Chai Tea Sunday

by Heather A. Clark

  From out of nowhere, bubbled-up sobs came pouring out of me. Moses didn’t know what to do, so he awkwardly handed the necklace over and apologized again for not returning it sooner. I thanked him repeatedly before running as fast as I could back to the orphanage.

  29

  “Eric? Eric! Are you here?” I ran into the orphanage and searched frantically to find him. I had found my answer. I knew what to do.

  I flew into the common room and found a handful of kids playing jacks. “Do you know where Johanna is?”

  The kids shook their heads. “No, Mwalimu Nicky.”

  I flew into the kitchen, hoping to find Eric having something to eat, or maybe even helping to fix the faucet I knew was broken. He wasn’t there.

  “Johanna?! Eric? Where are you?” As I called their names, I heard my voice becoming more and more desperate.

  Silence.

  I ran back to the front hall and noticed that my packed suitcases and duffle bags were still at the front door.

  I flew outside and into the field, where groups of children were taking part in the circle games that we had spent so many hours playing together.

  “Nadia! Have you seen Johanna? Or the man I was talking to on the porch earlier?”

  “Johanna is upstairs lying down. I think that man is in the schoolroom.”

  I thanked her and ran to the school, flying through its door to find Eric sitting at my desk.

  “I hope it’s okay that I’m here,” Eric looked a bit sheepish, almost apologetic, as though he had intruded on a private part of my life. “Johanna brought me here and told me I could stay as long as I wanted. I didn’t really know where else to go.”

  “No, no . . . it’s okay.” I took a few steps towards him. I stood beside one of the student’s chairs, immediately across from him. He rose to greet me.

  “You’ve done a lot in this classroom,” Eric started, complimenting my efforts of the past couple of months. He took a few steps towards me, bridging the gap even more. “Johanna was really excited to show me everything you’ve done for the kids — the learning stations, the art on the walls, the reading progress charts. It’s obvious how much you care, Nic. You should be really proud.” His cheeks turned a light shade of pink. “I know I am.”

  “Thank you,” I replied simply. “It’s been challenging. But let’s talk about that later.” I took a few more steps and stood directly in front of him. “For now, I just want to talk about us. About everything you said before.” I paused and looked directly into his deep blue eyes. “I know how painful it was to lose Ella. How much it hurt. And how, even a year and a half later, the ache hasn’t gone away, and I don’t know if it will ever totally go away.”

  Eric looked down. I took his hand and waited until he looked back up and our eyes were locked.

  “And I also know you would never do anything to deliberately hurt me, just as I would never do anything to deliberately hurt you. In our grief, we both did things we shouldn’t have. We both acted out because we were trying to deal with our pain in the only way we knew how. The sadness we both felt and the heartache we were both going through, it’s the kind that reaches down to the bottom of your soul. And it hit us in different ways, so we responded in different ways . . . and I think that made us treat each other in a way we shouldn’t have.”

  Eric nodded and we both remembered things that had been said, which I knew we desperately wanted to take back.

  Squeezing his hand, I continued, “I think, in a lot of ways, we took our pain out on each other. And I’m so very sorry that I did that. I’m sorry for all that has happened and for pushing you to talk when you weren’t ready. I was just hurting so much. I didn’t know how to cope either . . . but I never wanted to add to your hurt in any way. You are the love of my life and I want to spend the rest of my days showing you that. I want to be with you. I need to be with you because I love you.”

  Eric dropped my hand, grabbing me around my waist and effortlessly lifting me in a tight embrace. I buried my head in his shoulder. We still fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Two people, meant to be together. I breathed in the moment and found the home I had been looking for.

  “You know, Nic, I had an idea while I was admiring all of your work in here . . .” Eric and I were still sitting in the empty classroom, clinging to each other after so many months apart.

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?” I looked up, grinning into the familiar eyes that I had missed for so long.

  “Well, as you know already, it just so happens that I don’t have a job, so I have all the time in the world. I’ll stay here with you, Nic, for as long as you want me to. And we’ll find the right person, or people, for the orphanage director role.”

  “I know. And I appreciate that.” I had filled Eric in on everything that had happened, and he knew how important it was for us to find the right person to look after the children.

  “And if it ends up that we’re the right people, then we’ll stay. But if you decide you want to go back to Canada . . . well, I think there’s still a way we can help.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We can start a foundation. Back home. We’ll educate people on the need to help and raise money for Africa. We’ll donate the proceeds from monies raised directly to helping the kids at Kidaai. We’ll make sure the orphanage has the funds it needs to operate efficiently. The kids will have all the food and milk and clothes they need.”

  I listened, intrigued by the idea.

  Eric continued, “And we’ll make sure they all get an education. We’ll hire an amazing orphanage director and an equally great teacher and buy all of the school supplies they need. We can come back and visit as much as you’d like . . . so we can hand deliver some of the things the kids need.” Eric grinned, then continued. “It would be your foundation. And you can run it however you’d like, although I’m hoping the first thing you’ll want to do is hire a really great lawyer. I know of one, you know. He’s got some great experience working on Bay Street and I know you can get him for a really cheap salary.”

