My sorrow didn’t diminish. I’d read about the five stages of grief, but seemed stuck somewhere between anguish and denial. The next day I phoned Peter’s sister, no longer able to put off the inevitable, but only got a tinny recording of a cheerful voice indicating she was away on business and would get back to the caller. I never heard from her, though I phoned several times each day. On the fifth day, I resolutely spelled out my home address and phone number in Florida, praying Elizabeth would eventually call.
My passport arrived six days after filling out the application. Clearly a world record! My ticket changed and reissued, I soon sat numbly in business class, contemplating first how to deal with my family and second, how to continue life without Peter. My worries were entirely founded as I spent the next several days striving in vain to explain my experiences and perceptions to those around me. The numbness of my mundane routine, even with a new job, proved the most comforting thing to me, since I received nothing but criticism from my family during those first dark days after my return. When the announcement arrived less than one week after my return that Josh intended to marry his teenaged girlfriend, I wasn’t even fazed.
My friends and family simply shook their more knowledgeable heads, comfortable in the assumption that something like this could never happen to them, since they weren’t foolhardy sorts like me. My cousin proved particularly irksome. In his nasal tones, he insinuated that while I had been close to losing my marbles before embarking upon my adventures, now, after the hijacking and death of Peter, I had clearly lost them. I ignored him—remaining silent through his nonstop lectures. Ken found my mute gaze intolerable, desiring me to either agree with him or at least counter, so he could put me down.
“You’re different,” he accused after dropping by that second Saturday afternoon after I’d returned. Ken and my mother had taken to popping in to check on what I later overheard my mother term “the mental invalid.”
“Is that bad or good?” I asked indifferently. “Since you couldn’t stand me before, what’s the big deal?”
“Couldn’t stand you? What ridiculous nonsense. You’re my cousin and I love you. Somebody has to. But I have to admit you’re a goddamned mess, Mandy. While the death of your Zimbabwean friend was “unfortunate,” you’re probably better off. Long-distance relationships never work.”
“Whatever.”
“That’s your only response—whatever?”
“Yup. You didn’t know Peter, so don’t you dare comment on him. He was my soul mate and my beloved, and because of my stupidity, I’ve lost him, and consequently, any hope at future happiness.”
My cousin hesitated. “No word from his sister or the South African authorities?”
“No,” I swallowed, barely able to hold back my tears. “Nor the police, who promised to phone me if they discovered anything. I think… I believe his body was never recovered. The Limpopo River is full of crocodiles.”
Ken barged ahead. “You didn’t know the last name of his sister?”
“Not her married name. Peter never relayed the name of her new husband, either. We didn’t talk that much about his family. ”
Ken toyed with a coaster before reaching into his pocket to remove a gold-embossed card. “You know, I have this friend I attended undergraduate school with. Jeff moved back to Orlando just six months ago. Maybe he could give you a call.”
It took a moment for the identity of his friend to sink in. “Jeff, the defense lawyer?” I really hadn’t expected that my nerdy cousin would try to match me up. I waved the proffered card away. “I’m not interested right now. Please. Could you close the door on your way out?”
A peculiar expression flitted over my cousin’s face. His tone actually sounded contrite. “I’m truly sorry about all that happened, Mandy. You know, Josh was a swine to cheat on you. Hey, I’ll phone in a couple days, okay?”
Frankly, I wouldn’t care if he ever phoned.
Mom stopped by the following weekend as I scanned an article about the upcoming elections in Zimbabwe.
“Why do you keep reading that boring stuff?” she asked, dropping her handbag onto my new chintz couch. I’d sold the adulterous other one.
“Just want to keep informed,” I answered mildly as she followed me into the kitchen. Since she was here, I might as well cook a meal. My mother rambled on about the brilliance of a new TV series she was watching, her fantastic bridge club, and the retired and very interesting single brain surgeon who’d moved down the block from her.
