“I don’t go to church to meet men, Mum.”
“Maybe that is the problem,” she says. “Where else do you expect to find God-fearing men if not at church? You know your cousin Glory, here in Ghana?”
“No.”
“Well, she’s just gotten married. She’s twenty-four, I think. Younger than you.”
“Lucky her.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it, Maame.”
“Fine. Mum, why didn’t you call me back on Sunday?”
“I got your message but knew it wasn’t serious when I didn’t hear from you again,” she says. “Is your father okay now?”
“Yes. Dr. Appong came by yesterday to check on him,” I answer. “He said there was nothing to worry about, but it was still scary.”
“It shouldn’t be. What did you just learn about Esther and faith?” She doesn’t even wait for me to answer. “To have faith—that’s what you should take away from Esther,” Mum says. “These things will happen with his numerous medications, so no need to work yourself up. All right?”
There’s no use in saying anything other than, “All right.”
“Good. What did you get up to on Saturday?”
“Not much,” I answer. “Cleaned the house, then sat in the living room with Dad and read for a bit.”
“On a Saturday night?”
“Would you rather I was out getting drunk?”
“Of course not! Don’t say things like that. Only loose women get drunk. Are you a loose woman?”
“No, Mum.”
“Exactly. But are you not tired of your four walls?” she asks. “You’re a good girl, Maddie, but staying home all the time to look after your father, it will make you resentful. You don’t have to watch him twenty-four seven; you can leave for a few hours here and there. Like you said, you are tired of everything you do at home, so go outside, otherwise you’ll never meet someone to marry.”
I don’t say anything.
“When you’re older, you’ll wish you did more. You will,” she continues. “I know more than you, Maddie. Anyway, I called to say that I’ve booked my ticket and will be home next week. Your uncle wants more time with the hostel—bit late to help out now, but anyway. I’ll be back to stay for a year, possibly more. So now you can move out and live your life a bit.”
I put my lunch down beside me. “Move out?”
“Yes, whilst I’m watching your father, at least. Surely you’re thinking about it, eh? Are you going straight home tonight?”
I get a small kick out of answering, “Actually, no. I’m going to a play.”
“On a date?”
I deflate. “No, for work.”
There’s a couple seconds of silence before she says, “There will be men in the audience. Maybe you’ll sit next to one.”
* * *
When she ends the call, I stare out to the river.
Mum actually wants me to move out? I never considered she’d want to be home alone and responsible for Dad. I guess me finding a husband and having children before I’m thirty takes precedence.
My parents aren’t together, but they are. “We are still married,” Mum said when James had asked, “but we are apart. Divorce is not really a thing for us.” I’d wanted to know if the “us” referred to our religion, culture, or just them, but I kept my mouth shut. I knew not to ask too many questions. Which is odd when I think about it now; I knew to keep family matters private from outsiders but never considered the secrets we were possibly keeping from one another. “It’s not something to spread around, okay?” Mum quickly added. “Family business.”
Could I finally move out? My refusal to leave hung on the fact that Dad needed someone more constant than Dawoud’s visits, but Mum will be here. I’d have to return when she eventually left again, but while I have the chance …
Maybe I could get out more. Meet people. Meet someone. Finally have an answer to Mum’s perpetual question. What could it hurt to go on a date, knowing I wouldn’t have to rush back home after? To invite a man into my house, introduce him to my friends and be introduced to his. What could it hurt to maybe even fall in love?
I download the RentARoom app before returning to the office.
* * *
Katherine is once again prowling my desk, but this time she has her fists balled at her side and her shoulders under her ears as if trying to contain what’s threatening to escape.
“Have you seen the state of my diary?” she explodes at the sight of me. She’s red in the face, spittle clinging to her bottom lip and her high-strung voice wobbles at every other syllable. Shit. She usually reserves her tears for whatever toilet stall is available at the time, but it doesn’t look like she can help herself. Suddenly I think: This is a long time coming.
I don’t know how to handle this and no one in the room rushes to my side, so I’m shaking when I wake my computer up and switch onto her diary. It’s full of accepted invitations and clashes that weren’t there an hour ago.
“I didn’t accept these meetings,” I tell her.
“I did!” she says. “They’ve been sitting in my inbox and now there’s clashes all over the place and I can’t have any clashes!” She presses her palms to her eyes. “I can’t—I cannot do this!”
I’m facing her, but I can feel the entire office watching. My heart is pounding and my eyes are stinging when I quietly say, “This isn’t my fault.”
Katherine’s hands drop from her eyes and she stares at me, her pupils flickering from side to side. “Look at my diary, Maddie! This is your job!”
“Okay,” Claire says, finally getting up from her seat. “Katherine, why don’t you leave Maddie to sort out your diary—I’m sure it won’t take her very long.” She speaks as if reasoning with a toddler and ushers Katherine back into her office. “Whilst she’s doing that, I’ll make you a cup of tea, how’s that sound?”
“Yes, thank you, Claire,” Katherine says between labored breaths. “That’s very kind.”
I turn back to my computer, feeling everyone’s eyes still stuck to me.
I don’t cry until enough time has passed for me to inconspicuously use the bathroom. There I ruminate on whether Katherine has a favorite cubicle to cry in, and if I’m currently sat in it.
At least I’m not in the office all day. I leave at three in the afternoon to make the GP appointment for my back. Even though I’ll return in the evening for a play, my shoulders drop once I’m outside the building and waiting for my train.
* * *
I lie on my boobs, shifting uncomfortably, in the overly bright office of General Practitioner Shazia Rana. She’s not a conversationalist, so the silence, whilst she slowly dons a pair of gloves, makes my ears ring. I wonder if I should mention I have highly sensitive nipples, which means I can never sleep on my front and whether that’s something I should be worried about.
Dr. Rana walks up to the table and asks me to lift my jumper so she can feel for anything obvious on my back. This is quite difficult to do when lying on your belly, but I give it my best shot. I remember too late how tight the neck hole of this jumper is and, to stop my legs flailing from the effort, decide to just lie there with half my face obscured by polyester masquerading as cotton.