by Sara James
“Sara, Nad’s actually treated someone with anthrax.”
“What? A person? I thought that in Africa just elephants got it!”
“It’s rare, but sometimes people pick it up, and it happened once here in the park.”
“He probably knows more about it than anyone in the U.S.”
“Hang on, I’ll get him.”
Just hearing Nad’s deep voice made me feel better. I told him about Sophie’s symptoms. The cough. The rash.
He listened patiently. Then asked one question.
“You say rash. Is there any one spot?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It would be large. It might look almost black.”
“No.”
He paused. Then, through the swampy overseas line, his voice came through with strength and clarity. “Look, what you’re describing, it’s not anthrax.”
“You’re sure?”
“Ya. One hundred percent, Sara. One hundred percent.”
My face telegraphed the news to Andrew across the room and his shoulders sagged with relief.
WITHIN DAYS THE anthrax threat had spread, striking ABC, CBS, the New York Post, New York Governor George Pataki’s office, Capitol Hill, the White House mailroom, with postal workers especially vulnerable. Striking closest to home for us—the baby of an ABC World News Tonight producer, just a month older than Sophie, contracted cutaneous anthrax, probably after coming in contact with spoors while crawling on the carpet in the newsroom. Thankfully, the baby recovered, as did our NBC colleague Erin. In all, twenty-two people would be infected by anthrax, and five would die, when the attacks—which began one week after 9/11—ended as inexplicably as they’d begun.
On the day that all of us tested at NBC got the welcome “all clear,” Andrew brought home a rainbow bouquet and pulled out the camera. We took a picture with our beaming, contented daughter, oblivious to the drama that had swirled around her, and sent it by computer to family and friends around the world. He captioned it “Safe Soph.”
IN THE MORNINGS that followed I’d say good-bye to Sophie and walk to work. I needed the exercise. But I also couldn’t stand to take the subway because going underground meant losing contact, and the world could seesaw in an instant. In the evenings I tried not to cry when Sophie pushed the bottle away and attempted to nurse. She was perfectly healthy. She’d make the transition.
But I was less certain of my own transition. I was struggling, unwilling to admit how anxious and uncertain I felt. And what would it be like when my current assignment of handling special reports ended and I was back on the road, back to the life of a full-time correspondent? It was too much to contemplate.
A FEW DAYS later Ginger called. “Are you ready for this? Suddenly National Geographic wants our anthrax film.”
“Congratulations, Gin. I’m so glad to hear you’ve got another project, even if I can’t stand the word anthrax. But, anyway, it’s certainly topical.”
“Exactly. Actually, they want to broaden the story, talk about weaponized anthrax as well as anthrax in the wild.”
“That makes sense.”
“I agree. But I’m worried about how they want to do it.”
“What do you mean?”
She paused. “Because they want to include your story.”
“Us? You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. They want to talk about what happened to you and Andrew with Sophie.”
Now it was my turn to pause. And then the irony hit me. “You know, Ginger, our lives are pretty strange. I do a story on you for Dateline. Now you’re going to do one on me. And for National Geographic, for crying out loud.”
“Sara, in all seriousness, I just don’t want to be a vulture, swooping in on—”
“You could never be a vulture,” I interrupted. “And remember, we’re fine. I’m glad they want to do your film. Look, as long as Andrew and NBC say yes, I’m fine. Besides, you’ll get to meet Sophie, and I’ll get to see Kimber!”
“Finally!” She laughed, and I laughed, too.
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER Ginger was standing in front of me, waving a finished copy of the film. “Want to see yourself on TV?”
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t crazy about being interviewed instead of asking the questions.”
“I know what you mean. But remember, you’ll also be watching Miss Soph’s television debut. And I’ll get a chance to play with your girl,” she continued, holding out her arms for Sophie, who cheerfully abandoned ship.
“What a bright spark she is.” Ginger smiled.
“I always wonder what she’s thinking. I can’t wait to get down to Virginia to get my hands on Kimber. What a love he is, and so bright.”
