“I have to tell you before I die. You have to know. I killed Thomas when I tried to run away. He came too close to the tire... I didn’t see him. It was the farm truck, so high up, I couldn’t see...” She trailed off, her voice spent and the tears rising again.
John’s body felt frozen. His skin was cold and he shivered. His brother’s death was always a shrouded thing, mysterious and frightening, and never spoken of. He hadn’t ever wanted to know the details. He still didn’t. How could she have lived with this?
He didn’t say anything. His own heart throbbed in his chest.
“Now you’re a father and I’ve killed you, too.”
Startled, he glanced at her face. Tiny clouds were forming behind her eyes. She was disappearing again. This time, he felt relieved for her. Maybe in these moments she could forget or she could conjure another life in her head, one that wasn’t so painful.
“The American came to give you your daughter. She tried to find you. She came all the way here with the girl.”
“Yes, Mum, and I’ve come now, too. I want them to find me. You can tell me where they are, and I’ll go there. Or maybe you told them to come back here? That you were calling me to come and meet them?” His voice was hopeful—he felt a flicker in his chest, a star fallen to infuse him with light.
“No, you see, that’s what I mean. I killed you, as well. I told her you were dead. That she could never find you.”
The star turned to ice in his neck. He glanced at her, not wanting to believe what he heard. Had she really told the woman he was dead? He couldn’t bear to think he’d missed out on knowing his daughter forever just because of the lie his mother told. Dammit! He wanted to accuse her, to shout at her, to tell her that she had no right.
“How did you leave it with her? Did she say anything about where they might go?” He knew the anger in his voice, the urgency, might scare his mother into silence, but it colored his words, anyway. He’d never felt so desperately in need of an answer.
“To America,” Ruthie whispered. She was sure this was what Leona said. She was sure she was right this time.
“Right, the northwest. She told me. Did she say where exactly, by chance?”
But when John looked over at his mother again, she was gone. Her body was still there, his frail mother in her too-loose dress, but her eyes were clouded over completely. She’d disappeared back into herself. He was alone.
He had made mistakes in his life. He knew that. He’d treated women badly, he’d not always been a good son and for most of his childhood he’d been filled with churning lava of hatred for his father and jealousy toward his dead brother. But he couldn’t remember feeling worse during any of those times than he did now. This was a brutal itch of regret that strangled his insides and made him jump up from the stone bench and hurtle himself at the wall of baobab bark. Before he could think, he’d slammed his right fist into the tree trunk. The pain soothed somehow, and so he did it again and again. Finally he stepped back and clasped his right hand in his left. The bones throbbed and the tattered skin was slick with blood. He was too tired to care.
He sat on the bench until the horizon showed a thread of gray that gradually seeped into the night, turning the sky from darkness into dawn. A mourning dove cried from the branches of the baobab above him. A breeze shuffled the leaves above their heads. His mother still sat beside him, leaning her body into his, her head on his shoulder. She’d fallen asleep at some point in the night, and he was conscious that her nightgown was damp with dew. He’d need to get her home, warm and into dry clothes.
He realized he couldn’t leave her here alone any longer. Not even with Sam and Daniel looking after her. She needed him now. He thought of his house in Karen and how she could have a little bedroom there and sit in the garden and, finally, relax in a place that was far enough from the ugly reminders of her marriage so that she could forget.
John stood up and lifted her into his arms. With every movement, his hand pulsed with pain. He ignored it. How light she was. Like a child. The truck’s headlights had dimmed now, the battery dead. He couldn’t drive her back to the house. He’d have to carry her. He paused for a second, shifted her in his arms and began walking. Making his way slowly, carefully, down the hill to home.
PART II
KHAMSA
Where Liberia hid in the shadows under the curve of western Africa’s lower edge, Morocco was out in the light, pushing forward like a face upturned toward the sky. The boulevards were wide and flat, and the whole place felt bright and airy, clean. Jane didn’t miss the moist breath of Liberia’s jungles, which crowded too close to the city. She didn’t miss the tangled bushes that, even in the city, could hide snakes and insects. Monrovia was hidden things that lay in wait and whispers from unseen sources. Rabat was the five-times-a-day call from the mosques whose distinctive square minarets dotted the skyline and the clear-as-glass skies that made the walls in the old city shine pink and gold.
