“I have a surprise for you,” she said, standing up.
“What is it?”
“You’ll see,” she said.
She led him through the darkened house to her bedroom, her skin tingling with anticipation. She threw aside the mosquito net and took his hand, drawing him onto the bed. He lay beside her and their lips met. She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, beginning to unbutton the sweater she had put on before dinner. Suddenly, she felt his hand on her arm.
“Wait,” he whispered, his eyes as dark as slate. “There’s something you should know.” He tried to sit up. “Please, I have to tell you.”
She moved off him slowly, her desire merging with apprehension and anger. “Damn it! You can’t keep doing this to me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, crossing his legs on the bed. He looked at her in the shadows and spoke a truth she never could have imagined. “I’m HIV-positive.”
In the silence that followed, the grandfather clock chimed the hour.
“Why?” she said at last. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She sprang from the bed and fled into the living room. She looked out the window and saw the Southern Cross lying on its side above the tree line. A memory came to her of her mother standing on the night-shrouded plains of Kenya’s Maasailand. “When the world gets you down,” she had said, “don’t forget to look up.” Zoe closed her eyes. Not tonight, Mom.
Joseph broke into her thoughts. “Please, Zoe, listen to me. I didn’t know this would happen. I never expected that you would be so fantastic. And then when I saw what was happening, I didn’t want it to end. I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t know how.”
“I didn’t ask for this either,” she replied, tears gathering in her eyes. She sat down heavily on the couch. “How long ago were you tested?”
“The summer of 2009. My CD4 count was 710. I haven’t been back since.”
She twisted her mother’s ring. “What are you going to do?”
He was silent for a long moment. “What should I do?”
“I think you should get tested again. If they let you, you should start on ARVs.”
He went to the window and looked out at the dark sky. “My grandmother once told me that muzungus are intelligent but weak-willed. That’s why the colonists left Africa—they had no stamina. She made me promise I would never love a white woman. You’ve broken all the rules, Zoe. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only one I want.”
Her tears began to flow again. “I need you to give me time. I need to think.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry to ruin your surprise.”
She didn’t know where the laugh came from. “By God, you did ruin it. I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“That makes two of us.”
Chapter 22
For Zoe, the last days of 2011 passed excruciatingly slowly. Joseph’s revelation had the effect of an emotional tourniquet, at once throttling the natural flow of her feelings and accentuating her sensitivity to every disturbance. To distract herself, she learned everything she could about HIV—the stages of disease progression, the treatment guidelines from the World Health Organization, the effectiveness and side effects of antiretroviral therapy, the risks associated with sex between HIV-discordant couples, the methods of protection and their failure rates.
She read a summary of findings from the study conducted by Drs. Kruger and Luyt in Johannesburg. Where HIV-positive individuals began ARV treatment early—at a CD4 count between 350 and 550, not the original WHO trigger of 200—the rate of new infections decreased by 96%. Zoe took solace from the data, but it didn’t answer the deeper question: did she want a relationship in which every act of intimacy entailed risk, however slight?
CILA closed for the holidays on December 23 and didn’t reopen until January 2. Zoe spent Christmas weekend with the Prentices. Initially, she was thankful for the diversion, but by Monday she felt suffocated and restless. Desperate for a change of scenery, she bought a plane ticket to Namibia, rented a car at the Windhoek airport, and drove west across the Namib Desert to the sea. Her destination was a beach hotel in Henties Bay.
In all her travels, she had never made it to the Skeleton Coast. Wild, wind-whipped, and littered with shipwrecks, the stretch of ocean along the northern coast of Namibia was named “The Land God Made in Anger” by the Bushmen of the interior. At the height of the summer, its drama was unparalleled. For four days, Zoe submerged her pain in the thunder of driving surf, combing the beach for rocks and shells as she had on the Vineyard when she was a girl, savoring glasses of wine on the patio as the setting sun turned the sky into a rose garden, and leaving behind all reminders of time. She didn’t just want to be off the grid; she wanted to disappear.
When she boarded a plane again on New Year’s Eve, she felt refreshed but no less perplexed than when she left Lusaka. Love bound her to Joseph like a cord. It might stretch but it would not break, unless, of course, she severed it. And that was a step she could not take without denying everything she believed about the world.
The flight from Windhoek landed in Lusaka at noon. Zoe checked her phone, thinking Joseph might have sent her a message, but her inbox was empty. She had asked for patience, and he seemed willing to grant it. She threw her bags into her Land Rover and drove to Sunningdale.
The guard let her onto the Prentice grounds, and Carol greeted her in the foyer. “Was Namibia as dreamy as I remember it?” she asked, giving Zoe a hug.
“Like no place else,” Zoe replied. “Has Joseph called?”
Carol looked at her closely. “He hasn’t. Did something happen between you?”
Zoe shrugged. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, I’m all ears if you want to talk about it. We’re having a little soiree tonight with some friends from the Embassy in case you’re looking for a distraction.”
Zoe forced herself to smile. “It wouldn’t be New Year’s Eve without a party.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. A parcel arrived from the States. It came from a law firm.”
