Never Tell A Lie Page 12

  Chapter 23

  April’s meltdown about Saturday and the discussion about fighting in relationships marks a tipping point in our conversations. It’s like she has decided to let her guard down with me about her perfect life.

  To give an example: now when she is late, I will get the full story of why. This happens a lot, but the one that stands out is several months after the conversation. She arrives half an hour late for a coffee date. I would have been annoyed, but I’m writing the copy for the whisky magazine, so I’m enjoying myself and can fill the time. There’s a nag at the back of my head that half an hour is late even for April, but at the front of my thoughts is the question of whether the phrase ‘like a honey-flavoured coat of phlegm across one’s tongue’ is pushing things. I rather like it; but I think maybe it’s going a bit too far. I’m still laughing to myself as April arrives.

  ‘I am so sorry, Mary,’ she says, sitting down without our usual hug. ‘This morning has just been a nightmare. Leo ran out of shampoo last night.’ She sighs and signals to a waiter, ordering a skinny latte with almond milk. I’m not sure if I am supposed to immediately realise how Leo running out of shampoo last night made her late this morning.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Shampoo.’

  ‘You can imagine how angry he was,’ she says.

  ‘With himself?’

  ‘No, silly, with me. I forgot to get the shampoo.’

  ‘Right. And he’d asked you to?’

  April looks at me like I’m crazy. ‘No, I should have noticed it was running low.’

  ‘Do you also use it?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course not,’ says April, now apparently completely convinced I am crazy. ‘We have totally different hair. I could never use his, and he could never use mine. Although he had to last night.’ She says this like she’s reporting that he had to eat something that he was deathly allergic to, but didn’t have a choice.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘So that was okay then?’

  ‘Hardly,’ says April. ‘He was livid. And my shampoo is anti-frizz so his hair was very flat afterwards, I must say.’

  I laugh. ‘First World problems, eh?’

  ‘Possibly,’ says April, but I can see this is really a very big deal to her. ‘So this morning I went to the hairdresser to get some, and you won’t believe it – they’ve stopped making that range.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I say, thinking about my supermarket 2-in-1.

  ‘They had a bottle, but just the one,’ she says.

  ‘Oh good.’ I am rapidly losing interest.

  ‘So, I have been to every hairdresser in the five-kilometre radius and bought all their stock. It will be at least a year before he realises that they’ve run out, and by then his hairdresser might recommend something else that makes him happy.’ She picks up the shopping bag that she’s dumped next to her, which is, indeed, bulging with shampoo bottles. A very expensive brand. There must be literally thousands of rands’ worth of shampoo in there. The cost could probably keep me in shampoo for the rest of my life.

  ‘Um, April,’ I say. ‘Why didn’t you just tell him that they’ve stopped making it, and buy the one bottle?’

  ‘After I forgot? He’d be livid.’

  ‘But you didn’t stop making the shampoo. He can’t blame you.’

  April sighs. ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I know Leo. This is the best way to handle it. All’s well that ends well.’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘Leo’s parents only let him wash his hair once every two weeks,’ she says. ‘So you can understand. It’s not his fault he’s like this.’

  ‘Right,’ I say again, although frankly the entire story confuses me. I can’t help thinking that even Travis, who was a bona fide arsehole, bought his own shampoo. Or used mine when his was finished. I’ve always thought that Travis and I fought about every subject under the sun – but April has proved me wrong.

  ‘How are things with Django?’ says April, perhaps sensing my shift, and I tell her about a disturbing email from the Art teacher, telling me that Django was refusing to participate.

  We discuss the best way to handle it, and April feels that the school is wrong trying to force him to do it. ‘It’s Art, for God’s sake, not Maths. It should be fun, and if it’s not, who cares.’

  I’m so glad she has said this. It’s exactly what I feel, but my dad and Stacey have both been of the view that Django has to learn that not everything in life is fun. I see their point, but I just feel so tired of all the fights to make Django do things. I need to be able to pick my battles. So what April is saying resonates. I like this about her so much.