  I returned the grin, and pulled Eric in for another hug, grateful to have the husband I had known and loved for so long back where he belonged. It was the perfect solution and I knew we could do more to help in Canada, raising money for Kidaai.

  “I love that idea.” The excitement in my voice bubbled up when I spoke. “But there’s only one thing: we can’t go until we find the right person to be the orphanage director. I can’t leave until that person is in place.”

  “I know. We’ll stay for as long as we need to.”

  “Then it’s a deal.” I couldn’t stop beaming and pulled him in for a long kiss. “And since it’s settled, there’s someone I really want you to meet. Want to go and find her?”

  Eric nodded as he whisked me into his arms. Laughing, he carried me over the threshold of the schoolroom door as we left, together, to find Mama Bu.

  “We’re going to stay until we find the perfect person to be the orphanage director. If it’s okay, Eric and I will move in here and take care of the kids until we find the right person for the role,” I told Mama Bu. It was later that night and she and I were sitting in the common room of the orphanage, having some tea.

  Eric was sleeping off his jet lag upstairs and the kids had all been tucked into bed. Before they all fell soundly asleep, Mama Bu, Eric and I had taken turns reading stories and singing songs to them. Johanna had listened, resting on one of the bunk beds. She said it was for her unborn baby to hear as well, but I think she enjoyed the warmth and happiness that had taken over Kidaai.

  “That will be fine, Nicky.” Mama Bu winked at me, then grinned. “And you might find the right person sooner than you think. Someone who would do the job that you have intended. She would love the children as her own and make sure they brush their teeth each day and eat the eggs from the new chicken coop. Someone who would commit to the role as whol
eheartedly as you would have.”

  “Oh yeah? Who?”

  “Me, Nicky. I was thinking of . . . me.” Mama Bu smiled over her mug and I instantly returned her grin. I couldn’t think of a person who was more perfect than Mama Bu. I was ecstatic at her suggestion.

  “What . . . Mama Bu! But what about Kiano? And Petar?” I asked, still smiling.

  “Petar’s the last of my babies and he will be leaving us soon enough. Our house and property have become a lot to manage, especially with Kiano spending so much time at his sister’s place.” Mama Bu paused, letting me think through what she was saying.

  “So, if Kiano and Lucy agree, and I believe they will, I was thinking both Lucy and we could rent out our homes to other families, and move everyone here. Kiano’s working most days anyhow, and I will run the orphanage. I know Lucy really misses teaching — the job she gave up when her kids were born — and this way she could take over the classroom here. Also, she would get to see her kids instead of working as a maid seven days a week and that would mean much to her.”

  Mama Bu recognized the look of relief that had taken over my face and patted my knee in the motherly way she had done so often since I had arrived in Kenya. “See, chicka, I told you the children would be fine.”

  I grinned at my host mother and squeezed her hand.

  “We will miss you here, Nicky. More than you know. But you need to go, with Eric, back to Canada. You need to return to the place where you belong. To your life. You have found your happiness, Nicky, now go and live in it.”

  Overwhelmed with emotion, I could say nothing in reply. Instead, I held my mug of chai up to hers and sealed the deal with the clink of Kenyan ceramic.

  EPILOGUE

  The sun shines on my back and I hunch over sprouted vegetables in the garden I planted months earlier. The tomatoes are glowing red, perfect for picking. Although they still cling to the vine, warm with sunshine, I can already taste their sweetness in my mouth. My thoughts turn to what I will serve alongside them at that night’s dinner.

  Corn on the cob. Barbecued hamburgers and veggie burgers with toasted buns. Potato salad. Coleslaw. Milk.

  The cross necklace I replaced around my neck hangs forward, dancing in the sunlight as I weed the rich earth that surrounds the vegetables of my labour. It tickles my neck, and I feel the weight of its presence.

  My legs go numb with lack of blood flow from a position held for too long. I shift. Stretch. Try to lose the feeling of sharp prickles tickling my nerve endings. I stand, stretching further, enjoying the warmth of summer.

  I glance at the worn watch on my left wrist; it is shortly after five o’clock. I walk over the freshly cut lawn to the front of the house where I notice new neighbours moving into the house across the street. The woman is directing dressers, chairs and toy boxes, carried by the movers, into the house. Her blonde hair is held back in a ponytail and her brow is creased in stress.

  I smile. Wave. Make a mental note to bring them lasagna in the coming days.

  She sees my gesture and makes her way towards me. She introduces herself as Beth, telling me they have four kids, all under the age of twelve. Her husband is Bernie.

  “Do you have any children?” Beth asks. I pause before answering, wondering what her response might be. It’s always different.

  “We do. Just one though. He’s over there,” I point to the giggling group of kids coming from our next door neighbour’s lawn, and watch as Bu runs in circles around two of his friends. His dark skin is contrasted against the pale blue sky and, as it so often does, reminds me of days from long ago.

  “Which one is yours?”

  “Bu, come over here and meet someone!” I call out to him. I raise my gaze and shield my eyes from the sun. Bu runs over and graciously shakes Beth’s hand. He is a sweet boy for a seven-year-old. So wise and mature beyond his few short years.

