Chai Tea Sunday

by Heather A. Clark

  “I can’t take hearing you say her name!” Eric would say to me, quietly at first but with an increasingly raised voice that ultimately reached screaming. His words scraped at my eardrums like a death metal song being turned up on the stereo. His face would be bright red by that point, his eyes lined in tears that refused to fall. He was shutting Ella out. And subsequently me as well.

  “I’m scared I will forget her,” I would retort back. I was obsessed with her memory and craved — no, needed, with every ounce of my soul — to be grieving with my husband. But he couldn’t give that to me. He couldn’t talk about what we had been through. Or her.

  “Where are you, Eric? It’s like you’re standing there, but you’re not even here with me. Can’t you see I need you? That you need me?”

  “I’m right here. I haven’t gone anywhere, although sometimes I want to.”

  “What?! Fine. If you’re so miserable, then why don’t you just go?”

  Eric looked straight into my eyes, his gaze hovering somewhere between misery and madness. “I don’t want to go, but you’re making me feel like it’s my only chance at escape. The only way I’ll be able to breathe again.”

  “Escape from what, Eric? From me? Our life together? The new world that we’ve been given? The one that doesn’t include Ella?”

  “Stop, Nicky. Just stop. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m struggling to just move forward. But you constantly bringing up her name isn’t helping, because it only reminds me that she isn’t here anymore.”

  I searched his eyes, waiting for him to continue, the bitter rage encircling us and closing in.

  “But what about me? I miss her. I need her. I don’t want to just forget her, like you want to do.”

  “I don’t want to forget her, Nicky. It hurts so much to talk about her. It just hurts too much. So, seriously, just stop talking about her.”

  I stopped, as he asked, and stared straight into his eyes. And then I delivered the blow that I knew neither of us would ever forget. “It’s like you didn’t even love Ella! Why do you want to forget her so badly? She was our daughter!” I hissed the words, seething and hurting. I had lost control of my emotions and my actions. My soul had collapsed when Ella’s heart had stopped beating.

  The callous insinuation having shot through the air like a bolt of lightning, I couldn’t take it back. He took two giant steps towards where I stood. Closed in on me, fists raised, and then punched a hole through our kitchen wall. He paused then, and hung his head, his shoulders slumping under the pain of my accusation. Eric said nothing, but it was the closest he had ever come to hitting me, and it scared both of us.

  Eric couldn’t look at me before grabbing his keys and screeching out of the driveway in his BMW M3, a recently made purchase my mother swore was designed to make him feel better.

  He disappeared for four days after that. I didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. Our conversations were forced and uncomfortable when he returned, ultimately reverting back to screaming matches when we couldn’t take the strain. It was as if we no longer knew how to talk to each other and occasionally yelled just to break the silence.

  We couldn’t even manage to be in the same room together. I didn’t recognize Eric or who he had become; the man I married was simply gone. I knew he felt the same way about me. To be honest, I didn’t recognize myself either.

  By the middle of the summer, we were no longer sleeping in the same bed. By fall, we were officially separated. The papers were signed almost nine months to the date of Ella’s birth and death.

  Neither of us wanted to keep our home, so we sold it to the first buyers to make us an offer. Belinda, our real estate agent, assured us it was a fair purchase price, with a reasonable closing date.

  “Do they have kids?” I asked her, as we signed the papers at our kitchen table. My heart was breaking as I asked the words, but I couldn’t help myself. For some reason, I needed to know.

  “Two,” she said softly. “A little girl who is six and a son who is two.”

  I nodded, blinking back tears as I continued to sign the paperwork. From under the table, I felt Eric reach over and gently squeeze my knee. It was all I needed for the tears to fall on the paper, smudging my signature.

  “It’s okay,” Belinda jumped in, dabbing the sale agreement with a napkin from the table, trying to save the signature. Eric’s hand left my knee. “I’ll dry this up, and we’ll just white it out and sign overtop. It will be fine.”

  Our time in the house officially ended with the ring of our doorbell on a crisp Saturday morning in October. I opened the front door to find three burly men, standing side-by-side in sweat-stained clothes that seemed to have been washed but permanently marked by too many long days of lugging boxes and furniture.

  “You Nicky?” the largest of the three men asked. “We’re here to move your stuff.”

  I opened the door wider, just as Eric came down the stairs, his hair still damp from his morning shower. His crisp, clean jeans and button-down shirt stood in stark contrast to the movers’ faded T-shirts and sweats. As Eric passed me to shake hands and introduce himself to the movers, I breathed in the smell of his shampoo. It smelled of familiarity, mixed with a blend of lavender and mint.

  As the men got to work, they took turns glancing at me in a way that seemed to inherently suggest they all knew it was one of those sad moving situations. Maybe it was just me being paranoid, or perhaps it was because the boxes were clearly marked with an E or an N, and the movers were instructed to carry each box to the appropriately identified van, both of which were parked on our street.

  “His versus hers,” I heard one of the movers mutter underneath his breath as he carried an oversized box down our stairs, leaving a smudge of back sweat against the wall as he went.

