“NO! No, I’m not okay. How can I be okay when I thought I was one thing and it turns out I’m something else entirely? What did you say? Adventurous, approaches each day as if it’s an adventure, opportunities and love ahead! Romantic, sensual, spiritual pinkness! Oh please! You should see what my life looks like. There’s no pink in it, the only pink in it are the tampons you sold me!” I threw my free hand in the air. “How the hell can I be okay?” And then I laughed again, and soon I was teetering on the edge of tears again.
“I’m sorry,” Andi said softly. “But if you remember what the first card said? That you are in the process of going on a journey to rid yourself of a belief, or behavioral pattern that is no longer good for you, and embrace a new way of thinking and being.”
I shook my head, hard. I could almost feel the alcohol swishing back and forth in my brain. “No! No, I’m not going anywhere. No journey. This is me, just the way I am. Right here in this office that smells like a damp shoe and then back to my beige apartment that smells like a disinfectant wipe.”
“Just the way you are?” she asked. Her voice sounded strange and faraway. It sounded like how she’d looked when she’d zoned in on the cards, as if she was pulling something from somewhere that no one else could see. “You don’t have to be this way. In fact, the person I met the other day wouldn’t settle for that.”
“The person you met the other day was fake. Much like your fake reading.” I pulled the phone away from my ear and was about to slam it down in anger, but I had one last thing to say to her. “And as for romance being on the horizon, pppssst! That—that—was the thing you were most wrong about. No romance on the horizon for me, other than Sheik Khalifa’s paper arms and a lipstick shade I wouldn’t even wear!” I shouted that last part and then dramatically slammed the phone down, missing the cradle completely and bashing it on my desk. I lifted it to my ear and listened.
“I’m still here,” Andi said.
“Oh! Well! BYE!” I slammed the phone again, and missed once more. This time it tumbled to the floor, bounced and then hung there. I grabbed it and put it to my ear once more.
“Ja, still here!” the voice on the other end said.
“Dammit,” I cursed. I couldn’t even slam a phone down properly, so I reached for the electrical cord and pulled as hard as I could. It came flying out of the wall, whipped through the air and hit me across the face.
“Fuck!” I winced as a fiery sting radiated across my face.I give up!Officially! I give up on slamming phones and trying to make sense of anything around me, I just . . .give up!I slunk down onto the floor and sat there for a while, staring at the grime-encrusted carpet that looked like it had been laid in the seventies, back when orange was a thing.
“Work! Must work!” I took a breath and grabbed for the nearest crunched-up piece of paper. I could tell whose this was immediately. I had become so familiar with everyone’s handwriting over the years, I could recognize it instantly, even if none of them recognized me. But I didn’t feel like working, so I crunched the paper right back up and tossed it across the room. It hit the wall and then fell to the floor like a dead thing, disturbing a line of ants that were scurrying across the floor, crumbs on their backs.
I burped and hit my chest as some acid crept up my throat. God, one shouldnotdrink champagne on an empty stomach, and certainly not in the morning before work. Without thinking, I reached for my bottom drawer and opened it. I took out the paper and colored pencils that I kept in there and laid them on the floor in front of me. I was just about to pick a pencil up and start drawing when it dawned on me.
I made cards for people!
I was the person who made secret birthday cards, and baby-shower cards, and wedding cards and congratulations cards for everyone in the office, even though I’d never been invited to any of those events. I thought about the colored pencils in the bottom of my cupboards. It was all coming back to me. I made cards for everyone. Random strangers. My neighbors—when Mr. Burns from 309 lost his cat, I’d made him a condolence card and slipped it under his door. When the doorman had his first child, I’d made him a card and left it secretly on the counter, and when I didn’t go to the Christmas party that I’d been invited to, I’d made everyone I knew in the building Christmas cards and put them in their post boxes.
I sat up straight and looked down at the card I was busy making Gareth for his birthday. I put a lot of effort into these cards, into the fine, detailed illustrations that went on the outside and the unique, hand-drawn typography that went inside.Why did I do these?I had an inkling I’d been doing them for years, almost all my life, further back than I could remember, and I got a feeling that there was something very significant about the cards. I ran my hand over the card I was currently making and wondered why I didn’t just give it to the person directly? Why did I secretly leave these cards lying around for people, and never walk up to the person and put it directly in their hands?
Pull or push?
A part of me wanted to pull, a part of me wanted to make connections with others, but for some reason, I didn’t. I kept people on the outside, while I only peeped in. I peeped in while others lived their lives and I didn’t. And when someone did want to connect, more than just over a card, I pushed them away. Like I’d done with Noah. I had a feeling that my strange relationship with connections started way before I had a memory of it. I lowered the pencil to the card and started drawing. This was the only way that Zenobia knew how to connect, from a distance, pencil lines on a page. But if I was truly honest with myself right now, I wished that I could go beyond the card, like I had with Noah. But that was over. The one real connection that I’d had was gone. Except for Eugene. He and I were clearly friends. I would try and see him again. I’d knocked on his door a day ago and he hadn’t been home. I would try again later.
I heard footsteps echo down the corridor. It was Jeff and Loyiso, the two maintenance guys, who also worked here in this shitty little basement area. They were always running around carting furniture back and forth whenever the creatives upstairs decided to move things around, which was at least once a month.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?” Loyiso asked. I know for a fact he’s hardly been able to do anything lately. His wife, Zama, has just had a baby and he hasn’t had a boys’ night in ages. That’s what he’s always saying to Jeff anyway.
“Don’t know. Me and Vuyo were thinking of going to The Keg.”
“Damn, wish I could come. But Mandla is teething and I think Zama will kill me if I go out.”
“Dude, that’s why I’m in no hurry to settle down.” Jeff laughed. This is the other thing Jeff always said, but if you asked me, he was turning forty next month and I was starting to wonder if he would ever be ready to settle down.
“Shit, this cabinet is getting heavy!” Jeff heaved and I heard something wobble.
“Why the fuck are they always rearranging the furniture upstairs?” Loyiso was also heaving now. He shouldn’t push it too much. He’d missed a few days of work recently to go to some doctor’s appointments. I’d overheard him on the phone to his wife talking about having a heart murmur!
The footsteps grew closer, as did the huffing and puffing, until they were both right outside my office door. I could see the shadows of their feet. I jumped in fright as a loud alarm started blaring throughout the building. It was so loud that I momentarily covered my ears until I got used to the sound, and then I looked around. The red fire-alarm light was flashing at me.
“Shit, another fire drill,” I heard Loyiso say.
“I am so sick of these,” Jeff said. “Unless it really is a fire?”
“God, that would be great. We could go home early.”
“Let’s hope,” Loyiso replied. “We’d better go to the assembly point.” And then I heard a loud thud, the sound of the filing cabinet being put down, I was guessing. I jumped up. The thought that there might actually be arealfire here was terrifying. Although I did have a memory of doing fire drills, now that I thought about it. I grabbed the laptop and my handbag, raced for the door and pushed it. It didn’t open.
“What the . . .” I pushed again, but the door banged against something hard. “. . . hell?” I banged it over and over again, trying to push whatever was there . . .the filing cabinet!They had put the filing cabinet right outside my door, as if they didn’t know that someone was in here. Was I that invisible to everyone?