  Her phone beeps.

  She glances down.

  ‘Oh hell,’ she says. ‘It’s Leo. He’s popped home and he wants to know where I am.’ She stares at me, wild-eyed. ‘What should I tell him?’

  ‘That you’re with me?’ I suggest.

  ‘No, no, he’ll hate that.’

  ‘That you’re at the gym,’ I hazard.

  ‘No, he can see that I’m here from the app on his phone.’

  I take a moment to digest that, trying to imagine what life with Travis would have been like if we’d had tracking apps back then. And life for my dad. If my dad had had a tracking app for my mom, would he have gone after her and brought her back?

  April’s voice brings me back to reality. ‘I’ll tell him I’m buying shampoo.’

  ‘You’ve certainly got ample evidence of that,’ I laugh.

  She laughs too, but quickly gathers her things and leaves, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you understand, Mary,’ she says, leaving without paying.

  But I don’t really. I don’t understand.

  And I understand even less a week later.

  Chapter 24

  The call comes at about 8 p.m. Django is in his pyjamas, and we’re curled up on the couch together watching Masterchef, as we often do on weekday nights.

  We’ve had a visit from April and Zach this afternoon. April left Reenie at home with the nanny. April seemed back to normal, and we had a great time discussing our best recipes – she wrote down several of mine, saying that Leo would love them, and that he kept kosher his entire childhood, so loves the adventure of eating anything now, and that nobody can blame him if sometimes he gets a bit angry when her food is boring.

  I’ve chatted to Joshua on the phone. He has a work function tonight which will finish late, and he’s warned me that he might not hear his phone ring. I laughed and told him that I could survive one night without him. Tomorrow is Friday, so we’ll have a date night and he’ll stay over. I have that rare sense of all being right with the world.

  When my phone rings with an unknown number, I am tempted not to answer. But it could be something to do with work – clients seem to expect freelancers to be available at all hours of the day. And with my financial position, you can’t refuse to take a call just because all is right with the world. So I answer.

  ‘Is that Mary?’ says a voice. It sounds like an older woman, and unsure, as if maybe phoning people is a skill she has only just learnt.

  ‘Yes, this is Mary,’ I say, pausing the TV.

  ‘Mary Wilson?’

  ‘Yes.’ I try not to get irritated; 8 p.m. and you want to take me through my name one step at a time?

  ‘It’s Mrs Lacey here, dear,’ she says. I have no idea who that is. I also find people who identify themselves as ‘Mrs someone’ really odd. But she does sound quite old.

  ‘Mrs Lacey?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, dear. I live next door to your dad. At number 94. Sean lives at number 92.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I say. ‘Mrs Lacey.’ I’ve only ever heard Dad refer to her as ‘that old bat who lives next door’. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Lacey?’

  ‘Now, I don’t want you to worry, dear,’ she says. Up until that moment, I hadn’t worried at all. Now I feel panic wash over me.

  ‘Is it my dad?’ I say. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘
Well, dear,’ says Mrs Lacey, as if we have all day for a nice natter. ‘The thing is that he fell off the roof right into my azaleas.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Well, dear, he says to tell you it’s nothing, but the ambulance man thinks it’s a broken hip and possibly also wrist.’

  ‘The ambulance man?’

  ‘Well, dear, I called the ambulance when Sean couldn’t get up. Right on the pink azaleas, he landed. I’m not sure it’ll ever be the same, dear. I won a prize at the local fete, you know.’

  ‘Um, Mrs Lacey, where is my dad now?’

  ‘Oh, they took him to the Sandton Clinic place, dear. I do hope he has medical aid.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘I think he may have bumped his head, dear. He seemed a bit muddled. Called my azalea a rose.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Mrs Lacey. I’ll go to him now.’

  The problem with going to my dad is Django. I can’t possibly leave him alone at home. I could take him, but they often don’t let kids into wards, and I have no idea how disturbing it will be. Ideally, I need to leave him here or take him to a friend.

