“Stop it!” I snap. He startles.
“Oh, he’s fine,” says Mrs. Kablan absently.
I tell myself to relax. “You’re fine,” I say. “Sorry I yelled.”
But he comes and stands beside me, afraid of making me angry. I sigh. I should be happy. We got off the farm. We crossed the entire country. Khadija is back with her mother. But the luxury of the house makes me feel farther from my own home than I have our whole trip. It, more than the journey, makes me realize just how far I’ve gone in the wrong direction.
Mrs. Kablan picks up a plastic rectangle like the one Frog Face had last night and pushes some buttons on the front of it. It’s only when she starts talking into it in French that I realize that it’s a mobile phone. I’ve never seen a phone so small before.
“She’s calling the doctor,” Khadija whispers to me, and I feel myself relax.
Mrs. Kablan stops talking and puts the phone in her pocket. “Now,” she says, shuttling us through a door on our left, “food.”
Seydou and I follow her into the strangest kitchen I’ve ever seen. There’s no fire pit, no hole to let out the smoke, no bucket for water. Instead, there are a table and chairs, some wooden cabinets for storage, and a gas stove. Khadija’s mother walks to the cabinets and opens one, her hand still holding Khadija’s. It’s as if, now that she has her again, she isn’t going to let go of her for the rest of her life. My stomach rumbles and I fall into one of the chairs at the little table at the edge of the room. Mrs. Kablan pulls out some vegetables and a loaf of bread. She walks to the stove, puts a pan of water on it, turns the gas on, and lights it with a match.
“Sandrine!” she yells.
A moment later, a young girl not much older than me comes in. She has long-lashed eyes set in a heart-shaped face, her puff of hair held back by a band. She’s pretty, and she could have been any of the girls in my village, she looks so much like Seydou and me. As soon as Sandrine sees Khadija, she runs over to her and throws her arms around her, exclaiming in French. Khadija hugs her back. Then Sandrine lets go and, wiping at her eyes, turns to Mrs. Kablan.
When Mrs. Kablan starts ordering her around the kitchen in French, I realize that Sandrine is the maid Khadija had mentioned. She helps Mrs. Kablan cook the food; then Mrs. Kablan sends her out. Khadija tells us it’s to buy more food, as well as some new clothes for Seydou and me.
It makes me uncomfortable to sit there and have Mrs. Kablan order her to go out and buy us things. It makes me notice Khadija’s and her mother’s long, soft fingers. I glance at Sandrine. She may be Ivorian but her hands are thick-knuckled and callused, like mine. As she walks past me on her way out, I whisper, “I ni cé, Sandrine.” I don’t know whether she understands my thanks, but for a split second her eyes latch on to mine, and she gives me a slight smile. Then she’s gone.
Mrs. Kablan puts a bowl of a thick stew in front of me. I see chunks of chicken meat and tomato and onion and my mouth starts to water before I even taste it. She hands us each a thick wedge of soft bread and a tall glass of fruit juice and tells us to eat. We haven’t eaten since the lunch of smashed hard-boiled eggs on the truck yesterday. I don’t need to be told twice.
The stew is hot and filling and the juice is sweet and cool. It’s amazing. When we finish, Khadija’s mother gives us second helpings.
“Eat until you’re full,” she says.
When none of us can eat any more, Khadija’s mother leans her elbows against the kitchen table. “Now,” she says, “tell me everything.”
For a moment, Khadija looks at her mother, her mouth hanging open a little, as if she’s trying to talk, but the words just won’t come. I think about everything she’s gone through. For all the times I wished desperately for someone to know where I was, and what was happening to me, I never thought how hard it would be to actually tell someone.
“Khadija was brought to our farm nine days ago.” I surprise all of us by talking. Everyone’s eyes swing to me. I take a quick glance at Khadija. She still looks too shaken to take over, so I continue. “Seydou and I have been working on a farm near Man, helping them grow cacao.”
Mrs. Kablan’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She studies the three of us, taking in our bruises, Khadija’s bedraggled hair and clothes, and Seydou’s missing arm.