  And that’s exactly how it had been for the previous month as we divided our belongings. Wedding china for me, flat-screen TV for him. Couch for me, dining room table for him.

  It had actually been relatively easy dividing up our assets. Much easier than I had heard so many people complain about in the movies. Maybe it was because Eric and I had somehow remained cordial in our last few months together. Or maybe it was because neither of us really gave a shit about the possessions that had found their way into our home. After all, it was just stuff.

  When the last boxes were loaded, we took turns saying goodbye to the empty house and, finally, each other. As hard as it was, we agreed to no contact. I knew that seeing Eric again, talking to him — well, it would just make it harder. I needed a clean break. A new start. A world without him.

  I used my half of the money we made on the sale of our house to purchase a small, one-bedroom condo in the heart of downtown. I needed to get out of suburbia and my new home came with the city buzz I was craving, and the promise of watching baseball games and concerts from my balcony when the stadium roof was open. It was the start of my new normal.

  Except my new normal was lined with insomnia. I lay awake all night, every night, and wondered why I couldn’t keep a classroom of Grade 3 kids in check the next day. Every time I closed my eyes, I had hospital room nightmares that led to crying fits into my pillow.

  Each new day, I would drag myself through the morning motions of getting ready, and hoped that under-eye concealer would be that day’s secret weapon. It never worked and I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone.

  Eventually, my principal called me on it, saying that she could be somewhat lenient given the circumstances, but that I needed to focus on pulling myself together. Soon.

  I tried sleeping pills. Three different kinds, in fact. But I lay awake right through them. Night after night, I got up, frustrated and tired of crying, to surf through any mindless internet sites that would prevent Eric and Ella memories from sinking in.

  I scoured Facebook, but was bombarded with recently posted pictures of the gorgeous, smiling faces of my frien
ds’ children. I left the site, turning to Perez Hilton and certain I would be granted mindless, numbing entertainment. The first article I read was on John Travolta and his daughter Ella Bleu. Bye-bye Perez.

  One night, over my token dinner for one, I picked up the phone to call Eric; he was the only person who knew exactly how I was feeling, and I craved his touch and understanding. I needed him.

  I made it through all of the numbers but one before I forced myself to hang up. The Eric I knew was gone to me. He had been replaced by a stranger, and there was nothing I could do to get him back. We were finished. It was over.

  I clicked the phone off. Then on again. Off. On. Off. On.

  Numb, I listened to the dial tone fill the silence of the empty room. Eventually it was replaced by the loud alarm bursts designed to tell you the phone is off the hook. The sound hurt my brain.

  I scraped my untouched food into the garbage and climbed into bed without brushing my teeth or washing my face. I stared into the darkness, waiting for sleep to find me. It didn’t come.

  The following Tuesday I fell asleep at my desk while my students were writing in their journals. Unfortunately for me, my principal walked by at that precise moment. She requested an end-of-the-day meeting, which ended up marking the end of my time at the school. At least temporarily. I was strongly encouraged to take a semester leave of absence, and was assured the position would be mine to retrieve come the following fall. “Go to the beach, Nicky. Take the vacation you’ve always wanted. Climb a mountain. Go skydiving. Whatever you need to clear your head,” my principal encouraged. Deep down I knew she was right. I wasn’t the same teacher she had hired, and it wasn’t fair to the students.

  The problem was I didn’t want to do any of those things she had suggested. It wasn’t that I didn’t have dreams, it was just that every line item on my bucket list had included Eric. We had talked about seeing the glowworms in the Waitomo Caves in Auckland together. He was going to be my dive buddy when we learned to scuba dive on the Great Barrier Reef. I had always imagined holding his hand as I took in the awesomeness of Egypt’s Great Pyramid of Giza. And we had always planned on hiking the tiny paths of the Inca Trail, one following the other. Our life list was long, and was too quickly cut short by the undefeatable heartbreak that was out of our control.

  In the middle of the night after my principal had delivered her blow, I was having a typical 2 A.M. date with my computer. I abandoned my meaningless night surfing and googled: how teachers can help in other parts of the world.

  My computer was flooded with options, but eventually the online path I followed took me to a company that was recruiting teacher volunteers for small towns in Africa. I got sucked into the details, reading everything I could find on what it would be like to actually leave my current depressing world and enter a brand new one — one without any memories of Eric or the tragedy we had experienced together.

  The company was searching for qualified teachers who could help support African teachers in the orphanage classrooms of small towns on a volunteer basis. They would stay with screened and approved host families who would provide safety, shelter and food to their home stays. Commitment times were variable and could be flexible based on the volunteer teacher’s willingness and availability. I made a mental note to call the volunteer company the next day to find out more details about what I needed to do before leaving.

  For the first time in over a year, I felt a sense of hope. I needed to be freed of everything encircling my world that emphasized what I no longer had — and would never have again. I needed to be as far away from Eric as I could imagine. Being within a drivable distance of him was too painful, too distracting and too tempting.

  Most of all, I needed to find a way to stop feeling the pain I had been going through since Ella’s death. I needed to feel other things. Happy things.

