What Tears Us Apart

by Deborah Cloyed

  Chapter 37

  December 30, 2007, Kibera—Leda

  THEIR LIPS SLAMMED into each other, seeking, licking, sucking. While Chege cupped one hand behind Leda’s head, protecting it from touching the ground, the other roved over her skin, her breasts, grasped the curve of her hip, smeared orange dust across her thighs. Her back arched as Chege kissed her throat, sucked at her nipples.

  It wasn’t like the searing happiness when Ita kissed her. It wasn’t the enveloping sense of safety. No, the heat between Chege and her was dark and licked at her like fire, flooded through her like a drug, dangerous but addictive.

  She heard the undoing of Chege’s pants, felt his bare thighs, felt him hard against her underwear. Then he tugged them down, pulled her panties off.

  No, wait, Leda heard a little voice say somewhere inside her soul.

  But the fire paid no mind, and it climbed and climbed through her limbs, unfurling and curling like a vine, exploding between her legs, wrapping tight around her hips, setting her stomach aflame—

  “Stop.”

  She wasn’t sure she said it aloud, until Chege’s head rose from her neck like a lion pausing as it devours its kill. His hands stopped pawing, his nakedness pulled away. With inches between them, Chege panted, waiting. Waiting for what Leda would say next.

  “No, Chege. I can’t do this to him.”

  The door banged open and fell from its hinges. Chege dropped down on top of Leda like a shield, his head in her neck and dust everywhere.

  Over his shoulder, silhouetted in the doorway, Leda saw Ita’s face, carved by horror.

  Chapter 38

  January 11, 2008, Malibu, CA—Leda

  LEDA GRASPS HER mother’s hand in the ambulance as the paramedics whir over her like vultures, picking and pricking, clawing and cawing. They’re giving her medicine, they’re trying to save her, but the beeping of the machines, combined with the siren of the ambulance—it’s all Leda can do to keep from screaming.

  Estella’s eyes have lost some of their fog, her head lolls in Leda’s direction.

  “Mother? Can you see me? Can you hear me?” Leda peers into her face, leaning in close amidst the roar. The paramedics pause in their mad dash to listen, too.

  But the sound that comes from Estella’s mouth is an awful, muffled slur. She’s staring at something. Leda realizes her mother’s eyes are focused on her throat. She puts a hand to her chest. The diamond necklace. Estella left it on the table that day. Looking at the photos of her father, Leda had slipped it on. She’d done it for comfort, imagining the old man’s kind heart, believing he would want her to. She’d even let herself imagine Estella wanted her to have it, too.

  “Want me take it off?” Leda asks, feeling her cheeks burn. So stupid. She should have considered Estella’s feelings, the symbol of her sins and regrets the necklace must seem to her. Leda moves to remove it, both hands on the clasp.

  But Estella’s head lolls slowly left to right, her face pained. Leda stops fumbling with the clasp, brings her hands back down to her lap, and Estella’s eyelids flutter. With great effort, she nods her head. Once. Then her eyes close and the beep becomes a scream and the paramedics push Leda aside.

  Leda’s breath is heaving. She fingers the necklace.

  I will wear it, she promises. I will remember. I will try to do better.

  Chapter 39

  January 11, 2008, Kibera—Ita

  JOMO SPITS THE words from his mouth as if he’s choking on fish bones.

  Ita hears the torment, a young boy’s confusion, disgust over what he witnessed in that room. Ita feels for him, even as his blood starts to boil and he grips the edge of the metal table as if he will tip off the edge of the earth.

  At the part of his story where Ita came barreling through the door, Jomo’s voice nearly drops off completely. Jomo admits in a strangled whisper to watching the men beat Ita and drag him outside, confesses he stayed hidden under the bed and did nothing, scared to death.

  Finally, after the police came and went, Jomo emerged. He found the sparrow necklace squashed into the mud in the alley and pocketed it before ducking around the corner and running back to the orphanage. The slum was engulfed in chaos, a roar like lions in the clouds.

  Finally, Jomo can say no more. His thin shoulders cave in on him and he slides off the table, ashamed to even look at Ita.