“Go on,” she murmurs, the image of calm. But I’m sitting next to her and I can see her hands in her lap. As soon as I mention the farm, she starts pulling at the edges of her fingernails. I go on.
“Well, it was odd because girls don’t work on the farm and kids never arrive alone—it would cost too much for the man driving the truck.” Mrs. Kablan’s eyes have gone a little vacant and she’s pulled so hard on the sides of her fingers that blood is dotting the edge of her delicate blouse. I want to tell her to stop or she’ll ruin it, but I don’t. “Anyway, she pretty much kept trying to escape every chance she got and then, three days ago, we got away together.” I’m leaving out so much. “Seydou had just been hurt and she told us that if we helped her get home you could get a doctor, so we came here with her.”
At this point, Khadija breaks in.
“No, Mama, Amadou’s not telling it right at all. He’s the one who finally helped me escape. He set the farm on fire! He protected me from the other boys too while I was there.” She turns and looks at me. “I wouldn’t have made it here without him,” she says.
At that moment, Fabrice opens the kitchen door and says something to them in French.
“Oh, good,” Mrs. Kablan says to us, “the doctor’s here.” Her tone is even and in control but I take another peek at her hands. Hidden from her daughter’s eyes by the table, she has pulled her fingertip to shreds.
I’m amazed by how quickly the doctor has gotten here, but I follow Fabrice into the front room with Seydou, Khadija, and her mother. There, an old man in crisp slacks and a collared shirt smiles warmly at Mrs. Kablan and they begin to talk rapidly in French. I put an arm around Seydou and scoot closer to Khadija.
“What are they saying?” I ask in a whisper.
“Mama’s explaining that Seydou had his arm cut off and . . . No, wait,” she says, frowning. “That’s not right!” She jumps in, speaking to the doctor in rapid French too, leaving Seydou and me standing off to the side self-consciously. Finally the doctor motions for Seydou to come forward.
He won’t go by himself, so I walk with him.
The doctor unwinds the gauze and tsks under his breath as dirt crusts off and falls to the floor. We haven’t had a chance to change the bandage since before we jumped on the freight truck. We ran out of clean gauze in Daloa.
I hang my head.
He looks carefully at Seydou’s stump and pokes at it, this way and that. Seydou hisses between his teeth, but doesn’t pull away. The doctor says something to the Kablans, and Khadija says, “Show him the medicine we’ve been using.”
I reach into my pocket and take out the two vials, all that’s left of our little kit.
The doctor squints at the labels, then shakes his head and throws the bottles out. Later, when no one’s looking, I go through the trash and pull them out, hiding them in my pocket. These rich people might have doctors who’ll visit them whenever they want, but Seydou and I need to look out for ourselves. The pills worked well enough once and, if we ever need them again, I want to have them.
The doctor turns to Mrs. Kablan, speaking rapidly in French once more.
Khadija comes over to us and whispers a translation.
“He says that Seydou’s got a mild stump infection with some surrounding cellulitis, whatever that means,” she says. “He’s going to give him a few shots now and a script for penicillin to take tonight. He’s supposed to take it four times a day until the pills run out.”
“What are shots?” asks Seydou.
“It’s medicine they put into your arm through a needle,” Khadija says. Then, seeing the
look on Seydou’s face, she adds, “It only hurts for a second and it keeps you from getting sick.” To me she adds, “You’ll be getting some too.”
“Me? But I’m not sick.”
“Like I said”—she sighs—“they keep you from getting sick later. Just hold out your arm and get it over with quickly.”
Seydou inches closer to me, but Khadija is already talking again. She goes on for a while, trying to keep up as the doctor rambles on about how to tell if infection is setting in, fevers, and something called “phantom limb syndrome.” Seydou hasn’t really been paying attention ever since the mention of shots, but I listen the best I can. I know whose job it is to take care of him once this old man leaves.
