“In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills is both an evocative page-turner and an eye-opening meditation on the ways we survive profoundly painful memories and negotiate the complexities of love. I was deeply moved by this story.”
— Wally Lamb, New York Times bestselling author of She’s Come Undone and I Know This Much Is True
“This blazingly original novel is about the illusions of love, the way memory can confound or release you, and the knotted threads that make up family—and forgiveness. Profound, powerful, and oh, so, so moving.”
— Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of Is This Tomorrow and Pictures of You
“Jennifer Haupt has woven an intricate and moving tale of family and culture, of conflict and love, and of the challenges of healing after unthinkable loss. Told with remarkable compassion and grace, In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills is a story everyone should read.”
— Therese Anne Fowler, New York Times bestselling author of Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald
“…an exploration of grief, justice, family, and reconciliation … the focus is on healing rather than revenge and anger. Haupt’s debut novel is a good choice for those seeking tales of hope after adversity and it may prove popular with book clubs.”
— Booklist
“Jennifer Haupt takes readers on a journey that spans from the turmoil of Civil Rights-era Atlanta to an orphanage in Rwanda born of unspeakable tragedy. In this hopeful story that transcends race and cultural differences, Haupt guides both the survivors and readers toward the courage to believe in love again. An important story reminding us that when a crime is unforgivable, only grace will do.”
— Susan Henderson, Founder of LitPark blog, author of The Flicker of Old Dreams
“This astonishing debut novel about an American woman’s search for her father in Rwanda knits together intricate, complex stories of love and the destructive forces of society that tear families apart. Haunting and delicately told, Jennifer Haupt enters the heart of Rwanda’s darkest hour and shows us where to find the light.”
— Jessica Keener, author of Strangers In Budapest
“In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills by Jennifer Haupt takes readers from Atlanta to New York City to the dark and mysterious hills of Rwanda as three women of different ages, backgrounds, and experiences come together in the most unlikely of places…”
— Bustle, 19 Debut Novels Coming Out In 2018 That You Definitely Won’t Want To Miss
“In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills is a beautifully written novel that tells a compelling story. I was deeply moved by it. Jennifer Haupt is a gifted writer, whose heart is as large as her considerable talents.”
— Steve Yarbrough, author of The Realm of Last Chances
“I highly recommend In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills for a story that moves seamlessly through eras, countries, and heartbreaks without breaking stride. It is beautiful, poignant, and immensely readable.”
— Paperback Paris Book Blog
“Haupt was able to produce the true emotion that this novel elicited by building rich and realistic characters that spoke to her readers.”
— Drink. Read. Repeat.
“Exploring themes of grief, abandonment, loss, love, healing, the horror of violence, the barbarism of prejudice, and the complications of family, this novel is a glittering gem.”
— Dianah Hughley, Bookseller, Powell’s City of Books, Portland OR
“Whether you’re looking for a fulfilling novel, a transporting reading experience, or a great book club discussion book, choose Jennifer Haupt’s debut. In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills portrays interweaving journeys in the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide with a sensitivity and universality that make the unbearable bearable.”
— Tegan Tigani, Bookseller, Queen Anne Book Company, Seattle, WA
“In her debut novel, Jennifer Haupt explores unforgivable crimes and their lasting impacts on disparate lives, tackling a dark time in history with power and grace.”
— Mira T. Lee, Author of Everything Here is Beautiful
“While In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills remains true to setting, both in place and in time, it is also timely, and reveals how forgiveness is possible even during the trials following the unspeakable acts of a horrific war. Author Jennifer Haupt’s experience as a journalist in Rwanda plants the seeds of truth that bloom on every page.”
— Foreword Reviews
Copyright © 2018 Jennifer Haupt
Cover and internal design © 2018 Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.
