conversation could be derailed again.
‘How’s it been so long since we’ve done this? For real?’
You looked at them both, hoping the shakiness in your last two words was enough to push the truth out. Even you might tell the truth tonight. Maybe. Chantelle just looked down at her pasta, poking the edges in an absent-minded way. You turned to Jak for more, and watched their face go through the motions of a decision. The table was quiet for a few more seconds.
‘I never wanted to make problems for you. But someone needed to tell him about himself.’
Jak was speaking to Chantelle, and neither of them were looking at you. A moment passed between them before Chantelle calmly placed her fork down on the plate. You half expected her to stand and walk out of the restaurant, but she didn’t.
‘I know. I get it. It just made things… harder. But that wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry if it seemed like–’
‘No, I get it. I understood it then, as well. Just sucked a bit. But anyway, he’s gone now, right? For good?’
Jak’s eyes were opened wide, earnest and eager for the answer they wanted. Chantelle nodded, but she seemed sad about it. You stayed quiet, aware you could have asked for clarification, to insert yourself in the middle of a thing that didn’t completely involve you. But you were learning slowly about not torturing yourself with questions that didn’t require an immediate answer. Instead, you watched Chantelle’s face change, saw the pain seem to deepen slightly as she pushed out her next words.
‘It’s mad, I know it is, but sometimes I still wonder if some of it – how he was – is my fault. I know that’s fucked, I know, but… I wonder about it.’
Both you and Jak were suddenly protesting loudly, your words clashing into one big sound of disagreement. Chantelle’s eyes were welling up, but nothing was dropping yet. You handed her a napkin, wanting to wipe the memory away in the process.
‘Look. It’s hard to get out from under someone like that. But you didn’t make him that way. You just got the brunt of it.’
You saw Chantelle’s back straighten in response to Jak’s words, like she wanted to disagree but didn’t really know how.
‘You’re not with him anymore, Chan. That’s the best thing you coulda done.’
You knew it was OK to speak then, to say what you would have liked to hear, or what you thought she needed to hear. Jak placed their hand on Chantelle’s arm lightly, using a fresh paper napkin to wipe her cheek where a tear had only just escaped. She sniffed, her shoulders relaxing a little as a small chuckle made its way from the back of her throat, just loud enough for the two of you to hear.
‘He was such a dickhead, wasn’t he?’
She said it with a tentative smile, watching for responses from you and Jak.
‘He was the absolute worst. From that first date, I wanted you to bin ’im.’
You weren’t holding back anymore, and Jak shook their head and clicked their teeth in chorus.
‘Remember that bank holiday weekend you all ended up staying at mine, and he was so aggy because no one wanted to share a bottle of wine with him? That for me was like – this dude ain’t it.’
‘He hated everyone, I’m telling you!’
Chantelle chimed in, a look of surprise and slight amusement on her face, as if she were talking about someone she’d always disliked.
‘Oh my God, and how he made you cut his steak? Naaah!’
You threw back your head in laughter, and the three of you began to cackle. Soon enough you couldn’t stop, your collective cracking up now turning a few heads around you. You felt a cramp in your side, but the laughter continued to stream out of you, joining with theirs in a medley of dark humor and broken memories. You felt Chantelle’s hand clutch your wrist, trying to steady herself, the tears continuing to roll, this time with giggles in tow. It was only the appearance of the waiter that forced you all to try and compose yourselves. You said yes to more cocktails and a mocktail for Jak, and an extra side order of calamari for the table. Chantelle was still dabbing her eyes as the waiter retreated, and you leant back on your chair for a few moments, satiated. Something small had shifted again between the three of you, making room for more of the truth.
