Allow Me to Introduce Myself, page 28
“You mean like she did first?”
“Aṅụrị.”
“But it doesn’t matter, right? She told my dad. I didn’t have to say anything.”
“Unfortunately, given the nature of your relationship with Ophelia, her telling your father doesn’t mean you won’t turn around at some point and speak about this anyway. I’m sorry, Aṅụrị. She probably doesn’t trust you to stay quiet. If the shoe was on the other foot, I wouldn’t trust her to shut up either.”
Aṅụrị put the phone on the floor. She pressed her palms flat against the floorboards and closed her eyes. She was at home. The ground was solid beneath her. She counted to five and back down to one. When she picked up her phone again, Gloria was still there. “What do I do?”
“Nothing. This isn’t a situation you can fully control, Aṅụrị. Okay? Promise me you won’t do anything else or talk to anyone else. I need to call in some favors and see if there’s anything I can find out.”
Aṅụrị nodded although Gloria could not see her. “Will you call me back when you do?”
“Of course.” Finally, Gloria’s voice softened. “Of course I will.”
She wanted her father. There may come a time where you stop needing your parents, but you do not stop wanting them, Aṅụrị found. You only resigned yourself to their absence or grew weary of their shortcomings. She could call Nneoma or her grandparents, but instead, not trusting her legs to carry her to her destination, she ordered an Uber and went to Simi’s house. Yele opened the door and said, “Yo, Aṅụrị!” And Morenike, who was at the precise moment walking down the stairs, cuffed her son gently on the back of the head and said, “Yo? What is yo? Did I not teach you how to greet properly?” It was a relief to Aṅụrị to not have to explain what she was doing there without Simi.
Morenike patted Aṅụrị’s cheek. “My dear, how are you? You don’t eat again? Why so skinny? Come, there’s ewedu and asaro in the kitchen. Simi made it last night. Has she told you about this architecture thing she wants to do?” She started moving down the hall toward the back of the house. Here it was. The familiarity Aṅụrị craved. She took a deep, steadying breath and followed.
* * *
Like Remy, Gloria did not believe in luck. To admit to being auspicious was to sacrifice an opportunity to celebrate yourself and in the lit match that was the world, why deny yourself that right? Here was a woman who rose to her position as the youngest senior partner at her firm, who did not succumb to the pressure to transition to the bar, who had watched Aṅụrị grow from child to adult. She was Igbo, of Anambra stock, and it wasn’t that failure frightened her, it just did not make sense to her. For this reason and because she had watched Aṅụrị grow from child to adult, she dedicated fourteen minutes to her annoyance at Aṅụrị for opening her mouth and trying to orchestrate a forced triumph. The girl’s actions had essentially removed Gloria’s teeth, her bite was now ineffective. Fourteen minutes over, Gloria decided she would simply grow new teeth.
She closed the door to her office, kicked off her shoes and paced a circle into the carpet. She then returned to her desk, picked up the phone and placed a call to one Vincent Nelson-Grey. She did not particularly like Vincent Nelson-Grey. The man perpetually smelled like coffee and concluded every sentence he spoke with a low laugh. He was a man who had abandoned the desire to be liked, and because of this and his prowess as a private investigator, Gloria respected him. After all, it is easier to be liked than respected.
“Mrs. Ezenwa-Okorie,” Vincent said. “To what do I owe this pleasure heh heh heh?”
Gloria clenched her teeth. “As always, Vincent, ‘Gloria’ is fine.” She did not wait for a response. “How au fait are you with pseudo-celebrities?”
* * *
It took Vincent Nelson-Grey a little less than forty-eight hours to arrive at Gloria’s office holding a slim file. Inside was a photograph and a single sheet of paper.
“She’s very boring, that Ophelia Chinasa heh heh heh,” he said to Gloria. “Send me something a little juicer next time?”
