Forgive Me - Amanda Eyre Ward

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Nadine Morgan. I’m a journalist, and I need a place to live. I saw the ad and spoke with Maxim.”

      “Good enough,” said George, holding his towel while he turned. “Come in,” he called, and Nadine followed him. The floor was cracked linoleum, and the apartment reeked of pot and beer.

      “Three bedrooms off the hallway,” said George. “Shared bathroom and kitchen. And one common room.” The apartment was filled with photographs: chilling scenes of beatings and people lying in the street, dead or dying. Peaceful pictures of rolling South African farmland–Maxim’s home, George explained– and a beautiful blonde woman: Maxim’s mother. There were photos of dancers. One girl had her head thrown back in ecstasy, her muscled leg kicking high. The power of her body brought her joy, it was clear. Nadine was unnerved to see a similar facial expression in another photograph: a woman in an angry mob, beating a man to his death.

      George walked briskly and turned a doorknob. “My love,” he called, “can you bring a cigarette for my new roommate?”

      “Of course,” came a voice from inside the bedroom.

      “Um,” said Nadine, “is Maxim here?”

      “He’s at work,” said George. “Taking pictures in Cape Flats.”

      “And you…”

      “Oh, me,” said George, still holding his towel. “I’m waiting tables and writing a novel. It’s terrible. I’m also trying to convince this woman to marry me.” He extended his arm, and a stunning black woman in a gray dress came into the hallway. Her hair was cut short. Unsmiling, she handed a pack of Marlboros to Nadine. With her perfect posture, she seemed six feet tall, though her lips only reached George’s bare shoulder, which she kissed. “Nadine,” said George, “this is Tholakele.”

      “Put on some clothing, George,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, Nadine.”

      “Your wish,” said George, touching her hair, “is my command.”

      “Do you live here as well?” Nadine asked. Tholakele laughed. “I could go to jail for spending the night,” she said angrily. “Or for loving that boy.”

      “Aren’t I worth the price?” said George, coming back into the hallway wearing a terry-cloth robe, his hair in a red rubber band at the nape of his neck.

      Tholakele rolled her eyes. “I must get back to work,” she said.

      “Thola is a dancer,” said George.

      “I am a maid,” said Thola.

      “And a maid,” said George, his face darkening.

      “Good-bye, new roommate,” said Thola to Nadine, and she walked hand in hand with George to the door, where they kissed chastely. Then Thola opened the door, looking both ways nervously.

      “There are men who watch us,” said George simply. Nadine was to find that this was not a paranoid delusion: the government employed security police to keep an eye on questionable liaisons.

      “Good-bye, Prince Charming,” said Thola. She slipped into the warm evening, shutting the door behind her.

      In Woods Hole, Massachusetts, Nadine closed her eyes and saw her friend Thola. Perhaps she was alive and well, married to George at last. It was possible.

      Seven

      Another gloomy day dwindled into brittle night. Nadine watched scientists exit the Marine Biological Laboratory from her hotel window, willing herself to get out of her pajamas, wrap herself into a parka, and walk down Water Street to get the paper. Her father and Gwen had decided it would be best for her mental health to avoid the news. Gwen had taken away her television while she slept, replacing it with a ceramic whale.

      “Sweetheart?” said Gwen, rapping on the door.

      “I’m asleep,” said Nadine.

      The door nudged open anyway. “Nadine,” said Gwen, “I wanted to see if you’d join us tonight for the Christmas tree lighting at the library.”

      Nadine sat up.

      “You’re not asleep,” said Gwen accusingly.

      “I’m in my nightgown,” said Nadine, pointing to Garfield’s smiling mouth.

      “And it suits you,” said Gwen. She nodded, and the holiday bells on her headband jingled.

      “Thanks for inviting me,” said Nadine. “I appreciate it. But I’m a little tired.” She did not add, I’m a little tired of you trying to make a daughter out of me.

      Gwen pursed her lips and blew air from her nose.

      “Gwen, I’m sorry,” said Nadine. “I guess I’m just not a holiday person. I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

      “Its not fair,” said Gwen. “She took Christmas right away from you both.”

      “What?” said Nadine sharply.

      “Of course she couldn’t help it,” said Gwen. “But dying the week before Christmas… I cried when Jim told me about your mother.”

      Nadine bit her tongue.

      “And I’ve been wanting to be a mother to you ever since,” continued Gwen. “I never had a baby of my own, but God sent me you, Nadine.”

      “Please stop,” said Nadine.

      “She was beautiful,” said Gwen. “I’ve seen the pictures of your mom. That long dark hair, just like yours. And she was smart, all those books.”

      “I said please stop,” said Nadine, raising her voice. She avoided meeting Gwen’s eyes, staring out the window instead. It was snowing, fat wet drops. Nadine had not seen snowflakes in a long time.

      “This isn’t the way I had planned–”

      “I’m sorry you had a whole scene laid out for yourself,” said Nadine, turning back to Gwen. She tried, and failed, to keep the bitterness from her voice. “A big hug and a brand-new daughter to love. I suppose you wanted me to be in the wedding, right? Maybe wanted to get married on Christmas, make up for my mother’s death?”

      “Nadine.”

      “I’m sorry,” said Nadine, stopping her tirade with effort. “I just… I don’t think you have any right–”

      “I thought we could go to the tree lighting,” said Gwen. “I thought, maybe, eggnog…” Her voice trailed off.

      “Everyone has a fantasy,” said Nadine. “Sorry, Gwen. No offense. Mine doesn’t include a new mother. Or eggnog, for that matter.”

      “We could sit by the fire–”

      “Gwen–”

      “Nadine,” said Gwen. “I’m reaching out. Honey, I’m here.”

      Nadine was overwhelmed with fury and unhappiness. “You know what,” she said, “I’ve got to go.” She pulled her father’s overcoat off the floor, awkwardly draped it over her nightgown. She tugged on jeans and took her prescription bottles from the bedside table. With her good hand, she stuffed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. Gwen watched silently. Then, with little aplomb, Nadine walked out the door.

      “Oh, honey,” said Gwen, but Nadine was down the stairs already, feeling stronger with each step.

      Under a full-moon sky, Nadine walked toward Surf Drive. The wind was painful on her face and her wrist ached. Cold burrowed inside her coat, chilling Nadine to the bone. After about fifteen minutes, she saw the familiar outline of her childhood home.

      The house had been built for a whaling captain, and had a turret with dizzying views of

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