Sorry about the whole Gerhard/Kai thing. It’s too much fun teasing him. You should have known him before he had the stick removed from his ass.
You sound worried. One thing you should understand about Kai is he does this. He disappears into work sometimes and forgets people worry about him. Hell, he forgets everything.
That said, he’s okay. He texted us when they returned to Nairobi last night.
He’ll probably contact you soon. Feel free to yell at him about worrying you, but don’t expect it to change.
Hope our paths cross again.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Anita
Last night? After almost two weeks without a word other than a garbled voicemail, he’d returned to the capital where cell service, and most definitely cell telephones, existed. Yet I hadn’t received so much as a text in the last twenty-four hours. I had to find out from his ex-wife what he was really like.
Anger replaced the fear that had taken up residence inside my chest.
What the hell?
Tiny bubbles of rage percolated, blocking out any feelings of relief.
He might be alive, but I wanted to kill him for making me worry and behave like a ridiculous, pining girl.
I wasn’t a moony teenager.
I didn’t pine.
I didn’t sit around waiting for the phone to ring.
Closing my laptop, I resolved to stop being whoever this woman was and return to being myself.
Strong.
Independent.
In charge.
I turned off my light. In the darkness, I gave thanks for Kai being alive, letting the knowledge comfort me. Traitor tears escaped. Maybe he hadn’t called because it was over.
Ugh.
I was a mess. A hot mess as Quinn would say.
Stupid men.
Stupid feelings.
Stupid love.
Stupid elephant taunting me from atop my dresser.
I fell asleep chanting the lyrics of I Am Woman. My mother played that song non-stop during my childhood, and along with Our Bodies, Ourselves, it was the feminist foundation of how to be a strong woman—the kind who didn’t cry over boys.
AMA AND I sat at the little table near the railing, which I’d first considered my own all those months ago. Since my resolution two nights ago, my anger created a barbed hedge around my heart. My pride acted as a super-hero cape, enabling me to leap to conclusions in a single bound.
I am Selah, hear me roar.
Writing in my notebook, I plotted killing off my Nordic pirate. Death by orgasm or during one. Or maybe I’d make him suffer longer. Pirates had many clever, creative ways of torture.
Ama took a call at the front desk and then returned, clapping like fool with a huge grin plastered to her face.
“You have a phone call!” she shouted.
“Who’s calling me on the hotel phone?”
“Answer it and find out!”
I gave her a sidelong look before I walked to reception.
Fourteen days.
That’s how long I waited to speak to Kai. Five of those days spent thinking he could have been kidnapped or dead. Two days stewing he hadn’t bothered to let me know he was neither.
“Hi, love.” His voice sounded happy.
To say I was livid would be a mild understatement. “Hi.”
“It’s Kai,” he explained.
“I know.”
“You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”
“I’m relieved you’re alive and not held for ransom by terrorists.”
“Why would I be held for ransom?”
“That’s usually what happens when someone is kidnapped.”
“Who told you I was kidnapped?” His voice rose.
“No one, but after almost two weeks with nothing, it was a possibility. Or death.”
“In your mind you had me dead or kidnapped?”
I bristled at his amused tone. “Anything’s possible.”
“Selah.” He sighed.
“What?”
“I’m fine. After I called you from the satellite phone, I lost my cell phone … well, a Jeep ran over it, and I didn’t have your number memorized. Stupid of me, but I never wrote it down. I called Ama to get it. I’m so happy to hear your voice. I love you.”
I paused, my heart and mind debating my response.
“Hello? Hello?”
“I’m here.”
“You’re mad.”
“I am.”
“I’m sorry. This isn’t typical.”
“I emailed Anita because I thought you could have been dead.”
“You did?” His voice revealed his surprise.
“I did. How dare you put me in a position to have to email your ex-wife to find out information about you.” Anger colored my voice.
He paused. “I travel frequently. You knew this. I traveled while I lived in Ghana.”
“I know.” I sighed. “It’s different now. Anita told me you do this, this disappearing act, a lot. I loved learning about you from her. Things I should probably have learned from you.”
The line crackled for a minute.
“What are you saying, Selah?”
“The past two weeks freaked me out. More than anything, they were torture.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You apologize, but it doesn’t change things.”
“Are you having second thoughts about us?”
My heart hurt. I nodded silently, knowing he couldn’t see me, and tears stung my eyes.
“Selah …”
“Kai …”
“Please don’t give up on us. It won’t be easy, but I love you.”
I found my voice, but it came out a whisper. “I love you.”
“Let’s not do this right now, please?”
“It won’t become easier later.”
He inhaled a deep breath. In the background, something hit a hard surface. “Don’t.”
With the tips of my fingers, I swiped the tears from under my eyes. “I love you, but I can’t be this person. I’ve spent weeks consumed by you, losing my mind listing the horrible things that could have happened to you. Before you, I loved my life. It wasn’t conventional, but it was mine. I had control and I liked it.”
“Love—”
I cut him off. “No, don’t. It hurts too much to say good-bye to you again.”
