In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills

by Jennifer Haupt

  Rachel leans back against the pillows with a heaving sigh. They’ve had this discussion before: trading their East Village loft for a historic bungalow with a big yard and a view of the Catskills, his mom just around the corner. She’d definitely give them some starter furniture, there’s a ton in the basement. Rachel places a hand flat on the art deco bedside table with a marble top and bear-claw feet. She scrounged it from an estate sale in Park Slope and refinished it herself. Mother O’Shea’s taste runs more toward dark and somber Early Americana. Where the hell does she fit into her husband’s perfect life?

  “My sisters have this great system worked out where they work part-time and trade off babysitting so they don’t need to pay for daycare,” Mick says. “You could get in on that deal.”

  “I’m pretty much set on getting my accounting degree at NYU,” Rachel replies, although the only job she really wants is full-time mom.

  THAT NIGHT, AS RACHEL FLOATS on the cusp of sleep, Mick’s weight shifting in the space next to her, she imagines her father’s shadow perched on the edge of the bed, watching over her. Louie dispatches a dreamy grumble from his sentinel post on the rug. She reaches down toward the collie, her stomach tight and achy, and pats his head in appreciation: her protector. Suddenly, her stomach knots as if the baby is grabbing hold with a tight fist, a message she is unable to decipher.

  After a hike to the kitchen for a glass of milk, she heads into the nursery, fully painted with Bumblebee Yellow walls and hip-high shelves lined with chubby books meant more for gnawing on than reading. She reaches into the crib, buffered with Goodnight Moon bumpers to remove the afghan-in-progress stuffed into a Macy’s plastic shopping bag. She settles into the sliding rocker, and then rolls out the half-finished blanket across her lap. Tucked inside is a gold cardboard box in surprisingly good shape. She carefully opens this final gift from her mom. An ivory beaded necklace is nestled in tissue paper, a menagerie of wooden animals dangling from it: a leopard, zebra, elephant, and giraffe. The notecard reads, Happy thirteenth birthday, Cricket.

  “Jesus, Mom,” Rachel whispers. She brings the necklace to her chest, the other hand reaching for the snow globe on her desk. Her father’s footprints in the snow. He called her Cricket, teased that she was always chirping away or something like that. Had he been sending her gifts all along? Letters too? She looks to the mountain trapped in a whirl of paper snowflakes, as if for answers.

  As a child, Rachel worried about what happened to the oversized Florida Gators jersey that used to hang in the front hall next to her blue windbreaker. The fridge seemed empty without the huge bottle of Dr. Pepper her father would swig from on the top shelf. She spent entire afternoons playing detective, searching each room of the house for evidence that he had been there at all. The travel magazines that used to fan across the coffee table, the shaving kit in the bathroom, the chipped coffee mug that was always in the kitchen sink in the morning… World’s Best Dad. All of his things were gone. And yet, these are the things Rachel still remembers about Henry Shepherd.

  She leans back in the chair, closes her eyes and clutches the necklace so tightly that sharp zebra ears and a rhino horn dig into her palm. Happy birthday, Cricket. What did her father sound like when he spoke her name? And his laugh; he was always cracking lame jokes. At least that’s how she remembers it. He used to sit on her bed at night and tell stories, this much she knows for sure. She loosens her grip on the necklace and brushes her fingers against her shoulder. He must have rubbed her back, or placed a hand on her head as she fell asleep. Maybe he sang… No, he would make up stories. Wouldn’t he?

  She hears her mom, loud and clear, in one of her more generous moments: “He loved you, and me I suppose, the best he could. I’m afraid,” Merilee sighed, “he simply didn’t have it in him to be a good father. Not everyone does.” But the dad who sent the snow globe and necklace, he loved her. He did. And the young man with slicked back curls in the wedding photo, holding his new bride close…

  “When?” she whispers aloud. When had the trouble started between her parents? Maybe it was before she was born. Had Merilee gotten pregnant with hopes of saving her marriage too?

