In the Light of Love

by Deborah Fletcher Mello

  Heartbreak couldn’t hold a candle to the pain Jericho had felt. Everything within him had been destroyed. As the sun rose that next morning, so did Jericho’s resolve. Shannon Porter became dead to him, nothing more than a faint memory of a bad time in his life. He’d never told his parents or hers what had happened between them. He still didn’t know why, just wanting nothing more than to place as much distance between him, her and the memory as he could find. He believed that if he didn’t have to discuss it, the easier it would be for him to forget. And now Shannon had the audacity to proclaim her blatant betrayal a mere mistake and her love for him to be real.

  The little boy stood at Jericho’s knee, watching him curiously. It was only then that Jericho realized his face was damp from his tears. Glancing quickly around to see if anyone else had noticed, he wiped the moisture against the back of his hand and forced himself to smile down at the child.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, leaning toward the toddler. “My name’s Jericho.”

  The boy laughed, his curly head bobbing against his shoulders as he turned back to his mother, reaching to wrap his arms around the woman’s legs. Jericho made a funny face, his eyes bugging out from his head, his tongue reaching down to his chin and the child responded with one of his own. They both laughed and for a quick moment, Jericho allowed the memories of Shannon Porter to stay dead.

  Chapter 8

  Stepping from the plane, Jericho inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of Mother Africa. The essence of her homeland was intoxicating and he was delirious with joy at being cradled in the arm of her vastness. As he maneuvered his way through customs and immigration he was greeted warmly by black men whose faces resembled the faces of friends and family back in Atlanta. Outside of the large white building, the warmth of sunshine rained down upon him, cascading heat through his body. The scent of flora planted in stone containers lined the airport’s walkways, the vibrant color of hibiscus and porcelain roses standing bright against the man-made backdrop.

  In the exterior of the arrival area, minivan drivers waited patiently for their charges, many holding neatly printed signs announcing the names of the passengers they awaited or the hotels they represented. They were each dark complexioned, skin tones ranging from deep chocolate-brown to a deeper blue-black. All were dressed conservatively, cotton slacks in navy, black or khaki, complemented by button-down dress shirts in pastels and whites.

  The wide smile of Jericho’s former college roommate and best friend, Peter Colleu, greeted him warmly, the man waving his hand excitedly in Jericho’s direction. The man’s deep voice and familiar accent called out his name as he rushed over to wrap his friend in a brotherly embrace.

  “My friend,” Peter chimed. “Welcome to my home.”

  Jericho grinned back, patting his friend’s protruding stomach. “You look good, Peter. I see that wife of yours is feeding you well!”

  Peter laughed. “You should find a woman to do the same for you, my friend.”

  The two continued laughing as Peter led the way to his vehicle and ushered Jericho into the passenger seat.

  “So, how was your flight?”

  Jericho sighed. “Long. I’m glad for it to be over.”

  “Well, you are here safely. Are you now ready to work? I have much work for you to do.”

  Jericho nodded. “Just say when.”

  Peter nodded his head. His expression became serious as he began to speak. “We are grateful to have you here with us. Our children need a good doctor.”

  “How many are with you now?”

  “We have twenty-seven orphans plus too many to count in the villages. They have been abandoned because their parents had no way to feed them or disease has wiped out their families.”

  “How are you getting funding to take care of them?”

  Peter glanced quickly toward his friend, then returned his gaze back to the road. “Donations have helped. Your parents have been very generous. Their last check helped with the construction of the school.”

  Jericho smiled, nodding his head ever so slightly. “My mother believes in what you are doing. You know that all you have to do is ask and it is yours.”

  His friend grinned. “Did she send me that package?”

  Laughter filled the interior of the car as Jericho chortled wholeheartedly. “She sent boxes of Butterfinger candy bars and Ding Dongs. More than enough to rot their teeth out.”

  “Whose teeth? That candy is for me!”

  The two men continued chatting excitedly, catching up on the time that had elapsed since Peter had last been in the United States. As Peter maneuvered his vehicle along Gaba Road, the rising city stood out against a backdrop of plush, white clouds floating against a vibrant blue sky.

  Conversation waned as Jericho’s attention shifted to the views outside the window. An ebony-toned woman stood roadside, an infant clinging to her back. The mother’s garments were well-worn, a purple, floral print skirt and green polo shirt hanging against her thin body. A large bowl of newly-picked bananas rested against the top of her head.

  Peddlers traveled the length of roadway, some by foot, others riding on mopeds or pedaling bicycles. Peter caught him staring, then gestured with his head. “They are bodas,” he said, pointing to the young men on minibikes. “Bodas will deliver anything, anywhere.”

  Jericho smiled, turning his attention back toward a group of craftsmen gathered around a display of iron works, an assembly of newly fashioned iron gates lined in a neat row. As Peter continued their drive through the suburban streets, Jericho was struck by the abject poverty of the residential areas. Running water in the dilapidated homes was nonexistent. Children ran barefoot, threadbare clothing barely fit for dirty rags. A little girl, no more than five years old, stood alone, her thumb pulled into her mouth, a dusty-yellow cotton shift skimming the lines of her malnourished frame. Jericho heaved a deep sigh.