  Ita is amazed that his heart continues to beat, though it’s in four pieces. One for himself. One for Jomo. One for Leda, one for Chege. His thoughts are a pack of wild dogs, tearing each other apart. He can observe, he can listen, but he can do nothing to stop the battle.

  Chege’s death.

  Leda’s betrayal.

  Kioni.

  The violence.

  The fires.

  That night. Ita is back in that night, his feet pounding the dirt, searching, pushing through the mobs, calling out Leda’s name. Finding Chege’s men crowded outside the door, cheering. Bursting inside. Seeing their bodies pressed together. Naked flesh, the red scratches on her skin, the blood and bruises. The dust curling around them. The look in Chege’s eye. Guilt. Guilt so sharp he couldn’t see past it to Leda’s mirror-image eyes.

  Ita’s mind wanders into a seething cloud, a swarm of locusts eating his insides. There is no escaping the horde of emotions. Hatred, jealousy, love, regret—one by one and at all at once they swirl up through his guts until he wants to cry out.

  When Jomo tugs on Ita’s pant leg, he lets the cry escape. Jomo jumps back, as if expecting to get hit. Steps forward again, as if wanting to.

  “There is more,” Jomo says. “In your room, on your desk, I found something. I stole it.” He holds an envelope out to Ita. A cream-colored envelope, thick and folded, worn at the edges. Ita’s name is written across the front. He feels a shiver go up his spine as its familiarity settles upon him. Leda gave it to him, that night, but in the chaos, he’d forgotten about it until just now.

  “I’m sorry,” Jomo is saying, near tears. “I was going to take a little and give the rest back. I was going to run away. I’m sorry.”

  Ita takes the envelope, feels how fat it is, how heavy.

  “I understand if you hate me,” Jomo says, “if you don’t want me here anymore.”

  Ita opens the flap of the envelope. It’s stuffed with money, layers and layers of cash, flattened together. And there’s a letter.

  “I’ll go now,” Jomo whispers.

  But Ita is transfixed by the letter. Only when Jomo turns and hobbles to the door, wincing at the pain of his ankle but forcing himself to step on it as punishment, only then does Ita feel a flutter in his stomach, rising like birds taking flight. Jomo means to leave for good. He doesn’t expect to be forgiven, doesn’t expect to be loved. Doesn’t feel he deserves it.

  “Jomo, wait—”

  The boy doesn’t turn. But he stops. Halfway through the door, he stops.

  “Jomo, look at me.”

  He turns around, his eyes flitter up to Ita’s and then drop. He looks just off to the side, face blank, mind racing. It is such an exact replica of Leda’s stance, Ita wants to cry. To hug him tight.

  “Sometimes, we can’t help it,” Ita says. “Sometimes, we can’t outrun the little monsters inside us that make us do bad things.” He sets down the envelope so that his hands are empty, open. “But do you know something?”

  “What?” Jomo’s voice is the squeak of a mouse, the tiniest squeak of hope.

  “We’re all like that. Everyone has them.”

  Jomo doesn’t say a word. He’s holding his breath.

  “Which means we can forgive each other.”

  Jomo’s face is like paper in the fire, curling in on itself. Ita takes a chance—he opens his arms. Jomo considers, lowers his chin, hesitates.

  When he tucks into Ita’s arms, he cries. His little body shakes like acacia leaves in the rain. But his feet are planted firm as if they’re growing roots. He will stay with Ita a long time.

  One arm still wrapped aro
und the child, Ita reaches his other for the envelope on the table. When he opens the flap, he feels a chill. He slips the letter free.

  Leda.

  Her name fills the room as though whispered by the red dust itself.

  He unfolds the paper.

  Ita,

  You deserve better, in every way.

  Take this money. And please cash the check. I want to help more, too, as much as you’ll let me.

  I’m sorry. But I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t think you should. I tried to warn you—I’m no good at love. Even if I love you more than you can ever know.

  Leda

  Ita stares at the page. He reads it three more times. And please cash the check.