Cover Design: Michelle Halket
Cover Images: Courtesy & Copyright: iStock / guenterguni
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Central Avenue Publishing, an imprint of Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.
www.centralavenuepublishing.com
Published in Canada
Printed in United States of America
1. FICTION/Literary 2. FICTION/Family Life
IN THE SHADOW OF 10,000 HILLS
Trade Paperback: 978-1-77168-133-9
Epub: 978-1-77168-134-6
Mobi: 978-1-77168-135-3
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Dedicated to everyone searching for amahoro.
{ April 14, 1994 — Mubaro, Rwanda }
THE GIRL WAITS. THERE ARE ONLY THE silver threads of a spiderweb swooping precariously over the top left corner of a window frame. There are no rays of warm light seeping through cracked glass. There is no slight breeze, no swaying jacaranda branch heavy with purple blossoms her mother sometimes plucked before church and pinned to the brim of her straw hat. These simple luxuries disappeared hours, perhaps days, ago.
She is not sure how long she’s been curled up in the darkness, under the frame of a stepladder tented with a blue tarp. Long enough that there is only the faintest odor of paint, turpentine and a piney cleanser. Long enough that her empty stomach no longer gurgles, and the certainty of a machete blade slitting her neck no longer brings up the sour taste of fear. For as long as she can remember, her family has lived with the threat of death—maybe today, maybe tomorrow—as if each day is a gift, easily snatched away. It occurs to her that fear is what has given the Hutus their power. The boys who sometimes shove her into the dirt while walking to school, and the men who come to take her father’s crops. It is some small comfort that they no longer have power over her.
She presses one eye against a ragged triangle of light, scraped open with a rusty nail. It only distracts her mind for a few seconds at a time but that’s enough to suppress the urge to run from this place. There is nowhere to run, nothing to do but wait. Nose pressed to plastic, there is only the shimmering web—no screams, no church bells clanging, no shattering glass, no gunshots that pulse behind her eyes, no ache in her groin, no pieces of prayers.
There is barely enough room, even knees pulled to chest, between the steel rails of the ladder. Still, the girl rocks back and forth, back and forth. She pulls an oversized flannel shirt down over bare knees and hooks it under curled toes. She hums without making a sound, the force of her breath vibrating in her chest, a Kinyarwanda lullaby her mother used to sing every night. Umama sings to her, still, louder than the bass pumping from a boom box, primal and urgent, too loud to be mistaken for music.
She waits, watching the web until t
he shiny black insect with spindly golden legs floats back into sight. It’s a relief to see the spider fortifying her home, spinning away. As long as the spider is in view, there is a small hope that the man who wrapped his shirt around her and told her to wait, to make herself small and quiet and hide somewhere safe in her mind, might also return.
ONE
{ August 15, 2000 — New York City }
RACHEL SHEPHERD BRACES A HAND AGAINST the mattress, and rolls onto her side in slow motion so as not to rock the boat of her bed and awaken her husband. She sips in air and waits out the ripple of achy pain across her lower abdomen, traces a knob of elbow or knee nudging her ribs. Easy, champ, no kickboxing…or spin class. There’s no standing on her feet mixing drinks, that’s for sure, but this is no vacation. Four months of wallowing in bed, not even a walk to Washington Square for a hot pretzel and to watch the acrobatic skateboard punks. She sits up. Another contraction, lower this time. They seem to come in pairs. But that’s normal. ‘Perfectly normal,’ those were the ob-gyn’s exact words. Bed rest is merely a precaution. Braxton-Hicks, not real labor. This isn’t real.
“Get you something?” Mick mumbles into his pillow. Rachel waits a beat, but he doesn’t reach out to her. He doesn’t flip on the light. Doesn’t ask again.
“I’m fine, just need to pee.” She dips a toe out of bed. Water, lots of water. According to What to Expect When You’re Expecting, fluids may ease the contractions. But won’t that make her have to pee again? Isn’t she supposed to stay in bed? The doctor said she could walk around the apartment, but how often? Why didn’t she think to ask? She swipes a baby book off the stack on the bedside table and holds it to her chest. Two weeks ago, she sat at her mom’s bedside, brainstorming baby names, debating the best diapers (cloth, definitely cloth), comparing cravings, asking for advice on a million little things a mother should know. Who can she ask now?