As I cut my roast chicken into bite-sized pieces, she shocked me.
“I have a present for you, Amanda. Actually, it’s from both Ken and me.”
“A present? It’s not my birthday.”
“I, um. Well, you know Jeff, Ken’s friend?”
Not again. I steeled myself. “The lawyer?”
Mom wiped her mouth daintily with her napkin. “Actually, Jeff isn’t a lawyer anymore. He’s a private investigator and Ken and I hired him to find Peter’s sister.”
Stunned, I dropped my fork.
“Anyway, Jeff managed to locate her. Something about a fire in her tour office and a new number—but to make a long story short, this Elizabeth wants to meet you.”
I stammered. “M…meet me?”
“Yes. She wishes to meet the woman her brother loved. So here…”
Mom slid a thin envelope across the cherry table. I recognized the emblem from Azure Travel.
“Ms. Raymond, the agent from your tour agency, was key to finding his sister. And… once we had… it seemed only natural to obtain you an air ticket. You must visit her to gain some closure.”
“My new job… ” I sputtered.
“Damn your job, Mandy! You’ve suffered an ordeal. I can’t imagine my baby girl lost in the African bush. How brave, brave you were. And then, on top of it, to lose the man you’d grown so fond of. A man… who was likely your peer.”
I forced myself to close my mouth. Her admission seemed inconceivable. Someone more suited to me than Josh?
“I haven’t been a very sympathetic mother,” she continued unsteadily, “and… well, Ken and I need to do better by you. And… about that job. Certainly, a woman of your qualifications can easily find another position if they refuse to grant you this needed time off.” She folded her hands primly upon the table.
Stunned, I opened the plastic travel envelope. Nested inside was a round-trip ticket to Durban, South Africa.
“Durban? But Elizabeth lives in Cape Town.”
“Apparently her aunt lives in Durban, and Elizabeth finds it more convenient to meet you there. Something about its proximity to Kruger? I guess she’s been dealing with the authorities regarding Peter.”
I turned the ticket over in my trembling hands. “It’s for a week stay?”
“It’s refundable and changeable. I had no idea how long you would need so… we… we paid more for the ticket so you could change it if necessary. You leave Tuesday. Is Durban a safe city, Mandy?”
Her question bewildered me. “I guess. It’s a large city on the Indian ocean, miles from Kruger.”
She cleared her throat nosily, took a deep breath and said the bravest thing I’d ever heard from her. “If you’d like, I’ll go with you.” Mom’s roast chicken sat idle in its thick gravy, her green beans losing some of their bright color.
I smiled shakily. This was a side of my mother I’d never encountered before. She hated air travel. I leaned over to kiss her slightly wrinkled cheek. “I love you too, Mom. Thanks for this. But, I…I’m fine traveling alone. And you’re right. I do need closure. This is the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.”
My mother actually appeared startled. I rose and trotted to the oven, pulling on my oven mitts to remove the apple crumble we’d made together. After helping with the dishes, Mother gingerly hugged me before leaving for the safety of her condo.
“Amanda?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Well, it might be awhile before I see you again so sta
y safe. Promise to call me before you leave?”
“Will do. And Mom…tell Ken thanks for me.”
Epilogue
While late winter in South Africa, it was still quite hot in Durban. I arrived on a Wednesday evening, the humidity pouring through the newly opened doors of the Boeing jet. I removed my sweater, which had valiantly fought against the chill of the cabin, and gazed upon the turquoise Indian Ocean sparkling in the distance. I collected my bags and dragged the same maroon suitcase that had survived my first trip through customs. A small, willowy woman with silver hair and a dentured smile held up a hand-written placard. It read: Welcome Miss Phillips.
I pulled up in front of her and smiled. “You must be Mrs. Giles, Elizabeth’s aunt.”
“In the flesh,” she said, her British-South African accent, so much like Peter’s, falling gently upon my tired ears. “Welcome to Durban, dear.”
