May We Be Forgiven

scrawled on it in grease pen.
    “Weather delay,” I say. “And we had to stop for gas.”
    The padded ride of the big black car gives me the uncomfortable sensation of floating, of being divorced from reality. I find myself craving the bumpy ride of the old Land Rover, with its homemade seat-belt contraption for the kids, harnessed like a backyard rocket ship.
    We pull up at the house. The rosebushes by the front door are in bloom—a deep bloody red. A climbing White Dawn rose stretches up the front of the house, wrapping around the windows. Ashley picks a low pink rose and puts it to my nose. “Abraham Darby,” she says. “They make perfume out of them.”
    I draw a deep breath; the heavy scent catches in my lungs—I breathe again, a little less deeply.
    “Nice.”
    Ricardo insists on going to the front door and ringing the bell. Tessie barks excitedly.
    Cheryl opens the door—she smiles.
    It’s hard to describe, but what I’ve been dreading instantly falls away. I don’t think I’ve ever had that sensation before—a kind of darkness lifting, like sun coming out from behind a cloud—as literal and elusive as all that.

    T here are balloons, brightly colored streamers, and an enormous chocolate cake with “Congratulations on the Big BM” written in baby-blue script.
    Cheryl, Sofia, Cecily, the pet minder and his sister, Madeline and Cy, Tessie and the cats, and a few people I’ve never seen before stand in a reception line.
    “The house looks different,” I say, pleasantly surprised.
    “You bet it does,” Cheryl says. “We gave you a makeover—painted the kitchen, living room, and dining room, rearranged the furniture, got a few new things like chairs that are easy for Cy and Madeline.” I follow Cheryl through the house with my hand over my mouth, awed, saying, “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it,” over and over again.
    “The look on your face is priceless,” Cecily says.
    Yesterday, in Durban, I was dreading coming back to the house, falling into the same routines, but this is incredible, a wonderful welcome home. For the first time I’m part of a community. I stand there, eyes watering, and raise a giant glass of diet orange soda. “My heart is full.”
    There is pizza, soda, and cake so teeth-curdlingly sweet and richly American that I can’t stop eating it. I have one slice and another and another until I am high. I cut the high with coffee and am shaking and dizzy.
    “We got hijacked,” Ricardo tells everyone. “Run off the road by some crazy men.”
    “Ashley and Ricardo saved us by pretending the dolls were her children and that they were injured,” Nate says.
    “What made you think to do that?” Cheryl asks.
    “At my school they taught us,” Ashley says.
    “Taught you what?” I ask.
    “In gym class there was a unit on self-protection. They taught us to go for the eyeballs and the ball balls and that if we were ever approached by someone who wanted us to get into a car or tried to hurt us in any way, we should act crazy. Or roll under a parked car. They said bad guys don’t want to get down on their knees and try and pull you out from under a parked car, and that crazy people made them nervous. When I was younger I would always be thinking about what I’d do.”
    “Brilliant,” Madeline says.

    T errifying—my thought repeats.

    I make the tea Londisizwe sent home with me; it tastes of the South African ground, the dirt, and the air. I swirl the muslin bag in my cup and would swear that I see blue, green, and purple colors like an ersatz rainbow floating.
    Later, I overhear Cheryl talking to Nate.
    “What happened to your mom could have happened to any of us,” she says.
    “I doubt it,” he says, not believing her.
    “Trust me,” she says, “I’ve lived longer than you.”
    “Do you really think it could have happened to anyone?” I ask Cheryl after everyone else has gone and she and I are in the kitchen trying to figure out the new cabinet organization system.
    “I do,” she says.
    “I’m not sure how to take that. …”
    “It’s not about you, it’s about human behavior. You know how there will be a report on TV of some woman who kills herself and her kids, and everyone acts like that’s so shocking?”
    I nod. “I guess so.”
    “What’s shocking,” Cheryl says, “is that it doesn’t happen more often. What’s shocking is that everyone says they fell in love with their child the minute it was born, what’s shocking