Gloria paid him the remainder of his fee, saw him out and all but sprinted back to her office. She opened the folder and pored over its contents. The photo was semi-blurry; a long-range shot of Ophelia meeting with someone in a Starbucks. Gloria did not need to read the typed report but did anyway, dread pooling in her stomach. She would recognize that orange hair anywhere. It was a hue that did not occur in nature. It was the hair of Penelope Bishop, author of the Article.
NKEM
I didn’t tell Nneoma when I decided to marry Ophelia. Already, there was too much doubt, too much negativity surrounding us, and I did not want to build my new marriage on a bed of pessimism. I knew what my sister would say; what Makuo and Arinze would think: that I was rushing, that all I wanted was a replacement for Kainene or perhaps a gateway to the other side of losing her, where I couldn’t feel her absence like a thorn with every movement I made. Nneoma would ask me whether or not I thought marrying Kaine’s opposite would bring me peace. She would hold me in place with her eyes, as she has always done, and I would crack open and stain us all with the truth.
Which was this: I did not know how to be a father to Aṅụrị without the child’s mother at my side. Failure pressed in from all sides. I was too weak, too frightened to learn. My love for Ophelia, at least in the beginning, was secondary. I needed her to be the person my daughter could rely on.
For this reason, but for a different daughter, I returned to her.
Again, my love for my wife was secondary, but it was unaffected by circumstance and by the choices she made.
I returned to her knowing it would forever feel like a betrayal.
NINETEEN
At age twelve, Aṅụrị was cresting the wave of an aggressive growth spurt which left her with spidery stretch marks on her hips and a pair of breasts she kept hidden beneath a range of outsize men’s sweatshirts. She was also battling a small yet persistent patch of acne on her chin. She was dueling with puberty and hormones and losing most spectacularly. The hormones and the general glut of preteen angst coincided with Simi’s parents finally taking their child’s classification as “gifted” seriously, resulting in Simi’s enrolment in a series of extracurricular tutoring and sporting activities. This meant that Simi was less available and that when she was, she was often preoccupied or fatigued. Twelve-year-old Aṅụrị took Simi’s droopy-eyed presence to mean she had become less interesting to her friend, and that this must be rectified immediately. She set about on a short course of intense reinvention. She learned Yoruba phrases from Lekan and Yele to better engage Simi in conversation. She looked up information on Wikipedia about the kind of very boring buildings Simi was interested in, and made herself sit through the very boring documentaries Simi enjoyed. She visited the fancy charity shops near her school and bought secondhand Mills & Boon books so she might regale Simi and Loki with her newfound knowledge of “tumescence” and “heaving bosoms.” For a strange fortnight, Aṅụrị wore only black clothing, started listening to alternative rock and trained herself to refuse all beverages bar Dr. Pepper and black coffee. She was a child, but more than that, she was an Online Child used to being the sustained object of acclamation. She had not yet learned that perfection was subjective and that you could spend weeks, months or even a lifetime carving away at parts of yourself until you resembled what was popular, not knowing that what was popular had a new definition and you were now disfigured and surplus to requirements.
Aṅụrị did all these things and all that happened was Simi pulling her up the stairs to her bedroom one afternoon and saying, “Aṅụrị, kilode? Mummy says to ask if something is wrong with you so they can direct their prayers.” A month later when Simi told her parents she would find the nearest boy to run away with if they did not allow her to drop advanced mathematics, things went back to normal and Aṅụrị started dressing like herself and diversifying her beverage choices. She cast off the disguise but found she genuinely did enjoy both Doc Martens and alternative rock—something about the drums, the clashing of the high hat, the guitars braying anguish even if the song happened to be jovial.
In times of high stress, Aṅụrị retreated wholly into this music. Her afternoon was spent listening to Manic Street Preachers, Arcade Fire and Red Hot Chili Peppers. The catalyst? A phone call from Gloria the day before.
“Are you sure it was her?” Aṅụrị asked, following Gloria divulging the outcome of Vincent Nelson-Grey’s assignment.
“It was Penelope, Aṅụrị. I’m sorry. I’d recognize that hair anywhere. Besides, Vincent is very thorough.”
