“My passport,” she says. “Please, leave my passport so I can get the hell out of here.”
Christian takes a step toward his brother and grabs the passport, glances at Rachel like maybe he’s actually going to give it to her, and then palms it. The two brothers get back into the truck. Felix tosses the photos at her and spits out the window for good measure. The truck peels out, splattering flecks of mud.
Rachel watches as they drive away, Christian waving her passport out the window. She tries to upright the battered bike, but instead, stumbles and lands in the ditch. Her shoulder is throbbing and her left cheek, too. She swipes water from her face and cringes, appraising fingers speckled with pebbles and blood. Her heart races as she sweeps a hand through the dirt and sticks, rescues the photos and then the Visa card as an afterthought. She pats the photos on her T-shirt and tucks them both back into her wallet.
Fuck, she can’t just sit here. It’s getting dark and cold. What’s to stop the Kensamara brothers from coming back? She pushes herself up gingerly, tests her weight on one leg and then the other. The rain is letting up, which only makes her colder as she starts down the hill toward the specks of light in town. It will take a good hour at this rate, favoring her left leg even though that doesn’t help her shoulder, to make it to the café where she can call someone to pick her up. But who? Tucker and Rose are in Kigali. Does Nadine drive? Lillian isn’t an option; she’ll think Henry’s foolish daughter is screwing things up even more. She walks faster, pain zinging up her left calf with every step.
Two streaks of light on the road become brighter, bigger. She cuts a glance toward the brush on the other side of the ditch, but what if it’s someone who might help her? Her legs go numb, arms dropping to her sides like a stunned animal.
“Rachel, what the hell.” Tucker jumps out of the Jeep, almost before it stops, and whips his coat around her shoulders. The warmth brings up a spike of shivers as he dabs at her bruised cheek with a bandana. “Did someone do this to you?” he asks.
“The Kensamara brothers stopped me.”
“They did this.”
“No, they didn’t touch me. Just wanted to scare me.”
“Scare Nadine.”
“I fell off her bike. It’s ruined.”
“But you’re okay?”
The slight movement of a single nod seems to release every tensed muscle in Rachel’s body at once. She collapses into the solidness of Tucker. The smell of him is surprisingly familiar. Soothing. He runs a hand along the nape of her neck and down her spine. Her back tenses—too familiar. And then his hands are on her shoulders, supporting her, as he looks into her eyes with a penlight. A doctor checking out his patient, of course, nothing more.
“I’m fine. Really.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and back again, even though her ankle feels like it’s on fire. “So, Rose… How was Kigali? The blood transfusion?”
“We’ll have to wait and see. But Rose felt good enough to come home for the tree decorating party tomorrow.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, she could use something to celebrate.” Tucker clicks off the penlight and exhales a long, shaky breath. He grabs onto her, an unmistakable hug.
“I’m glad you’re both back,” she says.
IN THE JEEP, AS RACHEL’S nervous system resets, relief spikes into anger. “You lied to me,” she says.
Tucker throws her a quick baffled scowl. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“You said my father went to the church to rescue Nadine.”
“True.”
“Maura told me he went there to take photos.”
“He always had a camera around his neck.”
“He went to take photos for Rahim.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Not to rescue Nadine.”
“But he did rescue her.”
“No,” Rachel shouts. That’s beside the point. A fluke. “All he cared about was selling those photos, making money.”
“Bullshit.”
“He didn’t care.” Rachel gasps as Tucker touches her arm, a rush of air exploding in her lungs. “Henry Shepherd was a selfish monster, not—” A sharp breath cuts into her chest. Not my father.
“Rachel, listen, you’ve got it wrong,” Tucker says, so evenly that at first she thinks he’s angry. “All wrong. Things here aren’t so clear-cut. Good or evil.”
“Some things are just fucking wrong.”
“Do unto others… The Golden Rule and all that?”
“I know it’s not that simple.”