Across the hall in the almost-nursery, Rachel blinks against walls stark with primer. A dozen shades of yellow paint chips are scattered at her feet like a field of daisies. Against the far wall, within arm’s reach of a skeletal, half-assembled crib, is a flea-market-find desk with beveled edges. Her designated study space/future office. She eases into the Herman Miller chair with a wobbly arm, a cast-off from Mick’s office, and pushes aside a dog-eared catalogue of fall courses at New York University. Mick’s right, thirty-three is getting too old to keep bartender’s hours, especially with a baby on the way. The beauty of her job, though, is the freedom. That, and the music. When she moved here from Jacksonville fourteen years ago, she couldn’t believe someone would actually pay her to listen to up-and-coming bands—new wave and punk, and then grunge—while sliding bottles of beer across the bar.
Now, she shakes martinis at the Blue Note. The classic blues singers are her favorites: Ella, B.B., Etta, Buddy. These legends are from another era, before slam dancing and mosh pits, when music was more sensual than sexed-up. The songs are real stories, told straight from the heart, of love and loss. Sometimes, she finds herself turning away from the stage—restocking the condiment tray or examining the rows of colorful bottles on glass shelves—her face flushed with a vulnerability she doesn’t want exposed to customers sitting at the bar. There’s a connection, not only with the singer’s aching heart but also her own desire. After the song ends she turns back to taking orders for cocktails and making small talk, the desire gone.
The cardboard box wedged under the desk is heavier than she remembers. A nurse’s aide packed up her mom’s few belongings after she succumbed to a fifteen-year battle with liver cancer. Rachel winces at the scrape and thump of dragging the box out into the room, glances toward the door and then exhales a mixture of disappointment and relief: her dog, Louie, not her husband, pads in from the hallway. The collie mix gives the cardboard box an indifferent sniff. Rachel scratches his ear as she rereads the note that came with it in the mail last week: Ms. Shepherd, you must have forgotten… But, no, she hadn’t forgotten to pick up these scraps of her mom’s life after the funeral.
Nobody leaves. This was their pact. Just the two of them. She was angry that her mom broke it. She rummages through this hodgepodge of her mom’s life: a pink silk scarf, a crystal rosebud vase that was a recent Mother’s Day present, a plastic bag of glittering rhinestone jewelry, a few photos of the two of them that were taped to the fridge, and a manila envelope that probably holds personal documents. She removes a plastic Macy’s bag, plump with the remnants of a half-finished green and blue afghan for the baby’s crib. “I’ll finish this before she’s born,” she promises, and then says to her stomach, “Your Gram would have loved teaching you to knit.” Merilee would have showed her granddaughter the right way to apply make-up, spoiled her with frilly dresses, the kind Rachel refused to wear, spent afternoons sharing her secret recipes for triple-fudge brownies and the crispiest fried chicken ever. She would have loved recruiting someone else into their “girls only” club.
There’s not much else in the box that’s worth saving. Rachel uses the scarf to wipe a snowy mantle of dust off a silver-framed photo. They look so formal, almost regal: Her father in a tuxedo, brown curls slicked back off his broad Slavic face. Merilee’s shiny dress the perfect shade of buffed pearl against alabaster skin, waves of auburn hair swept into an updo, her wedding veil a crown. The newlyweds gaze at each other like they’re the only two people in the room. It’s a little unsettling to see her parents looking as happy as she and Mick were, exchanging vows under the oak tree in his parents’ backyard at the foot of the Catskills. There were dozens of O’Sheas, members of their church, and neighbors. A small group of Mick’s friends and their wives, from his Wall Street office and racquetball club, who had become Rachel’s friends too, travelled to the quaint town in Upstate New York. Her mom walked her down the aisle.