She drove a small pickup truck like a pro and chatted about the weather, the diminishing influx of tourists that always marked the long winter season that, strangely, fell over our traditional summer holiday, and how her garden was progressing most famously, though she really needed extra help. I felt like I already knew her.
“How is Elizabeth?”
“Chuffed you’re here. Elizabeth couldn’t change her meeting with the estate agents today. Hopefully, she’ll be done quickly, as she’s so eager to greet you and fill you in on everything we learned about Peter’s tragic encounter with the SAPS.”
Estate agents? Oh God! I hoped Mrs. Giles and Elizabeth didn’t feel they owed me anything of Peter’s. I couldn’t bear it!
Mrs. Giles pulled up before a quaint antique and furniture shop whose spotlessly clean windows allowed the discerning shopper a wonderful glimpse of the goods inside. She pushed open a glass-paned door equipped with an old-fashioned tinkling bell and held it wide for me as I dragged my case through. A young blonde lady greatly resembling Mrs. Giles rushed forward, her hands outstretched to enfold mine.
“I’m Elizabeth,” she introduced herself. “Lisa’s niece and Peter’s sister. How wonderful for you to come. Aunt Lisa has a flat in the back where you’ll be staying. You can freshen up there and then we’ll chat.”
The shop was quite spacious and, due to its fairly close proximity to the tourist beach, maintained a moderate business in winter and an excellent one the rest of the year. Items from the Voortrekker[4] days, as well as antiques that had traveled from England and Holland to South Africa via various immigrants, dotted the shop. While pricey, the items were well-chosen, obviously meant for a discerning clientele.
“Come along,” said Mrs. Giles, “but be careful of all the knick-knacks. My lands, this store is way too much work. But that will be remedied soon.”
I cautiously rolled my large suitcase through the narrow passageway between all the tables and crockery, and followed her through a door at the rear of the store. I smiled in delight at the sight meeting my weary eyes. The landing led into a lovely courtyard draped with bougainvilleas and dotted with miniature orange trees planted in huge, sand-colored pots. A trellis leaned against the two-story wall, covered in white and pink roses. A wrought-iron table, complete with a huge green canvas umbrella for shade, sat next to a small dripping fountain overlooking wooden flower boxes stuffed with petunias, marigolds, and daisies.
“We have a back garden as well, but it’s so pleasant to take our breaks here when the shop is open.”
A door made of stained glass and dark wood opened into the foyer of the house. The entire home, decorated from generations past, whispered of quality and an enduring reverence for the past. Mrs. Giles lived her trade and over the years had carefully collected antique pieces to adorn her lovely abode. Elizabeth watched me with anxious eyes of an identical brown to her brother’s as her aunt led me to the back apartment.
“Here’s your room. You must be knackered after your long flight, so rest as long as you need. We’ll be waiting for you in the shop when you’re ready to chat.”
The large, sunny guest bedroom faced the Indian Ocean. Complete with canopied bed, an antique dressing table, and quaint tea stand, it overlooked the sea and the terraced garden. Someone had placed a vase of Shasta daisies upon the table and a profusion of tiny pink carnations hung outside the windows in rectangular window pots.
I marveled at the view as I unpacked my bag and hung up my clothes. Standing at the wide windows, I observed the tropical garden. A unique feather-duster tree stood near a sweet gum, and the long and narrow yard was spotted with queen palms. Mrs. Giles obviously loved her flowers. A scarlet clarodendron sparkled in the bright light while trumpet creepers, whose orange-red flowers trailed over the wooden fence, vied with brilliant honeysuckle. It made for a dazzling canvas planted with care. Several Yesterday-Today-and-Tomorrow flowers bloomed in tri-colored harmony while sending out a heavenly scent. I realized I had tarried long enough; it was time. I turned just as a tap sounded on my turquoise-painted door.
“It’s open.”
The door swung wide and a form leaning on a cane appeared, only a shadow before the glaring brilliance of the sun without.