When their plane landed in Rabat, the embassy expediter met them at the airport. He held a sign with Paul’s name on it. Jane’s shirt was damp with water Grace had spilled just before landing, and her eyes felt sandy from lack of sleep. Grace was a good flier. Even though she was only ten, she’d been on so many planes she couldn’t count them. When she was one, Paul was assigned to a three-year stint at the embassy in Mexico City. After that, it was Lima, Peru, then Kathmandu, Nepal, where they’d stayed for four years. Grace loved the takeoffs and landings, but this had been a long trip, and by the time they taxied across the runway to the airport, she was tired and sullen. In the last twenty-four hours, they’d flown from Washington, DC, to Paris and Paris to Rabat, with nearly ten hours spent wandering Charles de Gaulle airport in between.
“Salaam a lekum!” Paul said loudly and slipped in front of Jane to grasp the expediter’s hand and shake it vigorously.
“Mehreba!” the man answered. “I’m Tarik.”
Jane smiled at Tarik and nudged Grace to say hello. “You can shake his hand, Grace,” Jane murmured. Grace dutifully reached out her hand and greeted the man under her breath. Jane noticed her daughter’s grimace, slight as it was. She wondered if the wet spot on her chest was obvious. She felt dirty, and the bright light of midday made her more conscious of the fetid, sweaty airplane smells that rose from her skin and clothes.
Tarik drove them from the airport to the house the embassy assigned them. The boulevards around the old city were wide and smooth. Jane sat behind Paul next to Grace, who leaned her head against the window and appeared to fall asleep. Jane mindlessly stroked her daughter’s arm and watched the city slide by outside the window.
This was their first posting back in Africa, and Jane couldn’t help but dredge up memories of the last time they were posted together on this continent. In Monrovia, the trees and bushes all blended together in a smear of green. Jane was never curious about the flora there. But Morocco seemed more like Kenya, a place she remembered with mixed feelings but entirely without the anxiety Liberia pricked in her. Here, she could pick out familiar plants—thick stands of lavender lining a sidewalk, purple clematis climbing a streetlight and enormous carob trees that threw their deep shadows over the little tables of an outdoor café where men sat drinking from tiny cups. The car rolled to a stop at a red light, and Jane watched as a crowd of kids in matching school uniforms crossed the street in front of them. One little girl, no older than Grace, glanced in their direction and smiled. Jane thought of the girl’s parents, somewhere in the city, who kissed their daughter goodbye this morning and sent her off to school—trusting the world to bring her back safely that afternoon. The idea of Grace being alone in the world like that made Jane’s heart beat faster, and a wave of heat passed over her.
The house was large and airy, the outside painted the color of dried grass and surrounded by a large dusty garden. Jane envisioned lavender there, a carob tree that would shade their own patio
table. Paul pulled their suitcases from the trunk, while Jane and Grace slid out of the car, dragging their purses and carry-on baggage behind them. Tarik fished through his pockets for the house keys and, when he found them, smiled and presented them to Paul. The door was thick wood, carved into intricate patterns. It was beautiful. As Paul slipped the key into the lock, Jane noticed a shiny piece of etched metal just above the door frame. It was the shape of a hand with two fingers stretched to each side, and three fingers in the middle pointing down. The etchings on the hand were detailed and flowery, abstract, but in the middle of the palm was something Jane recognized—the outline of an eye, wide-open with a tiny dot of black pupil in the center.
Jane turned to Tarik and gestured up to the metal hand. “What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s Khamsa...the hand of Fatima.” He smiled sheepishly, as if he were embarrassed to explain the meaning to her.
“Some people, like the old people, believe it helps make you safe from djinn, the witches.”
Jane thought of Liberia and the juju that killed the president and the evil that lurked in the mask she hated. “What do the djinn do?” she asked.
