Remy
REMY
“R emy,” Jenni calls from the other side of the church hall. “You came back?”
I have indeed returned for another Sunday service, in the hopes of finding Jenni and pulling her aside. After hugging her hello, I say, “Listen, are you free to…”
The rest of my sentence is drowned out by the voice of a woman dressed in heavy emerald-green fabric.
“Remember, everyone!” she shouts from the pulpit.
“We are all gathering at the pastor’s house, as he and his wife have generously offered their home to host Vincent’s birthday.
We should all aim to arrive within the hour! ”
“Who’s Vincent?” I ask.
“Her husband,” Jenni answers, “and a family friend. Are you coming?”
I’m about to politely decline, but then Jenni’s mum appears behind her.
If I think Jenni and Simone look alike, it’s nothing compared to Simone and her mother.
The more time I spend looking at Jenni, the more subtle differences I can pick up between the (possible) sisters.
While they share common features, Jenni’s are of a softer, rounder variety.
Looking at their mother, I’m convinced I’m staring at Simone in twenty years.
“Jenni, we’re leaving now,” she says. “Mary has invited everyone and not a thing is prepared.” She kisses her teeth then notices me. “Oh, who is this?”
“This is Remy,” Jenni answers. “She came for the first time a couple of weeks ago.”
“And you have returned,” their mum says. “God is good. Welcome to your new church, my dear. Come now, to the party.” She grabs hold of my arm. “I will need the extra pair of hands in the kitchen.”
I was barely through their front door when Mrs. Beduah sent Jenni to double-check that all the rooms were tidy because “It does not matter if guests enter them or not,” while I was hustled into the kitchen to help shred cabbage and cut bell peppers into seedless batons.
Pots of rice are already on the stove and the oven is stuffed with kebab and roasted chicken.
I watch as people trickle in, some milling around, some helping with the prep.
There are now four of us in the kitchen and the speed at which things have escalated hardly gives me enough time to consider the fact that I have spent more time with Simone’s family in the last month than Simone has in…
My original plan for today was to ask Jenni if she wanted to grab a coffee and then tell her that I know Simone. But now I’m faced with all three family members, and things are not as I’d expected.
I didn’t see much of the house before I was ushered into the kitchen, but I did see numerous photographs in the living room, of the pastor, Mrs. Beduah, Jenni, and… Simone, proudly displayed on every surface.
“What is it you do, my dear?”
I turn to Simone’s mum, who is currently wrists deep in a bowl of heavily seasoned chicken.
“I’m a writer, auntie.”
She nods at the offered address. We’re not actually related (wouldn’t that be a plot twist!) but auntie is a term used out of respect when a person’s first name feels too casual and their last name too formal. Although, if Simone ever called my mum auntie, Ada would probably cry.
“Books?” she asks.
“Yes. I wrote a novel called These Four Friends .”
She smiles kindly. “I’ve not heard of it but I am sure it’s very good. It makes you enough money, this writing?”
It’s easier to nod than explain. “Yes, it can.”
“Hmm.” She gently brushes her shoulder against mine and winks. “But always good to have a backup, no?”
If I were to invent her backstory, I’d likely go with something that included a strict West African upbringing, the mores of which she’d pick and choose from when raising her own children.
I genuinely smile at her in return. “You have a lovely home, auntie, and so many beautiful photos. Your daughters look just like you.”
The other two women in the kitchen continue with their designated prep, unfazed by my mentioning of more than one daughter.
“Yes,” Mrs. Beduah says, avoiding my eyes. “They are blessed.”
“I’ve not met… not seen your other daughter today. The eldest one?”
“Yes, no. Simi is… she will not be here today.” Even though I’m sure this is no surprise, she looks as if the news has just hit her. I also note the nickname: Simi. Mrs. Beduah gathers herself quickly and says, “Simi works abroad, as a teacher.”
I count this as only half-true, but don’t make a face to show it.
“Her salary does not allow her to visit so often.” She nods solemnly and that solitary action suggests so much.
“You must all miss her,” I say quietly.
Simone’s mum sighs deeply. “Very much.”
I soon have to use the bathroom, and Mrs. Beduah says it’s upstairs on the right.
I reach the landing and find two doors. I guess it’s the one closest to me and reach for the handle.
“What are you doing?”
I halt at the edge of panic in Jenni’s voice. I didn’t hear her coming up behind me.
“Hi. I just need the bathroom.”
“That’s not the bathroom,” she says quickly.
I pull my hand back. “Oh, sorry.”
“No worries!” The stiffness in her shoulders melts and she gives me an easy smile. “I just haven’t tidied up in there yet. The bathroom is in here.” Jenni opens the other door for me, and I nod my thanks before slipping inside.
I thought Jenni might be waiting for me when I came out, but she must have gone back downstairs. I begin descending the staircase when I pause to look back at the door I’d first reached for. As I stand on the stairs alone, a sudden thought occurs to me. That’s Simone’s room .
