Fly Away Home (17 page)

That afternoon at the film studio, Monica waited five minutes after Sipho had ended another call with Connor, and then pulled up a chair beside him. She would have preferred to watch Mandla in the scene where he had most of his lines, but this was more important.

“Are you sure you want to go back?” she asked Sipho.

His eyebrows lifted.

“You could come home with Mandla and me. Your principal, Mr. D., would welcome you with open arms.”

“I'm supposed to stay four and a half more months.”

Monica sighed. “Sipho, there's no easy way to say this. You've changed. This place has changed you.”

“The only thing that's changed is I'm having fun,” snapped Sipho.

Monica was taken aback. “You have fun in Lady Helen.”

“Mom, there are only ten boys in my class. None of them share my interests.”

“But neither does Connor. You hate sports.”

Sipho flipped his cell phone open and then closed it again. “It's different here.”

“That's what I'm worried about. Come home. We miss you. Your brother misses you.”

“Maybe you should worry about getting him on the plane with you.”

“Why? Has he said something to you?”

Sipho shook his head. “Just look at him, Mom. He loves this. He loves it here.”

Since the boys were young Monica had feared that Mandla would one day want to wander off and explore the world. If she had foreseen that it would happen when he was eight, she might not have had a minute's peace. Although she couldn't bring herself to open up to Zak, she decided that she had to be honest with Sipho.

“You're growing up too fast here.”

He shook his head.

When she'd first moved to Lady Helen and the principal of Green Block School had allowed Sipho to jump ahead two classes, she had wondered if the day would come when she'd regret it. Today was that day.

“You're only fifteen. Connor's seventeen. That's a big difference when you're a teenager.”

Sipho stood up. “Mom, Connor and his friends accept me. They think I'm cool because I'm different.”

“And you've proved you can fit in, so now you can come home.”

Sipho put a hand on her shoulder and she put her own hand over his. “I have to complete this year, Mom, or it will all have been a waste of time. I need this to get into medical school.”

“You can do something else back in Lady Helen to prove yourself.”

“I can't give up something I've started. Don't worry about me, Mom. I'll be fine. Mandla is not the only actor in the family.” He withdrew his hand. “Are you still coming to Houston for a couple of days before you fly home?”

She nodded.

“I'm not the one you need to worry about, Mom.” He gave her a meaningful look.

He meant Mandla, Yolanda and Zak, but also herself. Sipho, with his big serious eyes, had always seen more than he let on.

 

Zak called that evening to tell her that if Jacqueline's colleagues or friends knew where she was they weren't sharing the information.

“I know she's gone to Australia and taken Yolanda,” he said flatly.

Monica wished there wasn't an ocean between them so that she could wrap her arms around her husband.

“I've put a call in to the police, but I was told to wait another twenty-four hours before filing a missing person report.”

She heard the desolation in his voice and her eyes filled with tears.

“What about the South African embassy in Australia?”

Zak had not tried this avenue and his attitude brightened after he gave it some thought.

“Call them, sweetheart, and then please try and get some sleep.”

He started to protest.

“You're no use to your patients in this state.”

“You're right.”

After Zak had hung up, Monica woke her mother in Lady Helen to ask her to keep an eye on Zak. Mirinda promised she would.

 

The next morning, after Monica had said goodbye to Sipho at the airport, she arrived at the studio to find Mandla in tears.

“What's wrong?” she asked, hugging him.

“Steven says they're going to have to put subtitles on the screen when I talk because nobody will understand my accent.” Mandla burst into fresh tears.

“He said this to your face?”

“No,” sniffed Mandla. “I heard him telling the other kids in the break room. They all laughed.” He threw his arms around Monica's neck, sobbing.

“Come now, sweetie, don't cry,” she said, stroking his back. “I'm going to have a word with his mother and make him apologize.”

Mandla pulled away from her. “No, please don't do that. He won't mean it even if he says he's sorry.”

Her son had a point.

“Do you know why he's saying mean things about you?”

Mandla shook his head.

“Because he's jealous of you.”

“Of me? He's been in two other movies.”

“That may be true, but it's obvious to anyone with eyes that you have natural talent. The director loves you. And this makes Steven feel threatened.”

“He shouldn't be threatened by me. We'd never be up for the same roles.”

Monica caught her breath. Mandla was only eight years old and yet he had already grasped how the world worked. She wished it were not true, but it was.

“In South Africa you could have any role you wanted.”

He nodded. “But it's not Hollywood.”

“Come on. Dry your eyes. We don't want Steven to see that he's upset you.”

Mandla took the tissue she offered and blew his nose.

“Has Sipho gone?”

Monica nodded.

“He's changed since he's been here, hasn't he?”

“I think that deep down he's still our old Sipho.” She hoped that this was true.

 

That afternoon during filming, Mandla pronounced a few of his meager lines with an American accent. It was slight enough to escape the director's attention, but not Monica's, and her heart ached for her little boy who wanted so badly to fit in.