Aṅụrị raised her free hand and saw that it was shaking. “No. I mean...was it Ophelia? Are you sure it was Ophelia?”
Gloria, making the call from her living room sofa where she watched her husband slice spring onions, wished there was a world in which she might tell Aṅụrị she was mistaken. Alas.
“I—The job was for him to follow Ophelia and find anything of note in her comings and goings. It’s her, Aṅụrị. I’m really sorry.” And she was. Bad news was never a delight to deliver, but there was bad news and then there was this; a confirmation that Aṅụrị’s stepmother was the source of yet another painful time in Aṅụrị’s life.
Aṅụrị sat down on her bed. She did not want to, but her body did. There were too many reminders today that a person was never fully their own. “Okay but what does it mean? Aside from her being the leak?” Her voice had taken on a reedy quality she did not like.
“We have to think logically. Ophelia’s back to posting content. Noelle is home with her and she’s meeting with Penelope Bishop and not to swap casserole recipes.”
Keep breathing, Aṅụrị told herself. How pathetic to have to coach your body to carry out the functions it was there to naturally perform. She almost laughed. But then she would forget to breathe.
“You don’t think...she couldn’t be...” The words were too horrific to speak. If Aṅụrị put them into the world, then there was a chance they would be true.
“That she’s leaking something else? I think that’s very likely given what we know now. I—”
“No. No.” Aṅụrị swallowed. She felt herself tilting to the left, so she lay flat on her bed. “When she wrote the article, I googled her. Penelope is kind of famous for her long-form interviews. Written and televised. You don’t think...” She was unable to finish the sentence.
In her living room, Gloria was on her feet. Her husband’s knife stilled over the onions. He looked at her quizzically.
“M nzuzu,” Gloria said because in that moment, foolish is all she felt. How hadn’t she thought of it herself? The coolness with which Ophelia’s lawyers had informed her of “Mrs. Chinasa’s change of heart,” the abruptness with which they snatched the offer off the table and now this new information about Penelope. Retaliation never occurred to Gloria because, despite everything, she was a mother first and she could not comprehend a mother choosing this course of action. It did not compute. But she was not dealing with normal people. And it was brilliant. Diabolical but brilliant.
“Aṅụrị,” Gloria said, “Ophelia could be planning something with Penelope. Is that what you were about to say?”
“Yes.” It came out as a whisper.
“I’m going to see what I can find out.” Gloria’s blood was hot. The rush of unearthing new and important information, of slotting in another puzzle piece for the good of her client was imminent. She felt giddy with it. Then remembered the sound of Aṅụrị’s voice: tiny and defeated. “Aṅụrị. It’s not over, okay?”
But it was, Aṅụrị thought. How could Gloria not see that it was?
* * *
Aṅụrị did not need to wait to see what Gloria could find out. The announcement was made that morning across both Penelope’s and Ophelia’s social media, as well as the entertainment pages of global publications. Ophelia was sitting down with Penelope Bishop for a long-awaited TV exclusive on motherhood. Find out, the Instagram post said, about the pressures of public motherhood, the pain of strained relationships with your kids and all about that legal trouble! An unmissable and frank discussion coming this Sunday. Aṅụrị read the announcements over and over again until her eyes rejected it and the posts became smeared colors and shapes on the screen. It was Tuesday. She phoned Nkem.
“What do you want me to do?” he said.
Aṅụrị did not answer. If he didn’t know, then there was nothing to be said.
“Biko, Aṅụrị, I have problems here, too.”
“Are you still at Aunty Nneoma’s place?”
Nkem was slow to respond. “It was better for me to be here at home with Noelle. She was asking for me.”
Aṅụrị hung up then turned off her phone and turned on Manic Street Preachers. She pressed her belly to the floor so she could reach under her bed for the unopened bottle of rum she purchased the day before, and when she found it, she set it on the chest of drawers opposite her bed. Then she lay back down. She stared at the bottle and it stared back. She would drink it, she knew, it was only a matter of when. And she felt nothing but relief, because was weakness truly weakness if you welcomed it?