  “Boo? That’s an interesting name. Is his real name Arthur?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Boo Radley. His real name was Arthur Radley. In To Kill a Mockingbird?”

  “Oh, right. Well, no, it’s just Bu. Spelled B-U.” I grab hold of his shoulders with my right arm, rubbing his head before he runs back to play with his friends. I smile again at Beth and continue, “I’m not sure if you’ve heard or not, but there’s a street party this Saturday. It’s our fourth year in a row and they’re always a ton of fun. I hope you can make it — it would be a great way for you to meet all of the neighbours. It starts at four o’clock. Hamburgers, hot dogs and veggie burgers are provided. You just need to bring a salad or dessert to share. And there are fireworks when it gets dark.”

  Beth assures me they will be there and turns to retake her post as official furniture navigator. Within moments, her four children arrive with Bernie, who drives a red minivan into their new driveway and parks alongside Beth’s black Suburban. I am happy to see that one of the children getting out of the sliding door is a boy about Bu’s age.

  I make my way to our front door, realizing Eric will be home in an hour. Before I reach the porch, I hear his Land Rover pull into the driveway. He waves from the driver seat, smiling. I take in the sight of him, his tie pulled loose and the jacket of his suit tossed casually over the back seat of the passenger chair.

  “Why are you home so early?” I call out, walking towards him. I let him whisk me into an oversized bear hug. He brushes dirt from my cheek and, for a moment, I am embarrassed that Beth saw me dirt-covered.

  “I want to spend some quality time with my family, so I thought I’d leave the foundation early and come home. After all, you took the day off . . . so I figured I’d follow suit.” Eric smiles and pulls me in for a long kiss. Thoughts of Beth leave my mind.

  “Well, I’m glad you did. Leave early, that is. It’s so nice to have you home.”

  Eric responds, whispering into my hair. “It’s nice to be home.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First and foremost, my infinite gratitude goes to my beautiful cousin, Rachel Clark. It was through her eyes that I was able to see Kenya; through her touch that I was able to feel its surroundings; and, mostly, through her arms that I was able to hug the delightful children at the Kenyan orphanage where she has repeatedly volunteered. Rachel, it is because of you that I was able to find the words to describe Kenya, both in its hardship and all of its beauty. You continually encouraged me to write this story — from our walk at the cottage when I first told you about the idea for the book (and you immediately pulled out your pictures, journals and videos of Kenya!) to all of the one-line emails you would shoot me back from the small Internet café in Ngong when I had some silly question about what Kenyan dirt felt like. Through this entire process, you remained absolutely committed to sharing every piece of information about Kenya that I needed to bring this book to life, and I will never forget that. I love you, cuz.

  Thank you to all of my friends and family who believed in this book and read the manuscript long before there was even a slim possibility of it being published, particularly Wendy Gardham, who was the very first person to raise her hand and ask to read the words that weren’t yet a real book. And to the others who shortly followed — Brooke Allen, Ines Colucci and my brother, Ian Clark, who frequently has his nose in some finance or other non-fiction book but would never typically pick up women’s fiction, let alone remain committed to reading the whole thing in a few days.

  My thanks to both Lori Mastronardi and Chantel Simmons, who both read this story not once, but (at least!) twice in order to help turn an unpublished manuscript into a novel. You have both guided me immensely during this process.

  To Anthony Iantorno, who immediately forwarded the manuscript on and fought for its chance to be published — and to Erin Creasey who, on the other end of Anthony’s pass, immediately embraced it with eyes wide open. I will forever be grateful to both of you for immediately and continually believing in this b
ook.

  Thank you to my editor, Jen Hale, who saw something in the story of Nicky’s journey from the very first time she read it. She wholeheartedly took on the project with enthusiasm, and it was through her patience, talent and keen instinct that this book became what it is today. And, lucky for me, through our process of many conversations, numerous edits and lots of hard work, I also gained a friend.

  To Dr. Kimberly Elford for taking the time to read the manuscript and for sharing her knowledge and expertise within the complex technical world of fertility treatments. And for her encouragement and feedback on the more intimate and emotional side of a couple trying to become pregnant. Her instant and committed willingness to help means more than she probably knows.

  And thank you, also, to the others who so graciously gave up their time to make sure the details in this book are accurate: The Honourable Justice Harvey Brownstone, who guided me on separation and divorce law in Ontario; Kulsum Merchant and Franklin Mwango for helping to ensure the Swahili throughout this book is accurate; and Dr. Jane Aldridge for providing glimpses into the medical world that I wouldn’t have otherwise known.

  To Negin Sairafi, who generously offered her time to take my photo, and who showcased her talent by ensuring I didn’t look eight months pregnant in the picture (I hope!). And to Laura DiPede, who has continually offered design suggestions and provided her skilled expertise on so many of the creative materials for this book.

  I would also like to thank everyone else at ECW Press who helped turn my original manuscript into what it has become — Crissy Boylan, David Caron, Troy Cunningham, Jack David, Rachel Ironstone, Dave Gee, Jenna Illies, Emily Schultz and Steph VanderMeulen. It has been a true team effort.