First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria
Page 30
“Amen.” The chorus filtered up from the scattered guests.
Regina stood, easily balancing Sierra on her hip. “I will leave the long speeches to Steven. But I want to say something to Eve and John and Sierra.” She squeezed Sierra closer to her as she spoke. “Thank you for coming to be with us here in Uganda and especially for coming to Arua. Thank you for all that you have given to me and my family. We will never forget you. And I am sure that I will never again work for a family as good and as kind as yours.”
I winced as she said that. Regina had already found her next job. The Dutch family who'd come from Rwanda and didn't seem particularly concerned about Arua's instability, had hired her. They seemed like a nice family, but Regina had already confided to me that the Dutch woman wasn't particularly warm. Regina would do fine, I was sure. But I was worried about Cissie. She was a good worker, but she was so painfully shy that she needed someone to speak for her. I had convinced the Dutch woman to hire both Regina and Cissie together. But I didn't think it would last. Cissie would have to live with the Dutch family, as she had lived with us. She required a fair amount of patience and care. And from what I could tell, the Dutch woman did not seem the type to be interested in coddling her household help.
Reginas mother-in-law stood and spoke in Lugbara. “We know you, Eve and John and Sierra, though we have hardly met,” Regina translated. “We know of your kindness to our children Regina and Steven. We have come today to say thank you for coming to Arua. For coming into our lives and for caring about us. And we want you to see from our faces that we are sad that you are leaving.”
Regina motioned for me to come stand with her by the food table. Holding a knife together, like a bride and groom, we cut into the loaf of bread she had baked in an oven built just for us. Solemnly, we all took a bite of the bread, which got stuck around the lump in my throat.
“Awadifo saaru. Awadifo for everything” was all I managed to croak out before my words were drowned by racking sobs. I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell Regina that what I had done for her and her family was nothing compared to what she had done for me. I wanted to tell her that when I came to Arua I knew nothing and that I had survived only because of her forbearance and help. I wanted to thank Steven for being a pain in the ass and a pleasant diversion all at the same time. I wanted to thank the two of them for bringing their children into our home and into Sierra's life, and for teaching them that they didn't have to be afraid of our pale, furry skin. I wanted to hug Cissie and say nothing. I wanted to tell them all that the thought that we would never see each other again was unbearable, and yet I knew that we would never see each other again.
“Thank you. Thank you” was all I could gurgle out between sobs. This was our last going away party and the first time I had cried. I stood under the toilet paper–bedecked canopy and blubbered. I couldn't bear to look at the faces of the people that I was leaving and so I looked past them, out toward the dried mud huts that dotted the land around me.
“Oh, God,” I sobbed. “How can I ever leave this place?”
John stood up and put his arm around me. “Awadifo saaru,” he said clearly and dry-eyed. “We thank you for this lovely party and for all that you have done for us in our three years here.” I couldn't comprehend how he could do this: How he could leave without totally falling apart. It no longer seemed even physically possible that the next day I would get on a plane and leave Arua forever.
“We thank you most of all for allowing us to be a part of your lives for these three wonderful years. For making our family part of your family. We will never forget you. And we want you to know that you will always, always have family in America.”
I leaned back against the cool dried mud of Regina and Steven's home. I looked out upon that red dirt village that had become my village. I looked in awe upon its spectacular, simple majesty. I saw the head-high rows of tasteless maize and the scrawny cows lowing in the heat. I heard the obnoxious, raucous cough of the goats, the constant cluck of chickens, and the roosters crowing as if all day was sunrise. I saw the dirty, sad dogs that were too lazy to get up and bark at a stranger. If, by chance, there ever was a stranger. I took it all in and became painfully aware of what I was leaving behind. And I knew that no matter where we went next, a part of me would always be homesick for Uganda.
I came to Uganda totally unprepared for life in Africa; in many ways, unprepared for life in general. I had been taught by her and tamed by her. I'd fallen into—and out of—love with this place so many times, I'd lost track. I knew in the end, I hadn't changed Uganda one bit. But she had fundamentally changed me. And like malaria, Uganda would live forever in my blood.