“They cause madness,” Tarik answered simply, and then grasped the handle of a suitcase and hoisted it inside. Jane felt the sensation of ice sliding down the back of her neck. She turned to watch Grace standing in the driveway, rummaging through her backpack. As Grace grew older, Jane became more watchful of the signs that her daughter might share Lance’s disease. The notion terrified her.
Turning back to the door, she reached up and ran her finger over the etchings of the Khamsa. They were worn and smooth. It must be old. Who put it there, and why? She wondered if the hand was supposed to be hung and forgotten, as if its protection would swirl in the door frame and cover everyone passing under it, or if it was something like rosary beads or prayer wheels that had to be touched in order to work. Jane thought she shouldn’t risk making the wrong decision, and so she reached out and placed her palm on the metal shape. She closed her eyes and imagined her daughter. “Be safe,” she whispered, “be safe.”
It was her job to control the world around Grace, her job to keep Grace sheltered from bad things and as far from the possibility of tragedy and darkness as she could. Maybe her own father couldn’t have helped Lance, but maybe he didn’t try hard enough. For an instant, Jane wondered if her cloud of anxiety was a gift—the wild animal on her back, claws drawn, a spirit animal, given to her for a reason. Her job was to embrace it, to pull all the bad things inside herself, like a sponge, and thereby keep them from Grace.
“I can take it down for you,” Tarik said as he passed her again on his way back to the car. “It’s just an old superstition.”
“No,” Jane said, turning to look Tarik in the eyes. She needed all the assistance she could get. She spoke slowly, clearly. It was important that he heard her. “No. I want it to stay.”
Twelve years into their marriage, there were times Jane wanted to bite Paul, times she couldn’t stand the sight of him. She wondered if other wives felt this way.
And even though she could still easily remember that first moment she fell in love with him—the feeling of it, the intense, visceral way her heart filled up when she pulled back and looked into his eyes—she couldn’t conjure that anymore.
Sometimes her anger at him took her by surprise. She didn’t know where it came from, or where inside her the angry spring’s source hid. She had a happy life, privileged. After Muthega, she hadn’t wanted to track elephants anymore, so she pushed that dream away and, instead, followed her dream of motherhood, and she took hold of the end of Paul’s dream, too. They’d travel the world, he’d rise through the ranks and, one day, be an ambassador. She could keep herself occupied with the children they would have or the jobs at each embassy specifically set aside for “dependent spouses.” The title was something of a joke; it was all wives. Dependent wives. Paul never pressured her to take one of the jobs, which Jane was grateful for. She had a masters in wildlife biology. One she used for less than a year, but still, she didn’t want to work if she wasn’t working in her field. There were days, though, after Grace got older and started school, that Jane felt she was wading through deep water or like a snake had wound its way around her neck and was slowly suffocating her.
Jane got pregnant only the one time. They tried for more babies, but none came. Jane didn’t mind as much as she thought she might. She liked having only one child. She loved that the child was a girl. It didn’t bother Jane when she and Paul and Grace arrived in some new, strange nation and woke up in a house they’d never seen before, and then had to make their way in a new city, meet new people. Since Grace was born, Jane always had her as a partner in adventure. When Grace was a baby, Jane sought out the English-language playgroups and made friends with the other women and their babies. When Grace started school, it was easy to meet the other international moms at events, through the parent-teacher association, on the soccer field, at scouts. Jane found she liked the life they’d created. The one Paul gave them. Somewhere along the line there was a shift. Jane thought about it a lot, but she couldn’t pinpoint where it began. Slowly, though, her gaze turned from Paul to Grace. Grace became the one she orbited, and Paul took a secondary role.