  Jomo’s stopped crying. He gently pulls away and looks at Ita with big, full eyes. He watches as he nudges the cash aside in the envelope. Tucked in at the back is a check wearing Leda’s name and address and a number with four zeros to follow.

  Jomo watches, curious. Ita thanks God Jomo didn’t throw it away, not knowing what it is.

  Because Ita does. It is a small piece of paper big enough to save them.

  Big enough to save them all.

  Chapter 40

  February 1, 2008, Topanga, CA—Leda

  LEDA WATCHES THE mountain and the mountain watches her. The nearby tree continues to cheerlead. Everything in its place.

  Including me.

  Amadeus jumps up into Leda’s lap and curls into a furry ball to be petted.

  “Hey, there,” Leda says and scratches his Mohawk.

  She reaches beneath the little dog and pulls out the stack of photos on her lap. She flips through them one by one, her new ritual. She sees the photos differently now. In Estella’s glamour shots, she sees the vulnerability in her mother’s sultry gaze. She sees the sadness in the old man’s, her father’s, happy eyes—the acceptance of the short time they will have together. She lingers over the photo of her mother holding her as an infant, still unable to sort out the complicated mix of emotions it brings.

  Next, Leda flips through to the newer, shinier photos, the ones she finally got printed. She finds the one she is looking for—a picture of Ita, his smile jumping out at her in its brilliance.

  Amadeus lifts his head. He sniffs the picture.

  “Nope,” Leda whispers. “Still no word.”

  Nearby, on a small table, sits Leda’s laptop. She opens it and the website, already up in the browser, jumps into view. That smile. Leda’s heart still skips every time she sees it.

  It’s comforting somehow that the website is still up, even though she knows it doesn’t mean anything necessarily. She reads the papers—she knows how terrible things still are in Kibera.

  But the check was cashed.

  She closes her eyes. Ita is alive.

  She’s left phone messages. She’s emailed. She’s even sent a letter.

  Leda watches the goose bumps fan out across her forearms at the thought. She wrote the letter at the hospital, in the early morning hours before Estella died. It was as if her mother’s passing gave her courage. The courage to tell the truth.

  But she didn’t tell him about the baby—his baby—not yet.

  He had to be allowed to hate her first, if he wanted.

  Leda looks at his smile, on the computer and in the picture in her fingers. He is too good. If he knew about the baby he would sacrifice his feelings to do the right thing.

  Leda wants to do the right thing for once. For him.

  Ita has the money now, for the boys, for his dreams. If he wants to forget her, she will let him.

  Because for the first time, staring at the mountain, Leda feels strong. She can do it alone.

  The rare sound of the doorbell sends Amadeus yelping and jumping off her lap, the photos slapping the deck and shuffling themselves. Amadeus heads for the door, barking loud enough to put Paul Revere to shame.

  Leda picks up the photos and shuts the laptop, placing the pictures gently on top. She pads barefoot after Amadeus, wondering who on earth could be ringing her bell—who even knows she’s here?

  When she opens the door, the sound that leaves her lips is scratchy, like a sparrow taking off from a branch. The smile she finds on her doorstep brings tears to her eyes.

  “Ita,” she breathes.

  “Leda,” Ita says.

  Sunlight streams in from behind his head, illuminating him like an angel, and Leda feels its warmth wrap around her, blanket her with happiness.

  “You’re here,” Leda says.

  He reaches out, his fingers touch the diamond necklace at Leda’s throat. He cocks his head.

  “My mother’s,” she says.

  Ita nods, his face saturated with emotion. He reaches gingerly into his pocket. In a move that’s been planned, rehearsed, dreamed out, Leda can tell, he takes out the sparrow necklace. He clasps it around her neck, the sparrow finding its place just below the diamond sparkling in the sun.

  “I’m here,” he says.

  Leda takes a deep breath. “You got my letter?”

  Ita’s brow knots into a question. “No.” He scoops up his bag and takes a step forward. To come inside.

  But Leda doesn’t budge. Her stomach heaves and her skin feels hot.

  “What is it?” he says, his smile slipping into a frown.

