The Flawed Heart Series

by Wade, Ellie

“Okay.” I nod.

  I didn’t think of it that way. But it makes sense. The least I can do is give these people a voice.

  With Abdu as my translator, I begin talking to the wounded within this building. They tell me their stories in painstaking detail.

  I listen. I hold their hand. I tell them I care. I tell them that others in the world will care, too. I tell them they’re brave. And then I tell them good-bye.

  Two percent make it beyond the age of forty. Two percent.

  Before we leave the hospital, I stop by to see the angel baby who first stole my heart. She’s dropped her plastic water bottle, and instead, she clutches her new bracelets tight to her chest.

  “I have to go, baby girl.”

  I hold out my arms, and she allows me to pick her up. I squeeze her against my chest, resting my face on her puffy hair. I feel her soft skin against my palms as I run my hand up and down her arm.

  I hold her back from me, so I can look into her blue eyes. “Promise me you’ll be in the two percent, okay?” My voice cracks. “Promise me.”

  She shakes the bracelets in my face with a giggle.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I smile down at her. “I’ll always carry you in my heart.”

  I place my hand to my chest. She does the same, placing her hand against her own chest.

  “Heart,” I say again.

  I place her back down on her bed. Before I go, I lean down and give her a kiss on her cheek. Then, I rub the spot where I kissed her.

  “Remember, in the two percent, okay?” I smile sadly, get up, and leave the hospital.

  Abdu, Oliver, and I get checked in to a motel in Lindi, near the Indian Ocean. We eat dinner at the neighboring restaurant, but I don’t remember most of it. I’ve been zoned out since leaving the hospital, afraid to feel. If I had to process the gravity of emotions running through me, I’d crumble.

  Abdu and Oliver order a round of beer, and I excuse myself from the table. I walk out to the ocean. Removing my sandals, I walk through the part where the ocean meets the land. My feet squish in the soft sand, leaving fleeting footprints that last for just a moment until the next wave of water washes them away. After a few minutes, I take a step back and sit in the warm sand. The ocean is a light shade of blue at this time of day, almost the color of the baby girl’s eyes.

  With that thought, the tears come, and I let them. I cry for every single person I met today and the many others that I’ll never meet. I cry for the ones who have been abandoned by their parents. I cry for the ones who have or will endure more trauma than any person should ever have to experience. I cry for those who go through life without the love of a family because they’re seen as the devil. I cry for the ones who will be offered up for slaughter by a father or an uncle—all for money.

  How can a human life be worth so little? Their poverty doesn’t justify their actions. A living, breathing, loving person is worth more than any dollar amount.

  My task here is daunting. How will my retelling of their stories change anything if some here can’t grasp the simple fact that life is worth more than money?

  It all feels so hopeless, and I feel so empty.

  London

  “There is a lot of ugliness in the world, but I have to remember to not let it blind me from the beautiful.”

  —London Berkeley

  We’ve been traveling around Tanzania for a couple of weeks. I’ve interviewed albino people from the cities and those hiding in the rural areas. I’ve heard more stories of nighttime attacks where limbs were cut off with machetes than I could possibly need to hear in a lifetime. I’ve taken more interviews and gathered so much information that I could write a year’s worth of daily articles. After I write the articles for the magazine, I think I’m going to write a novel about my experience. I want more people in first-world countries to know what these people go through. Before this trip, I didn’t have a clue.

  I lie awake beneath my mosquito net. The reasons I can’t sleep are numerous and include the fact that I can hear rats scurrying around on the floor beneath the bed. I’m sleeping in a small bunk bed with a mattress that has no sheet and more lumps than my mom’s mashed potatoes.

  Everything around me is dirty and gross, and I just want to be home in my bed, wrapped in Loïc’s arms. I haven’t showered in days and have resorted to cleaning myself with wet wipes, which are almost gone. Had I known the way this trip would go, I would have packed differently. I swear, I will never complain about anything else in my life ever again.

  How can I complain about this sleeping arrangement when every child in this boarding school lives like this for years? For most, this will be the best they have. It’s hard for people with albinism to get work once they leave here. At least the metal gates surrounding this camp give the kids some peace of mind while they’re here.

  Despite my sleeping arrangements, I’m afraid to close my eyes at night because, when I do, I see them. All of them. I see their faces and their injuries. I see their stories. I see their rapes and attacks. It’s horrifying. And I see her, the baby girl with the blue eyes. I worry she’ll be raped someday. I fear she’ll lose her limbs or her life. How long will she survive?

  Finally, dawn comes.

  I grab the one suitcase I have left, the smallest one with just the essentials, and head out. Many of the children are already up and playing in the open yard in the center of the school buildings. So many of the girls are wearing an article of my clothing, and I can’t help but smile. Yesterday, I went through my stuff and gave them all something. Some of it isn’t practical—like the girls who got my heels. But they love them. These kids have so little.

  Now, I wish I had brought more than the three suitcases I did.

  I really wish I had more sun hats, so they could shield their faces from the sun. Truthfully, I could spend days listing the things I wish I could give these kids.