Zoe’s smile turned genuine. “It’s from my brother. My birthday is the second.”
“You didn’t tell me! What year is this?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“You’re so young! What I wouldn’t give to be twenty-nine again.” Carol laughed. “The box is on your bed. Oh, and don’t worry. I’ll make sure you have a proper cake.”
Zoe dropped her bags in her room and took the parcel onto the terrace. The box was squat and heavy, about ten inches by twelve. She opened it carefully and found the contents encased in bubble wrap. Atop the padding was a card with a photo of a pig cavorting in the mud. She giggled at the caption: “Some people find pleasure in the strangest places.”
Inside, Trevor had written:
Happy 29th, sis. I love you lots. I keep telling myself I’m going to get on a plane and come visit you, but the damn job never relents. I suppose I have Dad to blame for that. One of these days I’m going to go MIA and show up on your doorstep. Enjoy the goodies!
Beneath the bubble wrap were four bags of gourmet candies, a pint of Vermont maple syrup, a set of iPhone earbuds, a bound photo book of Trevor and his girlfriend, Jenna, on the Vineyard, and a pewter sea turtle with an engraving on its belly: “The race is not to the swift or the strong but to the persistent.” It was one of Catherine’s aphorisms, adapted from a verse in Ecclesiastes.
Zoe placed the turtle carefully in the box and paged through the photo book. Across the bottom of the last picture—an image of Jenna on the beach at sunset, tossing a smile over her shoulder—her brother had written: “Think she’s the one? I’m starting to believe it.”
Tears came to Zoe’s eyes. She had traveled to the edge of the world, but she could no more escape her history than she could alter her genetics. And there was the rub. She had never intended to leave it all behind. Not forever, at least. She wanted what her mother had—one foot in Africa and one foot in the West. How does Joseph fit into t
hat picture? she wondered. How am I supposed to make sense of this?
On her birthday, Zoe woke at sunrise, took a hot shower, and opened her MacBook. She started Skype and checked her watch. Trevor had promised to call her at 6:15 a.m.—just after midnight D.C. time. It was a tradition in their relationship. No matter where they were, no birthday could pass without a conversation.
Right on time, Zoe heard the electronic trill of an incoming call. “Hey, Trev,” she said, watching the video screen and smiling when his face appeared.
“Happy birthday, sis,” Trevor replied, his voice slightly distorted by interference. “Sorry to wake you with the birds.”
She laughed. “Sorry to keep you up so late.”
“Ha! I just got off work. Midnight is the new six o’clock.”
“How many cups of coffee have you had today?”
“Enough to make me consider exchanging my salary for Starbucks stock.” He sighed. “It’s crazy. The primaries haven’t even started yet.”
“That’s what you get for sleeping with ABT.” It was a longstanding point of contention between them that Trevor’s firm represented the legal interests of A Brighter Tomorrow, the SuperPAC that supported Jack Fleming’s campaign.
“Hey, she’s fancy and she’s got loads of money. Seriously, how are you? It’s been ages since I got anything but emails from you.”
“I could say the same for you.”
He grunted. “Busyness is a narcotic. It’s hard to break the habit.”
“I’m okay,” she said, dropping the banter. “Thanks for the package. I love the turtle.”
“So what do you think about my question?” he asked with a smile.
“You mean about Jenna?”
He nodded. “Think she’s the one?”
“You look happy, and she’s a great girl. What more can I say?”
“I bought a ring,” he confessed, displaying a hint of nervousness.
“That’s wonderful!” She tried to sound chipper, but the thought of Joseph injected a false note. “When are you going to propose?”
“We’re going to St. Kitts next month. I’m going to do it there.” He frowned, studying her image on his screen. “Something’s the matter. I can hear it in your voice.”
She hesitated. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s a guy, isn’t it? Is he African?”
He knows me so well we could be twins. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” she replied.
He shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“The Iowa caucuses are tomorrow,” she said, taking the conversation in a different direction. “From what I hear, Dad’s numbers are sliding in the heartland.”
Trevor grimaced. “It’s primary season. They’ll support him after the nomination.”
“But will they be motivated? It’s hard to unseat a sitting president.”
“The economy will drive the general election. Dad’s a businessman. He knows how to get the country back on track.”
“Sounds like you’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid.”
Trevor laughed. “I believe in what he’s doing.”
“How is it that we’re so alike and yet so different?”
For a moment he looked nonplussed. Then he changed gears. “I’m sorry you won’t be with us in New Hampshire. I was hoping to see you.”
She shook her head. “I can’t, Trev. I can’t support his position on austerity.”
“A lot of that is posturing. You know his convictions.”
“Do I? I knew Mom’s. I know Sylvia’s. But Dad is a chameleon.”
“I thought you hated single-issue voters.”
“This isn’t about voting. It’s about endorsement.”
“It’s not, though. It’s about family.”
His words knocked the wind out of her and transported her at the same time. Suddenly, she was eight years old again, worshiping the ground her father walked on. She had thought him incorruptible. But chance and choice had proven her wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she said in time. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I don’t need to. You’re my sister.” At once he brightened. “Hey, it’s your birthday. What are you going to do today?”
