TARA
Tara: I had a great time at lunch @Estee. Thanks for hanging with me!
Esther: Same here @Tara. It was such a breath of fresh air. Thanks for a great time 😀
Tara: How was your spectacular mother’s day, Cleo?
Esther: You mean sex-tacular 😉
Tara: abeg o!
Tara hummed to herself as she pushed the shopping cart, the wheels squeaking faintly against the linoleum floor. She paused between aisles to inspect a row of chili cans, lifting one to scan the label with idle focus. The familiar chill of the grocery store’s air conditioning kissed her arms, and the soft murmur of background music drifted overhead. Since she’d become a mum, grocery shopping had transformed into a kind of immersive experience where no one needed her, where no one cried or tugged at her clothes. She looked forward to these small escapes, relishing the quiet ritual of walking the aisles alone. It was a turnaround from the woman she’d been just a few weeks ago; someone who was afraid to leave the house, afraid to let the girls out of her sight, as if , if she did something unthinkable would happen.
Lately, being out without the girls made her feel lighter. Freer. She was happier in these solitary pockets of time. She couldn’t reconcile the person she was now, with the one she’d been just recently. Postpartum anxiety, that’s what Jem had called it. He’d presented it to her on one of those days she’d refused to let him comfort Rachel while she held Ruthie, because she was afraid that Rachel would think Tara didn’t love her the same way she loved Ruthie. It explained the way she watched them sleep during naps to be sure they were still breathing, and then at night, when she drifted to sleep, she woke with heart racing, sweat pouring down her face even though the room was ten degrees.
Jem had suggested gently that she see someone, and Tara had been too tired to tell him that she didn’t believe in therapy. Her mind felt as heavy as her eyes from the lack of sleep, so she had let him make the arrangements; an online therapist because Tara didn’t feel up to leaving the house yet (what if something happened to the girls?).
Her therapist was a Middle-Eastern woman, Dr Leila Shore, who specialized in maternal mental health. Tara had liked talking to her, mostly because she listened like someone gathering puzzle pieces and didn’t force her out of her comfort zone. And to be honest, it felt like Tara was talking to her mother, so she looked forward to those forty minutes sessions twice a week. Tara couldn’t say when things had changed, or what exactly changed, but she just knew that one day she slept at night and didn’t wake up with night sweats or horrific dreams, and then it was easier to walk away from the twins and sit in the next room without her mind playing a reel of all the tragic things that could happen.
These days, Tara looked forward to the moments she spent on her own. Sometimes, it was enough just to sit in the car, letting the music pour through the speakers like balm. And then when she went for a drive downtown, Nathaniel Bassey’s voice filled the silence. There was something about the rich timbre of his worship songs that helped her breathe again. She knew it wasn’t music that Jem would appreciate so she saved it for when she was alone, when she didn’t have to explain why passion sounded like shouting, or why a grown man blowing a trumpet could bring tears to her eyes.
It wasn’t like Jem was going to stop her from listening to whatever kind of music she wanted, it was just…she didn’t want to explain anything to him. That was one of the strains of being in an interracial relationship; the over-explaining, the translation, and the loss in translation.
When they first started dating, Jem had been fascinated and even a little charmed by their differences, by her. She had asked him if she was his first black girlfriend, and he’d said yes. She had felt special, had milked his fascination for her hair – how did you get it to be straight? How come it’s like a sponge?
She’d schooled him in natural hair, had made him watch Nollywood movies on Netflix with her even though she had to painstakingly explain how pidgin was also English but also not.
Those days had been warm and full of little delights. She’d let him open doors for her, show up at her door with icecream and a hot water bottle for her bad menstrual cramps. Now Tara wondered when it had all changed. When had they become roommates and partners without the spark? When had they last had a conversation that didn’t revolve around the girls?
Tara found that these days, she looked for opportunities to leave the house. To leave Jem. To leave the girls. Oh God, what kind of mother was she?
She hadn’t admitted this to Esther at lunch but she wasn’t finding motherhood blissful or beautiful. Every day she vaccilated between anxiety to be a good mother and a dull ache in her chest constantly reminding her she was failing in some way.
Her phone pinged. It was a text from Cleo.
Cleo: Up for company?
Tara: Yes! I’m grocery shopping at the Superstore. Wanna come?
Cleo: Gimme ten minutes.
Tara: Yaay!
Tara’s mood elevated itself even more. She had missed Cleo at their Mothe’r s day dinner three days ago, but a part of her was also glad that she and Esther had still decided to go on their own. She had gotten to know Esther a little better and well…she was not just lipstick and lighting. Her thoughts and musings about motherhood at the end of their lunch had been spot on: did you choose the kind of mother you were or was it decided for you?
If so, what kind of mother did that make her? What kind of mother did she want to be? One who went with the tide or one who created the tide?
I’m in the International aisle. She tapped out a quick message to Cleo.
See you soon.
Tara slipped a pack of Indomie into her shopping cart. There were few meals that she and Jem agreed on, but noodles was one of them. He loved noodles in all forms; mac and cheese (ugh, terrible), Alfredo pasta (not bad), jollof pasta (she’d introduced it to him. He loved it minus the spiciness).
So, on days that Tara was too lazy to cook, she opted for a simple noodle meal. Jem was pretty handy in the kitchen himself, but Tara sometimes found his food bland. She would politely eat, then sneak back to the kitchen for something spicier.
Sometimes it was eba and okra soup; something that made her feel grounded, that made her feel connected to home.
Jem didn’t get it. Not the food, not the joy of swallow sliding down her throat. He’d watch her like she was from another planet.