“It’s hard to wrap my mind around how the Hutu government twisted morality,” Tucker says, his voice soft with wonder. “Over the past three decades, they pretty much fucked the Golden Rule, replaced it with the idea that God sanctioned the extermination of an entire tribe. Both Hutus and Tutsis came to accept that as the gospel truth. Can you imagine?”
“Truthfully? No, I can’t.”
“Isn’t it possible that Henry taking photos of the massacre wasn’t about doing good or evil, just trying to capture a version of morality gone mind-blowingly wrong?”
They drive through town in silence, except for Tucker drumming a finger in time to the tap of the windshield wiper. When the Jeep pulls into the winding driveway at Kwizera, he turns to her. “Maybe,” he says, “your dad was simply a guy doing the best he could in an impossible situation. Could you accept that?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE FLAMES ARE NEARLY OUT BY THE time dozens of neighbors and friends start showing up, far more help than is needed to quell the fire in Nadine’s little Christmas garden, but Lillian knew they would all want her to call. Folks show up with wheelbarrows and shovels to smash the last orange embers together. They show up with bowls of stew, loaves of bread and cheese, whatever they can spare from their own dinner tables. They show up with flowering plants exhumed from their own gardens. The men carry away shriveled plants and ash to bury in the woods, but they all know the acrid smell of petrol will linger for weeks. The women help Nadine dig up bulbs that might bloom again, advising her to keep adding fertilizer and turning the soil, give the land a few months to heal.
After the ground is no longer smoldering, they all hold hands around the demolished garden, swirls of petrol-tinged smoke lingering in the air. Lillian says a silent prayer of thanks: the damage is miniscule, everyone is safe. Foolish boys. All the Kensamara brothers have done is brought their community together and helped them to remember; the remembering is what keeps them strong. She looks around the circle of friends, into each face. Some acknowledge her with a somber nod, others softly chant, ensconced in their own prayer. And then there are those who stare past her, lost somewhere in time. Six years ago. Eight. Twelve. She knows when each of these Tutsi families lost their own crops and homes and had to rebuild, some with the help of the few brave Hutus here.
Thirty-two years. The candlelight vigil for Martin Luther King. A tragic loss, but it pulled folks together, blacks and whites. Their grief united them.
While people are setting up food on the patio, Lillian stands at the kitchen sink filled with cool water, trying to revive some charred lavender vines, sifting out those that are more purple than gray. She’s relieved Tucker called; Rachel’s fine, just banged up from falling off that rickety bicycle. The lavender will make a nice salve along with some eucalyptus to soothe the bruises—the ones on the outside. She has no idea how to heal the rest of Rachel’s pain. Surely Maura told her about the photos that may or may not still exist. She’s never seen them, never wanted to. Well, that’s not quite true. She would gladly have endured viewing them at the trial for Rahim Kensamara and the others in Arusha two years ago.
It’s a fine sight out the window: An impromptu band is starting up with someone strumming a gourd strung like a guitar. A group of teenaged boys, including Thomas and Robert, smack drums fashioned from upside-down plastic buckets, and several girls accompany them on homemade wooden flutes. Nadine is laughing, loud and
rebellious, dancing in a circle with Rose, Zeke and some neighborhood kids, while others kick around a soccer ball in the yard. For just this one night, all the house lights are on, inside and out, never mind the electricity bill. Maybe Christian and Felix are out there somewhere with binoculars, watching. Maybe they can see Nadine, or at least hear the music.
Lillian strips purple buds into a bowl, releasing a heady aroma; the healing herb is so much stronger than petrol. Tucker’s Jeep rolls into sight on the driveway. She plucks a few hearty branches from the counter to arrange in a vase to place beside Rachel’s bed. She’ll see that something survived the scorched garden.
“Inshuti, inshuti!” Nadine calls out, running over to help her friend out of the Jeep. Rachel leans on Naddie as they head toward the farmhouse. Lillian smiles with pride; her daughter is resilient, more powerful than the fire. They all are.
LILLIAN MENTALLY CLEANS THE WHITE tile bathroom spattered with mud, while she dabs antiseptic on Rachel’s arm. The tub will have to be scrubbed with bleach; Rachel’s clothes in a heap on the floor might come clean after a few washings… It keeps her mind from wandering back to the Kensamara house, back to what could have happened to Rachel when Felix and Christian found her.
