GINGER AND BUBBLES

13| MIRROR, MIRROR...

Lester has been gone for three days now.

It's one thing to psyche myself up and take control of my daily survival, but it's quite another to live with this monstrosity in the mirror every day. How can I blame him for bolting if I, too, must muster up inhuman willpower to face my reflection?

Opening my eyes in the morning, dragging myself out of bed and wondering how I'm going to make it today, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. This a daily contest between my brain and my body.

I curse my arm and leg for the humiliation they put me through. I despise them, every day, for what they had become... Two useless limbs. Mere add-ons to my brokenness.

I slip on the wet tiles of my bathroom. Naked and soiled I lay in my slippery mess, struggling to clean myself. After a while, I gather myself.

Yet, I am learning a lot about myself because of their diminished use. They, firmly set in their uncompromising plaster of paris prison conspire against my resolve to thrive. Together they are out to humiliate me.  Mock me very time I fall. If something slips from my weak left hand, I hear them laugh. In my most undignified moments  they remind me how useless I am without them.

I get their message loud—think before you make a move. The lesson is simple, yet important. There exists a symbiotic relationship between limbs. This pondering on my next step brings me to an abrupt halt every time. It compels me to proceed with care, forces me to take stock of my surroundings before putting my compromised limbs, and life, at risk.

In the space of two weeks the I can't ease their grip. What emerges is a new vitality, a mental strength that shouts I can and I must and, if I'm honest, I desperately need that kind of energy to drown out the ever-advancing loneliness that creeps up on me when I'm at my lowest.

I hobble to the telephone and stare at his number written on the piece of paper laying next to it. I bite my lip, cognizant of my discoloured knuckles clenching the telephone receiver.

The she-wolf steps in, baring her fangs and growling at my fraying psyche that is pouncing on my need for the nearness of the strong-faced man with the head full of soft curls. She snarls at me while contorting into a frightening force and hauls me to the mirror. She lifts my chin with her hairy paws and forces me to face off with the wounded one-eyed beast in the mirror.

I don't recall when I stopped listening for his footsteps running up the stairs or when last I tried to detect the lingering smell of his aftershave in the fabric of my sofa. Who knows? Maybe soon I will let go of the wish for his presence to return to my kitchen.

But, life continues with or without us, and currently, I'm at the mercy of two unlikely strangers. The one is Anne, my neighbour in the flat next to mine. We have a working arrangement. She is kind enough to cart me to the bank and we have an agreement about food supplies. It is not perfect, but it is workable. The other one is the manager and maintenance supervisor of the complex, Mr. Esterhuizen who checks in on me, daily. With their help, I established some routine, cognisant of the hard-hitting realisation that my wellbeing rested heavily on the reliance and goodwill of total strangers—who can't believe how nice I am since I passed them by every day for almost a decade without making an effort to greet or acknowledge them.

Shameful. Who on earth was this Suzan Dorel Delheim? Where are her friends? Where is her family? It is time to trace her footsteps, irrespective of where today's journey takes me.

I page through the notebook that Lester left next to my bed and take a deep breath as the phone rings on the other side. I'm on the verge of putting it down when a woman picks up.

"Adele, here," I hear the deep, husky voice in my ear. I listen, trying to connect to the sound of the voice, eagerly waiting for it to jog a memory of some kind.

"Ade...Adele? It's me, Suzan."

"Suzan? Oh, poor Suzan. I heard about your accident. It's—

"You know me?"

"Of course, Suzan? What kind of question is that? We've been friends since...well, since high school."

I can hear there's confusion or indignation in her voice.

"Adele...how did you know about me? The accident—

"I didn't, Suzan, until a few weeks ago. It was an article in the Timesonline. I called, but your cellphone is disconnected and I don't know where you live. We never hooked up for that coffee date. I'm so occupied, you know, marriage and kids and—"

I put down the phone. Adele's name or voice don't trigger any particular memories, but one sentence triggered something and now it swirls around in my head. I'm so occupied.

I must go to my service provider and get a new cellphone. If I'm serious about getting my life back I must find that article. I must reconnect my phone and ascertain who I surrounded myself with. If they are anything like Adele who's too occupied...

As the time approaches for the removal of my casts my mood begins to pick up again. There are times that the thoughts of Lester come in the early morning hours. It is more painful not to dwell on my brief brush with him than I imagined and even more excruciating to relinquish every curiosity that I unconsciously captured, cataloged, and hid in the vaults of my wary heart.

Now, at the end of the first month my efforts start paying off and the nascent emotions of imminent dismay and darkness make way for a new zest for life. I feel my mood lift and, although my thoughts are infused with cautious flashes of optimism, it brings with it a restlessness to get out of the casts and patch together the missing pieces of my prior life.

But, it is imperative to track and dig up the remains of Suzan Dorel Delheim. Where are her colleagues and her employers reflected on her banking details for the past ten years?

My doorbell squeals with an air of impatience. I drape the headscarf around my head and face and limp on my crutch to the monitor. It is a guy holding up a tag of a courier service. I buzz him in.

"Susan Dorel Delheim?"

His inquisitive eyes are examining me from head to toe.

"Who wants to know?"

Puzzled at my response he looks at the brown package in his hand. It has a white document stuck on top of it. He looks back at me.

"A package for Suzan Dorel Delheim. Please sign here to acknowledge receipt if it is you."

I look at his outstretched hand with the package and his pen and shake my head. I realise that I must sit down to sign for the package, with my uncoordinated left hand.

"Come, I'll sign at that table."

I gesture with my crutch to the table across the room. He nods and holds down the document for me while I scribble my name. Once I'm alone I stare at the brown envelope, anxious yet apprehensive about its content. There are so many hopeful what-ifs whirring around in my head that it leaves me nauseous. I struggle to slide open the A4 envelope with my trembling fingers.

Dear Miss Delheim,

I regret to inform you that your services at National Advertising had been terminated due to financial constraints.

The loss of a key contract necessitated the immediate downsizing of personnel and the restructuring of the company's resources, human and financial.

Please be advised that all company benefits are terminated with immediate effect as of 1 October 2012.

Financial benefits are attached and will be paid out in line with the relevant policy directives.

All the best with your future endeavors.

Russel Fick (CEO)
National Advertising
Signed: 3O September 2012