Khadija also says the doctor mentions something called prosthetics—fake arms, and where it might be possible for us to find a hospital that will give one to Seydou. I’ve never heard of anything like that, so I don’t know what to think. How much will this new arm cost? Surely they’re not so advanced here in the city that they can simply give Seydou a new arm and everything will be fine? I have a sudden image of Seydou waving around an arm that is large and covered in gray hair like the doctor’s and I’m not sure whether to laugh or vomit.
At this point, Sandrine arrives and hands a bundle to Mrs. Kablan before disappearing again into the kitchen. Soon, Seydou and I are both rubbing the hot, sore spot on our arms where the shots went in.
When the doctor begins packing up, Khadija’s mother presses some money into his hand. I can’t tell how much it is exactly, but it’s probably a lot. My family couldn’t afford a doctor even when my mother was dying. I can only imagine what it must cost to have a city doctor come to your house.
I look sharply at Khadija, who is staring vacantly into the far corner of the room.
“Psst!”
She turns.
“Don’t you think you should get some shots too?” I ask. “Or at least have the doctor look at you?”
She looks away. “I don’t want . . .”
Seydou is standing between us, all ears, so I don’t want to say too much, but still, maybe there’s something the doctor can give her to make her feel better too.
“You need to let them take care of you, Khadija,” I say, my voice serious. “They won’t know how to if you don’t tell them anything.”
Khadija swallows. The doctor is almost at the door.
“Please?” I beg. “For me? You made sure the doctor helped us. I need to know you’ll get helped too.”
Khadija swallows again.
“Mama.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
I rub her arm to give her courage. From the door, her mother turns.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to show the boys the bathroom so they can wash up.” Her voice trembles, but she doesn’t stop. “Could you ask the doctor to wait a moment?”
Then, without waiting for her mother to agree or ask questions, Khadija turns. Three doors lead off the main room, and Khadija brings us through the door on the far right, into a small, tiled room, hands us each a towel, and shows us how to work the shower.
“You can do it, wildcat,” I whisper to her as she leaves. I see her clench her fists and press her lips together tightly with determination, just before she closes the door on us. For a moment Seydou and I both stare at the odd tap coming out of the wall. Neither of us have ever used a shower before. “Okay,” I finally say, “who’s first?”
Seydou’s eyes gleam at the challenge, even though he’s still cradling his stump against his chest.
“Me,” he says.
I brace him by the upper arm so he doesn’t slip on the tile. The doctor left his stump unbandaged until after we could get clean, and I’m careful not to jostle it as I help him into the stream of water.
“It’s like a hot rainstorm.” Seydou laughs, holding his injured arm out to the side to keep it from getting wet. I hand him the soap and let him scrub all the places he can reach by himself and then I scrub his back. My soapy hands bump over the network of old scars there, but for once the echoes of his screams don’t haunt me. I realize I finally kept my promise. I got him out. I smile to myself and wash his hair while I’m at it. The side of my head and Mrs. Kablan’s floor are getting wet, but I’m not going to let him out until he’s clean.
“Okay,” I say. “Now your arm.”
The puffy stump glistens angrily at us. I take a hard look at it, searching for any of the things Khadija told us the doctor said to look for. But though it looks painful and unnatural, there’s no pus coming from it and there are no streaks of infection on his arm. I slather both of my hands with soap and look him in the eyes.
“This will probably hurt,” I say. He takes a deep breath. I do the same and then rub my soapy hands over his mangled arm. By the time I’ve rinsed all the soap off, he’s crying freely, but he doesn’t pull it away.
I turn off the water and help dry him with one of the towels Khadija left for us. Then, after Seydou pulls on the clean clothes that Mrs. Kablan bought for us, I pick up the Vaseline jar and the new gauze the doctor left. He hadn’t thought much of the papaya. I smear some of the clear goop onto Seydou’s arm and rewrap it carefully. And, with that, I am left to the shower.