 

Zak filed a missing person report and the South African embassy in Australia agreed to contact the local police in Sydney, since that was where Jacqueline had originally intended to live before Zak had put a stop to her move. And then the waiting began. The embassy promised to call Zak weekly with updates, but it was not enough for him, and so he phoned the embassy every day.

 

On the day Mandla finished filming his part in the movie, the director hosted a small party for him. Steven and his friends did not attend, but all the adult actors were there, along with the entire crew. The celebration consisted of nothing more than soda, chips, a chocolate cake and balloons, but Mandla was thrilled to be the center of attention.

Before Mandla cut his cake the director made a toast. “To Mandla's future in the film business. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of him.”

Everybody cheered and Mandla looked as though he might burst with pride.

After the cake had been eaten and people started to leave for the evening, the director took Monica aside. Mandla hovered close by, listening.

“I meant what I said. Mandla has a great future ahead of him.”

“Thank you,” said Monica.

“He needs some work.”

“Work?”

“Acting lessons, of course. A new, more hip hairstyle. And his accent was perfect for this movie where he played an outsider, but if he wants to get more roles he'll need a voice coach to get rid of his South African accent.”

Later, Monica would think of a number of suitable replies, but at this moment she was speechless.

“If you want any recommendations, call my assistant,” said the director. He put out his hand. “It's been a pleasure having your son on this film. He has incredible presence.”

Monica shook his hand and was relieved when his assistant drew him away because she didn't trust herself to speak. How dare this man say Mandla had to get rid of his South African accent? Mandla's accent was part of who he was, not something to be discarded like old clothes. And what was wrong with his natural hair? It suited him. He had never worn his hair any other way. Did the man want Mandla to start growing dreadlocks? All of a sudden, she longed to be on a flight back home with both her boys beside her. This country wanted to suck in her family and spit it out changed and new. There was only one place for her and her boys and that was Lady Helen.

That evening, as she packed their bags, muttering under her breath about the “cheek of the man,” Mandla asked her what she planned to do.

“Visit Sipho for a couple of days and then go home, of course,” she told him.

“But what about me?”

“What about you?”

“The director said I have a great future. He meant here.”

“Ouch!” Monica caught her finger in the lock of her suitcase. “It's out of the question, Mandla. You belong at home with your family.” Her words had come out sharper than she'd intended.

“Sipho's staying here,” said Mandla sulkily.

“Only for four more months, and he's older than you.”

Mandla threw a pile of his clothes into his suitcase. “It's not fair. I'm the one who should be here. This place is wasted on Sipho. He's not talented.”

“Mandla! How can you say such a thing about your brother?” Monica noticed that her finger was bleeding.

“There aren't any big movies being filmed in South Africa.”

“Yes, there are. The South African film industry is growing. And foreign production houses are always going there to make movies, especially in Cape Town. They hire local people.”

“As extras. I don't want to be a face in the crowd. The director said I had talent.”

“Mandla, we cannot all move here. It's a ludicrous idea. When you're a grown-up, you can come back and try again.”

“That'll take forever,” yelled Mandla. “And they will have forgotten about me by then.” He stormed off to the bathroom.

“Don't you lock yourself in there again!” shouted Monica.

But it was too late. She heard the lock turn. Sighing, she tidied the pile of clothes he had thrown into the suitcase, and began to pack the rest of his things.

An hour later, he came out of the bathroom, but he would not speak to her unless it was to answer a question in monosyllables. Monica was starting to regret ever having helped Sipho submit his application to be a foreign exchange student.

Parenting was the toughest job in the world. Just when Monica thought she had the hang of it, new challenges were thrown at her, and she found herself floundering like an absolute beginner.

S
ipho, at least, was smiling when he met them at the Houston airport the next morning with Nancy and Connor. It wasn't long though before Monica realized that part of his happiness could be attributed to a wildly successful party the boys had thrown at Connor's house the night before. Monica hoped that Nancy and Bill had provided proper supervision, but she would not embarrass Sipho by asking about it in front of Connor.

Nancy insisted that Monica and Mandla stay at her house, and since their extended sojourn in Los Angeles had run up quite a credit-card bill, Monica accepted gratefully. Staying close by would also give her the opportunity to see how Sipho lived his day-to-day life.

“You've come in time to hear Sipho talk to the student body tomorrow,” Connor told her in the SUV on the drive home from the airport. “What's your topic, Sipho? I hope it's not lame.”

Sipho grinned, but refused to tell him. “Wait until tomorrow,” he said.

“You better make it funny or everyone will fall asleep,” said Connor.

“They won't fall asleep,” replied Sipho. He caught Monica's eye and smiled.

 

There were three exchange students at Sipho's school, and each of them had been asked to give a fifteen minute presentation about their home country.