  Rachel always assumed Merilee’s mercurial temper was to blame for their troubles, imagined her father trying to calm her down. Of course he loved her, only her. Coming downstairs to breakfast was always a gamble. Some mornings, Merilee sang along with Sinatra records, tapping a gold slipper on the linoleum as she cooked grits, fried tomatoes and poached eggs. Other times, a box of Lucky Charms was on the table, her mom nowhere in sight. Rachel vaguely recalls her father pouring cereal—memory or desire, she’s not sure—shushing her. Mommy’s having one of her black days.

  Rachel circles her arm under her belly. “What was Grandpa really like, Serena?” she wonders aloud, a sadness unraveling from someplace deep within. It’s a barren place where the missing pieces of her father—the stories he told, the jokes they shared, the trips to the park or the zoo they surely enjoyed together—used to fit snugly. Was he a good father?

  He simply didn’t have it in him.

  A chilling thought shoots through Rachel’s fingertips, her hand springing away from her stomach. Does she have it in her to be a good mother? She goes back to the kitchen and opens the laptop on the counter to check her email box. Nothing, of course there’s nothing, it’s too soon for Lillian to have responded. She shuts off the computer and walks back across the hall, slips into bed beside her husband. She’ll check again after Mick leaves for work. Lillian has to help her find Henry Shepherd so she can reclaim these memories, not only for herself but also for her daughter.

  FOUR

  { September 15, 2000 }

  THE CRACKLING CHIRP, CLASH, BANG OF the Internet connecting through the phone line is a symphony to Nadine’s ear, her entry into a world where she’s in charge of the information funneled to her instead of being forced to study math and economics. She flips through the algebra book next to her pillow and then lays her head close enough to smell the musty pages, as if she might figure out what linear equations are through osmosis. All she really cares about is music. She keeps an eye on the minutes passing in the corner of the computer screen perched on her desk: 2:01, 02, 03… She groans as the line goes silent and clicks on the dial-up button again.

  Some nights she doesn’t sleep more than a few hours, instead researching the world of music beyond Mozart and opera that isn’t covered in her classes. Lately, she’s been obsessed with American punk rock of the late 1980s—the anger and raw emotion is unlike anything allowed on Rwanda radio stations, where Madonna is considered cutting edge. There’s a code that a boy, likely trying to impress her, revealed to bypass the Internet security settings of the university. Supposedly, they are protecting students from pornography and other unnamed evils floating around online, but escaping into her computer is far safer than sleeping. The nightmares are worse here, especially since the attorney from Kigali called last week, asking questions there’s no use in answering. What happened at the church? What did you see? Who murdered your friends and family? What possible good will it do to speak of these things? She learned long ago that staying quiet is the way to stay safe.

  While waiting for entry into the World Wide Web, a fairytale land she never had access to before coming to school in Nairobi, her gaze drifts to the neatly made twin bed across the room. Most girls would be happy for the privacy, a roommate who practically lives at her boyfriend’s apartment, but the empty bed brings up unsettling thoughts. She shared a room with her older cousin, Sylvia, for nearly five years, after Sylvia’s family was murdered and their land in a nearby town seized by the government. She remembers the feel of her cousin, soft and round, scrunched beside her on a bed like this one. They read with a flashlight, the same book, A Wrinkle in Time, over and over, Sylvia nudging her gently when she was ready to turn the page. The static finally clears. The first thing Nadine does is check email for a return message from Tucker. He’ll know what to do about the attorney,
and she can trust him not to tell Maman. Sure enough, there it is. The subject line reads: No worries.

  Hey, Princess,

  First of all, I need to tell you Rosie says, “hi.” She’s been practicing her mancala game with Zeke, so be forewarned. By the time you come home for the holiday break next month, they’ll both give you a run for your money. Next on the agenda: the attorney from Kigali. I’m assuming she’s with the United Nations International Tribunal, although you didn’t say. They’re pushing to expedite more trials of genocide crimes because of criticism by the new government. That’s a good thing. But I can’t blame you for being hesitant to testify. You have to tell Lillian. You know that, right? We’ll figure this out when you come home. And listen up: Do Not Worry! I have a plan. You just concentrate on your studies. Check out the new Star Wars movie with your friends.