It couldn’t be! The apparition moved deeper inside the quaint apartment and there he stood, one arm in a sling, a fresh scar running from his chin to his cheekbone, and a full black walking cast encasing his right leg.
“Peter!”
“Yes, lass …”
I flung myself at him. “Gently,” he warned fruitlessly as I encased him inside my loving arms. Wincing a bit, he energetically returned my tearful kisses.
A long while later, Peter lowered himself gingerly into the overstuffed cream easy chair positioned under the bright chintz curtains fluttering in the partially-open window. I sat at his feet on the wooden plank floor and leaned my dizzy head against his uninjured leg. “I thought you were dead!?”
“So did I. But I guess the Fates had different plans. I must admit to losing my appetite for white-rafting after being thrashed about for so long in the Limpopo.”
“But you were shot—I saw the blood!”
He tsk-tsked. “They were actually only lackluster shooters, those soldiers. I took three misguided bullets and this graze on my face, but wouldn’t you think they’d be better shots than that?”
The fact he could joke about it, that his warm, living flesh had survived, brought me to tears again.
“Your leg?” I stammered, wiping my eyes.
“A compound fracture. The bullet hit a stubborn bone and exited through my thigh. I may need another surgery—but except for a sexy limp, I’ll be fine.” He lifted his slinged arm slightly. This bullet luckily missed my elbow and a third bullet bounced off my ribs. This graze on my face was the worst I’m afraid; I nearly bled to death.”
“Now you really look the part of a rough-and-tough game park ranger.” I caressed his leg. “Who found you?”
“Now, that’s the real tale. An illegal named Themba Mikosi, who was traveling with his wife and two children, ran upon me on the Mozambique side of the river, as I barely hung onto a partly submerged log. He and his family remained with me for nearly a week until I could travel. Themba says, quite modestly, that he jumped into crocodile-infested waters, dodged two maternal hippos, and nearly drowned inside a whirlpool to save me. I owe him my life. He placed his family in great peril to stay with me. I must say I have never eaten better crocodile tail stew than his wife, Sibu, cooked. You will have to try it sometime.”
I digested what he said as we basked in the late afternoon sun, my nose crinkling at the heavenly scent of gardenias.
“Why did no one contact me?” I finally managed.
Peter placed rough fingers in my hair and massaged my scalp. “Remember that poacher, Ian Voorhurst… the one I was mistaken for?”
“Yes.”
“Themba knew the location of his base poaching camp on the Mozambique side of the Limpopo River. After Themba and Sibu managed to ferry me to a SAPS post across the river, we ‘negotiated’ with t
he army.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Themba sought to immigrate to South Africa. So, with some assistance from me—added by acute embarrassment on the part of the local SAPS after what their misguided anti-poaching squad had done—we traded his information for a South African residence permit. The “sting” was quite hush-hush for a while. After I contacted my sister, she informed me that a private investigator hired by your mother and cousin had communicated with her. I requested they not reveal anything until I could speak to you in person.”
“My mother agreed to that? She knew?”
“I told you that your old mum and I would get along.”
I smiled through grateful tears. “And Themba?”
“God bless my sister and aunt. The only way we could legally acquire my rescuers’ immigrant status was if they were sponsored. So, Themba will help Aunt Lisa with the antique shop—doing the heavy lifting, deliveries, and whatnot—and Sibu will cook and clean and raise her two rambunctious boys.”
“Your aunt mentioned Elizabeth was at the estate agents when she picked me up. I thought… I thought they were discussing your will.”
He laughed. “Estate agents are realtors here in South Africa, Mandy, not barristers. She was just securing a fine little cottage down the block for Themba and his family.” Mutely, I rubbed my face against the worn denim of his good leg.
“And what’s this, lass?” Peter said lightly and leaned over to finger the elephant teeth he’d given me weeks ago, which now hung on a silver necklace around my neck.
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