by Brett Lott
She was not a natural nurse—she should have been a secretary; she was better suited for it temperamentally—but her mother had never been well and it seemed like a sensible course to follow. There had never been any marriage prospects back in Idaho. Her features, like her personality, were a notch below plain, with a high blank forehead crowned with frizzy brown hair and a shallow, mousy face that didn't hold an expression, and she had first been passed over by the girls who wanted sociable giggling friends, and later by the ranch boys who were looking for a dash of glamour or pizzazz. Then her mother died halfway through the program and the plans for her life deflated.
Sharon kept up with her studies anyway because she didn't know what else to do, and then on the last Sunday before graduation, the orphanage director came to the little Baptist church she attended in Boise and gave a presentation. As she listened to Bill Hudson, an idea took root, and by the time he finished speaking, the dream of sharing her life with someone was put aside for good and she decided she would go to North Africa and help. She had no great faith. If her mother had been alive, Sharon certainly would not have gone—her duty would have been with her. She might have stayed and doted on her nieces and nephews, but her two brothers were almost a dozen years older and she had never been close to them. She simply thought that taking care of all the children would be enough for her.
She examined the new babies, nursed the stomachaches and fevers, drove the broken bones to Boulem—the stitches she did herself. She washed the infirmary floors every day whether there were any patients or not, straightened the three beds and three cots in their rows, and kept the covers tucked in tight. She labeled the new bottles of medicine in small block letters, and lined them up in the locked glass cabinet behind the desk, along with the health records she kept on every child. It didn't bother her that Tidderzane was a five-hour drive from the capital without any bus service or trains—the French-built line ended on the other side of the mountains—or that there were no satellite dishes on the flat-roofed houses; despite the yearly promises that were made, the village remained outside the reach of electricity. She had one cramped room with leprous grayish-white walls partitioned off from the infirmary, bone cold in the winter and a sauna in the summer, with a bed, a dresser, and a few hangers of long, gored skirts that didn't flatter her tall, spindly figure. Yet all these difficulties she bore with an unwavering persistence; in fact she might have complained if things had been easier.
She had experienced only one real difficulty. From the beginning she discovered that it was much harder than she had expected to be single among couples and childless among orphans, surrounded by smiling toddlers running to their housemothers, and husbands and wives holding hands as they walked back to their quarters after dinner. There were other single women at the orphanage, but they always went back home in time to find husbands and raise their own children. New ones would come to take their places, and after a few more years they, too, would leave. Sharon was the only one who remained, and the daily reminders of her solitary condition blistered her patience, sometimes causing her to snap in irritation at another staff member or even one of the children. On the worst nights, she would go to her shoebox room and cry in shame because she was so lonely, and once when a houseparent came in unexpectedly with a sick child, Sharon had to assure them there was nothing wrong with her, it was only an allergy that made her eyes red and puffy.
Twice she had been tempted to ask for a child, and the first time, not long after she arrived, she scolded herself that the mission forbade single women taking on children. At her interview, the committee had specifically asked her if she could abide by the rule, and she had blushed at the question, quick to defend herself. The second time, during an unusually long stretch of good health at the orphanage that gave her too much time to brood, she had put aside her dignity and got as far as Bill's office door before she pulled herself together and turned around. She walked back to the infirmary, lecturing herself that she had chosen this life and she had to make peace with it, and when she entered her room, her heart was sealed with a vow to become the glue and the grease, the backbone and the finger in the dam, to turn her lack into her advantage.
"Let me," became her answer to every need she encountered. "I'll do it," was her response to every request. On Mondays, she did small errands in the village. On Tuesdays she drove thirty-five bumpy kilometers to Safik for the weekly market. She substituted for the teachers so they could take a few days' leave on the coast, and in the summers she was the one who always volunteered for the long, hot trip to the capital to pick up the new arrivals. She worked like the stubborn, bony donkeys carrying their heavy loads of kindling and flour and greens up the rugged mountain paths, allowing herself no rest, no letting up, and the virtue of sacrifice thickened layer by layer over her virgin heart until it was securely protected by a proud crust.
