kagablog

Until the man you love has slapped you to the floor you just don’t know what it takes to get up and start picking up the dropped stitches of your life. But getting up is not always the smart option. The second blow is much harder, causing a plug of mucus and blood to shoot out of her right nostril. Right nostril. Means he’s using his left hand. ‘Always the gentleman,’ she thinks, and an irrational giggle bubbles up in her throat.

Still, it is enough to buckle her knees and make her fall down helplessly, stupidly; hitting her head on the floor. She gets up again, more slowly and warily this time, and suddenly both of the boys are in the room. They are in their pajamas, their hair dishevelled and their faces showing uncomprehending panic. Both are crying and screaming: ‘No, Daddy, no, please don’t hit Mummy!’ He backs off a little; nostrils flaring, breath coming fast and his eyes slightly unfocused. His mouth curls as he says, ‘You’re scaring the children. Go and wash your face, you stupid bitch.’

She walks to the bathroom like an automaton, flashes of the blow exploding behind her eyes in a womb-red starburst. At a sound behind she turns quickly to see Peter lurching down the passage towards her. She shrinks back against the wall as he thrusts his face close to hers and hisses, ‘Always have to make a scene, don’t you? Fucking drama queen!’ She feels his spittle on her face and smells his breath, rank with brandy and venom. She drops her eyes and holds the gagging down until she hears their bedroom door slam, then she stumbles into the bathroom and throws up into the basin until her diaphragm aches and there is nothing left but dry retching.

She rinses her mouth and face with cold water and only then looks up into the mirror. The side of her face shows a faint handprint, and her right eye is starting to swell. Her jaw hurts, but her teeth all feel firm. She’s washed all the blood from her nostril, but it still feels congested. Theo’s face appears behind hers, eyes still and dark in his pale face. Luke is clinging to his leg, his small face contorted as he cries soundlessly. ‘Oh, my boys, I’m so sorry,’ she says, crouching down to put her arms around both of them. Theo stands stiffly, but she can feel him trembling. Luke flings his arms around her neck, nearly choking her as she breathes in his warm smell and the saltiness of sweat and tears.

He clings to her like an orphaned chimpanzee as she carries him to bed, Theo following silently behind. Soothing words and a back rub soon has Luke breathing peacefully, but she can feel Theo’s eyes on her in the duskiness of their nightlight. She sits down on his bed and reaches out to smooth his hair, but he turns his face away towards the wall. ‘Sometimes grown-ups fight,’ she whispers. ‘Remember when you and Michael had that fight at school and the next day you were friends again?’
He nods slightly, then shakes his head.
‘It’s not the same,’ he says, the anger in his voice muffled by his pillow.

A breeze is picking up outside, relieving the pressing heat of the day. In the moonlight the Karoo koppies, so dull by day, look almost beautiful. The grass is cool underfoot as she walks down to the stream where the tall poplars are whispering. A bat suddenly swoops down low over her; she startles and ducks involuntarily. Behind her she hears a soft thud as a ripe pear falls down. ‘Help me,’ she asks, looking up into the sky. ‘Grant me strength, please.’ All she sees is the great expanse of night sky and the stars twinkling coldly, immeasurably far away. She doesn’t think that anyone has heard. From across the stream a donkey starts to bray loudly and abruptly. The sounds are like great gut-tearing sobs. She briskly rubs the goose bumps from her arms and turns back home.

***

She wakes to the sound of whispering outside the bedroom door. As she strains to make sense of the sounds, flashes of memory from the previous night jolt her upright. Peter lies sprawled across the bed, still fully dressed, breathing stertorously. The door swings open slowly and Theo enters first, carrying a tray with great concentration. Luke pushes past him and leaps into her lap, shouting ‘Happy birthday, Mummy, happy, happy!’ Peter jerks awake and assesses the situation through bloodshot eyes. Mumbling something, he makes his way unsteadily to the bathroom.

