The Elephant in the Room

By Maya Fowler

Lily struggles with an apathetic mother, a domineering grandmother and the shifting alliances of her schoolgirl friendships. She soon develops a brittle self-esteem and obsesses over the one aspect of her life that she can control – her body. A story of secrets, warped friendships and addiction, and how families guard their secrets to keep up appearances – with disastrous consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kwela
• Release date: Sep 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780795703522

Maya Fowler

Maya Fowler is a South African-born novelist, translator and editor. She lives and works in British Columbia, Canada.

Book preview

Prologue

When I was born, my mother thought she could get away with attaching the label Lilith Fields to me. She thought I’d go through life that way, and didn’t envisage me becoming a Lily. That’s her story, anyway, but people will do what they like with your name, and if you end up being Lily Fields, so be it.

Finding someone a label is a sensitive process, with lots of potential for screwing up. This my mother did – twice. As if being named after a pasture weren’t bad enough, it had to be Lilith, too. She never even looked it up. I did, eventually. Dust and a family of silverfish sprang from the pages of my grandmother’s faded blue dictionary as I scurried my way to the entry. It said: Lilith: in Jewish folklore, a female demon who eats children. So right from the beginning, I was doomed.

People call me reticent. They whisper about me; complain I don’t talk much; I carry secrets. This is true.

Things could have been very different. My mother had really liked Judith, a strong name: the woman in the Bible who’d severed the head of Holofernes. But a friend of my mother’s had already taken the name for her own baby. I was stuck with the L-word.

I must say, everyone thinks I’m a Lily. Down to my plain white face and ghostly eyebrows, I look like a lily. But I’m a Lilith.

My sister Beth arrived, with a new wave of inspiration on the -th theme; Ruth was a contender, but in the end my grandmother strong-armed it into Elizabeth – her own name. Then there’s Gracie, who, besides getting a label that really suited her, ended up being named after a famous singer. By mistake.

My mother chose the name just after my dad left. I was five years old, and she had only just fallen pregnant with Gracie. I don’t remember much about Frank, but I recall feeling glad that the shouting had stopped.

Three months after Gracie arrived, he got hit by a milk van in Main Road, Plumstead. Eyewitnesses later told my mother he’d been laughing so hard at one of his own jokes that he didn’t even look before he stepped off the pavement. His young companion had been pulled into the road along with him. Our whole street was scandalised when the details came to light. The two of them had been tied together at the neck by her hot-pink feather boa. Apparently the woman died with her legs sprawled wide, one knee up, the heel broken off her right sandal, hotpants stained. They said my father snuffed it with a smile on his face, which seemed even more pronounced because of his moustache. Nobody said it out loud, but the general feeling was that this was a lucky accident; just about the best thing that could have happened.

Chapter 1

1986

Chapter 1

Masses of leaves stand upright in a grey-green sea, which parts for us as we wade through. Beth and I are looking for the manna Mom told us we’d find up here if we just searched hard enough. Manna is a very special kind of doughnut, I think, made with extra love, and love is what we’re looking for, now that Mom’s pouring it all into our new baby sister.

The rain has left the earth slick. So we need to tread carefully, else we could slide right down to the kitchen door, and then we’ll be done for because Mom can’t be washing muddy corduroys every friggin’ day of the week. The leaves we’re exploring belong to the nasturtiums that grow in a clump up on the hill behind our house. I could easily believe that something special might be hidden under these leaves which Beth and I use as wands in our games where ants are transformed into steeds, and stones into princes.

Nasturtiums are themselves kings and queens. They stand up tall in any weather, and after the rain you will find them crowned with crystals. These glisten, and can grow into massive gems if you gently tilt a leaf so that the drops all melt into one. But you have to be ever so careful, because nothing is as slippery as a raindrop gem on a leaf.

None of our searching delivers anything other than five million insects. Songololos unroll and scuttle from under rocks, an earwig launches himself forward, looking like a hovercraft (which makes me scream), and tiny bugs that we call armadillos curl up into defensive little balls.

Beth sighs and sits down on a tree stump next to the fence. She blows out her cheeks as she rests her elbows on her knees and her jaw on her hands. I’ve had enough too. The air tastes especially salty tonight, and the clouds are hanging thickly overhead. In the background the sea keeps whispering.

The sound of the sea is as much a part of living here as the frequent thundering of trains. It’s like a heartbeat, and at night, when the windows are closed or rain washes away the sound of the waves, I put my hands over my ears and listen to what Grampa has told me is the rush of blood. Blood or not, it comforts me because it’s my sea. My sea inside.

The yellow light pouring from the house gets brighter as the sky turns to charcoal.