The more sensitive among the staff could detect a strain of condescension in her offers of help, and on occasion her zealosness turned meddlesome; she made sure that none of the thirteen-year-old boys escaped his turn washing the breakfast dishes, and she was always quick to point out to the house-parents the toys that invariably collected like dead mice by the dining hall door. She took over the annual updating of the staff manual from Bill's wife, Norma, so of course she was the one who remembered that orphanage funds couldn't be used for birthday candy. But who could fault her? Who could afford to criticize her when she was so willing and so useful?
When she looked up again, the man and girl had come through the orphanage gates and were headed for the main building. In one hand, the man clutched a frayed raffia basket that looked like it had come off an ancient donkey, and with the other, he kept a secure hold on the girl, who leaned to one side and dragged reluctantly behind him, her arm stretched almost horizontally. Sharon made a note to ask Bill at lunch if there was anything she could do to help, though she doubted it. The man was most likely looking for a handout or maybe an odd job.
But when she slipped into her customary seat at the end of the staff table and mentioned the pair, Bill wearily shook his silver head and said it was a difficult case. Normally, there would be no question—the girl was too old for them to take in. The father said she was five, but Bill suspected she was really six or seven, maybe even eight. The man's wife had died a few years ago, and he went back south so his mother could care for the child, but then she died too and now he was desperate. It was time for the girl to begin school, but work was spotty and he couldn't afford the books and supplies; he barely had enough to feed himself. Neighbors were willing to take the girl, but he was afraid that if he let them, they would find a family looking for help and pocket a fee. With a healthy girl like that who could start working right away, the money would be substantial.
There was a long, collective sigh from the others at the table. Out of the ninety-five children noisily eating in the dining hall, only twenty-eight were girls. Anyone who had driven through the middle-class neighborhoods in the capital had seen the child-maids in their turbaned scarves and aprons, opening the garage gate for the family car, or walking the dog, or bringing a carton of milk back from the store when all the other children were in school.
"What about the relatives?" Sharon asked.
Bill absently waved off the flies alighting on the platter of chicken and rice. "That's why he came here. It turns out the mother's half sister was from here."
"The village?"
"No, she lived here at the orphanage for a few years until an uncle took her. I told the father I'd see what we could do, but I just don't see how we can manage it."
Sharon lifted a plastic cup of water to her lips and surveyed the dining hall. Eight families were full, and the Roskers were due to go back for three months home leave. The week before Bill had reluctantly turned a premature baby away. If only she could take the girl.
"I could take her." The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them, and for an instant she hoped that perhaps someone el
se had given voice to her thoughts, but the others looked back at her in astonishment. One of the new teachers, wide eyed and scrupulous, blurted out, "But it's against the rules."
"Of course it is," Sharon said testily. "I was only thinking about the girl. Do you want her to become a maid?" She jerked up from her chair and made the legs grumble in protest against the floor. She started collecting the plates, struggling to hold down the redness she could feel seeping across her skin, while she kept arguing with herself. What harm would there be if she took the girl for a month or two until a space opened up? The girl could be kept clean and properly dressed, she would be able to go to school, she would have time to play, time to sleep.
"It would be such a shame," Norma said softly. "The girl has already had such a hard life. Maybe it's time to make an exception, Bill."
"Oh no," Sharon protested, the blush rising again to her face. "I—I didn't mean—I couldn't—it's not allowed."
But Bill pressed his fingers together in front of his mouth and sat motionless and silent for a moment. Then he lowered them and nodded. "Norma is right. It can't hurt to try. The girl is sure to end up as a maid otherwise."
The father stood up and greeted Sharon outside of Bill's office with a shy bow of his head, but the girl remained seated, her thin legs dangling from the bench without a twitch as she stared straight ahead at the wall. She was not a pretty child. Her head seemed too large for her slight frame, with gloomy black eyes bulging out from half-moon lids. A red ribbon had been skewered in the crudely chopped curls, and Sharon noticed the dirt smudged around her mouth and on her hands. The girl needed a haircut and a good wash, Sharon thought. And she wasn't overfed, but otherwise she looked healthy enough.