Ginger grinned. “Hybrid vigor. Just ask Nad.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
Gin settled back on the sofa with Sophie squirming playfully on her lap. “I made the mistake of telling my husband how gorgeous and smart Kimber was. You know, just normal mom bragging. Anyway, he says, ‘Well, we’re from two different continents, completely different genetic stock. That’s what’s called hybrid vigor.’”
“God love your husband. The mystery and romance of children, hmm?”
“That’s what you get when you marry a scientist, I suppose. They keep you thinking.”
“Speaking of thinking…” I paused. “These attacks, everything…”
Gin nodded, encouraging me.
“Gin, I never imagined I’d feel this way, but working full-time isn’t working out for me right now. It just doesn’t fit. I love Dateline and Today and Specials, but I feel like I never see Sophie.”
Gin smiled in understanding. “For me it’s different. I’m here for a couple of months, working flat out, but then we’re back in the bush and I have loads of time with Kimber, and I love that, too.”
“Exactly! That’s what I want.”
“But will they let you? Do people go part-time at the network?”
“Not a lot. But a couple of correspondents at Dateline did a job share, so maybe there’s a precedent. Anyway, I just know that I have to try.”
Ginger paused. “Sara, you know as well as I do that tailoring life means making sacrifices, especially when you have a child. I know mine have been worth it. I bet you’ll find the same.”
“I hope so. I just know my stomach hurts when I think about scaling back. But it hurts more when I try not to.”
“Then that’s your answer.”
But as I turned out the lights that night and went to bed, I wondered. Knowing that I needed to make a change didn’t mean knowing what would happen when I did. Could I handle the aftershocks? Would I disappear? Who was I without the tagline NBC News? I’d gone from cub local reporter to married local anchor to divorced network correspondent to married correspondent to working mom. Evolutions personal and professional. Maybe as a woman, change just went with the territory. But if my dilemma was nothing new, it was still a dilemma. Ginger had re-created her life post-motherhood. Could I?
29
GINGER (2003–2004)
NAD, DO YOU want to take this box? It’s full of wires and switches.”
“No, we might still need it here. Remember, we aren’t leaving camp for good. We’ll move back and forth between here and Okaukuejo. It’s just, now that the elephant project is finished, I need to spend more time at the Institute.”
I looked around camp. Though the cupboards were half empty and our stash of firewood wouldn’t last a week, it still felt like home. At least the tents were still standing, always a good sign.
“Kimber, come here, darlin’. What toys do you want to take with you?”
Sitting on his black “motorcycle,” Kimber pushed himself over to where I was squatting in front of his toy chest.
“Umm”—he reached inside, scattering toys—“I’ll just take a few of these blocks, and maybe this ball, and I’ll leave the rest for Rian.”
My son was born with a generous spirit, and we’d do
ne our best to hone it, following many wonderful examples set by family and friends. But at that moment I thought of Kristy and her dear daughter Emma, who was just seven months older than Kimber. Kristy knew firsthand of the great need even in her affluent Lookout Mountain, Tennessee, community and worked against the prevailing sense of “more is more.” Over the past five years she’d spent a lot of time at the Children’s Hospital with her daughter as the doctors deciphered the degree and depth of Emma’s illness. In the waiting room, Kristy had seen many parents struggle to carry growing children who were unable to walk into the clinic. Not satisfied to sit back and watch, Kristy went door-to-door collecting strollers for these families. Even at forty-three, I was still learning from my friends.
“That’s nice, my boy.” I ruffled Kimber’s hair, pulled him close, and whispered in his ear, “I am so proud of you.”
He pulled back and looked at me very seriously. “When are we going? I want to play with Rocky before bedtime.”
Rocky was Kimber’s new best friend at Okaukuejo, so at least Kimber was excited to return to our house. “Don’t worry, we’ll leave soon.”