“Then don’t.”
I bit the thin skin of my knuckle to the point of pain to stifle my voice.
“We’re only at the beginning. We have plans for the future,” he continued.
Ignoring him, I spoke again, “The other night I cried myself to sleep. I haven’t done that since high school. Not over a boy.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice thick.
“And I remembered a saying my mother told me about fish and bicycles.”
“What saying is that?”
“A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.” I spoke calmly. “Gloria Steinhem.”
“What does that even mean?”
“A fish has no use for a bicycle.”
“Ouch.”
“It means even without a man, a woman will be fine.”
“I’ve never said you needed me.”
“No, but God help me, I wanted you.”
“I love you.”
“I know, but sometimes love isn’t enough.”
“It’s everything.”
“Not to overcome reality.”
“I disagree,” he argued. “Don’t I get a say?”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
“Stop. I’ll change my ticket to Chicago and come to Ghana. I can be there tomorrow.”
“If you fly here, you’ll miss Thanksgiving.”
“It’s not even my holiday.”
“But it’s important to Cibele. I’m sure she misses you.”
“It won’t be the first time I’ve disappointed her, and probably won’t be the last. I’m far from perfect.”
/> “Don’t be that father—the one who disappoints his daughter because of a new woman in his life. I’m not that woman, and never want to be that woman. Go, be with your daughter, Kai.”
“Damn you, Selah. We are not over.” Anger, frustration, and hurt overlapped in his voice.
The hurt sliced through me.
“I love you, Kai. There’s a part of me that always will. Forever.”
“I love you,” he said, resigned.
“Good-bye.
“Selah—”
I hung up so he wouldn’t hear my sobs.
AMA HELD A Thanksgiving dinner for any ex-pats who wanted to attend. The veranda was filled with American accents while I processed the strange sensation of being around so many Americans at once. I texted my parents and sent a group email to friends, telling them how grateful I was for all of them.
I ignored the texts from Kai. The voicemails, too.
I suspected Ama gave Kai my cell number again. Meddler. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t on the same continent anymore. I pictured him with his beautiful ex-wife and daughter, eating and laughing over a traditional meal—the wet dream of Norman Rockwell.
I finished my gin and tonic and asked Sarah for another.
“I think you’ve had enough,” Ama warned.
“Now you’re my mother?”
“No, but you’ve had enough. Eat something.”
I shoved a forkful of greens into my mouth, acting petulant. No one should have to deal with me. This was why I was alone.
It might have been the three gin and tonics or something in the food, but my head reeled and my stomach gurgled. I put down my fork and sipped some water.
The water didn’t help.
I dashed to the bathroom, sparing my shoes, barely, when I lost my dinner. Perhaps it was my ungrateful attitude, or maybe something I ate. Resting my forehead on the cool tiles of the wall, I let my misery loose and sobbed.
Cried out after several minutes, I splashed some water on my clammy face and attempted to appear less vomitus.
Ama frowned at my appearance when I sat down at the table. “I’m worried about you.”
“Please don’t. I think I drank too much gin on an empty stomach and maybe my malaria meds. Bad combination.”
Her expression serious, she touched my forehead. “You’re warm.”
I waved her hand away. “I’m fine.”
“You should take it easy. Otherwise, you’ll end up in the hospital.”
“I promise. I’m fine, but I should go home.”
I said my good-byes. While Kofi drove me to Ama’s house, his worried eyes met mine in the rearview mirror several times.
“I’m fine,” I reassured him. “Too much gin. Same thing happened when I drank in high school.”
He frowned at me. “You take care of yourself, Dr. Selah.”
Ama checked on me in the morning. She brought me a bowl of clear broth and some dry toast. The gesture was lovely, but my stomach revolted after two sips. My head pounded from the gin hangover.
When I asked for additional blankets, Ama touched my forehead again and turned off the air conditioner.
“You have a fever,” she declared.
“It’s probably a stomach bug.”
I slept most of the day, waking again when it was dark outside. It could be early evening. Or the next morning. The dry toast laid on the table. I tested a few bites, and then sipped from a fresh bottle of water.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
I finished the toast and water.
When I woke up, light peeked around the curtains. I hadn’t been sick for hours.
Relieved whatever hell virus had been expelled, I dressed and left the room to find food.
Ama scowled at me. “You should be in bed.”
“I’m fine. Hungry even.” I grabbed some plain rice from her pot on the stove. “In fact, I’m setting out for the markets to do some Christmas shopping.”
“You should stay in bed.”
“I’m okay. Trust me?”
Her lips pursed with disapproval.
“I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. I promise.”
AFTER I SHOWERED and dressed, I felt more myself. A little tired and lightheaded, but overall better than I had the previous twenty-four hours. Except for the Kai-shaped hole, I felt almost normal.
I made a list of things to buy and left the house. With no Thanksgiving, there wasn’t the Black Friday shopping frenzy. During the short walk, I spied Christmas decorations and fake trees complete with twinkle lights decorating several shops and hotels. Too close to the equator for real seasons, I still felt the chill of Portland’s coming winter with the dry, dusty Saharan winds clouding the late November sky.