  “You don’t know.” Leda feels sick, her hand shoots out for the support of the doorjamb. Amadeus barks at her feet, sensing her stumble. “Chege didn’t tell you?”

  “Leda, I know everything. Jomo saw it. He was under the bed in the shanty that night.”

  “Oh my God.” Leda hides her face in her hands. Horrific, for a child to see such a thing. “I’m sorry, Ita. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “I know.” Ita’s fingers encircle her wrists, positioning her two hands like a prayer between them. Leda opens her eyes. “I know everything, Leda. Everything.” Ita winds her arms around him, around his waist. “And I am here.”

  With those words and the buoying realization that they are true, Leda slumps into Ita’s embrace, falls into him. When she breathes him in, she imagines she can smell the soap he uses to wash the boys’ clothes and faces, hear the little songs he and Mary sing to them. Leda’s face burrows into Ita’s chest and she feels the warmth fan across and through her, stirring up her heartbeat.

  “Chege is dead,” Ita says quietly. He says it in such a way that holds ten different meanings at once, for him, for Leda, for them both. But then she can no longer hear her heartbeat, because of the sobs that have overtaken her body.

  The news of Chege’s death combines with Estella’s passing, two gaping holes allowing for so much possibility. Leda cries with her eyes squeezed shut, and the force of it shakes them both. When the sobs turn to gasps, she pulls an inch away. When she meets Ita’s eyes, she finds his quiet, accepting gaze unfaltered.

  “You don’t know everything,” Leda says.

  Ita looks at her with so much tenderness, she hopes she will never have to leave that gaze again. She hopes with all her heart her child will know that love.

  “We’re going to have a baby.”

  * * *

  That night, Ita pulls the mattress onto the back porch. He and Leda lie under the stars, their fingers twining and untwining in the night air, stroking each other, knowing each other, loving each other.

  “Or we could bring the boys here,” Ita whispers excitedly.

  “Mary, too,” Leda says and he laughs. “Okay, maybe not, but I’m going to need help with all those boys while you’re in med school.”

  Ita laughs again. The sound fits in the surroundings as naturally as the trees. He rolls over, reaches across her and scratches Amadeus’s ear. “Mary would want to stay behind, I think, with Grace. And to continue with—”

  “The orphanage,” Leda says. “But we should build a bigger one, hire people to help her, and build a school—”

  Ita’s lips steal her next words as he leans in to kiss her. He pulls away, his eyes hooded. “I love you, Leda.
So much it scares me.”

  Leda sucks in a breath, thinks of the night they lay in the tent, on safari—the shiny plans they whispered, oblivious of the tidal wave coming to wreck them. But the monsters are quiet for now. “I love you, too. More than fear.” She means it, body and soul, but with everything that happened, could they really afford to dream again? Could they believe in such a fluttery thing as hope? Love?

  Leda squeezes Ita’s fingers, silhouetted under a sea of stars. Of course they could.

  * * * * *

  Acknowledgments

  I AM DEEPLY grateful and indebted to my agent, Frances Black, who said “You’re gonna make it, darling”—and then helped make it happen in every way. My editor, Emily Ohanjanians, whose brilliance at what she does leaves me in awe. All the women (and men) at Harlequin MIRA who work tirelessly for their authors. You are the dream makers. Thank you Mariam, Christopher, Mary and all the people I met in Kenya who inspired and informed this book. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Bianca, for being my best friend for twenty-seven years. Thank you, Clovernookers, Kim, DKH, Lilia, David, Raquel, Gavin, Vivienne, Susan Pottography, JBird crew, Jeanine, Nicole, Tiffany and all the lovely Book Club ladies. Thank you, Megan and Aaron, for your support and encouragement always, and Big Bear! Thank you, Mom and Dad, for...everything. And thank you, Jonathan, for being always there—in the trenches, in my daydreams, in my heart.

  We hope you enjoyed Deborah Cloyed’s WHAT TEARS US APART, and that the following questions for discussion help to enhance the experience of this story for you and your book club.

  Questions for Discussion