“Now that you’re cleaned up, I can distinguish the bruises from the mud,” she says evenly. “It’s not so bad.”
Nadine sits next to Rachel, kneading her friend’s hand. She must have apologized a dozen times. Of course Rachel doesn’t blame her, nobody does, but it’s easier for Naddie to take on the responsibility for all of this mess. It gives her a sense of power in a senseless situation. That’s why Rachel went to talk with Maura, too. Lillian’s rather proud of her, trying to protect Naddie. She rolls up Rachel’s pant leg to assess the swollen ankle. There’s no standing between her daughter and the Kensamara brothers—people are only going to continue to get hurt. There’s no protecting any of them from the past.
“How did Tucker know where to find me?” Rachel asks, wincing as she peers down at her leg. Nadine winces too, in solidarity.
“I had a hunch,” Lillian says. “It’s exactly what I would have done.” She gently presses on the ankle bone, only a nasty sprain. “Not that I’m saying it wasn’t foolish—”
“I know, I know.”
“But I’m touched you were trying to help.”
“You were hurt because of me,” Nadine says. “I won’t testify at the gacaca. I’ll talk to Christian.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Lillian says, surprising herself. “This… what happened tonight, it won’t stop even if you keep quiet and afraid. It won’t stop if you keep blaming yourself…” She takes a deep breath. It’s what the Tutsis have done for decades, accepting that they’re second-class citizens, too afraid to stand up and fight. “Sugar, you need to tell the truth. Shout it.”
“Yes, Maman,” Nadine says unconvincingly, but Lillian leaves it alone and turns her attention to Rachel. Her ankle is badly swollen. “Let’s get you into bed,” she says, and then adds to Nadine, “Your turn in the shower, then off to bed. Both of you need some rest.”
Lillian goes to the kitchen in the main building and finishes mashing the lavender with eucalyptus oil. All of the neighbors have left. Kwizera is pitch black except for a light over the kitchen sink and another in the farmhouse that she sees from her post at the window. Rachel’s room, where Tucker is bandaging her ankle. That gal will surely have even more questions now. Lillian stops on her way back to the farmhouse, to sprinkle a bit of lavender on Nadine’s charred garden. A small gesture of hope, her own try at gaining a bit of control.
The threads of Henry’s life are unraveling and it’s up to her to keep everything together, for Henry’s sake as well as his daughter’s. Or, perhaps, she can be a role model for Naddie and give Rachel pieces of her father’s story that she can patch together into something warm to wrap around herself. That’s what she came here for, isn’t it? The trick is doling out bits of the truth without revealing the entire hurtful story.
She kneels to mulch a handful of purple buds over the dirt and ash. She spent hours tending to her own garden, her own pain, here on the side of the house where the sun hits just right all afternoon. What if she had told Henry about Gahiji, trusted him with the truth? Would things have changed between them? Would he have stopped running away every few months, chasing after the mountain gorillas that he joked were his second family, and stayed to protect her?
She has always maintained that they didn’t need a marriage license or wedding rings, that she didn’t mind his wanderings. The truth is, she never asked Henry for a real commitment because she was protecting herself from the pain of depending on him too much, loving him too much, and then losing him. Each time he left for a few weeks that might stretch into a month she was, in a way, training herself for the day when he would leave their family for good. She stands and brushes the dirt from her hands. Who is she really protecting now?
Thankfully, by the time Lillian reaches the farmhouse, Rachel is fast asleep. Hashing out what Maura told her can wait until morning; the fire is enough for one night. She pulls back the quilt, slowly, rubs the herbal poultice on the swollen ankle, and then redresses the bandage precisely as Tucker had it. The herbs will help, but that ankle’s going to be tender for weeks. Travelling back to New York in two days won’t be easy. Lillian massages more oil on scraped legs. The thought of Rachel staying while she heals is warm on her palms, the heat travelling up into her chest. She has become not only Nadine’s confidante over the past month, but a part of Kwizera. Lillian smoothes the quilt under Rachel’s chin; she has started to see her differently during the past few days—as family. Henry’s daughter.
