by Jane Igharo
“Oh. You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
I shake my head, but a burst of laughter breaks through my lips. The sound becomes thicker and richer only because he’s joined me.
Ten minutes into the movie, after our laughter has stopped, he looks down at me snuggled at his side and says, “Whenever you’re ready, cariño.”
And that’s it. The conversation about living together doesn’t extend past those four words. It’s a relief. The sweetest phase of our relationship—the newness and awe—can still be preserved, safeguarded from being dulled by the routine of living together. And I know it’s only temporary—this time when we are still learning about each other and obsessing over each other. Soon, the mist will fade, things will become clearer, the fact that my mother has disowned me will have a stronger sting, and the fact that I have broken a promise to my father will leave me guilt-ridden. Any day now, I’ll feel the full effect of choosing Rafael. But I don’t want to think so far ahead. I’ll just relish this moment, even as it slips through my fingers like sand.
chapter
29
In most romantic movies, there’s a montage that depicts a couple’s progressing relationship with a series of heartwarming, tear-jerking, aww-worthy scenes. Usually playing along with this collection of scenes is a soundtrack, something upbeat or mellow but equally sentimental. In the montage that illustrates my last three months with Rafael, the song playing is “My Darlin’” by Tiwa Savage.
In this montage, Rafael and I are snuggled on the couch, snacks sprawled out on our legs while we watch a romantic movie. In the next scene, he’s teaching me how to do the bolero, a traditional Spanish dance that’s slow and sensual. I’m not very good at it, but he’s a pro. We’re cuddling in bed in the next scene, discovering and rediscovering each other. I tell him about my childhood, my village, my late father, and the promise I made. He tells me about his childhood too—his parents, his siblings, and his time in Spain. In the next scene, we see our baby for the first time via ultrasound. Our teary eyes connect and then our lips. In the next clip, we’re at the office. It’s the middle of the workday, and we’re hiding out in the stairwell, making out like hormonal teenagers. He’s made dinner in the next scene— gazpacho and chicken paella. I’m scarfing down the food because it tastes so damn good. He laughs because I’ve somehow managed to get soup in my hair and on my nose. In the last scene, we’re making love over rumpled sheets. Right after, he holds me in his arms and whispers the sweetest things.
Of course, in most romantic movies, another scene follows the montage. In this scene, the bubble the love interests have been sheltered in tears slightly and reality slips through like a slow-acting poison, gradually destroying everything they thought was secure. In the movie The Notebook, it’s when Allie takes Noah to meet her parents, and her parents—being wealthy and high-class—deem Noah unworthy of their daughter. In my case, it’s when I’m at Pottery Barn shopping for the baby’s nursery, and I realize I haven’t spoken to my mother or seen her in three months. She should be here with me, shopping like the mother-daughter duo in the store who are laughing and picking out things together. The daughter, probably the same age as me, keeps asking her mother questions.
“Should I get this, Mom? Will the baby need this? Mom, how often will you visit when the baby comes?”
In my culture, after giving birth, a woman experiences the traditional postpartum care known as omugwo. During this period, the new mother gets pampered by her mother who moves in for a few months after the baby is born and handles all the household chores. The new mother is only allowed to feed the baby, relax, receive visitors, and sip lots of pepper soup. In my village, I witnessed many women experience this with their mothers. It’s only just occurred to me that I won’t have the same privilege. My mother won’t be there for me in any capacity when I have this baby. As that hint of reality slips into the bubble I have been sheltered in, tears sting my dry eyes, and I release Rafael’s hand.
“You okay, cariño?” He looks at the space I’ve created between our bodies and at me. Over the past months, he’s learned my habits. In such a short time, he’s become an expert on me. He can tell when something is wrong. “What is it?”
I miss my mom. Even after everything she said and did, I miss her. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I miss receiving her approval. For the first time in my life, I don’t have it. I don’t have my mom, and it’s killing me. I should tell him this, but I can’t. I don’t want him to feel guilty or responsible for our falling-out.