"Shnoo smeetik?" Sharon asked her. What is your name?
The father nudged her. "Gooliha smeetik," he whispered. Tell her your name.
The half-moon lids did not flicker, and the curls lay still on the girl's big head.
"Gooliha!" he said louder. Tell her! "Breeti tcooni bhel maaza?" Do you want to act like a goat?
A hint of color came across the girl's sallow face. "Smeetee Badra" she said to the wall in a broken whisper. My name is Badra.
"Badra," Sharon repeated. The girl narrowed her eyes but did not turn to Sharon.
"Badra, Breeti lma?" Would you like some water?
The girl looked up at her father and he nodded.
"Haji maya" Come with me. Sharon started off down the hall without waiting; in another moment she heard the sound of Badra's plastic sandals slapping along the cement floor behind her. She stopped at the corner and pointed. "Over there is the bathroom. It's not a foot toilet. It has a seat. Have you seen one before?" Badra's big eyes did not blink. "Probably not. And if you come, you'll have to learn English. Angliese."
Sharon knelt down at the drinking faucet. "When you drink, drink like this." She turned it on and leaned under it with her mouth open. She motioned for Badra, and the girl mimicked her perfectly.
"Mezziane. Good. Now you must be sure to turn the water off completely." Sharon made a turning motion.
Badra reached up and gave the handle a yank.
"La. No. If you turn it off too roughly, you'll strip the faucet. Slowly and firmly." Sharon turned the faucet on and then off. "Try it again."
Badra's head pointed at the floor, her eyes looking sideways down the hallway, and Sharon brought her hand up to the handle, but it rested limp and puppetlike. "Okay? Wahkha?" she asked. The girl remained still as if there was no life left in her. Sharon hesitated and then put her hand over Badra's. "If it is too hard on your own at first, we can do it together. Slowly and firmly," she repeated softly, turning the girl's hand, and then, like a lazy breath of wind stirring through a tumbleweed, the wild black curls floated up and then down.
Sharon was doubtful about the board; there was no reason to think that they would give her permission to keep a child after all those years, and in her first tentative weeks with Badra, she resolved to treat the girl like a patient who would be leaving after an extended stay. Together they searched through the orphanage clothes cupboard to supplement the few items of clothing in the black plastic bag Badra's father had taken out of his basket, and Sharon showed Badra how to fold them neatly and put them away in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Badra caught on quickly to brushing her teeth with a small pink toothbrush and then placing it in the holder with Sharon's, and eventually she learned to keep still while Sharon combed out the tangles in her thick curls.
Sharon was keen not to coddle the girl, but she felt it was out of the question for Badra to sleep alone in the infirmary, and she had a collapsible cot brought in that was stored under her bed and pulled out at night. And she couldn't help indulging her whenever Badra looked mournfully at an unfamiliar dish that was being served, as if the torture of eating strange food was too much for her to bear. Then Sharon let her eat all the wedges of the common round bread she wanted, and Badra would chew them slowly, savoring them like precious manna that might not appear again.
For a long time Badra barely spoke or showed any expression, and after meals when all the other children massed together in the yard, she would stay right by Sharon and walk with her to their room. But when Sharon finally began to send Badra outside to play during the day, she often had to rush out of the infirmary to stop Badra from throwing a well-directed punch at a child who had thwarted her or, if Sharon arrived too late, bring her over, scowling and unrepentant, to sit on the steps. Over time Badra became friendlier with the children and turned into a ringleader of sorts. From the window, Sharon would often see a group of younger children behind Badra, marching around the compound or following her as she jumped off the low retaining wall by the playground.