Chapter 26
Copenhagen, 1996
Aretha
The one-year anniversary of Bobby’s death loomed, and Aretha did her best to swim through it. She was still staying with Bobby’s mother, Auntie Penny, as she had been since arriving in Copenhagen almost a year ago. She was aware of the comfort she brought to Auntie Penny, the reminders of Bobby that she carried with her, but she also knew it couldn’t last forever. During breakfast, Auntie Penny told Aretha of her plans to move back to Ghana, that there was nothing left for her in Denmark now. Aretha saw how weary she had become, her only child gone from the world. She tried to comfort her with stories of Bobby and, tentatively, with little anecdotes about Whitney. Auntie Penny often didn’t react when her grandchild was mentioned, or she dismissed the comment as immaterial. Aretha’s patience was constantly tested by this, knowing from her conversations with Bobby how much his mother blamed Tina’s pregnancy on his decision to leave Copenhagen, to travel back to his mother’s homeland, even when she expressly forbade it. Far be it from Aretha to get into anyone else’s family business, but she was realising that they were all connected now, that Bobby was family because of Whitney, whether Auntie Penny liked it or not. Aretha would never stop reminding her of that, would never stop reaching out even if she was the only one left in Bobby’s hometown when all was said and done.
Now she was considering what she would do once Auntie Penny left. She might have to seriously consider taking up Sofia’s offer to move into her studio apartment. Sofia was almost done with her studies and had no reason to stay in Copenhagen. Except for Aretha, of course. But she was unsure about involving Sofia in her future plans, given how uncertain she felt about them herself. And she had just heard news from Maame Serwaa back home that they were doing a small service for Bobby, that perhaps Aretha might return to join in?
If Aretha gave it too much thought, it still hurt as if it had happened yesterday. She also did not like to think too much of home, of what she might be missing, even though there were many things in her new life that she loved. But her family felt scattered. Everyone was everywhere else, and what part had she played in that? Had she made it better, or had she watched as more things fell apart, just as she stood over Bobby, watching his life end? What was that all for? She hadn’t fixed anything in coming to Copenhagen, and she felt ashamed of it, of what she had not done. She thought then of Whitney, of the birthday she would celebrate without any of the people meant to protect her besides Gloria. As the day rolled on, Aretha’s mood plummeted, and this was not lost on Sofia. She suggested they go out, experience some of Copenhagen’s more cultural exploits. She had heard that there was an ‘Images of Africa’ festival going on, and they had to be there. Aretha agreed, grateful for the distraction from her aimless feelings.
They rode their bikes out of Amagerbro, through Freetown Christiania – where Aretha couldn’t help but slow down, look around and see who she could spot – and onward to Indre By. As they locked up their bikes, Aretha took note of those around her, the bustle of people, the Black and brown faces she saw more of as they got closer to the market stalls and event spaces. She overheard conversations between visiting artists and writers, some definitely Ghanaian, one mentioning the Congo and South Africa; all had been invited to take part in the festival and report back home about it. Aretha relaxed into the atmosphere and the warmth of Sofia beside her, commenting on everything she was seeing, the mixture of people.
‘Never seen this many Black people since I got here. It’s kinda beautiful, isn’t it?’
Sofia’s voice took on a wistful quality, and Aretha squeezed her hand in response, softly and without letting go. They walked on, stopping at different stands, and as Aretha took in her surroundings, her eyes landed on a familiar face. Viktor.
He was standing in front of a food truck, finishing the contents of a plastic cup, scrunching it up with his fingers and throwing it on the ground. He looked the same, though his cheeks were flushed red in a way that indicated he had been drinking, enjoying the festival, taking in the spoils of Copenhagen’s new designation as the Cultural Capital of Europe. But he also wore a T-shirt with IOA Tour Guide written on the front, confirming his employment at the festival. Aretha hoped that meant he was no longer an officer in the military, that perhaps he had been stripped of the title and there was some justice after all.
She moved toward him instinctively, trying to get closer and then stopping in her tracks when he waved a group of people over to him. She twisted her face away then, afraid he might recognise her, though she knew it was unlikely.
‘I got you this. Thought you’d like it?’ The sound of Sofia’s voice made her jump, and Aretha turned quickly to see Sofia place a small box in her hands. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.’ Sofia pushed a braid behind her ear, smiling softly, waiting for Aretha’s reaction. She tried to return the smile and ignore the anxiety bubbling in her stomach. She put her arm on Sofia’s elbow intimately and leant into her.
‘No, you didn’t. I was just distracted, taking it all in. What is it?’