“I like this one.” I rush to a crib and run my fingers along the interior fabric. “It’s beautiful,” I say, attempting to avert his attention from me. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
“Um . . .” His stare stays on me before moving to the crib. “Yeah. Sure. Do you want it?”
“I’m not sure yet. Plus, Christina’s coming. I want her opinion.”
“Okay.” He comes to my side and reclaims my hand. “Let’s look around.” He takes me through the store, stopping at cribs and dressers, asking the salesperson questions I never thought to ask. He’s good at this baby stuff. He’s been reading tons of books, conducting research online, and signing us up for prenatal classes. I didn’t even know that was a thing.
As we inspect the features of a bassinet, the mention of Rafael’s name makes our heads snap up. A white couple, likely in their late fifties, stand in front of us. They smile, and wrinkles rim their elated eyes.
“Rafael,” the woman says. She pulls a lock of silver hair behind her ear, exposing the pearl necklace around her neck.
“Oh my God,” Rafael says.
He smiles at the couple, but it isn’t the routine gesture aimed at politeness. There is something else underlined in the stretch of his lackluster smile; I can’t detect what it is. He releases my hand and leans into the woman for a hug. The moment is intimate, and during its duration, I don’t exist in Rafael’s world. When he finally pulls away from her, he turns to the man and offers a handshake that conveys its own hint of intimacy.
“It’s so good to see you both,” he says, withdrawing his hand. “What are you doing in Toronto?”
“Visiting friends,” the woman answers. “We were walking down the street and saw you through the window display. We had to say hello.”
“Yes,” the man says, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his long nose, “it’s been far too long.”
“It has,” Rafael agrees. “I . . . I’ve wanted to reach out. I just . . .”
“It’s okay. Really. It’s fine. We understand.” The woman nods and finally notices me, standing in the background, twirling my braid futilely. “Oh,” she says. “Hi.”
Rafael follows her gaze, and by retaking my hand, he invites me back into his world. “This is Azere,” he says. “Zere, this is John and Anna.” He doesn’t follow the introduction with an explanation of who they are.
“Hi.” I extend my hand to each of them for a handshake. “Nice to meet you.” When my withdrawn hand falls on my round stomach, a recently adopted reflex, Anna’s eyes drop.
“Oh,” she says, studying my body. She looks at Rafael, and though her lips are sealed, her tear-glossed eyes ask him a question he answers by nodding.
“Oh my God. That’s amazing.” Tears wet her cheeks, but she grins widely. “I’m so happy for you, Rafael. So happy.”
“We both are,” John adds, smiling. “Honey.” He turns to Anna. “We should get going.”
“Of course.” She leans into Rafael, plants a kiss on his cheek, and steps back.
The couple say nothing else. Hand in hand, they walk past the arrangements of displayed furniture and through the exit.
Now, Rafael is quiet. He stares at the space they occupied as if they’re still standing there. I don’t want to interrupt any thoughts or emotions he might be working through, so I stand as I did moments ago—separate from his world.
; When minutes pass, approximately two, he blinks sharply and continues to inspect the features on the bassinet. It’s as though John and Anna never appeared.
“Rafael?” I examine him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Who were they—that couple?”
“Just family friends.”
“Okay. Family friends. Do you want to elaborate on that?”
He says nothing.
“Do you expect me to act like that encounter was normal? That lady was crying, Rafael. Why? Who were they?”
“Azere, I already gave you an answer. There’s nothing more to say.”
“Hey.” I touch his cheek and direct his face to mine. And there it is, in his eyes, that deep, eerie void I detected months ago. Some days, his eyes are lively and filled with so much joy, but occasionally, that void returns. And I’m reminded Rafael is haunted by some great pain he refuses to share with me. “Why won’t you talk to me? You never talk to me.”
“We’re talking right now, Azere.”