Come on, Beth, I call, even though she’s on her way already. She inches down the terrace with a nasturtium posy in one hand, and a leaf, crowned in gems, in the other. It’s getting too dark now for me to notice where I tread; I crush leaves as I go. Stalks snap, and the peppery, sour fragrance that is clean and dirty at the same time tickles my nostrils.

Just as she reaches the threshold, Beth’s rain gems plop to the ground.

Chapter 2

2000

Chapter 2

I arrive home after work to find Gracie sitting on the sofa painting our mother’s nails. Gracie and my mother, Amelia, are surrounded by a heap of dresses and blouses. Gracie is chewing gum with her mouth closed; they are both silent. The ashtray, a dead volcano perched on the coffee table, is close to overflowing. The eruption is over, though the last ashes still sully the air. Two empty glasses flank a two-litre Diet Coke, and the room smells not only of smoke but also old cheese.

Beth is upstairs, studying. She has recently taken up psychology, which means abandoning my mother (mother’s own words), curtailing her social life and cocooning for hours with textbooks and heaven knows what. This has been a gradual modification of behaviour, but suddenly all her alone-time has legitimacy. Gracie, a straight-B thirteen-year-old with a fascination with butterflies and a surgically implanted Discman, has made time to coif and manicure our mother. The cuckoo clock strikes six as Gracie applies the last stroke of Yardley Cherry Pop.

My clothes for the evening are waiting in my room. I have to look good for my grandmother, so God forbid I’m left to conjure up my own outfit. I find it on a coat hanger. Jeez. A white blouse and black pants. It’s just like Beth to ensure I do my penguin body justice by stuffing it into a penguin suit, while creating a marvellous opportunity for me to be mistaken for a waitress all evening. The shirt fits fine, but true to form, I’m a bit short for the pants. These dachshund legs are a problem.

I scratch around the cupboard, which makes me sneeze, and I find a red-and-purple paisley shawl. I’ll drape it over my shoulders to minimise the flightless-Antarctic-waitress effect. In my handbag I locate eyeliner and blusher among the travel-size toothpaste, mouth wash (decanted into a Protea Hotel shampoo bottle), tissues, eye drops, deodorant, cigarettes, lighter and sugar-free ice-mint chewing gum. It’s important for me to outline my eyes so that people can see where they are. Especially because I’m always shown up by Beth with her massive blue eyes. They are so huge, in fact, that her mouth looks like a thin pink line in contrast. Not that that stops people from raving about her. But I know she has a way of using just the right blend of glosses to fool everybody into believing her lips are Health & Beauty cover material.

My mother comes in, Chesterfield Light in hand, while I’m at the make-up. Nice hair, I say of her curly brown bob. I examine it in the mirror in front of me.

She takes a drag and whispers, Thanks, as she exhales. Many people might have missed that, but I’m tuned in to her shrunken voice.

Slowly, she lowers herself onto the bed. The hair is no different from usual, but nice hair is an easy kind of thing to say when you’re searching for something, and it’s not as if she’s looking bad. I’m not lying this time. I could have said nice outfit, but that would have highlighted the could have been a better fit part, and my mother has always been sensitive about the weight that has apparently clung to her like gum to a shaggy carpet from the time she was expecting me.

I shouldn’t be so harsh. People can still recognise where Beth got her fine features. My mother’s are just a bit less edgy. I carry on with the make-up, and my mother blows little gusts at her nails. I’ve already lined both eyes twice. She sits staring at the Tretchikoff print on the wall, her red nails screaming at the pink Biggie Best duvet cover.

She gets up as slowly as she’d lain down. I take her place on the bed and watch as she fills the doorframe. I’m starting to feel weak. It’s been nil per mouth since breakfast. Some days I can do that, but those are the really good days.

I can almost always up my energy by having some coffee, so I go to the kitchen. As I stir the Frisco, the bitter, plastic aroma filters up towards me. It comes to mind that this is exactly what my pee will smell like in an hour or so. This chemical nothingness will rush through my veins, punch some life into me, probably leave a little plastic dust in my kidneys, and come out the other side smelling exactly the same as when it went in. It’s amazing what people are prepared to put into their bodies.

What’s this?

It’s Beth, interrupting my fantasy of the urinary tract. She’s pointing at the shawl, her wet hair stuffed into a pink Glodina turban.

Was cold, I say, looking at the teaspoon I’m whizzing around the mug.

Hmm, she arches a brow and gives me a quick once-over. She keeps her gaze on me as she goes to the fridge to get herself a glass of juice.

Lily, she sighs, if you’re the eldest, why do I always have to check up on you?

Beth thinks it’s her job to make sure the whole family is OK. Whatever that might be.

