The man leans forward and kisses Mandla on the forehead. “Goodbye, Mandla. Look after your mother for me.”

For a split second, Zodwa thinks the man’s referring to her. As Ruth and the man head outside, Zodwa watches them through the open door. The sound of their voices drifts in so that Zodwa doesn’t have to make it obvious that she’s eavesdropping.

“You didn’t need to come,” Ruth is saying. “But I do appreciate it. Thank you for the latest loan. You know I’ll pay you back as soon as I can free up some cash.”

“It’s not a loan, Ruth. I’m just glad I could help. Is there no way to get him onto your medical aid in the future?”

“No, they declined him because of his status.”

Zodwa blinks in surprise. Mandla’s status? Ruth must mean his status as a foster child.

Foster children clearly can’t become dependents on their guardian’s health insurance. Mandla was at a private hospital, not an underfunded government one that Zodwa would have had to take him to if he was her child and his care fell to her. Zodwa had just assumed Ruth’s policy was paying for Mandla’s treatment. She can’t begin to imagine what his stay there must have cost and yet that man paid for it like it was nothing.

Zodwa thinks of all the fancy equipment she saw at the hospital when she looked through the glass window into Mandla’s private room. The only reason he had all of that was because these people have the money to pay for it. Money Zodwa doesn’t have.

Zodwa thinks of her little purse under her mattress and the fantasies she’s been having about running away. She flushes at how childish her dreams were.

Ruth kisses Vince on the cheek. “Thank you for coming.”

“I’m always here for you, Ruth, you know that.”

She shakes her head. “Not always,” she says before walking away. Zodwa turns from the door back around to Mandla, burying her face in his neck for a second before Ruth returns.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Zodwa

6 January 1996

Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

Here’s the phone number for the club, Zodwa. Call if Mandla gets a fever or if you’re worried about anything at all,” Ruth says, scribbling a number down by the phone.

“I will, Madam Ruth. Don’t worry.”

“And keep the panic-button remote control near you all the time, okay?”

“Yes, madam.” Zodwa has to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Ruth’s obsession with security borders on the ridiculous. Typical white people, constantly thinking the black man is coming for them.

“I’ll call at eight-thirty to check on him. Listen for the phone.”

“I will.”