“I just got in.”
“You did?”
“You saw me taking the bins out.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is the bike under the stairs yours or one of your flatmates’？”
“Cam’s, but she once said she’s happy for me to use it.”
“Okay, you take that one and I’ll get one of the city bikes; there’re some round the corner. Come on.”
It’s eighty-nine degrees, but it feels like one hundred in the sun. I change into a vest top and we head out. I haven’t ridden a bike in months and Cam’s is heavy and my arms ache, but I enjoy pulling it out from its corner and persuading it through the narrow hallway.
We ride along the river with no destination in mind. At each road break or turn, we wordlessly decide to keep going. The path is surprisingly clear, but Battersea Park is full of people listening to music, having picnics, walking their dogs, and we pass food stalls and outdoor bars, keeping to the river and boathouses until we can’t any longer and there’s only road left.
At the start, I’m not very steady and have to concentrate on not riding into people and on maneuvering tight spaces and sudden turns and downward slopes, but there’s something freeing about the required concentration followed by the lack of it on smooth surfaces and straight paths. When we decide to turn back after an hour, Nia points to a local shop. “Should we get ice cream?”
“But we have some at home.”
She laughs. “Okay, Mum.”
* * *
We ride home; she’s sunburnt and I feel sticky. She cuts us slices of watermelon and we eat them over the sink.
I’m exhausted after; my muscles ache and I can’t help but lean forward when I walk, as if fighting gravity. At dinner I look for whatever’s already cooked: macaroni and cheese and a piece of chicken, followed by ice cream. We sit and resume The Cabin Plan.
My bones feel heavy when I drag them to the shower and when I’m out, my room is really warm. I remember my panic attack.
Google: Symptoms of a panic attack
The Medical Community
CindyKO: Hi guys. So a couple of hours ago, out of nowhere, I just fell down. I didn’t faint but I couldn’t breathe and I was sweating buckets and my chest hurt a lot. It was over in a couple of minutes and it hasn’t happened again, but since then I’ve been feeling really tired. Has this happened to anyone? Is it serious or no big deal?
Jonah91: The same thing happened to me and after a good night’s sleep I was fine. It’s probably something you ate. Drink some water and take some paracetamol and go to bed. You’ll be fine in the morning!
Genevieve Mac: I also once displayed similar symptoms, 24 hours later I was in A&E and the doctor tells me I almost died.
* * *
So, “roll the dice” is what I’m reading.
Before I get into bed, I kneel by my bedside and close my eyes.
“Dear God,” I say. “Please don’t let me die. I don’t think my mother could handle it. Please remember all the times I went to church even when I didn’t want to go. Amen.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Jo and Cam are back.
I need to apologize for what I said to Jo, and the words have to actually leave my mouth this time. Yet a part of me hoped they would return and Jo would act as if nothing happened, but when I hear the door open, I already know it’s too much to ask. I take a deep breath.
The sooner you do it, the sooner it’s over.
I walk into the kitchen, and they stop talking. A lot has happened to me since they left, but all that’s changed for them is the tan of their skin.
“Hey,” I say. “Welcome back.”
Jo busies herself with her bags, but Cam gives me a hug and asks, “How are you?”
“Good,” I answer. “Better than I was when … you know.”
Cam nods.
Jo says, “Hmmm.”
“I want to apologize, Jo.”
She looks up, surprised.
“What I said to you,” I continue, “was uncalled for and obviously not true. I didn’t mean it and I’m sorry.”
Jo lifts her chin. “You were in shock, so let’s just forget about it and move on.”
“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”
* * *
I wouldn’t say we’ve moved on. Jo and I don’t talk much and instead make the other uncomfortable. We talk, if we have to, mainly via group chat and give each other tense smiles if we meet in the kitchen. Cam and Jo sit in the living room together almost every night. Cam invited me to watch a film with them one evening and I said yes, thinking it would help. The atmosphere was stiff the entire time. They’d been talking about Florence before they heard me on the stairs and all conversation ceased from then. Now I camp out in my bedroom and listen out so I can avoid them in the kitchen or on the way to the bathroom. Jo must do the same because we rarely cross paths now, but it means I spend a lot of my time alone in my room. It’s not that bad.
I’m lonely, but it’s not that bad.
* * *
In the afternoon, I’m on the way home for a traditional Ghanaian ceremony Mum told me about last night and I’d never heard of before then.
Within the first two weeks of someone passing away, surviving relatives visit the house of the deceased to perform a libation. Apparently, we believe that during this time the spirit of the deceased is still around, calling to the spirits of family members who have already died, in this case, my dad’s parents and his older sister. We pour a glass of strong liquor on the ground outside the house as a way of inviting them here, so we can let them know that Dad is joining them.
I vaguely remember my dad’s sister, Aunt Rebecca; I must have met her in Ghana because I associate her with earthy ground and red dust. She had deep, healed tribal marks on her right cheek or on both. She wore a kente head wrap and a matching cloth tied around her waist to form a skirt. For me, that is Aunt Rebecca in her entirety.
That’s the thing about distant relatives you hardly know; they’re like Schrodinger’s cat—the relative in question might either be dead or alive, but often your reaction doesn’t differ dramatically when you find out which.
James is here along with Dad’s brother Freddie and his wife, Aunt Felicity—they flew in only yesterday, but Auntie Mabel’s still in Ghana. She left London right before Dad died and has been trying to move her return date forward. Her son, David, who is dark, lean, and carries himself awkwardly, is here on her behalf; he looks vaguely familiar even though he definitely hasn’t visited Dad since he became ill. The remaining attendees include Mum’s pastor, along with a couple from her church whose names I don’t catch.
Uncle Freddie pours the alcohol onto the ground and then water on top of it. I’m late, arriving halfway through, and he’s speaking Fante, which when spoken quickly is like trying to catch bubbles before they pop. My brain needs a second to translate a word, but he’ll have already moved on to the next one.
Heading back into the house, he comes over and shakes my hand gently. I can’t remember the last time I saw him. Maybe six years ago? He doesn’t like to leave home and Ghana will forever be his home. He has to lean forward when he walks, so we end up the same height; he wears a crackled leather flat cap on his head.