Chapters (36)
My chest burns. He loves me. I love him. I feel the pain of it for the first time.
• • •
Evening study hall. I write one obvious quote from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet into my English homework book, “Parting is such sweet sorrow / That I shall say good night till it be morrow,” and a second, more substantial quote, that secretly thrills my heart with its mad love and whispered prophecy, “These violent delights have violent ends, / And in their triumph die; like fire and powder, / Which as they kiss consume.” Just think. If Father loved Mother the same way, he’d do anything to be with her, but people behave differently in plays and books than they do in real life. When I’m done with my English homework I move to history. I make a list of countries of the British Empire in alphabetical order for geography class. It doesn’t take long. The list is shorter than it used to be.
Lottie sits next to me and finishes a math problem without counting her fingers to get the right answer. She’s been quiet since the conversation with Father, knowing somehow that I need time to think about what he said. I chew my pencil and remember the hours I’ve spent imagining the details of Father’s house in Johannesburg: the velvet curtains on the windows, the cool marble tiles in the kitchen, and the grand piano taking center stage in the lounge room. And, most vivid of all, my certain belief that Father’s European house is a better version of ours in Manzini and that the lives being lived inside it are richer and more real than my own.
After Father’s phone call, I’m not sure that’s true. He loves my mother, and keeping her, Rian, and me hidden from the world must be painful. I wonder if all knowledge comes with a bitter trace of sadness. Mother has her sleep-in-till-afternoon days, but how does Father manage the burdens of his cut-in-two life and his secrets? I hurt for Father, who has chosen to ignore his own heart and lives a lie with his white wife and children. I especially hurt for Mother, who is always second in line for Father’s time and attention. Mother who survives on small parcels of love but deserves a banquet of smiles and kisses to feast on. Mother who did not reply to my letter.