  One thing’s for certain. I understand Georgia so much more than I did. I get why she longs to go to these places to help people. There is a feeling of true happiness that comes with helping someone who has nothing. It is so grand, there aren’t words for it. Watching a little albino girl twirl around in circles in one of my skirts with a big smile on her face makes my heart swell and break all at once.

  I love these people and this country. In an area with so much terror, the amount of joy is remarkable. The girl twirling in my skirt awes me with her strength. She smiles, resonating happiness from every pore, even when, for all intents and purposes, she has so little to smile about. Witnessing that innocence is a gift, one that I’ll always treasure. I can’t imagine how great I might feel if I could really change her life in the same way that Georgia has done for so many.

  “Ready, love?”

  “Yeah,” I answer Oliver. The truth is, I want to just stay here and play with the kids.

  “She’s a cute one, eh?” Oliver says in reference to the little girl wearing my skirt.

  “Yeah, she is,” I answer sadly. “I wonder what will happen to her.”

  “She’ll be just fine.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t.” He shrugs. “But it’s what I tell myself. You have to separate yourself from it at some point, or it will weigh you down. I’ve traveled all over the world, taking pictures. I’ve seen the absolute worst of humanity. I couldn’t function on a day-to-day basis if I internalized it all. It’d be too much.”

  “I don’t think I can do that.” I shake my head.

  “You’ll have to learn, love. You can’t change the world. You can only do your part. You’re telling their stories. I’m showing their stories. Imagine how many people will learn about these children’s struggles because of you? That’s incredible, and it’s enough. You have to find some peace in that.”

  I take one more fleeting look over my shoulder at the little girl dancing in my skirt. A carefree smile graces her beautiful face. I commit that image to memory. When I think back to this place, I want to remember all t
he children the way they were when we played yesterday—happy. I want to remember their smiles and the hope in their eyes. When I think of them in the future, I’ll imagine them as joyful and prosperous, living the lives they deserve. Oliver’s right; I can’t think about the alternative because those images are too gruesome to bear.

  Abdu pulls away from the school.

  “So, where are we heading today, Abdu?” I ask from the backseat as I take a bite of my protein bar. I’ve been living off of these things, but it’s better than the mystery mush that was served at the school. I couldn’t stomach the sight of it, and I’m sure the taste wouldn’t have been much better.

  “Well, Miss London, we have a surprise for you today,” Abdu says with a grin.

  “Really? I love surprises.” I lean up and rest my elbows on the front seat. “What is it?”

  “A surprise,” Oliver says with a chuckle.

  “Mr. Oliver thought you could use a break, and I agreed. He planned a fun day for you.”

  “Aw, Ollie.” I nudge his arm with my elbow. “You’re so sweet. Thank you.”

  “I have my moments.” He smirks.

  “So, today has nothing to do with the magazine?” I ask.

  “Nup,” Oliver answers, his Australian accent heavy this morning.

  “Awesome. How long until we get there?”

  “A few hours, miss.”

  I sit back in my seat. I need a break. I’m so thankful that today doesn’t involve listening to any more horrific stories. I was on the verge of another breakdown. I don’t care what we do today. I’m just so happy that it’s going to be different from our norm. I’m so thankful to Oliver. He really has become a great friend.

  I think back to my first true nervous breakdown a week ago. That day, we spoke to a teenage boy who was missing an arm and a leg. His limbs had been sawed off by his own father. I couldn’t even imagine.

  After I was finished interviewing him, I excused myself to go outside. Everything seemed to fall on me at once. My soul was heavy. Their pain became my own, their scars burning beneath my skin, and I drowned in their despair.

  My heart was racing. My body was shaking. I was sobbing uncontrollably when Oliver found me.

  “Hey, love. Look at me. London. London.”

  I vaguely register Oliver’s voice. He is calling me in the distance, but I can’t reach him. There is too much screaming. My brain shakes with it.

  “London!” His eyes widen.

  Suddenly, there are lips against mine, and Loïc’s face grabs ahold of my thoughts. I focus on him, and the noise stops. I open my eyes with a gasp, pulling my mouth away from Oliver’s.

  I’m grounded, present, and aware. I can breathe. I’m no longer quaking with despair. Instead, I’m hit with a surge of anger.

  “Did you just kiss me?” I snap at Oliver, the question a rhetorical one.

  “Yes,” he answers smugly.

  I slap him across the face.

  Tonight is the first night since Lindi that we’ve been able to sleep in a hotel, and I can’t wait to shower Oliver’s kiss off of me. I start to stomp away toward the hotel, leaving a shocked Oliver, who is holding his cheek, behind me.

  “Why did you hit me?” He follows me. “You should be thanking me.”

  I whip around to face him. “Oh, I’m sure all the girls bow down at your feet in thanks when you grace them with a kiss, Mr. Hot Aussie Man. Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t want your lips on mine? I’m married. You had no right to kiss me!”

  “No, you should be thanking me because I got you to snap out of your possessed state. You were screaming, crying, and shaking. I helped you!”

  “You couldn’t find another way to do it, Mr. Casanova, than with your lips?” I shriek.

  “I yelled your name. I shook you by the arms. I slapped you. Nothing was working.”

  I gasp. “You slapped me?”