You know, those colours won’t work. Tonight’s a big deal. There’ll be lots of photos. You should lose the gypsy thing.

This is so typical of my sister. This is who she is. It’s her habit to inspect and reinspect the minutiae. She sinks her teeth into a tennis ballsized apple, which makes an echoing crunch.

Thanks for the tip, I reply, pinging my teaspoon on the side of the mug and rinsing it under the tap.

No ways, your nails! Her mouth hangs open for a second. My nails. I chew them up like you won’t believe. Apparently that’s not something that photographs well. I must admit, they are worse than usual and I’ve painted the little stubs red, hoping to improve things. Instead, I look like I’ve killed something. I ignore Beth, down my coffee in five gulps as usual, and head for the bathroom.

My scale is the hardest-working appliance in the house. It lives in its secret hiding place behind little pinewood doors, underneath the basin. It smells of 1990 there, and of rubber (from perished swimming caps), Betadine, Savlon – and expectation. It’s an old-fashioned Salton with a dial, and is marked off in one-kilogram increments, with multiples of ten in big, bold numbers. It’s made of metal, painted, with Novilon on the place where you stand. I haul it out of the cupboard and it lands on the tiled floor with a clang so that you can hear the insides groaning. They whirr as I step onto it, and the dial moves up and up. It hovers a little around the high forties; stops at 46 kilograms. That’s less than last time.

I go to my room to lie down again. My sister is right. It’s a big evening. My grandmother’s seventieth. I lie there chewing the insides of my cheeks, thinking about peppermint crisp tart, chicken pie and Caramello Bears.

Chapter 3

1987

Chapter 3

Every morning, the whole lot of us walk to school together. We live in Gran’s Kalk Bay house, but because she lives on the farm, we have the place all to ourselves. I’m in sub A and Beth is a year behind me in the pre-school class at Kalk Bay Primary, near where we live.

Mom pushes the pram, and it rattles over the cobblestones in the street. She has to hold on carefully or it will run down the hill, and that’s why we can’t hang onto her or hold her hand. Inside the pram is Gracie. Mom says it’s the last present Dad gave her before he went to heaven. I imagine Dad passing Gracie to Mom, with a big pink ribbon wrapped around her and a bow on her head.

When we walk to school in the morning, blanketed in the salty air, I watch Mom’s steps. Gran says Mom and I have the same walk. She says we should have both tried ballet. It would have fixed the walk and some other things too. Long, slow, tiger legs – that’s Mom’s walk. Her legs are short, like mine, but the way she stretches them out and forwards makes them longer. We move along slowly, and I look at everything. I see Mom does the same. Her head swivels and wanders.

Gran says I am my mother’s child because we’re both quiet. You can never know what secrets are brewing in a head like that. Gran isn’t a fan of Mom’s head in any way. She says it looks like a bird’s nest, and, what’s more, it’s the muisneste that got us where we are today. I think it means that Mom has something funny inside her head. And plus, Gran says Mom and I like the same trash music, and that’s another thing that makes us deurmekaar.

Gran doesn’t hate all music. She likes what Mom plays on the piano. She’ll sit and listen, with her back straight and her knobbly hand gripping her walking stick. She takes this walking stick everywhere. I’ve seen her without it, and she does fine. But she needs it to show people she’s an old lady, because old ladies deserve respect. Also, it’s a good way to get our attention when she’s cross. She bangs it on the floor twice, and then you know you must listen.

The music Gran doesn’t like is called Queen and The Doors. There’s also Simon and Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac and Jethro Tull. And Abba, which is the only thing that makes Mom sing along, and then Beth and I join in, but Gran says it’s sentimental candyfloss. She says Simon and Garfunkel is a little better, because at least they can carry a tune, but you can’t trust those folksy hippies, they smoke dagga all the time, and plus they’re revolutionary, and look what that Paul Simon has gone and done now, singing all this native music with that black lot from Ladysmith.

Mom plays less of this music these days, because since Dad died and Gracie was finished getting born, Mom had to start working to put food in our mouths. So now she’s tired all the time, and has to lie down a lot. Before the tiredness, Mom used to dance with us sometimes. She’d put on a record and turn it up. We’d all get turns to choose the music, but Beth and I weren’t allowed to touch the records because they can get scratched and then you’re done for. Dancing meant holding hands and spinning around in a circle, which Beth called a rallentando. At the end, you all fall down, same as in Ring-a-Rosie. There were other dances that meant jumping up and down. Mom was never much of a jumper, but she laughed at us doing it. You could see her little pearl teeth shine.