  I try to phone my dad, to get a better idea of what is going on, but his phone rings with no answer. I don’t know if he has left it at home or has it in the hospital. I need to see him.

  I can’t ask Nelly – it would take her hours to get here, and that’s if she could find transport. I could ask a friend to come and watch Django, I think. April makes the most sense, because she has Leo, and I know that he is usually home by this time, so she can leave her kids with him. I phone her, and am relieved when she answers after a few rings.

  ‘April,’ I say, ‘I really need a favour.’ I quickly explain the situation, ending by saying, ‘Could you possibly come and sit with Django for an hour?’

  ‘Leo’s home though, Mary,’ she says, as if I must have forgotten this.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s why I thought of you. You wouldn’t have to bring your kids, because he can stay with them.’

  There’s a silence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ she eventually says. ‘I can’t leave Leo with the kids suddenly in the middle of the night. And we don’t know how long you’ll be gone, really. Could be more than an hour. I’m sorry, Mary, I want to help. But I can’t. I just can’t. Maybe you must take Django with you.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. I think for a moment, trying different solutions in my head.

  ‘What about if I drop him at your place?’ I say. ‘I’ll pick him up as soon as I’m done.’ It’s not ideal, as April lives in the opposite direction to the hospital – but it’s better than taking Django.

  ‘But you have no idea when that will be?’ says April. ‘It could be really late. And Leo . . .’ She doesn’t finish her sentence.

  She sounds panicky. But I’m also panicking. I have to get to my dad.

  ‘Please, April,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ says April. ‘I just can’t help you.’ I can tell from the tone of her voice that there’s no point pushing her. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘That’s okay.’ But, of course, it’s not.

  I call Stacey, and before I’m halfway through the explanation, she says, ‘I’m coming over right now, babe, me and Aiden. Hang tight, we’ll be there in ten. We’ll bring our PJs, so it doesn’t matter how late you are.’

  Chapter 25

  As it turns out, my dad is fine. The hip is very badly bruised and has a fine crack that they say will heal with time. His wrist is sprained. The biggest issue is that he needs to stay in bed.

  ‘You’ll stay with us,’ I say. ‘No argument.’

  My dad looks small in the hospital bed. I know that people always remark on this, and it’s true. He has a drip and a heart monitor, and the machines seem to loom around him, making him shrink. He went to ER and then they admitted him for overnight observation. It’s late, and he should be asleep after the night he’s had, but I want to reassure him of what will happen when he’s discharged.

  It is perhaps a sign of how unwell he is feeling that he doesn’t argue at all.

  ‘Where will I sleep?’ he asks.

  ‘In the spare room.’

  ‘You mean the storeroom?’ He laughs, and then winces.

  It’s true that our spare room is tiny. It actually probably is a storeroom. It has space for a single bed, with about the width of a single bed space next to it. The window is not a proper one; it is narrow and sits high on the wall. And it is also true that over the years I have tended to shove things in there, so the bed is hardly visible any more. That’s why, when Stacey and Aiden stay over, they just share our beds. But that won’t work for my dad.

  ‘It will be the push I need to sort out the room,’ I say.

  I am pleased that he is staying the night in the hospital, because that gives me time to fix the room. We agree that I will pick him up at lunch and will collect some clothes and toiletries from his house. It’s about midnight by the time I leave the ward. As I do, I glance back at my father, already falling asleep after the painkillers that they have given him. His mouth is slightly open and his face is loose. He looks like an old man. I’ve never felt like I needed to look after my dad before this. But I do. And after everything he’s done for me, I’m going to do the very best that I can. I’m going to look after him so well that he never wants to move out.

  Stacey is curled up on the couch when I get home. I sit down next to her with a sigh.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I say. ‘I’m so grateful.’

  ‘Anyone would have done the same,’ she says. ‘How’s Sean?’

  I update her, and she offers to stay the night and help me with the clean-up in the morning.