Dear Folks,
We recently received three interesting pieces of news in the mail. One was a State Department warning about the unsafe conditions for Americans in the West Bank; one was a news article about rioting in Yerevan, Armenia, along with a State Department warning to all Americans living in Armenia; and the third was a news article from The New Vision, whose headline read: “Rebels Invade CARE office in Arua.”
Bet you're glad that we're in Uzbekistan!
I'll keep you posted,
Eve
Acknowledgments
Authors always say that it took all kinds of people to actually write their book. I say it takes one person to write a book, but an awful lot of other people to put up with you while you are writing that book. Thanks is the least that I owe to all of the people who've put up with me—and helped me—as I wrote this book.
First and foremost, John, Sierra, and Jeremiah have been putting up with me—and supporting me—for the full fifteen years that I've been living, dreaming about, and writing this book. I can never thank you enough for letting me be your wife and mother—and a writer, too. So I'll just try to make enough money to put in a swimming pool, a basketball court, and solar panels on the roof. (Anything extra I'll give to worthy causes, I promise, John.)
Christine Pride, my editor, loved it from the very beginning. Thank you for taking such good care of my baby. And the rest of the amazing team at Broadway Books—Lindsay Gordon, Jennifer Robbins, and Anne Chagnot—you made it seem easy. Thanks so much to Liz De Ridder, who did an excellent job copyediting the manuscript, and did her damndest to make me look like a better writer than I am. All remaining grammatical errors are mine—not hers.
My mom, Sheila Brown-Blei, was the first one to say, “Hey, why don't you write a book?” Thanks for the great idea. And thanks for the years and years of encouragement. My father, Mel Brown, you're a mensch. And thanks for always asking about it. My two brothers, Barry/Seth Brown (the musician) and Joshua Samuel Brown (the other writer in the family), are incredibly talented in their own right. Thanks for believing in my dream, for arranging the music, and for letting me be the star this time around.
I am blessed with the most wonderful in-laws imaginable. And I want to thank them for making me one of their own. Pat and Jack, Stephen and Terry, Tom and Paula, Joe and Tiffany, Jim and Julie Waite—you're the best. (And not a murderer in the bunch!)
Susan Brockmann and Jean Dresley, my bookend warrior women, thanks for being there through it all (and the sequels to come). Nanci Tangeman, a pretty nifty writer yourself, thanks for turning me into a “real writer.” Susan Gottehrer, Jacqueline Cincotta, Kathy Moran, Heidi Ziemke, Kate Luscombe, Susan Buhrmaster, and Sheila Littleton (my Oneonta Tribe); Amy Shapiro, Ellen Mitnowsky, and Daphne Bye; and all the members of the Women's Discussion and Libation Society, thanks for listening, caring, and always cheering me on. Susan Blauner and Shirley Vernick, thanks for making the writing much less lonely (and a lot more fun). Elizabeth Bonney, thanks for making everything you touch beautiful, including my amazing website. Jocelyn Donaghue and Beth Taska, I might have turned back if not for you two. Thank you for being advocates when I needed them.
Four long-overdue thank-yous are owed, to Mr. Ron Frank of PS. 26 in Travis, for telling me—in the fifth grade—that I was a good writer, and for
teaching us to dream the impossible dream; to Patrick Jackson, for teaching me that love doesn't have to hurt at all; and to Judith Kuppersmith, Ph.D., and Katherine A. Brunkow, LCSW—for help when I sorely needed it.
And most especially, THANK YOU, Laney Katz Becker—agent extraordinaire—and all the wonderful souls at Folio Literary Management. Laney, you saw the book in the story. And you changed my life … again. Zei gezunt.
© Terri Sevene Cappucci
EVE BROWN-WAITE was a finalist for Iowa Review, Glimmer Train, and New Millennium Writings awards for stories she wrote about her time abroad. She lives with her husband and two children in Massachusetts.
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