Makola was no more or less busy than any other weekend. Rebecca greeted me with a huge smile and handed me the parcel of dresses and rompers I’d had made for Lizzy. On top, she laid a little doll made of wax cloth as an extra gift. I thanked her and promised to recommend her to everyone.
I made my way out of the market. A strong scent of peanut butter overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I spun around, looking for the shortest route to fresh air, my head swimming.
In an open space at the entrance to the market, I sat on an empty crate, gasping for air. I closed my eyes and exhaled, counting to ten to calm my stomach and catch my breath.
Maybe shopping at the market wasn’t the best idea, but I needed to buy these gifts before I returned home. I bought a bag of water and sipped it, awaiting the return of my balance. The craft market was only blocks away. I could make it there, find Abraham Lincoln, give him my list and finish everything in an hour.
Resolved, I trudged to High Street, hoping to locate Abraham without a long search.
Two young men greeted me near the coconut stand. “Mah mee, you need something? You are looking for something extra nice? We’ll show you the best.”
I’d been scoped by new shopping Sherpas.
“Thank you, but I’m looking for Abraham Lincoln. Do you know him?”
A look passed between them. “I know him, but his shops are not good. Our prices are better.” His fib lurked behind his smile.
“Ah, thank you, but I promised I would shop with him.” From the corner of my eye, I spotted Abraham’s lanky form walking in our direction. “There he is.”
Abraham glared at the pair, but greeted me warmly, “Dr. Elmore! You are ready to shop today?”
“Yes.” I showed him my list.
“Very good.” He turned his back to the other men. “What is the state capital of Oregon?”
“Salem. Oregon is where I live.” I smiled at him.
“Excellent, what are you looking to buy?” He led me into the heart of the market.
In a handful of stalls, we haggled over prices on souvenirs that didn’t scream tacky tourist. While standing at a table full of jewelry, the woozy feeling returned and sweat trickled down my neck.
“Abraham, I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well and need to go home,” I explained, looking for a place to sit.
“Here, Dr. Elmore.” He pulled out a stool for me from under a table covered with beaded necklaces. “You rest.”
I sat down and put my face between my knees for a moment until the feeling of passing out faded. “Will you buy me something to drink?” I reached into my bag for some cedis. “Anything cold, please.”
He dashed off through the narrow aisle. I turned to the woman running the booth, an “Auntie” of Abraham’s.
She gave me a sad look and gestured to my forehead. “Fever.”
I nodded, wiping the droplets of sweat from my brow. “Yes, I think so.”
Abraham returned with two Cokes and my change.
“Me daa si.” I thanked him.
I rolled the cold glass along the nape of my neck and focused on breathing.
“Abraham, I need to ask a favor. Do you know Ama’s Hotel? Down High Street?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“Can you walk there and tell them I’m here, and feeling very sick? Ama will send someone to pick me up.”
“It is a short way, Mah mee. You cannot walk it?” He sounded concerned.
“No, I don’t think I can.” I wasn’t sure if I could make the distance without vomiting. Or worse.
Abraham and his Auntie spoke quickly in Twi and then he left.
I tried sipping from the Coke, only managing to swallow one sip. I decided it would be better used to cool my skin.
The Auntie frowned at me again and repeated, “Fever.”
Resting against the wall of her stall, I closed my eyes. Did she mean I had a fever or The Fever as in Yellow? Or Typhoid?
“You need Nibima.”
I repeated the word, trying to commit it to memory.
When Abraham returned with Kofi, I sat slumped on a low stool, my whole skull pounding.
“Hi.” I gave them a weak wave.
“Oh, Dr. Selah. You are very sick,” Kofi said.
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. A little woozy.”
Kofi and Abraham helped me stand and guided me through the crowded aisles of the craft centre. I chanted under my breath, “Nibima-Nimibia. Nimbus.”
“What is it?” Kofi asked, tucking me into the backseat of his sedan.
“The Auntie told me a word. Said I have Scarlet Fever.” I frowned. “No, that’s not right. Yellow Fever.”
“Dr. Selah doesn’t have Yellow Fever.”
I rested against the seat. “She said I had some sort of fever.” My eyes closed.
AMA’S HORRIFIED EXPRESSION greeted me when I woke to find we’d arrived at the hotel. The short drive couldn’t have been longer than five minutes, but I’d conked out. Or passed out. She rushed over, put her hand on my forehead and promptly sent Sarah to find me a room where I could lie down. I would have hugged her if I hadn’t been completely gross.
Time blurred together between trips to the bathroom and finally making a little pallet on the cool tile floor.
I hadn’t been this sick for years. Either I had food poisoning or was dying.
I was positive it was the latter.
I alternated sweating and shaking with cold, using the thin towels to cover myself or wipe my sweat.
Ama returned and knelt beside me. The cool cloth she patted on my forehead soothed the burn. “You’re going to the hospital.”
Missionary Position Page 20