Sofia cocked her head to the side. ‘Well, if you open it, you’ll find out.’ Aretha frowned but obeyed. She lifted the small cardboard lid easily and pulled out the gift. It was red with a small white cross at the top. She stared at it, unsure of what to say. Sofia watched her, waiting for words, and then she chuckled. ‘It’s a Swiss Army Knife, because, you know, you had wanted to go into the army, and I know we’re not in Switzerland and – well, it’s not even a Nordic country really, but… it was just a joke. A stupid one – I can take it back–’
Aretha raised her hand out of reach, spinning away from Sofia’s attempt to grab the knife.
‘No way. I love it. I mean, it’s an expensive joke, though, right?’
Aretha held it securely in her hands so there was no chance of Sofia taking it back, even in jest.
‘Nah, you’re worth it. And… now you’ll have something to remember me by.’
Sofia shrugged, trying to look noncommittal even though her stark blue eyes glistened and made Aretha want to say yes to whatever she suggested. Aretha felt laughter in her throat and stepped toward Sofia and hugged her, the two of them sharing heat under the blue sky, the gentle breeze cooling everyone’s skin for seconds at a time. As Aretha held her, she couldn’t help but get Viktor in her sights again, leading his tour group into a gallery across the road, away from all the market stalls. Aretha tried not to overthink the moment, the chance she might have. She pulled away from the embrace.
‘I think the other part of the festival might be in there – can we go in?’
She pointed to the gallery and Sofia shrugged and turned back toward the food stalls. Aretha had been counting on this.
‘How about… you go in there and look at some art, and I’ll stay out here and try to eat my way through the market, and we meet up when you’re done?’
Sofia put on her most winning smile, confirming her disinterest in anything to do with galleries, which she had told Aretha during their first interaction. Aretha made like she was mildly disappointed and then nodded in agreement, squeezing Sofia’s fingers before they parted ways.
Aretha crossed the road, pushing open the glass doors and feeling a different kind of heat on her neck when she heard Viktor’s voice booming from one of the other gallery rooms. She walked slowly past the other visitors, following the sound of his voice and perching by the door, at the back of the tour group. He pointed to the different pieces of art from various African countries and talked in English about them at length to his compatriots, as if he knew the artists personally. She heard him talk about his time in ‘Africa’ as if he had not solely been stationed in Ghana. He discussed the authenticity of the art around him, whether it was a true ‘image of Africa’, as this section of the festival suggested. He waxed lyrical about Africa not being a place he was likely to return to; it had his heart, but his soul had wanted to come back home. Aretha couldn’t help but smirk; she should have assumed that he would not miss an opportunity to show off his worldly knowledge, to let everyone know that he was not like the other obronis; he understood the ‘third world’ in a way they did not, having lived there for a handful of years. He was still very much a blowhard.
She stepped away after that, training her eyes on the exit instead, listening for his next steps. She waited patiently, standing in front of a large abstract painting but always looking toward the room he was in. After a few minutes he emerged, following his group of now adoring fans, directing them toward a photographic image by a Congolese artist in the corner. He stood on a step in front of the image so that he could tower above his audience and arrogantly project his voice. He spent another ten minutes talking, and then he left the crowd to cross the room. Aretha quickly turned her back to him, and she heard him ask an attendant for directions to the bathroom. He swung around and headed down a corridor away from the main gallery space. Aretha watched him disappear around a corner.
She hesitated, taking in the room for a moment. She looked toward the front of the gallery. Through the window and across the road, her eyes found Sofia easily. She was still in the market, by a different food stall. She took a bite of her smørrebrød and nodded happily at the vendor in approval. Aretha sighed, and a feeling of calm finally washed over her. She had been trying to shake the dark feelings all week, and it was Sofia who had pulled her out of it. Finding Viktor had been a fortunate coincidence, but maybe this was Aretha’s only chance to do what she came to do, once and for all? She couldn’t help but think of what her sisters might say; Gloria was always telling her to finish what she started, and Tina was the dreamer, always wanting the sweetest version of life, without much stress. The irony. But Aretha was thinking of Bobby today, and he would have looked her dead in the eye and told her to do everything in her power to protect the ones she loved, just as he tried to do.
