by Jane Igharo
“It was a team effort. I helped, and so did Jacob and Christina, and, of course, Rafael.”
I turn to him, hoping irritation isn’t obvious on my face. “So your sister isn’t in town.”
“Actually, she is. And so is my mom.” He nods his head toward two women making their way to us.
We’ve spoken via Skype a few times, so I recognize Selena immediately. She has dark, close-cropped hair that frames her small face perfectly and the same delicate, understated beauty as Audrey Hepburn—if Audrey Hepburn’s style personified Gothic chic. She’s petite, but her presence invades a room. It isn’t only about her appearance—the short, black dress with bell sleeves and floral embroidery, the antique and definitely expensive Victorian-style choker around her neck, her scarlet-red lips, and liner-rimmed doll-like eyes—it’s her unspoken conviction that seems to demand attention.
“Azere! I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you.” She locks me in a tight hug. When she pulls back, she holds my shoulders and examines my face and then my frame—the white long-sleeve dress that flares at my knees and puts my baby bump on full display. “Gosh, you’re gorgeous. Pregnancy definitely suits you.”
“Thank you.” I take the compliment to heart. “You’re sweet. And it’s so great to finally see you in person.”
My attention veers to the poised woman beside Selena—her wavy black hair specked with strands of grays and her blushed cheeks lined with gentle wrinkles. “You must be Rafael’s mom.” I extend my hand, but she doesn’t take it.
“I’ve heard so much about you.” She smiles, broad and genuine, and leans into me, offering a warm and affectionate hug much like her daughter’s. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says, tightening her hold.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Mrs. Ca—”
“Call me Isabel.”
Isabel. In my culture, it’s considered disrespectful to call elders by their first names. Sir, ma, auntie, uncle—these are appropriate titles. And if an elder is your significant other’s parent, the title automatically gets upgraded to mom or dad. But she wants me to call her Isabel, not even Mrs. Castellano. So I do.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you, Isabel.”
“Likewise, dear.” She steps back and runs a hand over her burgundy cocktail dress, smoothing any wrinkles that might have formed during our embrace. “Rafael’s father and brother are still in Spain, but they’ll be back next week. We should all have dinner then, get to know one another more intimately. How does that sound, Azere?”
“Good.” I nod eagerly. “That sounds wonderful.” Maybe getting to know Rafael’s family will bring some transparency to him. I hope so, but I try not to dwell on that. I’m more focused on maintaining a smile for the duration of the party.
I introduce Efe and Jacob to Isabel and Selena, exchange pleasantries with guests, nibble on snacks even though I lack an appetite, partake in the games Christina organizes even though I’m not interested, open gifts with forced enthusiasm, and remind myself to keep that smile in place.
“Excuse me,” Isabel says, standing, a glass of champagne in her hand. “Can I please have everyone’s attention?” At her request, the music stops and so does the chatter and laughter. “For those who I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, I’m Isabel, Rafael’s mother.” She scans the open space and finds her son in the kitchen, standing with Jacob, a beer in his hand. She watches him deeply as if seeing something only a mother can perceive. “The truth is, I haven’t seen Rafael this happy in a very long time. And I can only credit his happiness to one person.” Her eyes shift again and land on me. “Azere.” She beams. “I don’t think you’ll truly ever understand the joy you’ve brought to my son’s life and to my family. Words can’t express how excited I am to be a grandmother.
“It’s a role I will take seriously, just as my mother did with my children. They spent many summers with her in Spain. She taught them so much about our culture. I look forward to doing the same with my grandchild, showing him or her what it means to be a true Spaniard.” She raises her glass. “So cheers to Azere for giving me the opportunity to be a grandmother.”
Everyone raises a glass and cheers resounds around the room. The music, chatter, and laughter resumes. Isabel approaches me, smiling, but the firm smile I’ve been sustaining withers. Gradually, tears gather at the corners of my eyes. Blinking doesn’t push them into my sockets; they’re on the verge of falling, and the sob tickling my throat is on the verge of breaking free. I turn away swiftly, maneuver past the crowd, and climb the floating stairs that lead to the second floor.