  Noting the change in his friend’s disposition, the man’s initial excitement defusing quickly, Peter offered commentary. He pulled the vehicle off to the side of the road and shut down the engine.

  “My homeland is still recovering from our days of political oppression and the subsequent war. Tribal animosity, corrupt politics and military tyranny had crippled us. Some parts of the country are still too volatile to think about traveling. But we are slowly becoming stabilized. Look at the city of Kampala. It thrives! It is the new Uganda! It is what this whole country shall one day become.”

  Jericho nodded his head slowly. “But the children look so dejected.”

  “Our children are hungry and homeless and there is no money to care for them. Thousands have been abducted by the Lord’s Resistance Army to be child soldiers or sex slaves. Many more have been orphaned by the AIDS pandemic. Our sons and daughters have had a hard road to travel.”

  “Why isn’t more being done to help them?”

  Peter paused, a flicker of a tear rising to his eyes. “We are doing all we can,” he answered, his words falling into a whisper.

  “What can I do?” Jericho asked, turning to look his friend in the eye.

  Peter smiled. “You are doing it, Dr. Becton. You are here, my friend.”

  Chapter 9

  The two friends sat in quiet reflection as the waiter carved slices of slow-roasted meats onto their plates. The tradition of best friends’ night had begun in high school, the monthly ethnic dining sessions initiated by Leila’s obsession with foreign cultures and supported by Talisa’s simple desire to hang out with her best friend.

  That first year, on teenage allowances, or lack thereof, each monthly meeting had revolved around Oriental food, Yum Yum’s Chinese Takeout the main staple of each event. A library screening of an Oriental art film featuring Chinese actor Yao Kim had ended with egg rolls and wonton soup. Sidewalk seats at the Chinese New Year’s Day parade, complete with fireworks and the traditional dragon float, had been capped off with a shared order of beef lo mein and fried noodles. The following years, with the help
of part-time jobs after school and a flux of creative energy, the activities and meals had become much more interesting.

  This night was Brazilian night. With tickets to an Afro-Latino music festival, the two women had imbibed the cultural experience of Brazilian and Peruvian musicians, dancers and singers. The evening wasn’t complete until they’d taken their seats at Fogo de Chao, a local Brazilian restaurant, to experience the culinary artistry of churrasco—large cuts of meat slow roasted over an open pit.

  As the last slice of filet mignon was placed on her plate, Talisa palmed the dining chip that had been issued to them when they’d been seated. Twirling the coin between her fingers, she flipped the chip from green to red. The waiter stopped just as quickly and backed away from the table.

  “Here, try the liguica,” Leila said, reaching to place one of her spicy pork sausages onto Talisa’s plate.

  “The food is incredible,” Talisa exclaimed, swallowing a mouth full of potatoes before she spoke.

  Leila nodded, unable to speak, her own mouth a forkful away from overflowing. She reached for the chip, flipped it back to green and gestured to the waiter who rushed to their sides to refill the water glasses. As the last drop of fluid fell into her friend’s crystal container, she flipped the chip back to red and the pleasant-looking man disappeared to the other side of the room.

  “So, are you excited about your trip?” Leila asked, grinning in Talisa’s direction.

  “Yes. I’m also scared,” Talisa answered, leaning back against her seat.

  “I’d go with you if I could. You know how much I’d love to see Africa.”

  “You’d love to see Africa from a five-star hotel with an experienced guide. Not with ten college students and a sleeping bag on a schoolroom floor.”

  Leila laughed. “So, next year you and I will go and we’ll use my travel agent instead of yours.”

  Talisa laughed with her, her head bobbing up and down against her shoulders. She reached a palm into the air, her fingers waving excitedly. “Oh, oh, oh!” she exclaimed. “Did I tell you what my mother did?”

  Eyebrows raised, Leila shook her head from side to side. “No. What’s happened this time?”

  “The hottie doctor called me. Not once, not twice, but three or four times.

  And she forgot to give me the messages.”

  “Your doctor from the auction? That doctor?”

  Talisa nodded, pulling a forkful of salad to her lips.

  Leila giggled. “I told you your mother was losing her mind. You don’t get half the messages I leave for you. That’s why I only call your cell now.”

  “I was so upset with her.”

  “Did you call him back at least?”

  “I tried. Dr. Becton has left the country for the next twelve months,” Talisa said, mimicking the only response she’d been able to get out of his nurse.

  “Where did he go?”

  Talisa shrugged, dejection painting a look of frustration across her face. “I don’t have a clue. No one will say.”

  Her friend shook her head. “Oh, well. You win some and you lose some.”

  “Damn, Leila,” Talisa muttered, tossing her hands into the air. “First, I didn’t think he was interested. Then he calls and my mother ruins it for me. I’ve lost him twice now and we haven’t even managed a conversation long enough to make a date.”

  Leila reached for the chip, flipping it to green for service. “Lord, have mercy! You cussed. This definitely sounds like a bottle of wine problem, if you ask me.”

