“Madeleine-y!”
I turn from the washing machine and there’s Dawoud, all six-foot-something of him, blocking the doorway. He’s in black trousers, a T-shirt, and a caramel windbreaker. I’d almost forgotten about Dawoud, which is cruel of me. Mum must have invited him. I’m so glad that she did.
“How are you?” He pulls me into a quick hug, which he’s never done before, a big palm slapping my back. My instinct is to tense up—should older men I don’t really know hug me? But the smell of him, faint cigarette smoke and cleaning soap briefly makes me think my dad is still alive. “Sorry I have not appeared,” he says, letting me go. “I go to other patients, you understand.”
“Of course.”
He nods and suddenly says, “I miss your father.”
This surprises me, and I almost ask if he even knew Dad.
“My other patients,” Dawoud continues, “they don’t like to talk with me.”
I frown, thinking of Dad, tired and reserved in his armchair. “Talk?”
“Yes. Your father, he always talk to me.”
I clutch my shirt at the navel, where the pang starts. “He did?”
“Oh, yes,” and Dawoud smiles brightly. “I always start talking and his brain warm up, then we talk together. I tell him about my day, family at home, my home-home, you understand.”
I nod eagerly. I want to hear more. I need to hear proof that the man he’s talking about really is Dad.
“I tell him about my job,” Dawoud continues, “I read him newspaper, and then he tells me things about his home-home. Kumasi.”
Oh my—
“His family, his sister, erm, Becca?”
“Rebecca, yes.”
“And you!”
“Me?”
“Ha! Of course. You Madeleine-y! Always you,” he says. “You at school, getting good scores, you come home and read. No trouble for him. Easy child. Good, good daughter. Yes, he will always talk about you. Oh, why are you crying?” He frowns and rips off a piece of kitchen towel to hand to me. He’s frowning because he thinks I know all of this, but I don’t. He thinks Dad and I always spoke, but we rarely did. He thinks I sat down and waited for Dad’s brain to warm up, but I didn’t, because Dad had always been so quiet and aloof before he was sick that it never even occurred to me that aspect might have changed. I didn’t think to check. I thought Dad was like me, that we didn’t need anyone. James and Mum were the social ones, and we were the introverts.
What if all this time I’d been wrong?
Chapter Twenty-four
When a message comes in from Mum the next day, my anxiety spikes. I try to read the first line to glean whether I should open it or not. It looks harmless. However— Mum LONDON
Maddie how are you today? You and your brother need to gather some funds quickly because it’s the children who bury their father.
Once the body is released you will have only two weeks to put him to his final rest.
You can get a bank loan if you don’t have the money. Thx.
Maddie
What does this tradition say about the wife?
Mum LONDON
Surely I have a part to play in the financial and planning and if I had the money I would have done everything for my children but the children taking responsibility is tradition.
As I stare at her message, all those symptoms return: a hit of dizziness, shortness of breath, a tight chest, the illusion that my bedroom is shrinking. However, it’s not fear I feel this time, but anger.
Maddie
Considering the children are not financially stable, it isn’t a very good tradition and it won’t be one I force onto my children.
You’re very quick to suggest I get a loan, considering me going to university with loans was also your idea.
When I’m a mother, my job won’t be to sit around and watch my children grow in debt.
Mum LONDON
Of course I don’t want to see you in debt but you are young with a degree you will get through debt better than me.
This is a very challenging time for us all and we have to unite.
Please show your mother some kindness because I need it now more than ever.
I turn my phone off. On my laptop, I search for whether we qualify for any funeral expense help.
We don’t.
* * *
James calls me to the house the next day. I stand in the corner of the kitchen as they argue.
“Call him ‘your father’ one more time,” he says to Mum. “He was your husband before our father and you’re the only one living in his house right now, so you’d best gather some funds too.”
“How?” Mum asks. “I don’t have any money here! It’s all tied up in Ghana!”
“You could get a bank loan,” I suddenly say.
She looks at me. “Maame, what bank will give me money? I’m not living here half the time.”
“Whose fault is that?” James asks. “You run an entire business—how are you always broke? It shouldn’t be only on us when you’ve been chilling in Ghana and we’ve been here with Dad.”
I round on James and feel that flicker of anger yet again. Shu once said that brothers have a level of audacity sisters couldn’t possibly reach—or get away with—even if they tried. James has done very little to prove her wrong. He hasn’t taken his jacket off, but it’s unzipped and he’s well dressed, as usual. “Always gotta look fresh, Mads,” he’d say. “You never know who might catch me on the streets.” James has always played the part of a life he wants rather than the one he has, the rest of our needs be damned.
“I’ll be expecting money from you, too.”
James looks at me and frowns. “Yeah, course. Some.”
“Some?” I repeat. “You should pay the most since you hardly helped in any other way. You’re the eldest and, supposedly, the head of the household now. And I’m pretty sure you make more than me.”
“Yes,” Mum says, nodding at him. “Look at you.”
“But let me guess,” I continue, “I’m expected to use my savings because you’re low on funds, again? Where did you spend all your money this time? Brazil? Russia? Italy?”
His face drops. “Mads.”
“What?” I ask him. “Mads, what?”
“You know I did the best I could.”
I look at his shiny black Puffer jacket and spotless trainers. “No,” I tell him. “No, you didn’t. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? I needed you both—desperately, at times. Dad and I both did.” You would have been able to tell he was off, right? “Now it’s too late.”
I walk out of the kitchen and then the house, slamming the front door behind me.
* * *
Mum LONDON
How much savings have you got and how much will you use for your dad?
I am sorry but your brother and I don’t have much so most will come from you. Thanks.
Maddie
Stop adding “thanks” to the end of your messages. It’s annoying.
Mum LONDON
Your mother is annoying?
Madeleine your mother is annoying?
I type out a reply but hesitate.
In secondary school, I once heard a friend tell her mum to shut up over the phone. I couldn’t imagine the trouble she’d get into at home and told her as much.