I have never felt anything so good in my entire life. For a while I stand there and let the hot water run over my head and pelt at the knots in my shoulders, then I take the soap and clean myself with a vengeance. The water goes down the drain gray and foamy, but I don’t stop washing until it runs clear. I imagine that all the anger and hurt and fear of the past two years are one layer under the dirt from the farm and I scrub until I feel raw.
Finally, I step out of the shower into the bathroom. The curling steam wraps around Seydou and me like smoke from the cook fire. Looking up as I’m drying off, I catch sight of myself in the small mirror above the sink. My eyes look like they belong to a hunted animal. The shower may take care of the old dirt in my hair and on my skin, but there are some things that being in a nice bathroom just won’t wash away.
I slip on the new clothes that Khadija’s mother bought for me. They are perfectly clean and a pretty good fit. No rips anywhere. I swing my arm around my brother and walk out of the bathroom feeling very, very good.
Mrs. Kablan is waiting for us outside the door.
I look into the front room, but it’s empty. The doctor has gone. I look at Mrs. Kablan. She gives us a big smile but I see that more of her fingertips are bleeding and I know Khadija must have told her about what happened in the shed.
“Khadija is taking a rest and I’m sure you both could use one too,” says Mrs. Kablan brightly. “We’ll all talk more later, but for now, I think you should get some sleep.” She hands us each a pile of blankets. “You can sleep here, in the front room. I’ll be in the kitchen or my room if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll come wake you in a few hours. Sound good?”
“Awó,” Seydou mumbles.
“I ni cé, madame,” I say, taking the blankets.
“No, Amadou,” she says softly, resting her hand on my arm for a moment. “Thank you.”
Even as she turns away, I can see her smile starting to crumble.
The floor of the sitting room is even and clean, and I quickly make two simple pallets with the blankets from Mrs. Kablan. After the bad night, the stress of running, a big lunch, the pain of the shower, and all those shots, Seydou falls asleep almost instantly.
I’m exhausted too, but my eyes keep twitching to the barred windows and the unlocked front door. This is the house that Khadija was taken from. Between that and Mrs. Kablan’s fingers, I just don’t feel safe enough to sleep. I lie awake, waiting for the bad men from my past to break in and take me where I don’t want to go.
For a little while I distract myself by daydreaming of Mali, and going home, and how happy everyone would be to see us and how wonderful that would be. But the
dream feels thin now, and like the fabric of Khadija’s mother’s blouse, I’m worried I’ll rip it if I handle it too much. Because underneath the fancy shimmer of the dream I know that the reality of going home would not be perfect. Yes, Moke and Auntie would be glad to see us safe, and yes, it would be good to see their faces and look over the fields of our farm. But there was a reason we left in the first place.
I remember the cracked dirt between the dry, shaky rows of millet and the way the eyes of the little children in the village seemed to get bigger as their arms and legs shrank. It was a hungry time. A thirsty time. Any boy who could left to go make some money in a place that wasn’t as drought-stricken. That way he was one less mouth to feed and, in a few months, he would come home with a small roll of money, maybe some seeds. I had watched boys leave for the farms, and girls for the rich houses, every season of my childhood. As soon as I was old enough, Seydou and I went too.
But we never made it somewhere that paid us for our work. And the truth is that neither of us has anything to show for our years away. Less than nothing, because now I’m bringing Seydou back as a cripple.
I splay my fingers on the cool floor and push myself to my feet, then fold my blanket gently over Seydou. My thoughts are driving me crazy. I look out the window. The guard is nowhere to be seen and the yard is empty.
I pad to the door on silent feet, push it open, and let myself into the yard, holding my breath until the familiar feeling of grass and gravel replace tile under my toes. I’ll do one lap around the house to double-check that no one’s here but us, the maid, and the guard, and then I’ll go in and make myself sleep beside Seydou. Even if it still feels like my heart is wrapped in barbed wire, I hope the fresh air will at least clear my head.
But when I turn the corner of the house, I see Khadija’s mother through the open kitchen window, chewing on her fingernails, pacing, and talking on her phone in Bambara, no trace of her earlier smile left on her face.
The Bitter Side of Sweet Page 20