“I hope he doesn’t start in my room,” Morgan said.
“Why?” Ifemelu asked.
“I just don’t want him to.”
IFEMELU WANTED to tell Kimberly about the carpet cleaner, but Kimberly might become flustered and apologize for what was not her fault as she often, too often, apologized for Laura.
It was discomfiting to observe how Kimberly lurched, keen to do the right thing and not knowing what the right thing was. If she told Kimberly about the carpet cleaner, there was no telling how she would respond—laugh, apologize, snatch up the phone to call the company and complain.
And so, instead, she told Kimberly about Taylor and the orange.
“He really thought seeds meant it was bad? How funny.”
“Morgan of course promptly set him right,” Ifemelu said.
“Oh, she would.”
“When I was a little girl my mother used to tell me that an orange would grow on my head if I swallowed a seed. I had many anxious mornings of going to look in the mirror. At least Taylor won’t have that childhood trauma.”
Kimberly laughed.
“Hello!” It was Laura, coming in through the back door with Athena, a tiny wisp of a child with hair so thin that her pale scalp gaped through. A waif. Perhaps Laura’s blended vegetables and strict diet rules had left the child malnourished.
Laura put a vase on the table. “This will look terrific tomorrow.”
“It’s lovely,” Kimberly said, bending to kiss Athena’s head. “That’s the caterer’s menu. Don thinks the hors d’oeuvre selection is too simple. I’m not sure.”
“He wants you to add more?” Laura said, scanning the menu.
“He just thought it was a little simple, he was very sweet about it.”
In the den, Athena began to cry. Laura went to her and, soon enough, a string of negotiations followed: “Do you want this one, sweetheart? The yellow or the blue or the red? Which do you want?”
Just give her one, Ifemelu thought. To overwhelm a child of four with choices, to lay on her the burden of making a decision, was to deprive her of the bliss of childhood. Adulthood, after all, already loomed, where she would have to make grimmer and grimmer decisions.
“She’s been grumpy today,” Laura said, coming back into the kitchen, Athena’s crying quelled. “I took her to her follow-up from the ear infection and she’s been an absolute bear all day. Oh and I met the most charming Nigerian man today. We get there and it turns out a new doctor has just joined the practice and he’s Nigerian and he came by and said hello to us. He reminded me of you, Ifemelu. I read on the Internet that Nigerians are the most educated immigrant group in this country. Of course, it says nothing about the millions who live on less than a dollar a day back in your country, but when I met the doctor I thought of that article and of you and other privileged Africans who are here in this country.” Laura paused and Ifemelu, as she often did, felt that Laura had more to say but was holding back. It felt strange, to be called privileged. Privileged was people like Kayode DaSilva, whose passport sagged with the weight of visa stamps, who went to London for summer and to Ikoyi Club to swim, who could casually get up and say “We’re going to Frenchies for ice cream.”
“I’ve never been called privileged in my life!” Ifemelu said. “It feels good.”
“I think I’ll switch and have him be Athena’s doctor. He was wonderful, so well-groomed and well-spoken. I haven’t been very satisfied with Dr. Bingham since Dr. Hoffman left, anyway.” Laura picked up the menu again. “In graduate school I knew a woman from Africa who was just like this doctor, I think she was from Uganda. She was wonderful, and she didn’t get along with the African-American woman in our class at all. She didn’t have all those issues.”
“Maybe when the African American’s father was not allowed to vote because he was black, the Ugandan’s father was running for parliament or studying at Oxford,” Ifemelu said.
Laura stared at her, made a mocking confused face. “Wait, did I miss something?”
“I just th
ink it’s a simplistic comparison to make. You need to understand a bit more history,” Ifemelu said.
Laura’s lips sagged. She staggered, collected herself.
“Well, I’ll get my daughter and then go find some history books from the library, if I can figure out what they look like!” Laura said, and marched out.
Ifemelu could almost hear Kimberly’s heart beating wildly.
“I’m sorry,” Ifemelu said.
Kimberly shook her head and murmured, “I know Laura can be challenging,” her eyes on the salad she was mixing.