10

MOTHER

I woke up with a shiver. Not because I was cold. “You have reached your destination, Regan Grace.” I looked up at the dashboard. It was 11:11 pm.

“You have reached your destination, Regan Grace,” repeated the car. As I blinked the sleep out of my eyes, I looked out at the old place. It was sorely in need of maintenance. We have that in common, I thought as I untangled myself.

I got out of the car and stretched. My yawning turned into a prolonged moan. “Yaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuw….” I haven't dreamed such vivid dreams since I was a teenager, reading vampire novels and Stephen King. I heard squawking and saw three crows landing in the tree. I shivered again as goosebumps spread down my neck.

The ocean and the moon, a bone-white sliver, beckoned from beyond. I took the deepest breath I had taken in a very long time. I exhaled, and it felt better. The decay of the house could wait.

I pulled up the legs of my black jeans, tugged my Converse off, and headed around the house, across the field, to the beckoning beach. My city-sensitive feet were shocked by the sharpness of the grass. As I gingerly picked my way across the ground, I glanced up, seeing the milky way and the small canopy of trees, the last bastion, between me and the sand. They were silhouettes in the moonlight. Something in me lifted, nay, it fucking leapt!

MAIDEN

It was 23h23 when I stepped back into my bedroom.

“Regan,” said Blue, “You must dance with your shadow before the Scarab does.” He always held his hands the same way: one hand resting gently in the other, knuckles to the ground, palms to his heart. Thumb pads kissing.

“I’m fine,” I said. My code became agitated and rippled into the field. Blue stood quietly, his hands folded like a monk. An unfamiliar feeling made itself at home in me.

“Don’t give that Passage power over you.” My pulse quickened. “All is one,” he said, his light dimming. Then he was gone.

MOTHER

I stood on the 'point' - an enormous grassy dune with a small forest of milkwood trees behind it, reliving fond childhood memories of playing with imagined friends and nature spirits. I did a three-sixty-degree turn, taking in the bay, the lush hills on either side and the forest at my back. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

I sat and watched the moon aching into her fullness as if it were putting on this spectacular show just for me. For the second time in as many days, I cried.

"It has the same effect on me,” said a voice behind me.

A beautiful black man stood over me. I sucked back my snot and jumped up, swiping at the corners of my eyes.

"Toh-neeeeeeeee!" I squealed.

Grinning, Tony opened up his arms, and I stepped in. The last time we had seen each other, I was taller than him. He drew me in so tightly I was forced to lay my head on his chest. My eyes squeezed shut as the tears dried on my cheeks. He had always had this effect on me, even though I was taller than him right up until I stopped coming here. We would laugh and collapse in hysteria because his head was on my pre-pubescent chest.

The walk back to the house was comfortingly quiet. This was what I had loved about Tony when we were kids: Hours spent together exploring caves, waves, and trees with little need for conversation.

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His mother named him Tony. She said he needed an English name to be taken seriously in the city, where she hoped he would end up. Tony's Grandfather, Tata, Father in isiXhosa, and his mother did not see eye to eye on this. Tata said he had a name the Ancestors had given him on the night he was born. Tata, who I also adored, refused to use 'Tony'. No one knew why, but one day Tony started referring to himself by the name Tata used. He refused to respond to anything else "Because They said so.” He gave no other justification. Tata was pleased and seemed to know who 'they' were. Tony's mother was not.

I’m ashamed that I never learned to pronounce or remember it. Until now. As if I had always known it, the name appeared in my mind.

“Luthando,” I said.

He stopped, turned to face me, and regarding me with wonder said, “How did you even remember?” He searched my face, and I had no answer for him. “Thando is good,” he said.

“Thando,” I agreed. I decided we had both disappointed our mothers, and I was glad.

"Needs a bit of a paint job, hey?" Said Thando when we got to the house. I sighed. I hadn't set foot in it since I was twelve.

“What does it mean? Your name?” I asked.

“Love,” he said. I smiled. I genuinely smiled. I knew why Tata insisted on using it.

***

We were night owls. The real catching-up happened over brinner, my favourite meal: breakfast for dinner.

“I was in my teens when a coastal conservation education program did a stint in the village, and I found my calling. I was eighteen when I got a bursary to study through the NPO that helped put me through school.” He chewed, swallowed and took his time, the way he always had. It used to drive me crazy when we were kids. I was always ready for dessert while he whittled away at his mielie.

Tata was a sangoma, a traditional Medicine Man and taught Thando and me about herbs and plants when we were kids, things I had forgotten. It made sense that Thando would have remembered them and grown up to be a conservationist. I was thrilled for him. It couldn’t be more necessary in the batshit crazy world we were living in.

There was a time when we thought all was lost, and then the virus alleviated the overpopulation and the strain on resources, but we are not out of the woods yet.

“I travelled a little, and when I got back.” He paused to finish his last piece of toast, which he had methodically buttered and jammed. “I spent some time working on conservation projects up and down the coast until coming back here to start a project of my own. She called me."

“Who?” I asked, sipping my coffee.

“The Ocean.” He said. I rolled my eyes. He laughed, shaking his head. "I've been going there for days now, expecting something.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I wasn't expecting you!”

We both laughed and shook our heads for different reasons.

"Why are you here?" He put his utensils down and looked into my eyes for his answer. I put my coffee down too.

"I don't know," I said. I shivered and put my hands between my legs. I was not cold. "Is it possible to have the best and the worst day on the same day?" I told him about walking out on my job. “To be clear, this was the highlight of my day, and my car was the lowlight!” I did not mention the suicidal thoughts or that I had identified the voice inside my head.

"That's pretty intense." He empathised. "How's your mom?" I picked up my utensils again, even though I had placed them neatly together, indicating that I was finished eating.

“You don't speak to her?”

“I haven't spoken to her since she needed money.” I scraped the bit of egg onto the fork and shoved it into my mouth.

“Which was?”

I shrugged. “A couple of years.” Chewing, I said, “Going to jail doesn't change anything but her location in the grand scheme of things." Avoiding eye contact, I placed my knife and fork together neatly again. There was silence, and it was not awkward, and I was grateful.

He had this innate skill to cultivate space. It wasn't that he didn't have an opinion. He just knew when to share it. I wished at least half of the population (even the few of us left) knew how to do this, myself included. After chewing, swallowing and drinking quiet coffee, he cleared away the dishes and said, "I'm glad you came. There's medicine for you here.