An evening with Esther and Elijah had lifted Celeste’s spirits, and praise songs echoed around the top floor of the house as she showered the next morning. Glory was reminded of the Sunday mornings of her childhood, the house buzzing with energy as the family got ready for church.
Back then church had felt like the center of everything. It was the social lynchpin of life, where the children of your parents’ friends became family, making up for the absence of blood relations on British soil. It was where Glory had first met Lará after their mothers became fast friends, and even though the family’s church had chopped and changed as Celeste fell out with pastors’ wives or acquired a taste for services that didn’t exceed three hours, the web of connections remained, and her mother’s diary had always been full.
Glory’s father complained continuously about the mounting costs of lace and damask, bought according to the designated color schemes for each function. But when it suited him, he would rise to the occasion, pressing crisp twenty-pound notes into the hands of young couples whose names he could barely remember, and toasting them with imported Nigerian Guinness. There were official portraits of him at these celebrations—birthdays, weddings and naming ceremonies—his billowing agbádá and commanding presence holding everyone around him in orbit.
Sundays were an opportunity to show up and show off for the whole Akíndélé clan. As children, Faith and Glory would be buttoned into matching dresses. Victor had a collection of little waistcoats that could put a grown man’s wardrobe to shame. The first victory of adolescence was getting to wear whatever you wanted to church; the second was being able to opt out of Sundays altogether.
Glory’s mother rapped on the door to her room.
“I hope you’re ready, o! We need to leave!”
“Leave to go where?” Glory said from under the duvet.
“Church! Or did America make you godless?”
“You never mentioned going to church to me.”
“It’s Sunday, what else would we be doing on a Sunday?”
“I’m not going to church, Mum.”
“You haven’t been to church since you’ve been back.”
“Neither have you!” Glory heard the low hiss of her mother sucking the air through her teeth, before Celeste walked away singing with renewed vigor to cover her annoyance.
Glory leaped up from her bed and into the hallway.
“Mummy?”
Celeste turned back to her daughter; Glory’s heart crawled into her throat and she twisted her fingers in her sleeves like a child.
Celeste raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Erm, you know, Hope? My twin sister?”
The name landed between the two women with the weight and force of an anchor and Glory watched her mother’s face close up as she drew into herself.
“When I went to put away Daddy’s death certificate I saw a copy of her birth certificate, but I couldn’t find her death certificate and I don’t remember her funeral and I’ve never seen any pictures. Not even Faith remembers, and it’s weird that we’ve never spoken about it.”
It all came out in a rush of breath, so fast that Glory wasn’t even sure her mother understood her babbling, but the way Celeste’s face turned from blank distance to darkened rage suggested she had understood enough.
“Is this what you’ve come to speak to me about?” Flecks of saliva shot from her mother’s mouth like poison darts. “Kí ló ń dàmú ẹ?! And on the Lord’s day! Instead of you going to church you’ve come to test me? On the Lord’s day?!”
She almost shrieked the last question. Glory’s heart dropped from her throat to her stomach and she set her jaw against the tears that threatened to fall.
“What is wrong with you?” Celeste repeated in English. “Why do you like trouble?” She turned away from her daughter.
“It was just a question. A simple question,” Glory said in a small voice.
Her mother spun around.
“Kíni question?! Keep your stupid questions!” She slammed her hand on the banister sending a pile of towels tumbling onto the stairs below, before pointing a trembling finger in Glory’s direction.
“You are an ungrateful child! I didn’t raise you this way! So selfish!”
The second outburst broke whatever resolve Glory thought she had, and she fled back to her room, pushing the door shut behind her as her tears ran free.
“Selfish, selfish girl!” her mother ranted as she went to her own room, throwing open drawers and clattering around in a temper. Glory lay in her bed, listening to her mother’s rage ricochet around the house until eventually the front door shut and all was silent.
She lay still, a familiar weight settling into her body and pressing her in place. She replayed her mother’s outburst, substituting her dumbstruck silence with counterpoints and her own accusations, shouting back until the imagined version of her was hoarse with fury. At some point she dozed off, her thoughts transforming into a confused dream caught between LA and London.
When Glory awoke, the afternoon was sliding into evening and she could hear the television blaring below. Her head felt tight with dried tears and snot and, after going to the bathroom to splash her face with cold water, she went downstairs.
Her mother was in the kitchen, talking loudly on the phone to compensate for the volume of the television that cast its glow across the empty living room.
“You’re awake,” she noted over her shoulder, the phone cradled against her cheek. “There’s rice in the fridge.” Then she turned away, throwing rapid-fire Yorùbá down the mouthpiece before breaking to emit a bellow of laughter.
Glory took the plastic tub from the fridge and spooned out a small portion of the yellow fried rice, still warm from its cooking. This passed as a peace offering in her mother’s world.
Glory took her plate back upstairs and settled on her bed, the sensuous comfort of the food warming her from the inside out.
When her phone rang she fished for it beneath the tangle of covers, exhaling when she saw Julian’s name light up the display.
“Sorry, meant to call yesterday but got caught up with stuff.”
“Did you get my glass trainers?”
“Shit. Knew I forgot something.”
“Another disappointment.”
“What’s wrong?” Julian asked, sensing something in Glory’s tone.
“Everything’s wrong, but that’s nothing new.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll save that for when you take me out. I know you don’t like small talk,” she said, but really Glory was thinking about her mother overhearing the conversation.
“OK. Where you wanna go?”
“Let’s get some dim sum at Yam Bui or something.”
“Dim what?”
“Never mind. Surprise me.”
Julian let out a low whistle.
“No pressure then.”
“It doesn’t have to be fancy. I’ve not had Nando’s in a while actually.”
“Nando’s? Wow, you really don’t rate me do you? One sec!”
Julian’s voice got further away from the phone while he held a muted conversation with someone else in the background.
“Glory, can I call you back?” he asked when he returned.
“You’ll probably forget again.”
“I won’t—but if I do, we’re definitely going out this week. But not Nando’s.”
“Cool.”
Glory ended the call and set her empty bowl down on the side table next to her bed. She noticed the photograph that she had taken from her father’s file on top of a bank statement, and picked it up gingerly.
The second viewing didn’t feel as earth-shattering as the first, although she felt the blood vessels in her chest constrict a little as she studied the sweet faces of her sisters. She looked carefully at the background, a suburban hedge slightly out of focus, a clear blue stretch of sky, but it held no other clues. The wrinkles around the eyes and mouths of the white couple suggested they were older, and they were both dressed conservatively. Joan’s cream blouse had a large pussy bow and her dark blue skirt was long, flared ever so slightly at the hem. Edward was wearing a dark brown patterned jumper and gray trousers, a sharp crease pressed down the front of each leg.
“Who are you?” Glory whispered to the photograph, but Edward kept his slight frown.
She decided to put the photograph back. Keeping it would do her no good. The memory of her mother’s ire was still fresh. She wished Daddy was here, although she could not say with certainty that his reaction would have been any different.
In her mother’s bedroom she opened up the desk, found the file and slipped the photograph into one of the back pockets. She returned it to its drawer and was pushing it shut when the bedroom door swung open, nearly hitting her. Celeste stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“What are you doing there?” Celeste asked sharply, one hand on her hip and the other holding open the door.
“Just putting something away. Faith gave it to me yesterday, but I forgot to do it.”
Suspicion shadowed Celeste’s face as she watched her daughter shut the drawer and stand up.
“That’s all!” Glory added, her hands up in surrender, and she sidled past her mother, who turned and watched her leave.