  I knew that by giving back — by giving what I could to the world’s most unfortunate children — I would somehow find some sense of reward, even if just a little bit. I would do something that I could feel good about doing.

  It was the only way; I would drown in sorrow unless I did something completely opposite of the world I knew. Best of all, I could do it while staying true to the one thing I loved — teaching.

  That night, for the first time in months, I slept like a baby.

  PART TWO

  8

  The iron gate heavily clanked shut. Behind it, an armed guard with a face as black as the star-filled night sky around him stood still as a stone, his face exuding boredom and his camouflaged uniform failing to hide his oversized torso. His index finger rested on the gun’s trigger, leaving me uncertain about whether I felt sheer terror or gratefully safe.

  The guard continued to stare right through me as I ungracefully juggled my bags and watched the private matatu that I had taken from the Nairobi airport drive away. A voice inside me screamed for the van to stay, and my lungs seemed to buckle as utter panic took over a very tired travel body that suddenly felt heavier than my own.

  I somehow managed to take hold of my two bulging suitcases, duffle bag and backpack. It had been so much easier at the airport when my teary-eyed mother and father had been there to help carry the load. I walked towards the home where I would be staying during my post of teaching the children at the orphanage. Just as I thought I had it figured out, my oversized pink duffle bag fell off my shoulder, directly punching into the tender, bruised area where I had received my last round of vaccinations.

  “Damn it!” I said out loud. There was no one to hear me except a black and white stray cat that had slinked in from the dry grass beside me. Tired tears filled my eyes and I suddenly yearned for my king-sized bed more than anything else. I kept shuffling forward, wondering why there was no one there to greet me. Or help me. I dropped my bags to take a rest, and strained to see the new world around me. Given the late hour, I couldn’t see much except for dim lights coming from the home in front of me.

  Due to obsessive pre-trip planning, I knew that I was about forty-five minutes outside of Nairobi in a secure villa neighbourhood called Ngong (or “Gong” as pronounced by the locals) and that the mean-looking man I had left behind at the gate really did have my best interest at heart. My host family lived in one of the safer neighbourhoods, the pamphlets had said, which was largely made possible by the night guard wearing a gun.

  Slinging my backpack and duffle bag over my shoulder, I pulled my two suitcases across the dirt path. Clouds of red powdery dust pillowed around me in the still night. I sneezed.

  In front of me, a brighter light went on at the front of my host family’s home, signalling that they were awake and waiting. Seeing the light, I gained new energy, and forced a smile as the entire family stepped out from inside. They waved to greet me.

  “Welcome, rafiki!” my host father greeted me, using the Swahili word for friend. He and a boy about sixteen years old darted forward to help carry my bags. “We are so happy to finally meet you. And we are pleased to have you stay in our home. I am Kiano, and this is our youngest child, Petar. We have four other sons, but they are grown and live in homes with their own families.” Kiano paused and turned to the woman standing behind him. “And this is my beautiful wife, Abuya.”

  Relieved of my bags, my arms became free for obligatory, yet very warm and welcoming, hugs from each family member. Kiano squeezed me tightly, gently slapping my back, while Petar offered a shy hug.

  “Karibu, Nicole,” Abuya said. Welcome, Nicole. She had warm, brown eyes that flickered in the light, and skin that looked like molasses. “We are so happy to have you stay in our home,” Abuya continued in near-perfect English. She immediately took my hand in hers; it was rough to the touch and she had short, brittle nails that were yellowing — an obvious sign of constant hard work.

  “Thank you, Abuya. And, please, call me Nicky.” I smiled, grateful to be speaking with friendly faces. “I’m so relieved to be h
ere, and very thankful that you are willing to take me in while I stay in Kenya.”

  “Nonsense. It is we who should be grateful,” Kiano responded. “You are here to help the children and while you do that you need a place to stay. If we can provide a place for you to eat and rest your head, then we are called to do it. It is our . . . how do you say . . . our duty? And it is our pleasure.”

  “Please, come in, come in,” Abuya said as she ushered me into her home. She wore a belted, dark blue dress that buttoned all the way down the front, reminding me of an African version of June Cleaver. Her shoulder-length hair matched the colour of the espresso beans Eric had ground each morning for our daily cappuccinos, and she held it back with a thick red hair band. “It is getting cold outside, rafiki. Come in, where it is warm.” Abuya smiled then, showing the whiteness of slightly crooked teeth against black skin; instantly she conveyed a warmth and maternal dependability that comforted me.

  I stepped through the front door, directly into a small living room the size of Amelia and Brian’s cottage bathroom. Three oversized, worn couches were stuffed into the room, all with frayed fabric and noticeable holes. In the far corner, there was a small chair that I later realized wobbled too much to actually sit on and, beside it, there was a small black and white television sitting on a rickety card table.

  “You have a TV?” I asked, failing miserably at my attempt to hide my surprise.

  “Yes, Nicky,” Kiano replied, smiling through a toothy grin that was more crooked than Abuya’s. “We have television. What did you expect?”

  “I’m not sure,” I replied, hesitating to tell them the truth. “I guess I thought there might not be electronics of any type. The orientation book said that many Kenyan homes don’t even have electricity.”