My feelings about returning to Okaukuejo were more mixed than my son’s. At camp, even a trip to the long-drop toilet could turn into an adventure, with a black rhino grazing against the fence or a snake slithering past your feet. I relished that wonderful mixture of comfort and suspense, elephants and lions, cold showers and hot fires, a place charged with peace and anticipation; it imparted the essence of the bush, the same dichotomy that had drawn me to Africa more than a decade before. I couldn’t believe that I’d been in Namibia thirteen years, but picking through the detritus of camp—a copy of Nad’s thesis on the baboons, a duiker skin with colorful beads woven in circles that was a treasured gift from Old Old/Gui, one of the Bushmen healers, and my most recent filming notes documenting Knob Nose’s life through our lenses—I felt exceptionally blessed. It was also a good reminder that if I hadn’t embraced change back then, these moments would have remained dreams, and in time those dreams, unfulfilled, could have become tainted, bitter what-ifs and if-onlys. Now I couldn’t imagine my life without them.
Sometimes it takes startling events to make us realize that we only get one shot at creating the life we want. Since September 11, I’d thought of the many women and men who never got the chance to embrace another day. A year had passed since those tragic events, a year of reflection for many. For Sara there had been an abrupt end to her maternity leave and a sudden return to working full-time. Since then she’d been juggling deadlines and diapers, steeped in adrenaline and guilt. Now she longed to cut back, to work part-time.
Yet as hard as it might have been for Sara to see other correspondents taking on stories she longed to tell, filling seats behind news desks where she once felt at home, home was where she needed to be. Not all of the time, but, hopefully, if she could work it out with the brass at NBC, part-time. To have cut Sara completely off from work would be akin to removing a vital organ, it was so much a part of her life. But Sophie was nearly a year old. In the past twelve months she’d learned to sit, crawl, spit, chew, coo, scribble, walk, talk, and learned to love those around her with boundless affection. I felt like I’d closed my eyes and Kimber was one year old. When I’d opened them again, he was nearly four. While you’re agonizing over choices, time can disappear, and you don’t get it back. Sara’s desire to spend more time with Sophie was the right choice for her, though sometimes the right choice is the most difficult choice of all.
By comparison, the change I was facing was easy. Okaukuejo was 120 miles away from camp, still in Etosha, still spectacular, and it still provided me with the opportunity to do the work I loved. I looked at Kimber, happily throwing his toys in the car, ready to go. Clearly change was all in the attitude.
THE VIEW FROM our home in Okaukuejo wasn’t bad at all. I placed my computer on a desk in front of a large window where I could watch zebra move in single file down to the water hole, spy brilliantly colored birds swooping in for a quick drink, and listen to the sound of Rocky’s and Kimber’s sweet young voices as they played in the backyard.
From this vantage point, I heard them charging into the house. The door slammed and Kimber called out, “Mommy, Mommy! Rocky and I found a little baby bird in the yard.” He threw his arms around my neck and then added tenderly, “But, Mommy, it is so sad. The bird is dead.”
“I’m so sorry, darlin’. Do you know what happened to it?”
“I think I saw some little tiny genet tracks around or maybe the owl got it, but can we bury it?”
“Of course.”
“God won’t be mad?”
“No, my darlin’. God will be very glad.”
The serious look on his face evaporated. He smiled and called to Rocky as he ran back outside.
The two boys huddled together, and then they both pointed to the far end of the yard, grabbed shovels, and ran to a spot under their treehouse and started digging.
Pushing shovels into the ground and tossing dirt over their heads, an activity that was usually accompanied by laughter, today took on a somber quality. I peered through the window as they gently lowered the baby bird down into the hole they’d dug. Scooping up handfuls of dirt, they let it sift through their fingers down into the hole. Scoop after scoop until the hole was full. Then they patted the ground down so that it was hard, and I heard Kimber say, “This is so the jackals can’t dig it up.”
Rocky shook his head solemnly. “Come, Kimber, let’s get the flowers.”
Barefoot, the boys ran to collect yellow and red blossoms from the succulent flowers growing near our house. I saw them under the window, their heads touching, their hands moving together, and a gentle song coming from Rocky’s lips. “Amen, amen,” he sang over and over. Rocky, a child of Africa, a child who knew the rituals of death, and my son’s best friend.
