I never once doubted Martin, and so I wasn’t in the least bit surprised that he did so well. And now that my mom finally figured out how to send him money safely, I could focus on being sixteen.
I celebrated my birthday that March with my extended family. My grandparents from both sides came, as did several aunts, uncles, and cousins. My mom added another table to the end of our dining room table, which extended into the adjoining living room to fit everyone. She bought me an ice-cream cake from Dairy Queen and I got lots of presents, but the best gift was being able to finally drive my car. The day after my birthday, my mom took me out of school to go get my learner’s permit. Damon met me at the DMV—he had skipped school, but lied to my mom when she asked him why he had the day off.
“Parent-teacher conferences,” he said. I knew that wasn’t true; we had planned the whole thing the night before so we could spend the day together. My mom fell for it.
We’d only been dating for a month, but I was falling in love with him. He was my first serious boyfriend, and more independent than any of the guys I’d ever dated, probably because his parents gave him so much freedom. Like us, they started dating in high school. Damon’s mom was sixteen when she had Damon’s older brother. Damon’s dad was diagnosed with MS when he was twenty-one, a year after Damon’s little sister was born. His mom was so busy taking care of his dad that Damon was the only guy I knew who could cook dinner, wash his own clothes, and make sure his little sister did her homework. He also helped teach me how to drive, which I’d been doing for a month when I received more good news from Martin.
He wrote that he had won a scholarship to a prestigious private school two hundred kilometers north of Mutare, in a town called Nyanga. I pulled out the new atlas of Africa that my mom had bought. I had already circled Mutare and Harare on the Zimbabwe page. I wanted to circle Nyanga, too, but no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find it. Neither could my mom.
“It must be really rural,” my mom said.
Martin also wrote in his letter that he was even more serious about coming to university in the United States. That news made me want to do cartwheels and a backflip. I read that section of his letter out loud to my parents.
“Can you imagine?” I said. “We’d finally get to meet him!”
“I can,” my mom responded. “Lots of international kids come to school here. Martin is so bright, I’m sure he could even get a full scholarship.”
He sent the list of universities he was interested in applying to, which included Harvard and the University of Pennsylvania. He asked me to contact each to have application material sent to him at his new school.
“That will be good practice, Caitlin,” my mom said.
I was halfway through my sophomore year, which meant I needed to start thinking about college myself.
At the time, I was thinking about pursuing a degree in technical education. It was my favorite class. We did mechanical drawings using a computer-based program called CAD. It came so naturally to me that my teacher encouraged me to consider it as a career. That was the first time I even thought about my life after high school. I was in awe of how organized and focused Martin was. In his letter, he said, My aim of becoming a doctor is to help some primitive Zimbabweans who still resort to traditional medicine and end up dying. My other aim is to increase the number of doctors in Zim because there are few and cannot serve everyone.
Inspired, I logged onto our computer to send a few requests on Martin’s behalf. I started with Harvard and then let out a deep sigh as I sent the last e-mail.
“Everything okay, hon?” my mom shouted from the other room.
“Everything is more than okay, Mom,” I said as I clicked the computer off. Martin was going to come to school in the United States, I thought. I felt it in my bones.
July 2001
Martin
AS MUCH AS I LOVED going to Marist Brothers, I missed my family. Nation would write every so often to keep me posted on things. Thanks to Caitlin and her family, money wasn’t an issue. Knowing my family wasn’t going hungry or homeless allowed me to study worry free.
Still, I couldn’t wait for the semester break, which started in late July. I was so eager to see everyone, and was all the more disappointed to learn that my mother was not well. She got out of bed to greet me, but then had to lie down immediately afterward. Nation had mentioned that she was ill in a letter I received a few weeks earlier at school. I was surprised that she had not recovered. Everyone assumed that it was a bad flu or cold. But the following day, she did not even get up to make breakfast. Nation said she had been sleeping a lot lately. He was concerned. After she spent two consecutive days in bed, I was, too.
Malaria and cholera were rampant in Zimbabwe. Both are potentially fatal. I wanted to get her to the hospital as quickly as possible. This was no easy task. The closest clinic was only five kilometers away, but due to a fuel shortage, there were no taxis on the road. I was lucky to get a bus back to Mutare, as gasoline prices had skyrocketed, costing Z$110 per liter. Even if we had money to spend on a taxi, we couldn’t find one. Instead we borrowed our neighbor’s wheelbarrow, which I lined with a blanket for padding. Nation and I gently placed her on top of it, taking extra care not to startle her, as she winced at the slightest jostle. Everything hurt. She was thinner than usual, and delirious with a fever that drenched her with sweat. We covered her with another blanket and took turns pushing.
“We must move quickly,” I said as my mother moaned in her sleep. If she had cerebral malaria—and it entered the brain—it meant permanent damage.
The rainy season had turned the roads to mud, which made pushing the wheelbarrow that much more difficult. I was thankful we had Caitlin’s boots and rain slickers. While one of us pushed, the other held our new umbrella over our mother.