  ‘You’ve got work. Aiden has school.’

  She sighs. ‘I could phone in sick, but school . . . I’d forgotten about that. We need to go home and get his uniform, so I think I’ll just wake him and we’ll go now. But please, anything you need, just ask. Okay?’

  ‘Thanks so much, Stace. You’ve already saved me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she says, getting up. ‘That’s what friends are for.’

  After she leaves, it takes me a while to fall asleep. There are so many things to think about. My dad. Clearing the room. How he will fit into our lives. What I will have to change. What Joshua will think. What Django will think. As I start to finally drift off though, it’s April that I’m thinking about. I don’t want to be angry with her, but I can’t help it; I am. What I asked was inconvenient – I get that. But it’s nothing that I wouldn’t have done for her in a heartbeat.

  In the morning, I text Stacey to thank her again, and then Joshua, to let him know what’s happening. He phones back immediately, and when I’ve told him the story, he offers to come and help me clear out the spare room. I refuse, but he’s insistent – and eventually I agree. It will be quicker, and he can help with the heavy stuff. I drop Django at school and head back home. I check my phone as I pull into my driveway, and there’s a message from April.

  Coffee?

  This is often how we start our days, but I’m flabbergasted. I take a moment to breathe before I respond.

  I was at the hospital till late, and I’m getting the house ready to have my dad to stay. Sorry.

  I’m not sure why I’m apologising.

  But April’s next message makes me feel a bit calmer:

  Please don’t apologise. I actually wanted to go for coffee so I could apologise for not being there for you. And explain. Phone me when you can.

  I’m mollified, but I don’t answer. I’m not sure what to say, and to be honest I’ve got enough on my plate for now – I don’t have time for long WhatsApp chats, and maybe I want April to realise that.

  Joshua arrives, driving a van.

  ‘Borrowed it from my brother,’ he says. ‘Reckon we might need to take some stuff away.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ I say, giving him a hug
and a kiss. ‘Please thank Ryan for me.’

  Joshua’s brother Ryan was a few years older than us at school. I remember him as a shadowy figure that everyone admired. First team rugby, popular with the girls, prefect. Much like Joshua himself. Joshua and I went for a braai at his house about a month ago. Ryan and his wife Angie seemed nice, and I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like if we were family. I guess it would be like this – with Joshua borrowing Ryan’s van to move my furniture.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ I ask Joshua. ‘Or sleeping off last night’s do?’

  ‘Work isn’t as important as helping you,’ says Joshua. ‘They understand at the office. Although sleeping sounds kind of attractive . . .’ He waggles his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Down, boy,’ I laugh. ‘We have work to do.’

  There is all sorts of rubbish in the spare room – boxes of things that I never unpacked, bags of Travis’s clothes that I meant to give to charity and never got around to, a broken armchair and another one that I didn’t know what to do with. Django’s old toys seem to have gravitated to this room, and odd bits of junk. It’s hard work to clear out, but soothing, and at times enjoyable as I stumble on a toy that Django loved, or a tiny shoe, or a box of old photos. Joshua works alongside me, checking what I want to keep and what should go, making tea and doing the heavy lifting.

  In the middle of the morning, the doorbell rings and I go to open it. At the gate is a delivery guy from Thrupps, holding a huge gift basket with wine and snacks. Thrupps is not somewhere that I shop – it’s too expensive and it makes me feel like I might break things by mistake.

  ‘I think you’ve made a mistake,’ I say. ‘I didn’t order anything, and I’m not really in the Thrupps league.’

  The delivery guy is a supercilious young man, who arches his eyebrows and says in a camp voice, ‘Well, I can see that. But I’ve checked the instructions with the office, and they confirmed. Apparently, it’s a gift.’ He sneers on the word ‘gift’, like he’s never heard of anything quite so ludicrous as having to deliver a gift all the way from Illovo to my shabby home.

  I still don’t take it. ‘A gift from whom?’ I say. I can’t think of anyone who would be sending me a gift from Thrupps.