  Their server smiled as Leila requested two glasses of wine. The two paused momentarily as they watched him head toward the bar and return quickly, a newly-opened bottle in hand. Leila resumed the conversation after the waiter poured them each a glass of cabernet. “So, how do you think your parents will do with you gone?”

  Talisa shrugged. “My father will be fine. I’ve got some concerns about my mother though. Something’s not right with her and I don’t know what it is.”

  “Talisa, there’s been something not right with your mother since before you were born. Your mother’s borderline crazy. You just don’t want to admit it. Maybe it’s time she saw a doctor.”

  “Okay, maybe she’s got some issues.”

  “Some issues? Girlfriend, I know she’s your mother but you need to take those blinders off. I love your mother dearly, but she has a lot more than some issues.”

  Talisa sighed, her gaze meeting Leila’s. She reached for her wineglass and took a sip. “They’re still fighting like cats and dogs. I’m afraid of what might happen when I’m gone.”

  Leila reached out a hand, dropping her palm against the back of Talisa’s clenched fist. “Your mother has an explosive temper. You and your father have both ignored it and now it’s getting worse. It may very well be a chemical imbalance. Take her to see a doctor,” the woman said more emphatically.

  “I tried, remember? She had a fit and the next thing I knew, we were rolling on the floor while she tried to pull my hair out. For a month afterward no one got any sleep. She was like a lunatic ranting through the house at all hours of the night. I don’t want to go through that again.”

  “Talisa, your mother is grown. So are you, and for once you need to think about you. You can’t make your mother get help and you don’t have to take her abuse. You know my opinion. You and your father enable her behavior by trying to hide it. You might be keeping the neighbors from finding out, but she still isn’t getting better. It’s like I recommended before—when she gets like that you need to call the police. Then call me and we need to have her committed so that she can be evaluated.”

  Talisa chuckled, a nervous laugh to mask her sudden desire to cry. “I think I’ll just go to Africa instead.”

  Her friend nodded. “But she’s still going to be crazy when you get back.”

  Mary London was pacing the floor, her stress evident on her face. Every few minutes she would pause and tap her foot against the linoleum flooring, her arms folded harshly across her chest. Talisa tossed the woman a quick smile, attempting to alleviate the tension that surged anxiously throughout the home.

  “Mom, you’re going to wear out the floor. I promise you everything is going to be fine.”

  “I don’t think you should go on this trip, Talisa. It’s not safe.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to me. I have to go. It’s my job.”

  “You don’t know what could happen in them jungles. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”

  Talisa reached to wrap her mother in a warm embrace. “You worry too much, Mommy.”

  “I should call that Reverend and tell him you can’t go. That man doesn’t know what’s good for you, Talisa. You need to listen to me.”

  Her daughter smiled, shaking her head from side to side. Just then her father entered the room, reaching for the oversized backpack sitting on the floor by the entrance. “You ready to go, pumpkin?”

  Talisa nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Mary tossed her hands up, anxiety causing her to shake. “Herman? This ain’t good. Talisa should stay home. She don’t have no business going over to no Africa!” she exclaimed excitedly.

  Her husband rolled his eyes. “Talisa has to go do her job, Mary. Stop giving her a hard time. She doesn’t need that from you right now.”

  The tone of his reprimand stalled the woman’s next comment, her mouth opening and then closing as she sputtered air.

  Talisa took advantage of the moment, leaning to kiss her mother’s cheek. “I’ll call you when I get there to let you know I’m safe,” she said, rushing behind her father as he exited the house. “I love you, Mom!” she called, closing the door behind her.

  Still frozen where she stood, Mary bristled with anger. Talisa was hardheaded, she thought, always had been. Shaking her head in frustration the woman rushed to the door, pulling it open just as her husband and child pulled out of the driveway. She watched as they headed out of sight, knowing that this trip would be the worst thing that co
uld happen to Talisa and she would probably be the one to fix the mess when the girl eventually came back home.

  As the airplane came to a smooth stop at the end of the runway, the noise level inside the cabin rose to a high pitch. The ten students were cheering excitedly and although many of the passengers were eyeing them all with a curious stare, Talisa found their excitement infectious. She was grinning broadly as they collected their luggage and were processed through customs.

  A small minivan was waiting in the arrival area, their host chaplain, Reverend James Oloya, greeting them cheerfully. “Welcome,” Reverend Oloya chimed, reaching to shake everyone’s hand.

  “Thank you for having us, sir,” Talisa said as the man embraced her warmly.

  “No, my dear. It is we who are so grateful. We are very pleased to have you here with us.”

  “When do we get started?” Clarissa, the senior intent on practicing pediatric medicine, asked excitedly.

  Their host smiled. “Tonight you’ll be guests at the American Embassy while we prepare you for your duties. In the morning we will take you on a tour of the country and then in the afternoon, over to the village where you’ll be spending the next two months.”

  As they climbed into the vehicle, Talisa locked eyes with another driver who was waiting patiently for his passengers. The mahogany-toned man smiled broadly, white teeth gleaming in her direction. He nodded his head ever so slightly as he appraised her, his gaze sweeping from the top of her head down to her feet. The overt gesture swept a wave of nervous tension through Talisa’s body and she felt herself blushing profusely as she pulled her tote bag to her chest.