C H A P T E R  T W E N T Y
 
☆☆☆

The first ten minutes of lunch passed in the kind of slowness that makes one feel atoms vibrating in the atmosphere around them and take note of how long a second truly was.

It wasn't that I didn't want to speak but rather I wanted to suss the situation out.

I wanted to memorise everything that was happening around me – from the smell of lemon essence wafting through the room from the automatic odour control dispensers we had inserted in the kitchen that often wafted into the dining room, to the taste of the salty food on my tongue.

I wanted to remember the image of my parents – yes, parents in the plural, my dad  and  mother – sitting next to each other.

I wanted to remember the little dimples that appeared on my mother's face only when she chewed so that when I later went to sleep, I would have proof that this was not all a dream.

"Your father tells me you're very keen about hockey," my mother said and it brought me out of my reverie.

I had an answer sitting right on the tip of my tongue but I was overwhelmed by the sound of her voice, soft, husky and tentative. It was like she wanted to make sure she was saying the correct thing at all times.

Maybe she thought my silence meant that I hated her but in all honesty, I was so overloaded with emotion that it was hard for me to act normal. It was the coaxing look my father gave me that finally gave me the push to nod my head and the words flowed after.

"Yes," my voice sounded brittle, "I want to play professionally one day."

"I think that's lovely," my mother said and smiled softly.

"Paiten has been voted the Dux Sportswoman of The Year for two consecutive years at her school," Dad said and one couldn't miss the pride in his voice.

My mother's smile widened.

"I've always wondered what it's like to have something you're passionate about from a young age. I wasn't really good at anything back then," my mom said with a small deprecating chuckle.

I swallowed the sand that had gathered in my mouth and made me feel like I was choking, "what do you do for a living?"

"I've worked many jobs over the years but I've been a hotel manager for the past three years and it looks to be something that I'm going to stay with for a long while."

"Do you like it?"

"It's a decent job," my mother said with a nod.

"Which hotel do you work for?" I asked.

"The Protea Hotel in Durban."

"Nice and close to the beach," I said and my mother nodded.

"I don't like swimming much but I do like the serenity that's always there by the ocean after a long day."

"Me too."

"I have a lot of employee benefits I never use so if you ever want to swing down during a weekend that could totally be arranged."

I thought back to the holiday spent in Margate and all that had happened there with Manda and I frowned.

"That's obviously if you want to, there's no pressure or anything," my mother said, misinterpreting my silence as displeasure.

"Thank you, I'd really appreciate is sometime."

Lunch came to an end half an hour later and my mother and I continued to keep this delicate dance between us – the both of us timid and careful with Dad being the mediator.

He was one who would butt when the silence became to awkward or when the conversation was steering to someplace heavy.

"Uhm, would you like to see my room?" I said – startling my mother because for the past five minutes since we'd all cleared the table I was speaking without prompt.

"Yes, I would love to," she said and turned to look at my father. He nodded with a small smile, "I've got the dishes."

We walked up the stairs. Each step that brought us closer to my bedroom made my chest heavy. It felt like someone was sitting on me, trying to cut the air supply to my brain and I was sure that if I was not careful, I'd have fainted.

I opened the door and my mother followed behind me. I stood by my desk as I watched her take the room in. There was nothing special about my plain lilac bedding and matching curtains and pine wood desk, chair and wardrobe. The only thing that stood out was the bright orange rug that was a little out of place with the colour scheme.

"This is a pretty room," she said.

"Thank you."

She eyed the yellow dress I'd worn from Spring Day that hung on the door of my wardrobe. I'd intended to fold it away but I'd been distracted by getting ready for today's meeting.

"I see you got the dress."

"You were the one that bought it for me?"

My mother only nodded and for some reason, it felt like the floodgates of heaven were going to open and I was going to cry.

"I really like it, it's so beautiful. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Her voice sounded softer, like she was overloaded by emotions, too.

"I wanted to show you these," I said to her and walked over to my cupboard where all of my trophies and medals from hockey were. My mother walked over to me and I watched the pleased expression on her face as she surveyed all of them.

There was one in particular she was looking at and she asked me for permission before she picked it up. It was silver and moulded in the form of a little girl running with a hockey stick. On it it was engraved  Junior Dedication Learner, Hockey Under 10, 2009. 

It was particularly special to me because it was the first hockey award I'd ever received. I was the player that had improved the most in my first year and looking back on it, that award was the reason why I kept going.

I hadn't been as good as the other girls when I'd started out but coach had seen my efforts and I was encouraged to keep going.

Her eyes travelled to the myriad of pictures I had made into a collage and stuck on a large frame above the cupboard. There were many pictures of me in my various stages of childhood.

There were many of Dad that I'd taken with my first camera that he'd gotten me in grade three. There were many of us together in all of the combined hours we'd spent together as a duo.

And then there was a multitude of pictures of Manda and I that I didn't have the heart to put away even after everything had ended so horribly between us.

"Who's this girl, is she your best friend?"

I nodded, "her name is Amanda."

"You guys look like sisters," my mother said.

"She... she's like a sister to me," I said with a small nod. It hurt.

"You really love your father."

It was a statement.

"I nodded. He's always been there for me and he's worked really hard to keep us happy and comfortable," I said.

Her fingers grazed over a blank polaroid picture where I'd taken a red permanent marker and had written the words 'mommy' with a heart around it.

It was next to the family portrait I'd drawn in grade five – a childish drawing of my dad and I standing in front of our house and the word 'Mom' written in a cloud near the sun.

My mother pouted when she saw it and ran her fingers over these two objects for a long time while I stood there watching her. Unsure of what to say or do. A part of me wanted to run out of the room, another wanted to throw myself into her arms again and another wanted to vomit.

"Listen Paiten," she said and I caught the glint in her eyes, "I know this must be so overwhelming for you and I know that you have questions for me that I will answer in due time. I know I haven't been here at all but I'm making a promise to you now: I will never leave you ever again and there are no words that can express how sorry I am. I hope that moving forward, you let me have a place in your life."

My heart felt so small in that moment. I thought of the past seventeen years that I'd yearned and cried and ached for my mother and all that I missed out on.

I thought of the nights I'd laid in my bed feeling useless and unloved because my mother hadn't loved me enough to stay. I wanted to be mad at her. I wanted to shout at her and tell her where to get off. I wanted to hate her. But I couldn't.

I'd waited all my life for her and now she was here. I was terrified I'd do something that would make her go away again but I wanted to hold onto this moment with two hands and fold it in between my palms and press them together into a prayer.  Dear God, please don't take her from me again.

"I'd really like that," I replied.

My mother wiped at the tears that had gathered at the corner of her eyes and she smiled.

I smiled too.