The first student, a girl from Colombia, started her presentation the following morning by asking the audience to forgive her faulty English. She then got everyone laughing by listing the errors she had made while learning the language. She had brought slides to show the Colombian countryside and cities. As she started to talk about the turbulent politics of the country, Monica noticed a lot of fidgeting and whispering in the audience. Connor was correct; the students wanted the speaker to make them laugh. She began to feel so nervous for Sipho that she had to wipe her sweaty palms on her skirt. Never in his fifteen years had she known him to make a crowd laugh.

It was his turn next. As he went to stand behind the podium, she could feel her heart racing in her chest. His voice cracked when he greeted the audience, and she covered her face with her hands. He cleared his throat.

“I feel very privileged to have been given this opportunity to study abroad.”

She heard a few giggles and thought of the film director's advice to Mandla to lose his accent.

“I want to thank you all for welcoming me to your school.” His demeanor was more formal than that of the school principal who had introduced him.

Monica knew that he would have to change gears now or face losing his audience.

“Today I want to talk to you about the children in my home country, South Africa—those less privileged than you and me.”

Beside Monica, Mandla shifted in his seat. Sipho turned on the laptop he had set up on the podium, and a photograph of a little African girl appeared on the screen. He explained to the students how more than a million children in South Africa had lost one or both parents to AIDS and the number of orphans was growing faster than anyone cared to admit. He changed the slide to show a little girl holding a cup of water to her mother's chapped lips. Ailing parents, he said, were being cared for by their young children. Some households were now headed by children as young as ten years old.

“I am one of the lucky ones,” said Sipho, looking at the row of chairs where the parents, including Monica, sat. “I was adopted by a good woman.”

Monica felt her stomach flip. In all their years together, Sipho had never mentioned that he was grateful to her for taking him in, and she had never expected it of him. The agreement she had made with the boys' mother to adopt them had come naturally—they had not even thought to put it in writing before Ella died.

Flipping through slides that showed children involved in a variety of household tasks, including collecting firewood, Sipho described to the students the daily struggle of these AIDS orphans, whose schooling had to take a backseat to the grinding task of eking out a living. Monica noticed a few girls near her wiping their eyes. There was not a sound in the packed auditorium.

Monica had never seen Sipho so in command of himself and his listeners before. His words were eloquent, measured and heartfelt, his gestures large enough for the whole auditorium to see, but still natural. He was his mother, Ella, all over again, but with a subtle difference: she had filled the room with her larger-than-life personality. Sipho filled it with the quiet intensity of his words. The result, though, was the same: people took note. Monica saw many students writing in notebooks when Sipho listed the ways in which they could help.

When he finished, there was silence, and then a boy in the front row stood up and began to clap. Soon the entire student body was giving Sipho a standing ovation.

After the presentation by the third student, who struggled to gain the audience's attention with his account of daily life in Japan, the students swarmed around Sipho to ask questions. Even Connor, Monica noticed, had a question. She wanted to tell Sipho how proud she was of him, but didn't want to intrude. After ten minutes, Sipho left the group to come to her. If the other students hadn't been watching she would have taken him into her arms and probably shed a tear or two, but she behaved as any parent of a high school student should: with restraint.

“You were fantastic,” she told him.

“Thanks. Did you like the slides? A nongovernmental organization in South Africa e-mailed them to me.”

“The slides were great, but you were…you were your mother up there on that stage.”

Sipho gave a pinched smile. “I felt her watching me. Is that crazy?”

Monica shook her head. “Not at all.”

“I meant what I said about being lucky.”

Monica felt a sob catch in her throat. “No, sweetie, I'm the lucky one.”

He stepped forward and put his arms around her shoulders. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, Sipho.”

He pulled away shyly and pinched Mandla's cheek. “I'd better go back to the students so I can get them to donate money to AIDS charities while they're all fired up. You know what it's like with teenagers.”

He had returned to being the Sipho she knew, older and wiser than his years. She was going to miss him over the next four months.

 

Mandla barely spoke to her on the flight home to Cape Town. He slept little and watched all the films available. With time, he would get over his disappointment and realize that it was impossible for him to live in the United States at this point in his life. Until then, Monica would have to endure his censorious silence.

As the airplane approached the airport in Cape Town, Mandla looked out the window and caught his breath.

“Look, Mom,” he said, for an instant forgetting to be sullen.

Monica leaned over to view the city many called the most beautiful in the world. The sky was the same color that Hercules always painted it in his landscapes—the one Francina called artificial. Frothy white waves fringed Cape Point, the rocky peninsula some mistakenly called the most southern tip of the African continent. Table Mountain was not covered by its usual beautiful white tablecloth, and Monica imagined tourists at the top marveling at the clear view of the bay below and the houses crafted into the rocky cliffs overlooking the ocean.

“It's good to be home,” she said, and instantly she regretted her words because, predictably, they reminded Mandla of where he would rather be.

He retreated into his shell again, and although the flight crew had turned off the in-flight entertainment system, he stared at the gray screen as though it might come to life at any moment.