“Girl!” Cleo’s hearty voice rang out, warm and bright.
“Hey!” Tara turned, grinning. She pushed the cart towards her.
“Should we hug? Should we hug?” Cleo asked, even though her arms were already open.
Tara stepped into the embrace, breathing in the faint scent of strawberries and body lotion. Cleo felt effortlessly put together, even her laughter had a kind of sparkle. Tara found herself momentarily envious of her friend’s poise, the easy way she moved through the world.
“You look good,” Tara said as the embrace came to an end. “Your Mother’s day must have been what you expected.
Cleo’s laugh tinkled, “haha, I wish. You don’t look bad yourself. Give me all the tea. Did you and Esther end up filming a vlog together?”
Tara laughed, “funny enough, she didn’t come with her content creation stuff. She said she wasn’t in the mood.”
“So, what did you guys do? Did you talk about me? Or men?” Cleo winked.
“We got to know each other better. It was nice. You should have been there.”
“I should have,” A flicker crossed Cleo’s face; curiosity? Regret? Tara couldn’t tell..
“I never asked…what does your tattoo mean?” Tara had noticed Cleo’s upper arm tattoo the first time she wore a sleeveless dress. It was the kind of thing Cleo could pull off that Tara could only admire.
“Which one?”
“Oh, how many do you have?”
“Two,” Cleo said, “ One on my lower back and this one here.”
“Two? Are you really Nigerian? My mother would kill me.”
“Well, my mother almost did when she found out about the first one.”
“How old were you then?”
“I just turned eighteen. The one on my back was a celebratory kinda thing. I thought putting it somewhere my parents couldn’t see was the best idea. But then I was so sick one time my mum had to undress me to bathe me, and boom. She went bonkers.”
“Oh my God. What did she do? You were sick!”
“She started to wail and cry, Nigerian mother style. And after that, she called all my siblings, my aunties and uncles and they all began to call me one by one to intervene. It was terrible. I wish she’d just hit me and got it over with.”
Tara doubled over in laughter.
“It wasn’t funny then. I have two older sisters who are my mother’s lackeys so I got an earful for almost three days.”
“So, why did you get the one on your arm?”
“I got it years ago when I got married. I was making a statement, I guess. Like, I’m an adult now, married and all that. But I hid it for almost a year. Sweaters, long sleeves, everything.”
“Are you close to your family?” Tara picked up a pack of kiwi and dumped in her cart.
“Yes, and no. We’re not, like, co-dependent or anything, but we try to see each other at least once a year. So, we all head down to my family’s house for Christmas or Thanksgiving, depending on which holiday works. I talk to my sisters and brother every other week. My mum and dad like to Facetime with the kids every week, so I’ll say we are pretty balanced. How about you?”
Tara shrugged, refusing to think about her mother.
“Yes and no, I guess. My brothers are way younger so we don’t quite have much in common. I talk to my parents every other week too.” Or at least she would like to, Tara thought.
Before everything with the twins had happened, she and her mother spoke every week, about everything and nothing.
“Cool, cool,” Cleo slipped a box of pancake mix into her basket. “I find these things easier.”
“Yeah, they’re good for quick breakfast but sometimes the batter can be denser than I prefer,” Tara said.
“You look like a great cook. I wish,” Cleo said, wistful.
“You’re not?”
“Oh girl, I can’t cook to save my life. I’m lucky Jacob…yeah.”
“Is that hard?”
“What?”
“Like, navigating your meal preferences with Jacob’s?”
“Well, Jacob is South African, so the African part means we have similar palettes. But no, we’re pretty synced when it comes to meals. Maybe because we both grew up here.”
“Hmmm, so are you saying you’re more Canadian than Nigerian?”
“Oh no. I’m inherently Nigerian. I will always be Nigerian. My parents made sure of that. But I’ve lived here long enough to know how to shape-shift.”
“And what about your kids? Do you find yourself wondering about who you’re raising them to be?”
“Hmmm, when I first had Axel, yes, I was very anxious about what I was doing with him. I had all these questions about who I wanted him to be, what culture I wanted him to be part of, blah blah blah.”
“How…when did that change?”
“When he became a toddler and I realised all I wanted was to raise a decent human,” Cleo laughed. “ And I realised my job is to follow his lead, steering him right whenever I feel like he’s veering too far from being a decent human.”
“Wow. That sounds…simple but also complex.”
“It is. But…it gets easier. And then it gets hard, and then easier, and basically your entire life is about following your child’s cue. You just follow their lead, course-correct when they drift.”
“You should write a parenting book,” Tara said.
“Yeah, right.”
They walked side by side in the aisles, making idle small talk about food and children, and Tara found herself laughing more easily than she had in weeks. The fluorescent lights buzzed gently overhead, casting a soft sheen on the polished floors as their carts rolled along in sync.
Her phone pinged. It was Jem.
You coming home soon? The girls miss you.
Tara sighed.
What about you, do you miss me? She wanted to text back. She deleted it. She did not want to sound needy.
Soon, she said. Kiss them for me.
Sometimes Tara felt like she was playing a role, pretending to be someone she’s not. Kiss them for me, as if she cared. As if they cared.
Near the checkout, Cleo reached for a bouquet of sunflowers from a display and dropped it into Tara’s cart without ceremony.
Tara looked up, surprised.
“What’s this?”
“I just felt like you needed something to remind you that you’re doing great, and it gets better. Don’t worry, it’s on me.”
Tara swallowed, it was the kindest thing anybody had done for her in a while.
“Thank you,” she murmured, careful to keep her emotions in check.