As Grace got older, she spent nights at slumber parties or afternoons playing at her friends’ houses. Jane used that time to catch up on reading, go for lunch with friends or dinners out with Paul and other embassy couples. Grace always came back, and she always needed Jane. Grace wanted to be with Jane more than she did with her own friends. The early afternoons after the slumber parties were Jane’s favorite times. She would pick Grace up and help her unpack her overnight bag, and then they would curl up on the couch with cocoa and Grace would giggle and tell Jane the things they’d eaten at the party, how late they’d stayed up and which girls fell asleep first. Sometimes she’d drift off and Jane would feel Grace’s weight on her legs. Grace relaxed into sleep so deeply that Jane could shift her over and not wake her up. Just like when she was an infant and, after a night nursing session, Jane could carry her back to the crib, lean over and lie her down on her back and watch her eyelids, fluttery and as pink as the inside of a shell.
* * *
It was a Sunday evening when Paul and Jane told Grace they were moving again. It was time. They’d been in Rabat for three years already, and Paul’s tour here was finished. Grace had spent the day swimming with a friend at the club, and Paul and Jane picked her up and drove out to their favorite café, one with outdoor tables on a patio that overlooked the Bouregreg River. It was a quiet evening, still warm, and the breeze that blew off the water smelled like the fish the men hauled off their brightly striped boats in nets the color of the sand.
“Grace,” Jane said, just after the waiter set a sweating, icy glass of Coke in front of her daughter. “We’re moving to Nairobi, where your dad and I met!” Jane’s tone was happy because she was happy. Their family moved—that’s what they did, what they’d always done. This was their life. Jane and Grace would, as always, set up the house, hire a cook, a houseman, maybe a gardener. Jane would go with Grace to school the first day, meet her teacher, scope out the other moms. Jane and Grace were a team, still connected, if not literally by blood and flesh anymore, then by mutual devotion and shared interests. Jane had fond memories of Nairobi. The wide streets, the rows of jacaranda trees along the sidewalks and the cool, crisp air. That would be nice to return to. She thought about what it would be like to see the Rift again, to see if the rivers were full. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see Narok again or the places she and Muthega had explored in that rattling Land Rover, but she pictured the silhouettes of elephants against the red evening sky, and suddenly she felt a surge of real joy.
So when Grace looked back at Jane and her eyes said instantly that she was angry, Jane was surprised.
“Hey, hon, you knew we would eventually—we always do
,” Paul said, and then, “Get this, your old man is going to be second in command! Whaddaya think of that?” Jane smiled at him vacantly, and a slip of a thought fluttered through her mind: Grace was thirteen now; she was growing up, turning away. Jane still saw her as the main character in their family play, but maybe Grace didn’t see Jane—or herself—that way anymore.
Jane glanced back at Grace. “We’re women of the world, Gracie! Right?” But a switch flipped in her daughter’s face and she sat there for the rest of the meal, poking at her pizza, her mouth drawn, her eyes empty. That night Jane ducked into Grace’s room to kiss her daughter good-night. She tried again to cajole Grace into seeing the excitement that she saw, that Grace had always seen before. But Grace began to cry. “I don’t want to go somewhere new. I want to stay in one place. I want to stop. Don’t you understand? I want to stop. I want a real home for once.”
* * *
After that, Grace stayed silent, sullen. The days they all spent packing her Rabat bedroom were tear-filled and angry. As annoyed and hurt as Jane was by her daughter’s shift in behavior, she was also terrified. She racked her memory to compare Grace’s actions to her brother’s at this age. He wasn’t diagnosed at thirteen, but maybe there were signs? Maybe Grace was showing those signs and Jane just had to recognize them.
Jane was a nuisance to her daughter for the first time, and Jane’s bewilderment and anxiety made her lash out at Paul in misplaced retaliation. The three of them spun like eddies in a pond, separate, divided, dragged down.
On Grace’s first day of school in Nairobi, Jane woke up early, edged the new houseman aside and made Grace’s favorite breakfast: French toast and potatoes pan-fried in butter. When Grace appeared, she was wearing the outfit they had assembled together the night before: a khaki knee-length skirt and a floral blouse opened over her favorite lavender T-shirt. “You look darling!” Jane told Grace. The truth was, though, that Grace looked like a different girl. Her eyes were dull, her hair seemed limp, even though the night before Jane had washed and dried it, pulling it straight, long and shiny with a big, round brush.
The Brightest Sun Page 17