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At home Kate asks, Can I give my baby a naartjie?
He’ll love it, I say.
Won’t be too acid?
He’ll toss it if it is.
Her baby is a four-month-old Senegal parrot that bleats like a goat. Its eyes are still milky grey; its head round and fluffy. I bought it for her soon after she moved in with me, a device to hold her. Her father keeps cats. If she goes back to him, she’ll have to leave the bird.
The day we returned from the pet shop, she hammered an old teaspoon, pinching the edges to form a spout for its open beak that tugs like a nursing infant. He nibbles the orange peel, sneezing at the citrus vapour.
The phone rings. I freeze at the stove. Kate carries on peeling the naartjie with her long nails painted metallic green. Her father won’t allow makeup. The phone rings a second time. We look at each other. My eyelids stick in a too-wide stare.
It’s probably him, she says, narrowing her eyes.
Let it ring, I say. My skin is too tight, my lungs too small. We don’t have caller ID.
Maybe it’s an estate agent, she says, pragmatic, controlled.
I’ll get it, I say, but she’s already wiped her hands on her jeans and lifted the phone. Before answering she stares me down, reproaching, You gonna be scared all your days?
She says into the receiver, It’s not a good time, Dad. We’re making supper.
Kate moves into the passage, soothing him, saying, Don’t worry. It’s blown outta proportion. Call you later. Yeah.
After supper she rings him on her autodial. I want to intervene, to stop her, to gesture a warning: be careful what you say. But I know I mustn’t. I pretend I’m working on my computer, but I’m clicking keys so she won’t notice I’m listening in.
Sos osss sos ss sssssss sos sos
I didn’t want to worry you, she says.
asdfasdf lelelele ffff fuckufuckufuck
She says, We didn’t keep you out the loop deliberately, to be spiteful.
llllooloo loo loop pool poopop pop
Last week there was graffiti on the school toilet walls: KATE UPTON IS A BULIMIC SATANIST.
A week ago she swallowed six painkillers, vomited immediately, then told me. I checked her colour, her pulse rate. Through the night I listened to her breathe. I called the psychiatrist in the morning, setting up an appointment. I complained to the head teacher. The school told her father about the graffiti, the overdose. Then he phoned threatening: to take her away, to get a court order, to bring the police.
She says, I’m fine, Dad, it’ll be cool. Don’t worry.
kkkkk llk llk lkjjkj kkk okok ok
Pi preens a strand of her hair in its beak. She dyed it reddish brown to match mine. I laughed saying she’d need grey too if she wants to look snap-snap.
Yeah Dad, Thanks Dad, she says, sounding American. The bird grooms her eyelashes. She dyed them too.
r re ref refu refug refuge refugee eee eeeeeee
She laughs, says, We wrote the Technology paper today. I had to design a wire cow, like the ones the Zimbos sell, you know, made of beads and wire. It wasn’t great. I hadn’t studied too well.
I want to shake her. She shouldn’t say that. He’ll blame me. He’ll take you away.
zzz zim zimz babababa wee wee wee