* * *

It’s my special job to carry the house keys every morning. If the tlinka-tlinka sound stops, Mom stops in her tracks, and then looks at my hands. Sometimes the sound stops because I want to see if I can make it stop, and other times because I’m holding the keys up to the light, turning them slowly to watch the metal gleam. Then Mom asks me why I’m not moving, and she gives me a little push. But most of the time we just walk, and Beth asks Mom lots of questions.

Sometimes I stop listening, because the hush of the sea swims into my ears and whirls around my brain. It gets chopped up by cars roaring past on the main road. Kalk Bay is a quiet place, but it’s morning, and everyone has somewhere to go.

This morning, I notice a tiny pink flower sprouting from a green frill that has poured out from the crack between the tarred pavement and a stone wall. It stops my breath for just a second. I can’t believe this beautiful thing in between all the hardness and greyness. It’s a miracle, so I grab at it and pull it out of its home. I feel bad about this immediately, but I must have it.

I trot to catch up to Mom and Beth. They never even noticed I was gone. Mom is sighing because she has to answer so many questions, and I know she doesn’t really like to talk. Just like me. I sniff my flower, and it’s my turn to sigh. No smell. I was expecting a thick, deep perfume to come out of this little flower, but no such luck. Still, I’ll keep it and press it in the phone book.

Chapter 4

Beth and I finish school when the older children are on their second break. Our mom works at Mrs Brodie’s hair salon in the main road, so she can’t look after children, but she takes a lunch hour to fetch us. We walk home together and then stay with our nanny, Laetitia.

The bell rings. I’ve been waiting for it, bursting, so I run straight to the bathroom. When I come out, the corridors are empty. It’s raining, and I remember I’ve left my things in the classroom. My raincoat is on a hook in the top row, so I have to pull up a chair to get it.

I wonder where Mom is. She always meets us in class. Where’s Beth, and Gracie? I stand in the doorway, wondering what to do. I button and unbutton my raincoat a few times, and then I step outside. It’s drizzling, so I open my umbrella and walk to the gate. I look left and right. Sometimes Mom can’t come, and then she sends Laetitia to fetch us and walk us home, and on those days we meet her here. But there’s no Laetitia, and nobody else either, except for the older kids. I’m worried: I want my hot lunch and my mom. I’ve never walked home on my own, but I know it isn’t far. I feel alone, so I start crying. I pull my backpack straight, and go over to the kerb. A car whizzes past, swishing up water, and I’m terrified. I know about cars and how quickly they come out of nowhere and it’s tickets, you’re dust and ashes and it’s a terrible death, though swift, but how undignified. I don’t know what undignified means, but it’s obviously the worst kind of bad. I listen to the blood roaring through my ears, a thundering sea today.

Sniffing, I walk on, and after a while it starts raining harder. It’s so bad I can hardly see, and even with my umbrella I get soaked. I know I’m going the right way, but it feels like I should be home already. The wind pushes me a few steps back down the hill. This is when I start crying loudly. I’m cold. The rain calms down and I stumble forward, still crying.

A voice comes up next to me. For a moment I’m startled.

Hey, little girl, why you so sad?

It’s a woman with a raspy voice and puffy eyes. Deep lines are carved into her forehead and her left cheek has a gash on it that makes me step back into a wall.

Ja, my sweetie, she sighs. Life is difficul’. She puts a small glass bottle to her lips and takes a swig. She offers it to me.

Hiesô, vat ’n slukkie. Help virrie pyn.

Mom has taught me not to talk to strangers, but this one is friendly. I think about it, then take the bottle from her because she’s holding it out and Mom has also taught me to not be rude.

The smell is sour and tobbacoey. I really don’t want it. After a while I hold it up to my lips and pretend to take a sip. A little bit gets into my mouth and makes me splutter. It burns my throat going down, hot, hot, hot to my stomach.

The lady laughs at me. Ooh, look how big is your eyes!

I’m panting. This was a shock, like when you drink fizzy cooldrink too fast and the bubbles sting your nose and throat.

A car screeches past and reverses quickly. I’m so happy to see the Beetle, my whole chest glows. But it cools when my mother slams her door, marches over and grabs me by the hand. She doesn’t even say hello to the lady.

In the car, Gracie is strapped into her baby seat. Beth is sitting next to her. Mom lets me have it.

Lilith Fields, what did you think you were doing?

Yes, what did you think you were doing? echoes Beth.

I try to answer, but I know I had no idea what I was doing.

Her nostrils flare. She keeps staring at me, but after a while her eyebrows drift apart.

Don’t do that again, OK? What will people think? What do you think that woman in the street thinks of us?

Pause.

Listen, if you ever, ever think you’re lost again, just don’t move. I’ll find you.

Yes, Lily, don’t move, Beth says from the back.

The first thing Mom does when we get home