purchasing pepper spray was part of God’s plan – she wanted to drop all conversation about the man, because in truth, she did feel the tiniest pinprick of guilt at having spoken with him.
‘What made you think of taking me there?’ Mrs Dixit asked, as they drove away from the airport.
Mrs Rampersad tightened her lips into a pout, which Mrs Dixit now read as caginess.
‘I knew a man from church, once,’ she replied. ‘He enjoyed watching planes.’
‘Another one of your church friends?’ It was out of Mrs Dixit’s mouth before she realised how this might be construed.
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘No, I mean, you’re very dedicated to your churchwork, and it can’t be easy meeting men…’ she was going to say ‘at your age’ but fortunately stopped herself. Mrs Rampersad was only in her mid-sixties, but she seemed older, perhaps because of her stiff limbs and the jerky way she carried herself. She was still a handsome woman, though, and Mrs Dixit wished she could say this to her neighbour without it sounding… odd.
‘I have put everything into my church. My door is always open, especially to other parishioners to talk about His teachings.’
Yes, and especially if they were men, Mrs Dixit thought silently. She couldn’t remember seeing another woman enter Mrs Rampersad’s flat in all the years they’d lived below her.
‘I’m not judging you…’ began Mrs Dixit, but before she could finish, the car swerved to the side of the road and jolted to a halt. Mrs Rampersad stared straight ahead, her hands still gripping the steering wheel.
‘Your husband was uppity,’ she said, her face stony, ‘and I thought you were different, but now I can tell you’re just as uppity as him!’
Mrs Dixit unbuckled her belt to escape the car for a second time, scrabbling out. She was careful not to slam the door, but deep down, she really wanted to slam it.
With that, Mrs Rampersad drove off, leaving Mrs Dixit at the side of the road.
She was closer to the hospital than to home, so Mrs Dixit headed there. She reviewed the final moments in the car ride during the walk towards the bus stop, what she could have done differently, but she’d genuinely not meant to cause offence. The word uppity stuck with her, though. Uppity. She carried it to the hospital, and with her in each interaction when she arrived, whether it was a stranger’s glance or a smile from one of the regular nurses, until she arrived beside her husband’s bed.
‘Uppity,’ she repeated to herself, and tutted. It was hard not to be uppity, what with strange women in passenger seats, and unpaid insurance bills, and mysterious substances in toxicology reports! Mrs Dixit remembered that one of the other patients was possibly listening and reminded herself to be vigilant about saying any of these aloud. She tried to focus on Mr Dixit. Taking a wipe from her bag, she gently cleaned his face and ears. Next, she took a tube of moisturiser and rubbed cream into his hands. The coconut fragrance of the lotion was a nice antidote to the bleachy astringent smells of the hospital, and she enjoyed massaging his skin.
Uppity. The Dixits liked things a certain way, every couple did. That was the point. You married someone who would uphold your view of a shared life together. Mrs Dixit didn’t want to be a sloppy person, the ones she saw at the supermarket with their pyjamas on in the middle of the day, the ones talking loudly on their phones, picking their noses, chewing with their mouths open. She knew it was easy to blame the young, but it was everyone! What had happened to standards? They were on a train with no driver, plummeting towards a steep cliff. Naveem believed this too; he was no more controlling than she was, they were simply protecting each other through order and simplicity. But if you had the audacity to be quiet and respectful in this world, you were branded as uppity.
The nurse came in, the pretty younger one with the freckles.
‘How is he doing today?’ she asked cheerily.
‘I’m not sure he’s going to like the world he wakes up to,’ Mrs Dixit replied, solemnly.
‘Yes, well…’ the nurse struggled for something to say, and nurses could always find something to say. It came with the job. ‘Can I get you some juice?’ she asked at last.
It was the first time one of the nurses had offered her anything in the way of comfort – they