Summer gave way to fall, and there was still no word from the board. Sharon didn't bother to ask Bill about it; she assumed the refusal had gotten waylaid somewhere between the home office and Tidderzane, and she tried not to think about the future. She kept telling herself the only thing that mattered was the girl's well-being and what she could do to help her adjust to her new life. But at night, with Badra lying on the cot beside her, yielded to the peace of sleep, Sharon listened while the little room filled with a nocturne of wondrous sounds, the gentle puffs of Badra's breath, the dreamy murmurs, the wheezy whistle when her nose was congested, the rustle of covers and the squeak of the cot leg when she turned in her sleep, and then Sharon could not keep her thoughts from drifting to what she would do if Badra stayed with her. They would go up into the hills to hunt for fossils and bring back a few for polishing. In the spring they would go on the picnic when the flowers bloomed and later have a party—her birthday was in May, Sharon learned—and she would dig out her storage trunk and find the banana cake recipe her mother had always made. She would take Badra to an orthodontist in the capital for a consultation to see if her overbite would require braces, and when it was time for her to start college, Sharon might return to the states so Badra could study there. Of course it was dangerous to think like that. What if the board said no? How would she be able to go on? Better not to dream, better not to open her heart, she thought. But she couldn't help it.
Then the news came, the impossible, miraculous news. The board, considering the circumstances, agreed to make an exception, and Badra was now her permanent charge. When Bill told Sharon, all she could think to say were the words she had consoled herself with during the long months of waiting, "I'm sure the board knows what's best." Then she started grinning, and though she knew she must look like a silly fool, she didn't care. "Well," she said, tapping her knees with her sweaty fingertips. After years of sacrifice and denial, she had suddenly been rewarded with a child of her own. No more dead-end giving, no more short-sheeted offers to help; Badra's needs would be hers and hers alone to fill. "Well," she said again.
Right away she took Badra to the little photo shop in Safik. "My daughter and I need our picture taken," she told the man, and with that simple pronoun my, her life was doubled from
half to whole. Together they went behind the frayed blue velvet curtain and sat side by side on the short, wobbly bench, Sharon giving one more fussy maternal run of the comb through Badra's curls before the bulb flashed. The picture turned out not to be a good likeness of either of them. Badra shared Sharon's tendency to freeze in front of the camera, and they both had stunned expressions that made them look worried, but Sharon didn't care. She replaced the old jaundiced photo of herself on the orphanage bulletin board and tacked up the new one with a slip of paper on which she had written, Badra and Sharon Farley.
Their days went on as before, walking to meals together, working side by side in the evenings at the infirmary desk, Sharon on the orphanage accounts, Badra on her homework. But now Sharon proudly hung Badra's starred papers on the walls around their room, and in the late afternoons while the children played in the yard Sharon didn't hesitate to join the other housemothers who gathered together on the school steps and commiserated with them about the need for better playground equipment. Badra was still shy with her, but that didn't trouble her. She was the only one who knew of Badra's secret passion for raisins and how Badra tied the laces on her hand-me-down sneakers, one leg stretched out and the other drawn up to her chest, while her tongue skewed to the side, moving along with the tip of the lace. And when she spooned cough syrup into Badra's open mouth or took her temperature when she seemed warm, she felt happier because she was doing it as a mother, not a nurse. She was so delighted, so in love with this awkward, diffident child, that she hummed and whistled and smiled her way through her work, and right before Christmas, she made a special trip to the capital to buy a coffee-colored doll with two extra outfits.
Badra gave Sharon a necklace of green and red-painted pasta she had made and a card with the words, Merry Christmas, Mother in red glitter. Sharon immediately put on the necklace to show how nicely it matched the green turtleneck her sister-in-law had sent, and placed the card on the dresser. When Badra saw the doll, she stared at it in amazement. "Yes, it's yours," Sharon said. Badra named the doll Fatima after her grandmother and carried it with her everywhere, brushing its black curls with the little plastic brush and telling it not to fidget, exactly as Sharon told her. When school began again after the holiday break, Sharon told her she could bring Fatima once to show her class but the rest of the time the doll would have to stay tucked in her cot until Badra was ready to play with her.