The boys have gone to bed and Ashok and I return to work. This is the way it is on weekday nights in our household. Ashok sits behind his computer at the kitchen table, checking legal documents and sending emails, while I move about tidying up. Thankfully, tonight there are plenty of leftovers. Saves me from making sandwiches for the boys’ lunch. I divide the pasta equally between two Tupperware boxes and sprinkle each with Parmesan – slightly more for Zach and less for Avi, my picky one. Then I admire my creation – wholewheat fusilli speckled pink and green with pancetta and zucchini. I’m good at this and still consider turning my culinary skills into a business. But yoga is what most excites me these days even though, of all my entrepreneurial ideas, it’s the least liked by Ashok and his family. While Ashok says I can do whatever I want, I know what he’d prefer. Status matters to him, so while he’d happily boast about his Sunshine doing a graduate degree he wouldn’t do the same for a teaching qualification. Not for yoga at least. Which is ironic given that yoga brings me closer to India, but I suppose not in the way that his high-class family desires. I reach for the box of cherry tomatoes, cut a few in half and wedge them, artistically, on top. Snap, snap, and there, lunch is done. Into the fridge they go with a Pink Lady apple on top of each.
‘Chocolate?’
I take the bar from Ashok, break off a square then give the rest back. His shoulders are hunched so I massage them and then nuzzle the back of his neck. Aroused, he pushes his laptop away, pulling me round for a proper kiss.
‘Don’t go,’ he pleads, his arm tightening around my waist.
‘I’m not going,’ I whisper, ‘it’s just that …’
He frowns as I wriggle free.
‘I’m trying to help Morayo with all of these papers,’ I explain as I spread them across the kitchen table. Ashok nods, but I know he’s disappointed. I wonder if I should explain that it’s not that I don’t want to make love, only that after a long day of attending to others I’m craving space. And even if it means that I continue to look after others, at least it’s my choice rather than one of my duties as a mother. But we’ve had this conversation before so I stick to Morayo. ‘Have you ever heard of the Abdul Rahim Centre for Rights to Education? I can’t find anything about it online and I’m worried because Morayo seems to have sent them quite a lot of money.’
‘Sounds like a scam to me,’ he mutters.
‘But just because we can’t find anything about it online doesn’t make it suspect, does it? I mean she is Nigerian, so perhaps it’s small and one of her relatives connected her? I must be able to find something, somewhere.’ I tap the countertop with the end of my pencil, still thinking. Maybe Ashok’s right. Maybe I’m too uptight. Maybe we just need to make love more often. Maybe I should worry less about getting up in time to take the boys to school. Let them be late sometimes. Let them eat Cheerios instead of French toast. Let them go to school with hair uncombed and teeth not brushed or flossed. But who am I kidding? Putting things in order is what I do best. It’s who I am.
When Morayo first asked me to be the executor of her will, I joked that she would outlive me. She’d always kept herself so fit with all her walking and yoga. But sure, I said, of course I’ll be your executor. So I read the will and was relieved to see that none of Morayo’s money was bequeathed to me. She’d left everything to charity. That was the way it should be, I told myself. And yet a part of me still hoped that she might leave me a little gift. It wasn’t that I needed it, but I longed for something to call my own, something I could deposit in our joint account and proudly say to Ashok, ‘Look babe!’
I find Morayo’s will in the filing cabinet and begin flipping through it as I walk back to the kitchen. There’s no mention of an Abdul Rahim Centre and no mention of anything connected to Nigeria except for where it’s written, ‘In the event of incapacitation or death, my ex-husband, Caesar Da Silva, is to be informed.’ I sit with it for some minutes, staring absently at the front page where Morayo is listed as ‘resident of the City and County of San Francisco, California.’ Given all the other places Morayo has lived, I wonder how she must feel when she reads that line, or the line under ‘personal information’ stating that she’s single and doesn’t have children. She’s told me how much she once wanted children. I imagine that was painful.
‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough for her already?’ Ashok asks, looking up from his laptop.
‘Not compared to what she’s done for us. Think of all the stuff she’s done for the boys.’
‘I know,’ he sighs, ‘and I’m grateful, sweetie, but she must have other friends that can help, doesn’t she?’
‘Not close friends that she’d trust with her bills. Not anyone else that lives here.’
‘Then why doesn’t she get a conservator or something?’
‘A conservator, are you kidding?’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Saying what? That I should abandon her? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘You know that’s not what I’m saying.’
‘Then what are you saying?’
‘I’m just saying that you can’t keep doing everything for her. I know you’ve got the biggest heart Sunny, but you just can’t do everything for everybody. That’s why you get so tired.’
‘Well if you don’t want me to be so tired then maybe you can help. Like, maybe do the laundry sometimes? Take the kids to school. Pick them up. Even just pick up your socks. That would be nice.’
Ashok closes his eyes and wearily shakes his head so that even before he says, ‘Look honey, I’m sorry you think I’m a really bad husband,’ I can guess what he’s thinking. He’s thinking, so this is where we go from chocolate and kisses. This is what I get when I tell you to hire a cleaner; tell you to get a babysitter. Is there nothing I can suggest that makes you happy? And do you ever stop to consider what it feels like to be me? What it’s like to be the sole breadwinner in this house? To be the one person everyone relies on.
‘I never said you were a terrible husband,’ I snap, ‘you know that’s not what I was saying. I’m just saying, there’s nobody else to help Morayo. Certainly nobody who would know about her stuff in Nigeria.’