Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“You look nice,” I say. “I didn’t know you and Gus were going out.”
“It’s Saturday.” She cocks a shoulder. “Gus is at the country club.” Crossing the floor, she takes my hand. “It’s such a beautiful day. Let’s take a drive.”
My heart sinks. I’d rather be alone with my drawings. Plus, I want to deliver more sketches to Lucky tomorrow. Yet I can’t say no to my mom, not when she sacrificed her life and happiness for me.
“Sure,” I say. “Where are we going?”
She picks up my sneakers from next to the bed and hands them to me. “You’ll see.”
Obediently, I fit the shoes and tie the laces.
Sometimes, she drives to the top of the hill in Auckland Park and sits there until the sun sets and the city lights flick on one after the other like stars popping in the sky. What does she think about when she leans her head against the backrest and stares with glassy eyes at the pretty lights of a city that never sleeps? To her, Johannesburg with its skyscrapers and riches has always represented endless possibilities. I, too, love the fast pace of the life that flows through its streets. The city is as exhilarating as what it can be dangerous.
My mom gets to her feet. “Come on. The sun will be setting soon.”
She waltzes out ahead of me, light like a cat on her sandal-clad feet, all but running down the stairs to the foyer.
When I get outside, she’s already waiting in the car. I climb with a little difficulty onto the step of the door and get into the massive 4x4 Gus mainly uses for fishing excursions at the nearby dam. As he drives his Maserati to work, my mom takes the Landcruiser when she needs to go out. She pushes the button on the key remote to open the gates and pulls off while I’m still fitting my seat belt. Gus’s house is a Tuscan style villa situated in the prestigious Kyalami Estate. At the boom that gives access to the estate, my mom waves at the guard who returns the greeting with a broad smile.
I watch her as she takes the exit and heads south. The moment we hit the highway, her face relaxes. She doesn’t have wrinkles, but I never realize how tight the muscles around her eyes and mouth are until her features soften like now. Not taking her eyes off the road, she switches on the radio. A love song pours through the speakers. She gets that dreamy look in her eyes I’m all too familiar with as she sings along softly. I’m more of a hip-hop fan. Love is for people who don’t mind getting hurt.
Has my mom ever had her heart broken? I doubt it. She wasn’t in love with my biological father. According to her, he could’ve been one of three men. The first was the director of the Joburg Theater where she was a stage assistant for an illusionist. She wanted to become an actress, but the only role she ever played was driving a sword through a coffin in which her employer was confined. The director was thirty years her senior and married. The second candidate was an illegal immigrant who sold skunk to high school kids. The third was a nature activist who lived from the trunk of his car. Needless to say, none of them were suited for the role or wanted the responsibility of fatherhood.
When her stomach grew too big for the stage, the illusionist found a slimmer girl to stab him with a sword. My mom earned a little money by posing as a naked model for art students, enough to make the rent of a studio apartment in Mayfair. After I was born, she continued to pose for a few painters who’d made names for themselves, thereby managing to wangle invitations to prestigious art exhibitions and upmarket auctions. That was where she met Gus. Ironically, his wife had dragged him to an auction to bid on a painting she’d fallen in love with. My mom didn’t tell me this herself. She never talks about her past. The only information she shared with me was the bit about my biological father. She reckoned it was her duty to be honest with me about why I don’t know my father. The rest I learned from my mother’s aunt, Ginger.
Aunt Ginger lived in an apartment in Braamfontein, not far from the theater. She was our only relative I’d met. We didn’t visit her often. My mom always took me with her when she posed as an artist’s model so that she could breastfeed me. When I was older, she left me with my aunt on the rare occasions that she needed a babysitter. I don’t think Aunt Ginger was ever invited to Gus’s house. If she was, she never accepted.