She forced herself to smile. “I’m going to sit out by the pool and do absolutely nothing.”
He applauded. “Good for you. Wish I could join you.”
“Come visit,” she said, feeling a resurgence of her fondness for him.
He winked at her. “You never know. I might just do that.”
The following day, Zoe returned to work, her conscience tangled in knots. At the all-staff meeting, she found herself glancing surreptitiously at Joseph, wondering what he was thinking. She spent that day and the next three weeks in turmoil. Workdays were tolerable because of their activity. Cases required prosecution, evidence had to be gathered, witnesses needed to be interviewed, and briefs required polishing. Evenings and weekends, however, were insufferable. To escape thoughts of the past and the future, she immersed herself in the present.
She increased the frequency of her visits to St. Francis and spent time with Kuyeya. The girl was particularly fond of gardening. She loved to watch Sister Irina and Zoe harvest vegetables and herbs from the earth. But observing wasn’t enough—she liked to touch everything. As she rummaged through the pickings, Zoe encouraged her to talk.
“What’s that?” Zoe asked one Sunday, pointing at the object in Kuyeya’s hands.
“Potato,” Kuyeya said. “Mommy says potato is good with nshima.” Zoe held up a large leaf. “What’s this?”
“Pumpkin,” said the girl, dropping the potato. “I like pumpkin with groundnuts.”
She put the leaf beneath her nose to smell it. Then she remembered the potato. She picked it up again and put it back in the basket. Her scrupulousness endeared her to Zoe. Regardless of what was happening around her, Kuyeya insisted that her world make sense.
When Zoe had downtime at home, she devoured everything she could find on the Internet about her father’s presidential campaign. Her allegiances were capricious. Some moments, she pilloried him for his policies; other moments, she found herself defending him against personal attacks. As the Iowa caucus voted and the debates and stump speeches accelerated on the road to New Hampshire, his rhetoric became increasingly strident. On everything from immigration to health care to education and defense, he preached a message calibrated to appeal to the fringe. On foreign assistance, he called for substantial retrenchment from all non-defense-related largesse. She remembered his excuse over dinner: “That’s just politics.” And Trevor’s: “A lot of that is posturing.” But Zoe wasn’t sure. In turning his ambitions from finance to politics, Jack had submitted his convictions to focus groups and advisors. He had lost his moral clarity.
After watching the New Hampshire debate, Zoe channeled her agitation into action and began to write. Initially, the essay was a vague pastiche of impressions, related but not fused. As she poured her thoughts onto the page, however, an article began to take shape. It was her mother’s story and it was her story, a story of charity and justice, of ideals in action. It was the story of America, the America Catherine had taught her to believe in—the country that had rebuilt Europe after the Second World War, founded the United Nations and the Peace Corps, funded the World Bank and PEPFAR, and transformed the world with not-so-random acts of kindness. It was also her father’s story—the middle-class kid whose ticket into the world of influence was a full scholarship to Harvard. She depicted him kindly, describing him as an ardent supporter of her mother’s work. Writing about him offered Zoe an unexpected gift. It allowed her to resurrect the Jack Fleming she had loved as a child—the man, not the partisan. At four thousand words, the piece was at once a deeply personal memoir and a passionate argument against parsimony—a call for governments and citizens to rise above debt crises and economic woes and provide for the poor and oppressed. Mom, she thought, this one’s for you.
She sent the article t
o Dr. Samantha Wu, her favorite law professor and the closest thing to a mentor in her life. An expert on international human rights, Dr. Wu had taken Zoe under her wing, advising her on the Yale Law Journal, steering her toward a clerkship with Judge van der Merwe, and encouraging her to write. Zoe’s article on justice in post-apartheid South Africa had been her idea, and she had brokered the connection at Harpers to get it published. After that success, she had made Zoe a standing offer: “If you write it and it’s good, I’ll find a home for it.”
Dr. Wu responded promptly:
Zoe, I have to admit I was a bit skeptical about this. But you won me over. It’s fresh, it’s timely, it’s meaningful and controversial. Given your father’s platform and your publishing history, I shouldn’t have any trouble placing it. I’d love to see it in Time, but I think it’s a stretch. I’m going to give it to Naomi Potter at the New Yorker and Brent Lyle at the Atlantic. I know both of them well. I’ll get back to you soon!
In the latter part of January, something shifted in Zoe’s heart. She knew she could no longer keep Joseph at arm’s length. He had been impossibly tolerant, treating her with kindness when work required collaboration but making no move to close the intimacy gap. It was she who had grown impatient. The situation required resolution. He deserved the dignity of a choice.
The next morning at work, Zoe received a call from St. Francis.
“Kuyeya had an accident,” said Sister Anica. “She seems to be all right, except for some pain in her neck. I’m taking her to see Dr. Chulu. Sister Irina asked me to call you.”
“What happened?” Zoe asked.
“No one knows. She just fell down.”
“You’re coming to UTH?”
“Yes. The doctor agreed to see her at fourteen hundred.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
She turned around and saw Joseph watching her. “Is it Kuyeya?”
The Garden of Burning Sand Page 23