After two hours of pushing, I was relieved to finally see the hospital in the distance. We neared the entrance and I saw that there was a line of at least fifty people waiting to be seen. We joined the end and I ran ahead to see if there was any chance of bumping my mother to the front. As I walked toward the admitting door, I passed many people who looked worse off than my mother. One woman was limp, almost lifeless, in her husband’s arms. An older man was covered in open sores that wept clear liquid like tears. I returned to our spot and told Nation we had to wait like everyone else.
My mom was so weak that she barely knew where we were or how we got there. She looked so small, almost childlike, curled in the cart. Her breath was so shallow that I placed my hand on her throat several times to make sure life was still pulsing through her veins. It was so faint, I worried that she might die, right there, as we waited. If that happened, what would we do? My mother may have been strict, and tough on all of us, but she was the spine of our family. We walked upright because of her. Caitlin was the reason I could go to school; my mother was the reason I wanted to. She had to survive. Life without her was too terrible to imagine.
Hours later, a nurse confirmed it was malaria—thankfully, not cerebral. She needed IV fluids immediately. She was so dehydrated that she was at risk of dying without them. But the hospital couldn’t afford to supply any medicine. Instead, the nurse told us what we needed, and then we had to secure it.
“There is a man outside wearing a blue shirt,” she said. “He sells IVs.”
She told us to look for another guy in a red bomber jacket, who had the pills my mother also needed. Both were selling drugs like people sell fruit or wood carvings at the market: out in the open, negotiating prices, haggling. If you didn’t have the money, or something worthy of trading, you were screwed. I had heard that people died all the time because of this. Now I saw how it was possible. Nation and I both knew how lucky we were to have enough money to get my mother what she needed, but we did not mention it. Nor did we speak the more terrifying truth: Without Caitlin’s help, my mother would have died that day.
As soon as the nurse gave my mother the IV and pills, she perked up. It was like giving wate
r to a droopy plant. When she sat up in bed for the first time that evening, I fought back tears. She was going to be okay, but needed to spend another two days in the hospital, to gain back strength. Nation and I returned home with the good news. My father let out a deep sigh. It filled our small hut and escaped out the door, taking so much tension with it, as if he’d been holding his breath for weeks.
I returned to the hospital the following day with food for my mother, since there was no meal service there, either. This time, Simba came with me. He needed to see for himself that she was going to be fine. Nation and I returned the following day with our neighbor’s wheelbarrow to bring her home.
My mother didn’t want to get back in it.
“I’m not an animal to be carted around,” she said.
“Of course not, Mother,” Nation said. “But it’s a long way home.”
Finally, we convinced her it was more dignified to ride in the wheelbarrow than on either son’s back, the only other option. She complained the entire way home. This made me happy. She was her old self. It meant she was going to be just fine.
With her safely back home, I could finally relax. That included seeing my friends and going to the post office, as I had heard there was another package for me. Caitlin hadn’t mentioned anything, so I was intrigued.
This box was filled with pencils, pens, crayons, glue, and erasers. Caitlin’s mom included a note that explained that her students had donated these things. Take whatever you and your family need and share the rest with your friends and neighbors, she wrote.
What a joyous task, I thought.
Caitlin also sent another two pairs of sneakers. The Filas fit me perfectly, so I gave Nation my beloved Nikes. Simba got the other pair, which meant now we all had proper shoes. Nation did a karate kick in his new shoes, and Simba copied him. I would have done one, too, but I was still unpacking: toothbrushes, shampoo, disposable razors, and a pair of cargo shorts that would impress my wealthiest friends at Nyanga. I couldn’t wait to show them off when I returned to school. The most fascinating gift was a container of bright orange powder called Tang. The instructions said to mix it with water. My father got a cup and Nation went to fetch water from our jug beneath the bed. Following the directions, I spooned two scoops into the cup, added water, and stirred. Lois put her nose to the cup and said, “It smells like Starburst!”
I handed her the cup to have the first sip.
“Tastes like it, too!” she said.
I tried it next, and agreed. “Like Fanta without the fizz,” I said, passing the cup to Simba. We each had a sip before giving it to our mother, who was still weak.
“Finish it, Mai,” I said. “The jar says it has vitamin C, which will make you strong.”
PART 5
A Changing World
September 2001
Caitlin
I HAD NEVER HEARD OF malaria before Martin told me that his mother had it. I looked it up online and was startled. How could somebody die from a mosquito bite? It made no sense. Then I remembered a line from an early Martin letter where he wrote about Zimbabwean hospitals. He said that many people share one bed. And then he wrote Fun. That comment confused me back then, but now I know he was being sarcastic. There was nothing fun about any of it.
I read that quinine was used to combat the disease, which was potentially fatal if not treated. One website reported that Tylenol could help ease the symptoms. My urge to jump on a plane with two suitcases packed with pills was great. Instead, I went to Heather’s house to talk to her dad. He worked in the pharmaceutical industry. I figured he could help me figure out what to send, and the best way to do it.
“Caitlin, you cannot send medication to Zimbabwe in the mail,” he explained. “It is illegal.”
