form slowly at the base and rise and pop. I feel parts of my body burst along with each bubble. The kettle snaps shut and stops.
I don’t hear Ma walk in.
“I dreamt of your father again.” She pulls out a chair and sits hunched over the table, her hands on her head. She does not look up when she speaks. “He was wiggling his finger as if trying to tell me something. His lips were moving but his voice was not there. I tried to tell him I couldn’t hear, but each time I moved closer to him he stepped back until he was only a figure on a horizon.”
“It’s only a dream, Ma. You’re tired.”
I pour water in the pan and stir in maize meal until the mixture is thick and smooth. After a few minutes, I lower the heat on the stove and make us tea.
“After all this time, I still sense your father’s disappointment.” Ma looks up, gives me the most direct look through her one good eye. Ma’s eyes are sunken in their sockets as if Fikile’s illness is also hers. “Do you blame me too?”
“Ma –”
“Do you? Because I know your brother hates me, your sister too, though she tries to hide it. I know deep down in her heart I’m nothing to her.” Ma begins to tremble in her seat. “You do,” she says, hurt when I do not respond. “My children hate me.”
“We don’t hate you, Ma.”
“Then why does it feel that way? I should have followed your father a long time ago.”
“Your tea will get cold.”
Ma looks at me, and down at the table as if only then noticing the tea in front of her. She pushes the cup away, shakes her head.
“You need some energy, Ma.”
She turns her eyes towards Fikile’s room. We sit for a while not speaking, each drowning in guilt – why is it Fikile dying in the room next door? I lift my cup and try to sip, but the tea has turned tepid. I take both cups over to the sink and empty them. I stir the porridge one more time and turn off the stove. I pour a little for Fikile and for Ma, sprinkle sugar and add milk to both.
“I doubt she will eat. She can’t even open her eyes.”
“How is she going to regain her strength if she refuses to eat?” Ma says, drying her eyes with the handkerchief, soggy and crumpled from all the crying. She follows me to Fikile’s room.
My mother rejects any notion that her eldest daughter will not overcome her illness and be well again. She carries this unwavering hope in her demeanour – head slightly bowed, lips stubbornly pressed – as we rejoice over small feats: Fikile sipping mouthfuls of water, making a gesture with her hand, lifting an eyelid, or when a flush of colour returns to her skin. My mother’s resolution pokes guilt at my conscience for not giving my sister a chance, for murdering her the day she received the results of her first mammogram showing a marble-sized lumpy mess in her left breast.
We sit on either side of the bed, me trying to feed my sister, and Ma forcing her own porridge down her throat in an exaggerated and illustrative manner meant to divert Fikile’s attention from the food. It is a trick she used with us as children when we were sick and refused to eat, something she had learned as a domestic worker and nanny years before she gave birth to her own children. It is a trick she believes can still do the job. Fikile refuses to open her mouth, and turns her face away.
“We will try again later,” I say. Fikile hasn’t eaten since we brought her home.
Doctor Thusi had warned us about the lack of appetite in dying people. He said it wasn’t uncommon, and the worst thing we could do is shove food down Fikile’s throat.
I fill up a small washing basin with warm water, remove Fikile’s diaper, and start to wipe her body with a soft cloth. Her muscles begin to relax. Her face is almost in a dreamlike state as I run the cloth over her cheeks, forehead, neck, under her emaciated arms, between her legs. She smiles, or her face contorts into an expression resembling a smile; I can’t help but smile too. When I’m finished, I rub peppermint and lavender oils all over her body to relieve pain. The essential oils were recommended by a sales assistant at the organic shop in town. I dress Fikile in her favourite nightdress, white with black lace trims – the lace tearing in places with wear – and cover her with a light blanket. Fikile bought the nightdress the day we went for her bra fitting post the mastectomy. She said she was still a woman and deserved to feel like one. Fikile falls asleep immediately after her bath. I rub a wet swab over her lips and apply Lesihle’s strawberry gloss. I stand back, happy with my work.
“You should have been a nurse,” Ma says. “You are good with people.”
Ma and I drift back to the kitchen.
“You must call your brother-in-law again. It is not right that he has not been to see his wife for so long,” Ma says. “How does he thinks she feels?”
“Your son-in-law only thinks about himself. He doesn’t care that his wife is lying here dying. Is it necessary to call him? If he wants to see Fikile, he will come. I don’t have the energy to run around after a grown man telling him what to do. You call him.”
I could count on my hands the number of times Thiza has checked on his wife and the children since they moved in with us several months ago at Ma’s insistence, after Fikile’s cancer progressed to her lungs, leaving her short of breath. Thiza had packed up Fikile and the children and brought them to our house that very afternoon. He did not stay long enough to see them settle in, his relief evident.
“Please, Anele,” Ma says, ignoring my outpour. “Please call him.”
“He won’t pick up anyway,” I say begrudgingly as I dial my brother-in-law’s number.
I am wrong, Thiza answers his phone. I tell him Ma wants him to come see Fikile.
“I’ll try,” Thiza says as if I asked him to swing by the shops to buy bread and butter.
“Try what? Just come. She is not getting better.” I hang up before he responds. “Please don’t make me call him again.”
I would be lying if I say I know when the pleasantries between Thiza and I faded, replaced by strained tolerance. For the longest time, we have moved around each other with practised care, fully aware of what lies beneath the pretence.
“You must exercise patience with him. You’re not the only one suffering,” Ma says.
I could smack Ma for insinuating that Thiza cares; instead I walk out of the kitchen.
Sizwe is awake, dressing to get ready for work. I am once again relieved that I could take my festive season leave early to help Ma care for Fikile and the children.
“How is she?” Sizwe asks.
“She still won’t eat, but at least her temperature has dropped.”
He comes over and puts his arms around me. I rest my cheek on his shoulder. The material of his overalls feels scratchy and hard on my skin. I’m comforted.
“What am I going to do if Fikile dies?” I whisper to him. “I’m scared.”
“Shh, don’t think that way,” Sizwe says.
I close my eyes, ashamed. I am killing my sister again.
* * *
Throughout the day Ma and I take turns to sit with Fikile. We feed her again, or attempt to feed her. We fill her in on the latest developments in our household, the latest gossip from the stokvel ladies, some of whom have come to check on her, and the progress of the new church building that, according to Ma, looks like one is already entering heaven. I don’t know if Fikile hears us but we speak to her anyway.
After dinner, we bring the children in to see her. Bafana has the most questions. “Is Ma going to open her eyes? Why does she sleep the whole day? Will Ma play with me again? Where is Dad? I want Dad.”
My daughter, Mvula, who is not yet four