Around 3:00 p.m., Aṅụrị heard knocking. She realized then that she must have fallen asleep because the knocking startled her, thrust her into unwelcome wakefulness. She turned over and ignored it. It stopped. Around 4:00 p.m., the knocking restarted and this time, it came as the drumbeat of a Wizkid song Aṅụrị loved. She shuffled to her front door and opened it to find Christian.
After the plant pot holder, Aṅụrị returned to Blank and left Christian a monogrammed yarn bag she ordered from Etsy. That had been days ago and she decided not to live in hope. He didn’t call and he didn’t text and plant pot holders were wonderful but they were a poor substitute for conversation. She may have been forgiven, but she may also have been confined to Christian’s personal past. Whenever she thought about this, Aṅụrị felt like all the air in the room had consolidated into a ball and rolled away from her, out of her reach.
“Oh,” she said now.
“Hi,” Christian said.
“How do you keep getting into the building?”
“You have very nice neighbors. They always compliment my hair. They even ask to touch it.” He smiled.
“Oh,” Aṅụrị said.
“Your phone was off.”
“It’s been a crappy day.”
“I figured.”
Aṅụrị briefly considered folding like origami at his feet but chose instead to return to her bedroom, lie back down on her bed and resume her staring contest with the rum. Christian followed. He opened one window, surveyed the clothes on the floor and Aṅụrị’s vacant stare, and lay beside her, leaving space between them.
“Why are we looking at a bottle of rum?”
“I find staring helps kill the craving.”
“Does it? Let me try.” Christian fixed his eyes on the side of Aṅụrị’s face. “Fake news.”
Aṅụrị turned her head and met his gaze. “Hi,” she said.
“Today has you craving rum?”
“Every day,” Aṅụrị said, because she was too weary to lie. “But I haven’t drunk it yet.”
“Ah.” They both resumed staring at the bottle. “You’re right. You haven’t drunk it. I’m not sure there has to be a ‘yet.’”
“Doesn’t there?” If she kept still, perhaps he wouldn’t notice she was crying.
“No. There doesn’t. We can talk about that sometime, if you like. Thank you for the yarn bag. My sister’s been laughing at me nonstop since it arrived.”
“I’m sorry for being weird. I try to help it, but I can’t.”
“I’m a grown man in cybersecurity who enjoys crochet. We’re all weird, Aṅụrị.”
“My weird is special.”
“I like your weird. Listen, do you want to know how long I would have knocked if you hadn’t answered the door?”
“How long?”
“Literally four hours. They let us leave work early today and I came straight here to give you this.” Christian reached down and handed her a crocheted monogrammed plush pig. “In case you were missing LowlyWorm.”
Aṅụrị couldn’t speak. She fumbled for his hand.
“This might be shitty timing but I just...” His voice faltered. Aṅụrị squeezed his fingers. “Right. I’m saying it doesn’t have to be complicated, you know. It can just be two people, and sometimes more, working together to make each other’s lives a little less trying. And pointing out beautiful things the other might not have seen. And like, crocheting substitute paypigs. I think that’s my definition of it anyway.”
“Love?”
“And the lead up to it. I think I’d like to have the chance to do those things for you, and you know, have you do them for me in a way that isn’t a chore.”
“Despite me being a ten?”
“Because you’re a nine point one.”
“What if—”
“Nope. Let’s not do that today.”
“Alright. Deal-breakers?”
“The consumption of runny egg, methamphetamine or Woody Allen films.”
“Wow. Strict.”
“Yours?”
“Don’t go on TV to talk about your relationship with me.”
Christian held Aṅụrị’s hand a little tighter. “Oh that’s a piece of piss. I don’t like talking to most people.”
* * *
When she woke again, it was gone nine and the bottle of rum had disappeared from Aṅụrị’s chest of drawers. Christian had also disappeared, but she could hear the muffled rumble of voices from the living room. Congregated there, she found Christian, Loki, Simi and a person she had never met.