Moments like this made the move back to Okaukuejo worth it. First thing in the morning, Kimber would stumble down the hall in his pajamas, eyes half closed, and crawl into my lap. His first slurred words were always “When can I go get Rocky?” Quickly changing into his “daytimes”—shorts and a T-shirt—Kimber would jump onto his bike for the short ride to Rocky’s house. The two boys would come racing back to our house for breakfast, and then they’d be off to the water hole. From the water hole, I’d see them coming down the road, having swapped bikes, returning with “the morning report”—their detailed, out-of-breath description of how many animals they’d seen that morning. It reminded me of my first African news bulletins, from Jen and Des Bartlett at the Skeleton Coast, when I’d learned how to read the news printed in the sand. Kimber and Rocky’s version was far less serious. Usually their report ran, “at least a thousand springbok, twenty-two zebra and one having a huge pooh right in front of us, then five wildebeest, and one big elephant having a fart at the water hole,” followed by a fit of giggles.
Whether they began the day riding their bikes, playing in the mud, stripping off all their clothes, and running around the yard screaming “naked rain dance, naked rain dance,” Rocky and Kimber usually ended the day crashed on the sofa, watching a video, arms and legs intertwined. Their friendship had a natural, physical closeness true of many friendships. In women you still see these outward expressions of intimacy even when we are adults. Like Sara and me, women walk arm in arm, wipe tears from each other’s faces, hug unashamedly, touch each other for reassurance and warmth. Men tend to slap each other on the bottom or punch each other on the arm, gestures of affection but also of distance. I wondered how my son would remember these precious moments with Rocky, how they would shape the man he would become.
When we’d left Okaukuejo for camp, Kimber had been a needy baby. Now that we were back, he was a growing boy, busy exploring and making far fewer demands on my time. Though Selinda was no longer with us, Absalom Kalakoma, our gardener, adored Kimber and the feeling was mutual. With Absalom outside and Rocky a steady playmate, the time was liberating for b
oth Kimber and me. I worked on project proposals, filmed ostriches for the BBC. I was also helping friends at AfriCat, a cheetah welfare and research organization at Okonjima, a stunning lodge south of Etosha, develop an idea for a television series based upon their fantastic work. Over the past ten years AfriCat’s small, dedicated team had helped to rescue and rehabilitate more than six hundred of Namibia’s big cats. It was time for their annual cheetah medical check weekend. Kissing Nad and Kimber good-bye, I packed my cameras and left for Okonjima. Turned out I wouldn’t be there long.
It was Friday evening, quiet after an intense day of immobilizing, vaccinating, weighing, dipping, and releasing twenty cheetahs. Relaxing in the office while the cats slept off the anesthesia outside, I picked up the phone and called home.
“Nad, hi.” I stretched out my legs and sighed. “It’s been a great but tiring day. How are things there? How’s Kimber?”
“He’s got a bit of a fever, but I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”
“Give him my love, tell him I miss him and I’ll see him on Monday.”
“Fine. Have a good time.”
That night at dinner I joined a Japanese television crew who were making a documentary on AfriCat hosted by a former Formula One race car driver. The next day at 7 A.M., I was called to the phone.
“Gin, get home now,” Nad said firmly. “Kimber is really sick.”
I threw my cameras in the Land Rover, said a hasty good-bye, and starting driving. Nad had told me nothing more, no details, just get home now, before he hung up the phone. I had two hundred miles in front of me to imagine all kinds of horrors. Sick. What kind of sick? Had he been bitten by a snake, a scorpion, a rabid jackal? Were diseases suddenly jumping from animals to humans? Every sort of mad thought took on dreadful proportions as the miles ticked by. But then I thought about Nad, a skilled veterinarian, a well-trained medic, and a father who loved his son intensely. I thought about Kimber, my tough, resilient boy, so thin and so strong. I even smiled when I pictured him patting a wild cheetah on the head, one that had jumped into our Land Rover when we’d been filming years before. I’m convinced that if Kimber had panicked, the cat would have torn him in two. Instead he had laughed. Six months old and laughing in a cheetah’s face. Whatever was wrong, Kimber would be all right, I thought, a mantra repeated over and over again.