October 9, 1999

      That week, Tata coughed so much I could hear him down the corridor, and he didn’t stop until I’d pulled my fist back from the paneling. I was waiting for him to die. I didn’t want him to.

      He opened the door a crack. “Do you ever stop talking? No boy will ever kiss you,” he said before I could speak. Then he got back under the covers, blowing his nose.

      I drew the door closed. Whenever he was in a good mood, Tata spoke to me with this kind of impatient teasing. Ever since Mama disappeared and I’d had my braces fitted, it had been his way of cheering us up; I couldn’t blame him for it. Most of the time.

      I went to school, came back. I cooked for him when he felt too tired to stand for more than half an hour. Sometimes he did the same for me; often, he was the one who made sure there was something warm for us to eat, even if it meant we had to peel sardines out of a tin and spit their spines out onto a side plate.

      It was difficult for him to find work. The following week, when his cough had subsided, he came home with a box of weight-loss kits to sell in our neighborhood. They contained a cream you applied to the skin before wrapping it tight with cellophane, he explained, digging through one of the boxes. “Your mother…” But he didn’t finish the thought.

      I went to the kitchen and served us two bowls of samp.

      Mama, I thought.

      I remembered how she wouldn’t speak to me if I came home with less than 95 percent on a test. How she wanted to arrange me into a shape she approved of. How little I’d resisted.

      Mama could intimidate me with a glance. As far back as I can remember, even when we still lived in the two-bedroom house in Bhisho, I often felt timid and slow around her. Like the rest of her, Mama’s shoulders were thin but strong; from girlhood, she’d had scars on her shins. Her skin was fair; her face angular and stern, with cheekbones that would’ve been severe if her smile didn’t feel like a window flung open.

      I remember one evening when she didn’t seem to care about my grades. I helped her make macaroni and cheese that night, and we both laughed when it came out lopsided from the microwave.

      “Too many white things at once,” she said, and we laughed until we had to sit down.

      That was a part of it, too, I thought.

      The two of us laughing.

      I took the bowls of samp out of the oven and spooned up the beans from the bottom to see if they were heated. I almost burnt my fingers on the bars of the grill, but the bases of both bowls were still warm. Not hot.

       RTR: 004 / Date of Recollection: 05.29.2002 / 7.5 min

      The world is black and infinite. Footsteps thud on the floor, like something’s pounding on the hull of a ship. I wake up lying under a bright ceiling light. Mrs Linden’s at her desk, scratching ink into a notepad. Her clock radio crackles in front of her, dialed down to a hiss. The sick bay curtains are drawn and the door’s closed.

      “You were raving,” she says. She turns in her chair and closes the notepad. “I don’t approve, but Mr de Silva insisted on us using a sedative.”

      I blink back a blur, and she pulls into focus. Her hair’s an auburn bob streaked with silver from the front to the back. She polishes her bifocals and perches them back on her nose.

      “Raving?”

      “Something about a machine.”

      I try to get up, but a headache pulses.

      “Don’t.” Mrs Linden pushes her chair out. “Here, lie on your back.”

      She comes over to the bed, leaning in for a closer look. “You’re epileptic, aren’t you?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “You must be. Do you take medication?”

      “For something else. Celexa and Paxil.”

      “I see. That could explain it. I’ve read about the side-effects.”

      “Side-effects?”

      “You were seeing things. You should see your doctor. And one more thing—did you have anything to eat today?”

      I shake my head.

      “I thought so,” she says, retrieving a small pamphlet from her desk. “I know it isn’t easy being a teen. You get saddled with more pressure than you know what to do with. I have three daughters at home.”

      “I’m not anorexic.” I push the pamphlet aside.

      “I’m not saying you are, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of, either way. If anything, you should have something to eat before taking medication.”

      “I will.”

      “Trust me.”

      I tell her that I do trust her, since it’s what she wants to hear. I thank her as she helps me up.

      I get a permission slip to leave school early, although it doesn’t cover scholar patrol—a punishment for talking in class last week. Mrs Linden tells me to go past reception first, because Ms Isaacs wants to see me.

      There’s a delivery man sweating on the couch next to the front desk. Ms Isaacs tells me to take a seat on a leather chair under the air conditioning. Her office is cramped: aside from two chairs and her desk, there’s a filing cabinet and a small bookshelf behind her. There’s a cut-out The Far Side comic stuck to the side of her monitor: a woman is telling her warrior husband to be more assertive, that she’s tired of people calling him Alexander the Pretty-Good.

      Ms Isaacs sees me reading it. “I know it’s silly,” she sighs, “but it’s the only thing I could find.”

      “It isn’t that bad.”

      “It is, but it doesn’t matter,” she says, waving her hand. “Everyone’s worried sick about those girls. It’s our staff agenda, this week. How are you doing?”

      “I’m fine.”

      “That isn’t convincing. Promise me you’ll be safe.”

      “I