“You know what I mean, Rafael. Whenever I ask you about New York, you shut me out. You went to university there. You lived there and worked there for years, but you never talk about it.” I stroke his cheek, the area where his sideburn meets his newly grown stubble. “Did something happen while you were there? You can tell me, Rafael. You can tell me anything.”
“Azere.” For a second, it looks like he’s going to speak, going to tell a truth I’ve waited so long to hear. But then he turns from my touch and refocuses on the piece of furniture. “Nothing happened in New York. There’s nothing to tell.” He squints as if trying to prevent the truth from leaking out of his unconvincing eyes.
He’s not the only one who’s been paying attention. Over the past months, I’ve learned his habits as well. For example, whenever he lies to me, he squints. Like he’s doing now, like he did when he pretended to love the awful chocolate cake I baked, and like he did last month when I found a picture of a woman in his home office.
He was taking a shower, and I was looking through some work documents and needed a pen. In his office, I opened a drawer and stuffed my hand under the layers of files. Rather than the length of a pen between my fingers, I held the cold rim of a picture frame. Curious, I pulled it out and there she was—an exceptional beauty with warm olive skin, rouge lips, emerald eyes, and wavy black hair. The image was stunning and far too perfect, so I assumed it had come with the frame. However, Rafael’s reaction made me reconsider.
When he entered the office and saw me holding the silver frame, his entire persona changed. The muscles on his crimson face tightened. When he pulled the picture from my grip, his fingers shuddered. His voice swelled as he ranted about privacy and respecting boundaries. Hours later, after the confrontation, he came to me on the balcony. He apologized repeatedly. After offering my forgiveness, I inquired about the identity of the woman.
“No one,” he said, squinting like he’s doing now. “No one. She’s no one.”
Honestly, that was the moment reality slipped into the bubble I had been sheltered in—the moment I realized Rafael was keeping secrets.
“Hey, guys.” I’m not sure when Christina arrived, but she’s standing in front of Rafael and me. The tension between us must be apparent. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up in something.”
“It’s fine,” I say, my eyes fixed on Rafael. “We haven’t started shopping because we got caught up in something too.”
“Well . . .” Christina clears her throat. “Looks like y’all are still caught up in it.” She takes a step back. “Maybe I should give you guys a minute . . . or five. Maybe even ten.” She’s still moving.
“No need,” Rafael says. “I have to make a call.” He pulls out his phone and marches off.
“Okay . . .” Christina comes to my side and joins me to watch his hasty exit. “What was that about? What just happened?” She drinks from the Starbucks cup in her hand, staining the white lid with purple lipstick, and looks at me expectantly. “Go on, Zere. Tell me.”
After sucking in a deep breath and releasing it, I tell her about the encounter with John and Anna.
“Damn.” She puffs and the scent of coffee escapes her mouth. “That’s shady as hell. Why didn’t he just tell you who they were? What’s up with him?”
“Seriously, I don’t know.” I shrug. “Rafael isn’t being honest with me. He’s keeping something from me. I’ve given up so much for him. My mother has disowned me, and he can’t even give me the truth.” Tears prick my eyes. “It’s the end of August, Chris. I haven’t spoken to my mom in three months. Three. Months. I tried to reach out, but she blocked my number. Whenever I call, it doesn’t go through. I even dropped by the house, and she wouldn’t let me in.”
“I thought your uncle was gonna talk to her.”
“He did, and so did Efe and Jacob. They all talked to her, begged her. It didn’t make a difference.”
“Then give her time, Zere. Maybe when the baby’s born, she’ll come around. Babies have a way of bringing people together. Trust me.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Have a little faith in your mom and in Rafael. Okay?”
“I don’t trust him, Chris.” I rub my frowning brows, pushing them to rest straight. “He’s keeping things from me.”
So many things. I think of last month when he had to visit Xander’s New York branch. Initially, he wanted me to come along. Though, at the last minute, he changed his mind. When he came home a week later, he was different—distant. He hardly spoke to me or touched me. Something was terribly wrong, and he wouldn’t tell me what.