“Azere, what’s going on?” Christina trails me into Rafael’s bedroom, sprinting and then slowing once at my heels. “Where are you going? What’s the problem?”
“You are, Christina!” I spin to face her, my hands shuddering at my sides. “I told you I didn’t want a baby shower. I made that very clear. Didn’t I?”
“Well . . . I . . . um.” She cocks her head and studies me, confusion apparent in her assessing stare. “I didn’t think you actually meant it, Azere. I thought you just didn’t want to deal with the stress of planning one, so I did it. I planned everything, and I thought you would love it.”
“Seriously! You thought I would love this?” I rub my temples and breathe slow and deep, soothing myself. I don’t want to say or do anything I might regret. “Christina.” My voice is leveled, collected. “Go downstairs. Look around. Rafael’s mother is there. Where’s mine? Where’s my mom, Christina?” Tears pour out my eyes just as a rough sob breaks through my lips. “She should be here—with me. But she isn’t. She isn’t here.”
“Azere. Honey.” Christina makes a move to hold me, but I avoid her touch. “Efe told her about the baby shower. She invited her, but she . . . she refused to come.”
Of course she did. That’s exactly why I didn’t want a baby shower—a celebration where my mother’s absence would be overly apparent, where I would feel it more gravely, where it would be a question in the minds of my guests. Arianna has already asked, and my answer lacked all the elements of a good lie.
“While Rafael’s mom is giving a heartfelt speech about being a grandmother, mine is MIA.” I wipe my wet cheeks and sniff. “This is exactly why I didn’t want a baby shower, Christina. Because I knew she wouldn’t come.” I lift my shoulders in a weak shrug. “Why couldn’t you just listen to me? Why?”
“Azere.” She buries her face in her hands, digs her fingers into her hairline, and groans. “I’m sorry. I thought . . .” She looks at me and shakes her head. “No. I wasn’t thinking. I messed up. I’m so sorry, Zere.”
Her somber expression appeases my anger, but not the other emotions. “Christina, I know your intentions were good, but . . . but . . .” Tears flood my eyes again, and my throat tightens. “I just need to be alone right now. Tell everyone I’m sick or something.” Before leaving the room, Christina gives me a quick hug, conveying once more how sorry she is. I squeeze her tight. She’s a good friend. This situation is just so impossible.
Curled atop the king-size mattress, I wipe my eyes while thinking of Isabel—how her presence made me painfully aware of my mother’s absence, how the mention of culture during her toast made me slightly nervous. She plans to teach my child what it means to be a Spaniard. A true Spaniard. What will that mean for my culture—what place will it have in my child’s life? Will my child get a chance to visit Nigeria, or will he or she spend the summers in Spain as Rafael did? When the door cracks open, I stop pondering and sit up.
“Azere, are you okay?” Efe hurries to the bed, concern causing her brows to unite. “Christina said you were feeling sick.”
“It’s nothing.” I clear my throat and relieve the strain in my voice. “I’m feeling better now.”
“Okay. Good.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “Well, the party is over. I told Rafael I’d check on you while he sees everyone out.” Sh
e squints and inspects my face. “Are you sure you’re okay? It looks like you’ve been crying. What’s wrong, Azere?”
Everything. But I can’t tell her that. She’s my baby sister. I don’t want to bother her with my problems. “Nothing’s wrong, Efe. Everything is fine.”
“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t believe my answer but also doesn’t dispute it. She sets her lips in a firm line and turns her attention to the abstract painting above the upholstered bedframe. “Do you remember when we were younger and Auntie Ivie used to visit?”
I frown at the absurd question. “Of course I remember.” Probably even more than she does.
Auntie Ivie, my mother’s younger sister, lived in Benin City and would come to the village once a month to visit us. She would ride into our compound on an okada, her legs on either side of the driver, her skirt hitched to her thighs, revealing too much of her swarthy skin. She could have easily worn a longer skirt, but she liked the attention—the admiration from the distracted okada driver, the judgmental glares from the village women passing by, the rebuke from my mother. It all fed something in her—the desire to be the exception, to be the but in every sentence.