‘Happy birthday, Mom,’ says Theo. ‘I made breakfast for you.’
‘I helped! I picked the flowers!’ Luke adds indignantly.
‘Thank you, my darlings,’ she says. ‘It looks lovely.’
The toast had been burnt and scraped and thickly smeared with butter. She takes an enthusiastic bite under their watchful eyes. ‘Mmm-mmm,’ she manages before taking a big sip of mahogany-coloured tea. It is lukewarm and very sweet.
‘I used two bags,’ Theo says uncertainly.
‘It’s just perfect,’ she smiles. ‘And look at the beautiful flowers!’
Luke had picked daisies, kakiebos and a few ragged hibiscus; the stems all of different lengths, they’d been stuck haphazardly into a jam jar.

‘And look what else I got!’ Luke dashes into the passage and returns with an ice-cream container. He thrusts it close to her face. ‘A zillion grasshops!’ he announces triumphantly. She recoils from the sight of the insects swarming over each other and the scraping sounds of their futile efforts to scramble up the sides of the container.
‘That’s nice, sweetheart,’ she says faintly, ‘but I think you should put them back.’
Luke pulls a stubborn face.
‘I’ll help you,’ Theo says quickly. ‘Come, mom wants to get dressed.’
He gives her a conspiratorial look over his shoulder as he ushers Luke out, and she mouths ‘Thank you’ at him.

Peter steps from the shower, billowing steam. ‘Jesus,’ he says as he catches sight of her face in the mirror.
‘I can patch it,’ she says, ‘but you’ll have to cancel Camille’s and the babysitter.’
‘But I booked a table two months ago,’ he says wheedlingly. ‘And you’ve always wanted to go there. I did it especially for you.’
‘I’m not going, Peter,’ says Olivia. ‘Not now, and not like this.’ She dries her face and looks at him in the mirror, her eye throbbing. ‘We can rather take the boys to the Spur.’
‘I’ll stop drinking,’ he mutters. He swallows hard and then starts to cry. She turns, and he leans heavily against her, the basin cold against her lower back.
‘God help me,’ he sobs. ‘I don’t know what gets into me.’
She looks up at the ceiling as she strokes his wet hair. ‘Shh…’ she says. ‘Shh…’

***

Her mother phones just after lunchtime.
‘And how is the birthday girl?’ she asks indulgently.
‘I’m just fine, Ma. It’s a lovely day here. Think I’ve got a few new wrinkles, though.’
‘Nonsense,’ her mother tuts. ‘All set for tonight? I’m so glad you’re getting out for a change, and that you finally have a chance to wear that beautiful dress.’
Olivia detects a movement at the end of the passage. Their bedroom door is opening stealthily. She takes a deep breath.
‘Actually, we’ve had to cancel. The babysitter has flu.’
She holds the phone away from her ear for her mother’s protesting wail. ‘Oh no, darling!
If you’d let me know earlier I could have driven over and spent the night.’
‘Ma, it’s fine, really. We’re taking the boys to the Spur. They’ll love it.’
Her mother sighs. ‘Well, make sure that you take a rain check on Camille’s. And tell Peter to drive carefully. Watch out for kudu.’
‘Yes, Ma.’
‘I can hear your eyes rolling! Happy birthday, darling. God bless.’

***

Luke is riding horsy on the back of the vinyl-covered banquette. He proudly clutches his new balloon, hastily procured when the first one popped, causing a torrent of grief.
Theo is intently colouring a picture of a cute Native American boy on horseback, taking great pains with the rainbow plumage of the headdress. Olivia smiles at them, then says,
‘They’ll be getting tired soon. We should go.’
Peter motions to the waiter. ‘There’s just one more thing,’ he says.

Suddenly the table is surrounded by waiters and kitchen staff, smiling and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the accompaniment of Stevie Wonder. A spotty waiter with a bobbing Adam’s apple carefully places a sundae glass full of chocolate mousse and viciously whipped cream in front of her. A cake candle and a sparkler have been stuck into it. Theo and Luke are transfixed by the hissing, darting stars of light.

‘Make a wish, Mummy,’ Theo says quietly. He looks at her with dark, compelling eyes.
‘Make a good wish.’
Olivia looks around the table at her family. Three pairs of eyes are fixed on her.
Peter’s show hope, and a shadow of fear.
Theo’s are deep pools, the flame of the candle leaping in his pupils.
Luke’s eyes are feverish with excitement. He jumps up and down, clapping his hands and crows, ‘And you can’t tell anyone!’

She closes her eyes and leans forward to blow out the flame.