  “Yep, and it didn’t even faze you. You were in a complete panic. I didn’t know what else to do, so I kissed you. And it worked! You’re welcome!”

  I calm down some. I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want you to kiss me again.”

  “Clearly. Don’t worry, love. I got no pleasure from it. It was wet and snotty and uncomfortable.”

  “Good!”

  Oliver motions toward the hotel. “Come on. Let me walk you to your room.”

  “Ugh,” I groan. “I’m not sleeping with you. What don’t you understand about the words, I’m married?”

  “I didn’t say anything about fucking you, love. I’m not turned on by a woman in the midst of an utter meltdown. I just think you should take it easy for the rest of the day—shower, get something to eat, and rest. That’s all.”

  “Stop flirting with me then.”

  “I don’t flirt with you,” he responds.

  “Then, stop calling me love all the time,” I huff.

  “I call every woman I come in contact with love. It’s a platonic greeting. I hear you calling your husband every day. I know you’re off the market. I’m not a complete wanker. Listen, I’m sorry for kissing you back there. I can assure you, there wasn’t anything sexual about it. I was just trying to get your attention and snap you out of it. Nothing more.”

  I take in his words. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The two of us continue walking toward the hotel.

  “All of this is a lot. I guess I don’t know how to process this much grief and despair,” I admit.

  “You’ll get better at it. It takes time, especially for people like you,” he scoffs playfully.

  “What does that mean?” I ask, my guard back up.

  “You haven’t experienced much adversity in your life. It’s obvious. You’re a bit of a princess.”

  “I am not.” I glare toward him. “I’ve been through a lot.”

  “Have you?” he asks condescendingly.

  “You’re not very nice to judge me like this.”

  “I’m not saying it as a put-down. I’m simply stating that everything you’ve seen here is a huge shock to your system. It’s hard for you to know what to do with the information you’ve been given. You have a soft heart.”

  “Maybe I do. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Oliver chuckles. “I never said there was.”

  We walk up the stairs to the third floor of the hotel.

  “So, you think I’m a…what were your words? A hot Aussie man?” Oliver says with a grin as he opens the door to the hallway.

  I roll my eyes. “It’s more the accent, I think. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I bet you do.” I let out a dry chuckle. “So, friends?” I hold out my hand as we stop in front of my room door.

  Oliver shakes it. “Friends.”

  “I’m sorry I accused you of wanting to sleep with me. That was pretty presumptuous of me.” I grin.

  “Oh, I’d definitely sleep with you if you were the cheating type.” Oliver raises an eyebrow.

  “Well, I’m not.” I hit his chest. “And you’re slime.”

  I open my door.

  But, before I close it, Oliver says, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks again for your help.”

  “Anytime, friend.”

  “Night, friend.”

  “Night.”

  I close the door.

  “We’re going on a safari?” I shriek, shaking Oliver’s shoulders from the backseat.

  “Yes, we are. We’re going to spend a night and two days in the Ngorongoro Conservation Area. The lodge we’re staying at tonight has showers, a pool, and a nice restaurant. You won’t have to eat one of your protein bars for dinner.” He chuckles.

  “Oh my goodness. I’m dying. I’m seriously dying. Thank you, Ollie!”

  “You’re welcome, princess.”

  A half hour later, we’re checked in to the hotel and riding in a Jeep-lik
e safari vehicle into the Ngorongoro crater. According to our guide, the crater was formed when a large volcano exploded and collapsed in on itself over two million years ago. The crater is two thousand feet deep and one hundred square miles in area.

  It has been made into a conservation area, so no hunting is allowed inside the crater. Everything is so green and lush. It’s absolutely breathtaking.

  The vehicle slows down, and I pull my attention from the side to peer ahead. I gasp when I see a large male lion rolling in the dirt of the road. His legs are in the air as he scratches his back against the gravel.

  “Ollie, look. There’s a flipping lion in front of us!” I pull out my phone and start taking video of the lion. “Why aren’t you freaking out? You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

  “Yep.” He laughs. “But seeing it through your eyes is so much better than mine.”

  “I have to bring Loïc back here. He has to see this in person.”

  We drive slowly around the cat. He stops rolling and looks at me. I’ve never seen a lion this close. It’s thrilling and a little scary.

  “Is it safe, not having windows on this thing?” I tap the area by my door where an open space exists in place of a glass pane.

  The guide assures me that these animals see humans every day and are used to us driving through. But, still…I swear, that lion looked hungry.

  We travel through the crater and see zebras, wildebeests, a couple of black rhinoceroses, gazelles, antelope, and more lions. It’s probably one of the coolest experiences of my life.

  These past two weeks, my heart has been suffocating from the sorrow of the world, weighed down by its immense pressure. The horrors I’ve been told over the past couple of weeks have hurt me deeply. But this incredible beauty lifts some of the sadness, so I can breathe deep again. It’s a rejuvenation for my soul that I so desperately needed.

  There is a lot of ugliness in the world, but I have to remember to not let it blind me from the beautiful.

  London

  “I loved you immediately. I loved you for who you are—no expectations, no pretenses, just absolute love.”

  —London Berkeley