“Every other girl wants to get married and have children, but Ivie wants to go to the city and make money,” my mother would rant. “Every other girl will dress like they have home training, but Ivie will dress like a common harlot. When elders are speaking, every other girl will be silent, but Ivie will put her mouth in every matter even if it does not concern her.”
Auntie Ivie was a rebel in her own right, and Efe connected with her for this reason. They were alike. They both had a defiant nature that made them fall out of line and say and do what they shouldn’t. I didn’t have that.
“Do you remember what Auntie used to say about you?” Efe asks. “She used to say you don’t speak your mind enough—that you hold too much inside.”
I remember that.
“One time, she said something I’ll never forget. She said, ‘Azere, if you accidently swallowed poison, you would smile, pretending everything is okay rather than open your mouth and ask for a cure.’”
I remember those words coming from my aunt. They hurt now just as they did then. As I attempt to scold Efe for repeating them, she presses a finger to my lips.
“Azere, the point I’m trying to make is that you’re hurting. I know you are.” She drops her finger. “Look. I like Rafael. He’s a great guy, but I know the decision to be with him wasn’t easy. I know you’re dealing with a lot, so why are you acting like everything is perfect?” She holds my hands. “Azere, I’m here. Talk to me.” She looks at me intensely, trying to persuade me with her honey-brown eyes when the door opens and Rafael steps inside the room.
“Cariño.” He comes to the bed and presses his lips to my forehead. “Are you okay?”
Turning away from my sister, dismissing everything she said and everything Auntie Ivie said years ago, I look at Rafael and do what I’ve done for months. I act like everything is all right. I strain myself, trying to hold every piece together even with the toll it’s gradually taking on me. I do it for my baby. I do it for him. Because I care about him. But above everything else, I do it because I’m afraid to admit that I might have made a mistake by choosing Rafael.
chapter
31
Rafael drives up to a large gate that slides open and reveals a clear path enclosed by manicured grass. He drives along the curvy route, nearing a majestic French provincial-style mansion.
When he said his parents live in Bridle Path, an upscale neighborhood in Toronto, I expected extravagance but not to this extent. A flurry of nerves tickle my stomach. I reach for my head and twirl a braid around my finger.
“You okay?” Rafael asks, parking the car a few feet from the front door.
“Just a little nervous.”
“Don’t be. You’ve already met Selena and my mom, and they love you. My dad and Max will too. Trust me.”
That’s the problem. I don’t trust him, but I don’t voice my reservations.
He steps out of the car and opens the passenger door. His sultry stare moves over me. “You look really beautiful by the way.” The crisp October air makes his breaths appear as puffs of feathery mist.
“Really? Even like this?” I signal at my protruding stomach. “Six months pregnant with a belly the size of a basketball?”
He crouches and leans into me. “Azere, you’re beautiful—perfect. I don’t deserve you.” He pecks my lips. “I feel like I’ve cheated someone who’s truly deserving of you.” Another peck. “But you’re mine now, and there’s no way in hell I’m ever giving you up.” He leans in for another peck, and I hold his head in place and kiss him fiercely as if I can taste those sweet words on his velvety lips.
“So,” I whisper, breaking away. “We should probably go inside.”
“Right.” He sighs. “You still nervous?”
“Yeah. Just a little.”
“Okay. How about you hold my hand and don’t let go until we step out of that house. I’ll be your support, and you’ll be mine. Just in case Selena starts to drive me crazy.” He extends his hand, waiting for me to seal the agreement. “Deal?”
“Yeah.” I smile and nod. “Deal.”
We shake, and he helps me out of the car. We walk to the double doors hand in hand, and after Rafael pushes the bell, an elderly woman, brown-haired and fair-skinned, pulls the door wide open.
“Good evening, Rafael,” she says, smiling. “And who is this lovely lady?”
“Hi, Beth.” He enters the house and draws me in along with him. “This is Azere.”
“Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Rafael rolls my coat off and places it on Beth’s extended arm. He does the same with his coat. And it registers. She’s the maid.
Well, damn. How much money do these people have? A hint of intimidation crops up, but I suppress it with a shitload of confidence.
When Beth leaves with our coats, I turn my attention to the twin staircase that curves against white walls. The interior is a flawless depiction of contemporary elegance. There’s a crystal chandelier hanging over the grand foyer; its design, long and slim, resembles drops of rain ready to cascade. The decor follows a simple color scheme—black and white. The absence of every other color creates a sophistication that lacks warmth.
When Rafael squeezes my hand, I notice Selena and Isabel approaching us; two men—who I presume are Rafael’s brother and father—follow behind them.
Fifty Shades of Grey. A scene from that movie comes to mind—the one where Christian introduces Ana to his family. It went something like this, in a house somewhat like this one, with a man just as handsome and enigmatic. Now I wonder if this night will end as Christian’s and Ana’s did.
Will Rafael let me in just a little? Will he let down his guard and tell his secrets? Will he at least whisper them to me like Christian did to Ana while she slept?
At this point, I’ll accept anything.
“Azere!” Selena throws her arms around me and squeezes. “So good to see you again.” When she pulls away, her mother offers the same affectionate greeting.
“Azere.” Rafael gestures to the striking older man. “This is Gabriel, my father.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr.—”
“Please,” he says, taking my outstretched hand, “call me Gabriel.” A dark mustache extends to a beard that neatly frames his jawline and lower cheeks. If he wasn’t smiling, his stern features, which are much like Rafael’s, would have made him appear intimidating.
“And this is my brother.”
“Hi.” Máximo pushes past his sister and steps forward, flashing a smile that displays his pearly teeth. With an argyle cardigan over a blue button-up, beige boat shoes, and slick, dark hair parted precisely, it’s obvious he’s of the prep school/i
vy league breed. He presents his hand in a formal manner. “I’m Max. It’s nice to meet you, Azere.”
“Likewise,” I say, shaking his hand and noting the slight facial similarities between him and Selena, his fraternal twin.
Dinner follows the introduction. Under the table, Rafael and I continue to hold hands while being the center of attention. With the intimate setting the baby shower didn’t offer, his mother and sister ask about my job, my interests, my family and our move to Canada, and they seem sincerely interested in the answers.
“So,” Selena says, stabbing a slice of tomato with a fork, “right now, you two live separately, but that’s going to get complicated once the baby is born. Are you guys going to move in together?”
Rafael tenses up. He hasn’t brought up the topic since that day at his place, but I see the request in his eyes every time I pack and unpack my overnight bag. I see it now as he turns to me, a gentle furrow between his brows.
We’re in a committed relationship and are expecting a child. It makes sense to live together, especially now when all the gifts from the baby shower are in his penthouse, in a beautifully lit room that would make the perfect nursery.
Moving in together. The act seems so permanent, and it scares me more than I’m willing to admit. Maybe Rafael was right. Maybe I don’t want to completely root myself in his life.
“So,” Selena continues, “are you guys going to move in together? Hopefully before the baby is born?”
“Selena, they’ll live together when they’re ready. Now, stop pestering them.” Thankfully, Isabel shuts down her daughter’s inquisition. “Now, on to something I’ve been dying to know. Have you two thought of any baby names?” Unfortunately, she begins her own. “I was thinking Ximena if it’s a girl and Mateo if it’s a boy. Such beautiful names.”
She wants to name my child Ximena or Mateo because it sounds beautiful. In my culture, names aren’t chosen because they sound good. Names always bear a significant meaning and are either a prayer or a prophecy. Azere means “a child born for a remarkable purpose.” Efe is short for Efesona, which translates to “there is no greater wealth than this.” We don’t give names on a whim. We believe a child’s name is their crowning glory. As such, we put a lot of thought into it. But how do I explain this to Isabel without offending her? If she were Nigerian, I wouldn’t have to.