Too bad, I thought as I walked back home. My mom bought aspirin in bulk, and I had already put aside two extra-large bottles for Martin and his family. Now I just needed to figure out how to get them to him without getting arrested. I asked my mom to talk with Solange, who confirmed what Heather’s father had told me. Then one day I was talking to my nan, who is my mother’s mother.
“Doesn’t quinine help?” she asked.
“It does,” I said. “Why?”
“I have a bottle you can have,” she said.
“Nan, are you sure it’s quinine?” I asked, slightly exasperated. How could she have malaria medicine? She’d never been to Africa.
“I’m sure,” she said. “My doctor prescribed it for leg cramps, but it made me nauseated. The bottle is sitting in my medicine cabinet!”
I was flabbergasted. My grandmother had pills that could save Martin’s mother’s life.
“I will take them!” I said.
After we sent the last package to Zimbabwe, my mom set up a new box in the corner of our dining room—a place to put things for future deliveries. Richie was still living at home, going to community college. I hardly saw him, but I did notice one night that he’d thrown in a few T-shirts along with a pair of sneakers. I added Nan’s quinine pills and two bottles of Tylenol.
By then, I had started my junior year at North Penn and enrolled in a woodworking class.
On my first day, before I even sat down, the teacher said, “You have to wear covered shoes in this class.”
I was wearing my favorite wedge flip-flops and assumed he was joking.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“Well, if you value your toes, and I can see you do, then you would want to protect them with proper shoes,” he responded sternly. “I recommend steel-toed boots.”
My mom and I went to the nail salon every Friday afternoon. That day, my toenails were painted a pale purple with silver swirls, which stood out against my black sandals. Stunned, I looked around the room and saw that I was the only girl in what was otherwise a sea of boys. They all wore sensible shoes. I grabbed my book bag and headed straight to the guidance counselor’s office.
There, I sat down with a woman who reminded me of my mom. I told her my predicament.
“Don’t you have closed-toe shoes?” she asked.
“I do,” I explained. “But I don’t want to have to wear them every day.”
We discussed my dreams and goals beyond college, and when I told her I was considering mechanical drawing, she sighed.
“That means you would have to take other classes like woodworking, where there are uniform rules,” she said.
“Well then, I need to think of a new career,” I answered. I know it sounds silly, but I didn’t want to be in a profession where I couldn’t wear open-toe shoes. Period.
I explained the entire situation to my parents that night over dinner. My dad remained quiet.
“Well,” my mother finally said, “you’re the only one who knows what will make you happy. And it’s better that you figure that out now than later!”
The only problem was that I had no idea what I wanted to be. I actually felt a bit jealous of Martin’s focus. I knew I had the freedom of choice, but I was finding it difficult to settle on one.
A few days later, I woke up late, as usual. After hitting snooze for a third time, I dragged myself into the shower. Heather and I made it to school just in time for the first bell, which meant I got to class just as everyone was saying the Pledge of Allegiance. I was waiting to get called out by my teacher, but she seemed preoccupied. She asked everyone to take a seat and then stepped into the hallway.
During my first period, my home economics teacher asked us to open our textbooks and do an exercise, which was also unusual. I was on my way to third period when I saw a few teachers huddled in the hallway. One was crying.
Finally, in my fourth-period history class, our teacher made an announcement.
“This morning two planes hit the twin towers in New York,” he said. There was a collective gasp as he switched on the television in the front of the room. The two skyscrapers looked like smokestacks, each spewing thick, billowy black clouds. A street view showed hundreds of people craning their necks
, looking up in shock. Our teacher flipped through a few channels—every single one was talking about the twin towers. In another shot of one building, it looked as if Godzilla had taken a big bite out of its neck. Flames poured out of the gaping wound. It was like watching a horror movie, yet this was real.
All anyone talked about that morning was what was happening in New York City.
After lunch, I was in the auditorium waiting for English class to start when Richie came flying through the doors. He spotted me, and waved.
I waved back.
He yelled, “Caitlin, get your stuff. We have to go. Now.”
I knew it must be serious, so I grabbed my book bag and started making my way down the aisle.
“What’s up?” I said when I reached him.
He grabbed my elbow and started ushering me out of the auditorium.
“Mom told me to come get you,” he said.
“Why?”
“Haven’t you heard the news?”
“About the World Trade Center?” I asked.
“And the Pentagon?”
“No,” I said, still unsure of what any of it had to do with me.
“Caitlin, another plane also crashed in Washington,” Richie said. “The government is on lockdown—and we don’t know if or when they may strike again.”
“Who are they?” I was getting more and more anxious with each snippet of information.
Richie was five paces ahead of me, both physically and mentally.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked. She’d make sense of all of this for me.
“She has to stay with her students at school,” he said as we got into his car.
“Why do I have to go home now?” I asked. “We’re not in any danger.”
Richie must have sensed my panicked confusion, so he finally stopped to look me in the eye before he turned the ignition. “There was another attack in Pennsylvania,” he said. “North Penn High is right between Washington and New York. Mom thinks it’s an easy target and does not want to take any risks.”
I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives Page 18