  Nadine clicks link after link, trying not to think about everything. The attorney. The exam she’s surely going to fail. Going home. How will she tell Tucker and Maman the truth, that she’s lonely and quite possibly going to be expelled from university if she doesn’t pass the algebra midterm? And Tucker’s right, of course, about telling Maman the attorney called.

  During waking hours, she does not think of her cousin Sylvia beside her in the cramped rafters, where Baba made them stay after the killing began, pulling up the rope ladder and replacing the false ceiling after each time they came down for food or to use the toilet. She does not think of Sylvia’s hand clamped over her mouth as they heard gunshots, her father shouting and then only Umama sobbing. She does not think of her father’s blood that stained the living room walls. She does not think of the false hope they clung to, walking through town with their suitcases to the church. Hundreds of Tutsis, wondering where all of their Hutu neighbors were, the men who had been guarding their homes for weeks, making sure they didn’t leave.

  She does not think of what happened at the church. At first, she had believed that Rahim Kensamara, the precinct leader, was sparing her life out of kindness. They were neighbors. He had often shared bottles of urwaga on the back stoop of their house with Baba and other men in the neighborhood, Hutu and Tutsi alike. Some must be left to tell. Maybe you, maybe not. This was all Rahim Kensamara would say when she asked if he was going to kill her. Being kept alive was a punishment worse than death, for the girl his youngest son sometimes protected at school.

  She shuts down the computer and tries to study, but all she can think about is the attorney. You must tell, so that justice can be served. It’s your responsibility. No, she will not tell anyone about the massacre at the church that Rahim Kensamara and the others called the Hutu glory. She will not remember, at least not during the daylight. But late at night, when she becomes so tired it is impossible to stay awake even with the Internet, that’s when the punishment begins all over again. There is no controlling what comes to her in dreams.

  FIVE

  { September 15, 2000 }

  RACHEL IS SUSPENDED IN ALMOST-SLEEP, the wooden hippos and giraffes solid and comforting around her neck, mooring her in place. She’ll find Lillian’s phone number online, call her tomorrow. What’s Lillian going to do, hang up on her? Or, maybe Mick’s right and she should leave it alone. If only her mom was here, she would have to come clean now. Rachel places a hand on the necklace. Wouldn’t she?

  She dreamily recalls her last visit with Merilee: leaning over her bed to plant a soft kiss on a heavily rouged cheek. A bright scarf. A flash of smooth scalp. A slash of coral lipstick. Doing her face several times daily became one final way of fighting back against the hideous disease. Another image comes to mind: the larger-than-life headshot of Merilee propped on an easel beside her grave. Her young bright face, bare shoulders dusted by sleek finger-waves of auburn hair. She’s at the beach, of course, her favorite place, against a background of sparkling ocean and sky—a deep blue that mirrors her eyes. She’s gazing into the camera Henry Shepherd is surely holding. So sensual! This is the woman Rachel wants to remember, before the cancer turned creamy skin rough and papery, and drained the light from her eyes.

  “How’s our little Rockette today?” Merilee asks from somewhere both close and far away, part dream and part memory. Rachel rubs her abdomen, a dull ache reminding her that her mom will never meet Serena.

  “My little girl, a mother.” Merilee sighs, and then closes her eyes and begins to hum You Are My Sunshine. “I sang, your father told stories. Sometimes I listened from the hall. Tired…so tired.”

  “What was he like?” Rachel asked quietly that day at Seaview Estates as her mom fell asleep. Was he smart, funny? Was he the one who helped her learn to read, ride a bike? Questions she had never dared to bring up as a child.