I peer over the banister and there’s no one around. I should just return to the kitchen. I’m nosy, sure, but imagine how sick I’d feel if I got caught? The door is probably locked anyway.
But when I turn the handle, it flies out of my hand, the door opening as if the hinges have just been oiled.
I reach for the handle again but hear someone making their way up the stairs behind me.
I can’t think of how best to play this off, so I jump inside and close the door ninety percent of the way.
I wait until I hear the bathroom door click shut before I breathe. Then I turn around.
It looks like a guest bedroom at first. The bed is made with pressed sheets and two fluffy pillows. The curtains are closed but lightweight, so the room is only slightly dark. There are no dust particles in the air, and I can smell the linen on the bed is freshly laundered.
I walk up to the bookcase and recognize titles I’ve seen on Simone’s own shelves.
There’s a half-full bottle of perfume that, when I remove the cap, smells of her.
The state of the bed makes me think that her parents are expecting Simone to walk through this door at any given moment, or that they’re choosing to act as if she never left.
But the books and perfume Simone replaced rather than retrieved must mean that the day she left was also the day she decided not to return.
Which makes me wonder if the ball is in her court, after all.
“What are you doing in here?”
I turn in the direction of the deep voice and find Simone’s dad frowning in the doorway.
“I… I thought it was the bathroom,” I say quickly.
He smiles, amused, and looks at the gap between us. “And at what point did you realize you were not in the bathroom?” He has the tone of a teacher attempting to discipline one of his favorite students, and my confession spills out before I can stop myself.
“I know Simone.”
He freezes, and his small smile drops along with his shoulders.
“ My Simone?”
I start to fidget with my rings. “Yes. We became friends recently; we used to go to school together. One Sunday I went to church, and it was your church—I didn’t know it was going to be your church.
It was my grandparents’ church. Sorry. Anyway, I met Jenni there, and…
they look so much alike. Then I came here and saw photographs of Simone and I knew…
Simone and Jenni don’t know that I know. ”
After absorbing this torrent of information, he asks, “So, what are you really doing here? In her room? Did she… did she send you?”
“No!” I feel like I need to make this point very clear.
“She doesn’t know that I know, and she definitely doesn’t know that I’m here, in your house.
I meant to tell Jenni the truth after church today.
And I’m only here because your wife invited me and she’s very hard to say no to.
” I pause, and reconsider his question. “Do… do you wish Simone had sent me?”
He looks away. “It is a complicated thing,” he says quietly.
Then his face hardens and he stands straight.
“You shouldn’t be meddling in the lives of people you know nothing about.
I doubt Simone would appreciate this if she knew.
You should leave.” He opens the door wide.
“Please make your excuses to my family and go.”
I nod, ashamed. With my head down, I run down the stairs, return to the kitchen, and garble something to Mrs. Beduah about my mum needing me.
The pastor closes the front door behind me with a resounding slam.
The entire way home I pivot between cringing with guilt and analyzing what just happened from a writer’s perspective. Because amidst my shame, I’m fascinated by this family’s dynamic, and it’s not long before I’m furiously typing away on my laptop again.
“Yes,” the woman says proudly. “I have two daughters. J’s older sister, S, lives abroad, but her salary doesn’t allow her to visit us so often.” She shrugs genially. “You career girls, hmm?”
R stands in the kitchen having stopped peeling the plantain S’s mother had assigned her.
She doesn’t know what to think of the half confession, half omission she’s just heard.
Either this woman is an incredible actress, or she truly believes S works abroad.
The third option is that she’s simply delusional, but R can’t see that being true.
Cutting the plantain into diamond slices, R thinks back to what J said when they’d first met. “We’re also new here. Less than a year. My dad, the pastor, used to lead at our old church, before we left. We moved. Yeah, we moved, and my dad took up a position here.”
R wondered if news of S’s job got out, costing her dad his, and they’d had to leave their church in disgrace.
On the train home R thinks about how obvious it is that they all still love S, from the photographs on every surface to the preserved state of S’s old bedroom, but hate what she does, and no one can find the middle ground. But isn’t there always a middle ground?
S might think the compromise would be for her parents to accept the decision she’s made, while her parents think the only way forward is for S to seek forgiveness.
R’s agent T would quickly remind her that readers prefer happier endings; that they’d prefer for S’s parents to be progressive enough to embrace S’s body being her choice. That they would unlearn ingrained ideologies and worldviews they’ve held for decades in four hundred pages or less.
Of course, there’d be a faction of readers who would point out how ridiculous all that is. Smaller transformations make sense, such as “We love you, but we don’t want to hear about your career choice.” But changes that go against everything R has imagined these characters to be?
That’s not real fiction.
I rub my dry eyes and close the document. Just as I’m about to turn off my laptop, an email from Tara, who’s still in New York, comes through. I skim the email that basically boils down to: Got anything else?
I go into my folder and attach my most recent edit of the story I’d written about England’s first Black queen. I type a quick What about this? Then press send and get ready for bed.