Next, Rachel hooks a finger under the flap of the manila envelope; it seems to breathe open, exhaling a handful of yellow-edged photos onto the desk with a crumpled sigh. She vaguely recognizes the pictures her father shot as a photographer at The St. Augustine Record, his dream job after finishing high school. She lays them out side by side, and slots them into the photo album of her memory. Some of these images from the mid-sixties were displayed on the walls of her father’s office at the ad agency where he worked: Martin Luther King, Jr. behind a pulpit; several burly white policemen standing over a black woman curled up in a ball on the street; John F. Kennedy on the steps of the Jacksonville City Hall; a young white boy helping an elderly black woman up the front steps of a bus. These photos always struck her as a montage of a different world where her father once lived, where he met a president and took photos of interesting—sometimes dangerous—people. After he left, she imagined him travelling back to this foreign land. Merilee told her the photos were lost; it followed that her father was lost, too. Of course, that’s why he never wrote or called. She didn’t want to upset her mom, bring on the darkness that sent Merilee to bed with the shades drawn for sometimes days, even before her father left. And so, for years Rachel worried silently: How would her father stay warm? Find stuff to eat? Find his way back to her.
The truth is, she envies the family stories Mick and his three sisters told at their wedding. She envies the way, every year, her husband looks forward to Christmas at his parents’ house, with relatives coming from Baltimore and somewhere in Ohio. She envies Mick’s easy smile as he strolls through his hometown, waves to neighbors. She never knows quite what to do, where to sit, in the white clapboard house where he still has a bedroom. It was just Rachel and her mom in the tomb-like house in suburban Jacksonville with not enough furniture. This is still our home, Merilee maintained stubbornly, sometimes working two secretarial jobs to make mortgage payments.
There’s one photo stuck in the envelope, the thin, splintery wooden frame rough against Rachel’s fingers as she coaxes it out. She props the timeworn image of a young black woman dressed in a navy suit with a Peter Pan collar on the desk beside the silver-framed happy n
ewlyweds. Rachel studies the woman trapped under dull glass: she stands in a church, her hands braced against a pew, slivers of gold and purple light from a stained glass window falling around her like an exploding meteor. Her expression is heartbreakingly sincere. In the distance is the blurred image of a preacher behind a pulpit. The date in the top corner of the Life magazine cover is April 4, 1968, the day Reverend King was assassinated. The bold-faced headline reads: The End of a Dream.
Rachel picks up the photo, remembers it in clear view when she used to sit in the leather chair at her father’s desk. As a child, she was mesmerized by the young face with grown-up narrowed eyes, her chin jutted forward. The girl in the church window appeared downright fierce, defiant. Hopeful. Rachel came to regard hope as a weakness, a silly wish that couldn’t possibly come true. When her parents fought, which was often, her mom called her father a dreamer—said it like a curse. When her father left, she felt guilty, as if she were betraying her mom by daydreaming about where he might be. How he might one day return. Eventually she stopped thinking of him altogether. By the time she moved to New York she stopped hoping for any kind of love to show up, settling instead for affairs with interchangeable men, slightly more hygienic versions of Kurt Cobain. Men who usually insisted on going to her place instead of their own, where Rachel suspected a wife or girlfriend was likely waiting.
One lazy Sunday morning, Mick O’Shea sat next to her on a bench in Battery Park to watch the ferries glide past Lady Liberty. She was impressed that he asked for permission. She said yes, although he wasn’t her type: bristly blond hair and a ruddy face, handsome in a J. Crew catalogue sort of way. She was intrigued by this guy—this man—her age, but he came off much older, a little stiff and serious. Mick called to ask her out on actual dates, wore Calvin Klein suits and had business cards that read Junior Financial Planner. He “courted” her for six years, half-joking that his persistence would eventually wear her down. Their courtship was a game and she enjoyed being thought of as a prize. Their wedding day, three years ago, was the happiest day of her life.
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