Rachel’s body goes taut, a muffled cry caught in her throat, like she’s trapped in a dream. “Maura…” She sits up and touches Lillian’s arm tentatively, as if testing what is real. “She said horrible things about my father. Is it true? Did he take photos at the church massacre?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Lillian says. She has heard rumors but she does not know, not for sure, that Henry even went to the church. She never questioned that Tucker found him and Naddie in town. The three of them showed up on her front porch; they were safe. That was all she needed to know. “We’ll talk tomorrow. You need your rest now, lots of rest.” And time. Two days isn’t nearly enough.
“I can’t sleep. I keep thinking of him, taking photos.” Rachel shakes her head, almost violently. “Tell me,” she says, her voice ragged, “what did you love about my father? Please, I need to know.”
“There were so many things.”
“But what first attracted you to him?”
Lillian flashes on Henry standing at the back of the church sanctuary, so young and hopeful. The warmth in her chest turns searing and painful. “It’s late. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The high break in Rachel’s voice as she says Lillian’s name stops her from leaving. She sits on the edge of the bed. “Henry was handsome, even with the camera plastered to his face,” she says. “But it was more than that. His excitement, snapping photos even before Reverend King came onstage, that’s what caught my eye. The other photographers looked rather bored, leaning against the wall, chewing gum, examining their nails.”
Lillian’s heartbeat ticks up a bit. Henry’s excitement was contagious, still is. “I tell you, that boy had such nerve, sauntering up the aisle while the others hung back. Imagine my surprise when he stopped right beside me. And then, the reverend came to the podium and started speaking about his plan for the march in Selma. He said it was time to take a stand. A risk. The entire congregation was on their feet, stomping and clapping. But I felt like this stranger and I were alone in our own bubble. I knew he longed to take a risk, do something grand with his life—just as I did. We shared a moment that was so powerful it united us for life.”
Lillian moves closer, pulled by a force that is equally strong, connecting her with Henry’s daughter in a way she doesn’t quite understand. Before
she knows it, she’s telling her about Henry’s airless studio apartment and how they spent most evenings up on the rooftop, him pointing out constellations and her falling asleep in his arms. She’s laughing, recounting how they ate spaghetti every night for a week sometimes so they could splurge on a Saturday show at the Peacock. Bobby Bland, Dizzy Gillespie, B.B. King, Otis Redding. She’s telling Henry’s daughter about the Someday account, the money they scrimped and saved for their future. “Your father had the ability to see things, not as they were, but what might be possible. That’s what made me fall for him.” That’s what has kept her loving him for close to forty years.
“My mom always accused him of being a dreamer,” Rachel says. “Like it was a bad thing.”
Lillian shakes her head. Daddy thought she was foolish, spending her savings to go to Kenya and teach for free. That’s not what he had in mind, working hard to provide his daughter with a good education at Spelman. Henry was the one who encouraged her to dream, up on the rooftop while they counted stars. They would move to Africa together. She would teach and he’d take photos. They would have lots of children, build a family.
Rachel tugs on her arm, reeling her back into the story. “It couldn’t have been easy for the two of you in Atlanta.”
“We were in love. We thought that was enough.”
“Why didn’t it last?”
“We were too young,” Lillian says. Too scared. She can still hear the screech of tires and the shatter of a bottle that was probably aimed at her. Henry’s hand slipped from hers as he fell to the sidewalk in front of the store where they had been window shopping. A busy street in broad daylight; people stared, but nobody chased down the truck. Nobody offered to help. She sank to the sidewalk, hysterical, pressed her skirt against the gash above Henry’s brow, so close to his eye. Someone call an ambulance, call the police… It was Daddy who finally showed up, someone had gone and gotten him. He drove Henry to the hospital, commanded her to wait in the car and then took her home. She rubs her fingertips together, as if Henry’s blood is still crusted under her nails.
In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills Page 23