“Azere, listen to me. Don’t hassle Rafael about secrets. If he’s keeping something, he’ll tell you when he’s ready. Everyone deals with things differently. Just give him some more time. Be a little patient.”
I don’t think that’s possible, but I don’t tell her that. “Sure. I’ll be patient.”
“Good girl. Now, let’s build my godchild a nursery.” She pulls me toward the direction of an oval-shaped crib. “Have you seen anything you like?”
“A few. But we’re not buying anything today—just looking around.”
“You know, you could get all this stuff for free if you let me throw you a baby shower.”
“No baby shower, Chris. I already told you. I don’t want one.”
“But why not?”
“I just don’t. Okay?” I face her, ensuring she sees the seriousness in my eyes.
“Okay. Fine. No baby shower.”
The ride home with Rafael is quiet—no music from the radio, no words spoken. As he pulls up to my apartment building, he glances at me.
“Do you want me to stay?”
He’s never asked before. He’s always stayed, knowing his place was with me. Today, I suppose he’s uncertain where we stand and so am I.
Rafael is keeping secrets. Where does that leave us? Where does that leave me? Do I hold on tighter, find ways to mend the cracks, or do I let go and let things fall apart?
chapter
30
I make a decision.
I don’t let go. I strain myself, holding every piece together, patching what’s broken with insincerity so things don’t fall apart. I do it for my baby. I do it for Rafael. Because I care about him.
We don’t talk about what happened in Pottery Barn almost two months ago. We bury it, suffocate it under the loads of other things we refuse to discuss. I act like everything is all right. It isn’t. I don’t tell him I miss my mother. I don’t tell him about the guilt I feel for dishonoring my father. I don’t tell him how much I distrust him. I act. I’m good at it.
“This won’t take long,” Rafael says as we ride in the elevator heading to his penthouse. “I just have to grab something, and then we’ll be on our way.”
We were meant to go from my apartment to a restaurant. His sist
er is in town, and we planned to meet her for lunch, but Rafael’s detour to his place has put us fifteen minutes behind schedule.
“What exactly do you have to get anyway?” I turn to him, waiting for an answer and notice how rigid his posture suddenly is. “Rafael, are you okay?”
Just as I ask, the elevator stops on his floor. Though, the ping that usually sounds as the doors slide open becomes overpowered by a loud and abrupt eruption of the word surprise.
I flinch and grasp Rafael’s arm. As my heart thumps, I turn to the crowd inside the penthouse and see the faces of my family, friends, and colleagues.
What the hell?
“Welcome to your baby shower!” Christina squeals and sprints to me, a toothy smile on her freckled face. “We got you, right? You didn’t see this coming. You had no clue.”
No. I had none whatsoever because I made it very clear to Christina that I didn’t want a baby shower. Yet, here we are.
Rafael takes my hand and leads me out of the elevator. If he hadn’t made the move, I would have remained inside, waiting for the doors to close.
“Azere!” Efe maneuvers past the people that surround me, Jacob behind her. “Uncle couldn’t make it because something came up at work, but he sends his love and a really nice gift.” She smiles and gestures to the living space that’s bright with pastel colors. “So? What do you think? Do you love it?”
There are clusters of helium balloons at every corner, streamers and banners hanging from the high ceiling, a flower arch positioned at the balcony door, and towers of cupcakes and French macarons all with the pale, whimsical color scheme. The gender-neutral decoration is undeniably beautiful and perfect because Rafael and I have decided we want the sex of the baby to be a surprise. If I had wanted a shower, I would be ecstatic right now, but that isn’t the case. I didn’t want any of this. And as I stand amid well-wishers, the reason becomes more apparent.
“Well?’” Efe says. “Do you love it?”
There’s that question again. I certainly can’t answer with the truth. “It’s great.” I force a smile. “Perfect.”
