Riya Natrajan sighs. The tightness in her chest eases slightly. “Father”—the word feels tacky in her mouth. Almost wrong. His hair is gray, cheeks sunken, face worn beyond its years.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. If you’re looking for a priest, you’ve come to the wrong place. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” Her father shuts the door, but she sticks her foot in the jamb.
“You’re still mad. I get it. But it’s been eight years.” Riya presses harder against the door. “You can’t possibly hate me forever.”
“How can I hate you?” rasps her father. “I don’t even know you. Now, I suggest you leave before I call the police.”
Riya Natrajan shakes her head. She deserves it. She deserves to be locked away for what she did. Or didn’t do. It’s not like she hadn’t called. Not like she hadn’t sent flowers, twelve dozen lilies. Not like she hadn’t jumped on the fastest jet to Port Elizabeth as soon as she could. But she hadn’t been there for him when he needed her the most. While he watched her mother, his wife, being lowered into the ground and buried beneath six feet of black earth, Riya had been in Cape Town with Reginald Ivey, yes the Reginald Ivey, starting the negotiations that led to her first record deal, the one that paved the way for her career.
So she’s not going to be on the short list for any World’s Best Daughter awards, but if she can’t appeal to her father’s heart, she can always appeal to his mind. Rhoda Sanjit was one in a handful of people in this country to be diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, the diagnosis her father had made, the one he’d spent countless hours studying, the one he’d kept a secret all these years.
“It’s my MS,” she says. “That’s why I’m here. Please, just give me a moment of your time.”
Reluctantly Dr. Sanjit cracks the door, but lets his body fill the opening, as not to insinuate that she’s welcome here. “How’s the pain?” His voice comes out tepid, which is a lot warmer than it had been a moment ago.
“That’s just it. There’s no pain at all.”
His eyes narrow. “Self-medicating,” he says accusatorily.
“No!” Riya says, then retreats within the confines of her oversized blazer, pulling the lapels tight. “Well, some. But that’s not it. My senses are sharp. My mind is clear. No fatigue whatsoever.”
“Curious,” Dr. Sanjit says. He strokes his gray beard into a point.
“There’s more,” Riya says, lips barely parting. “I’ve lost my singing voice.”
“Ah . . .” Dr. Sanjit bobs his head knowingly. “This is God’s doing, then, and not a matter of medicine. Good day to you, Ms. Natrajan.”
“You can’t just turn me away. I’m your daughter!”
“The little girl I raised died years ago, a sweet child with possibility in her eyes and nothing but love in her heart. What you are, whoever you are . . . you’re not her.”
“Possibilities? Most people could only dream of achieving what I have!”
“You’re not most people, Rhoda—” Dr. Sanjit stops himself, his body swaying slightly as if overcome by nausea. With an unsteady hand, he reaches out for the doorjamb, misses. Riya Natrajan grabs him, and they find themselves in what might seem like a hug to the observer not familiar with the abyss between them.
And yet they linger.
“Please,” Riya whispers into her father’s ear. The tickle of his beard against her cheek dredges up a childhood’s worth of memories. Her eyes sting, but she forcibly composes herself.
“Come in,” he says after a considerable pause. “I’ll make tea.”
“Thank you.”
Her father looks her up and down, pursing his lips at her sweatpants and blazer. “There might be a change of old clothes . . . in the bedroom.” He nods down the hallway. Her old bedroom he means.
It’s like a punch to the gut, seeing it again. Just as she’d left it, not a doll out of place, ruffles on the comforter perfectly draped. Teen pop idol posters tacked to the ceiling. Enough purple to make you vomit. Two cheap plastic trophies sit prominently on her dresser—one from her grade nine decathlon championship, and the other for first place in her school’s science fair for the barometer she’d made under her father’s stern supervision. Riya Natrajan runs her finger over the brass nameplate, remembering how proud her mother had been, and how her father had clapped until his hands turned beet red.
“You kept it,” she says as her father sets a tray on her dresser, “just the way it was.”
“I knew you’d come home one day, Rhoda.”
“I’ve wanted to for a long time. But things got crazy. Now things are always crazy.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He sips from his teacup and she does the same, savoring the smell of jasmine tea, her favorite as a young teen.
Her father goes to her closet, pulls out a pair of purple flower print pants and a ruffled shirt. “You can try these. They might fit. Last thing we bought you before . . .”
Riya Natrajan smiles. She thinks they’re just as hideous now as she did then. “Maybe I’ll just grab a T-shirt.”
“Please, Rhoda. You never even wore it. Your mother said it was too youthful, but I told her you’d like them. Purple was always your favorite, remember?”
“Maybe we should talk some about my symptoms.” She forces herself to look at her father’s gaunt face. His piercing eyes dart all over her, like they’re chiseling away at the here and now, trying to free the little girl beneath. She clears her throat, feeling a sudden rush of warmth in her cheeks. “I’ve got a rehearsal in the city in a few hours, and my taxi isn’t going to wait forever.”
“Oh, I sent the taxi back.”
“You what?” Riya runs over to her window and draws back the lace curtains. The only sign of the taxi is a thin cloud of dust rising from the dirt road.
“You won’t be needing it, Rhoda. You’re home now.”
Her legs wobble beneath her, her brain heavy as a cinder block. “You drugged—” she tries to say, but her tongue is too thick in her mouth.
Eyelids drift shut.
Lips press against her forehead. “Happy birthday, Rhoda.”
Chapter 16
Nomvula and Mr. Tau
Nomvula poses for another carving, the dark brown of the mahogany a perfect match for her own smooth, bare skin. She’s not shy this time. Not a bit. She doesn’t ask Mr. Tau to make her nose smaller or her breasts bigger or her hips wider.
She’s got a dozen bees tickling inside her belly as they swarm. Mr. Tau says it’s basos, belief—a result of her heroic deed, and all the townspeople are truly thankful for her mercy. Nomvula decides she likes this feeling, and craves the praise of her people. She’s even proud that she’d saved that silly Sofora.
“I want to be a helpful god,” Nomvula announces to Mr. Tau, her lips moving, but nothing else. She keeps her head cocked to one side, legs bent out in front of her, arms draped gracefully over one knee. She holds her wings out, perfectly extended. The tips glow golden now, ever, ever so slightly, but it’s there and makes Nomvula giggle thinking about it.
“Do you, now?” Mr. Tau says, chipping and chipping and chipping away at the wood. “Performing miracles and answering people’s prayers is an awful lot of work.”