  When Merilee awoke a few hours later, Rachel tried again. “You used to listen when Dad was tucking me into bed,” she said, holding a mirror for her mom to assess her afternoon face after applying a fresh coat of make-up. “What did he say?”

  “Oh, it’s so silly.”

  “What, Mom?”

  “I thought…” Merilee sighed, frowning at her reflection in the mirror. “I thought I might hear him telling you things.”

  “Things?”

  “You know, we used to talk. Well, mostly I’d listen to Henry going on about how he wanted to travel the world, take photos of important places and people.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “He was never satisfied, not with me, his job, our life.” Merilee traced her sagging jaw with a finger. “Me,” she repeated softly.

  “So, did you hear him telling me important things?”

  “Fairytales about those exotic places he used to ramble on about. At the time I didn’t think they were important, but now…” Merilee shook her head and pushed away the mirror, kneading her bony fingers against the hem of the sheet. “When you were older, you two would chatter away in your room for hours, making up stories together.”

  “Tell me,” Rachel prompted.

  Merilee recalled a scientist hunting for fancy black orchids in the Amazon jungle. An island with soda-pop rivers and gumdrop trees. A magical place with zebra and caribou roaming around the backyard.

  Now, Rachel tosses in bed, clutches the animal beads around her neck. Kwizera. Her father told her stories about Kwizera. Had he been in contact with Lillian all along? Loved her? “Mom, it’s okay,” she whispers in her dream state. Back in the nursing home she sullenly asked her mother why she never joined them. What was holding her back?

  “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was jealous,” Merilee confessed. “Of you and him, both. The two of you.”

  Perhaps Merilee knew all along about Lillian. That would explain why she was so bitter. Her mom’s hands were clenching the sheet, the skin mottled and papery thin.

  Rachel reaches out, now more awake than asleep. Why didn’t she take those frail hands in her own? Her fingers go rigid on her stomach, tamping down a pulsing, uncomfortable heat. She always blamed her mom; it was so easy to believe that the bitterness was what drove her father away. The best she could do in that hospital room was to bite her lip and try not to say anything hurtful.

  In her bed, lying beside her husband, she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to rewrite the past in her dreams. She curls onto her side, the heat in her abdomen radiating through her body. If only she could go back in time and change the way she sat frozen in the chair next to her dying mother’s bed, afraid to touch that fragile version of the tough woman who raised her. So afraid her mom would leave her. She remembers how she watched, horrified, paralyzed for long moments before pressing the call button, while Merilee slipped into a coma.

  Now, slipping back into the dream, she holds her mom in her arms and rubs her back. “Remember our pact?” she soothes. Nobody leaves. They used to whisper-promise in the dark, her mom lying beside her as she fell asleep.

  Merilee pulls away and looks straight into Rachel’s eyes. “He called.”

  “I know, that first Christmas—”

  “No, after
that too.”

  Rachel takes a few deep breaths, trying to shut off the hot pain shooting through her so she can listen carefully. Is that what her mom was trying to tell her as she slipped away? At the time, she assumed morphine-induced guilt had made Merilee remember things differently. “Tell me,” she mumbles, kicking off the sheets, her skin too tight and warm. Did he really call?

  “Don’t hate me, little girl,” Merilee says softly, the dream fading away.

  “Mom!” Rachel yells, the pain ripping through her throat.

  Nobody leaves.

  Suddenly, she’s falling somewhere dark and bottomless, clinging to the mattress, sinking under water, ropes of seaweed pulling her down. “Mom,” Rachel gasps, throwing an arm across the bed, struggling to untangle herself from sleep. Don’t leave, please don’t leave.

  Mick flips on the lamp. “Hey, just a dream.”

  She freezes as her hand lands on the thick stickiness oozing down her right thigh. “Mick!”

  “Jesus, don’t move, just don’t move.”

  Rachel lies perfectly still, barely breathing, locking onto her husband’s eyes. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, as if afraid to touch her. “Yes, damn it, this is an emergency,” he shouts into the phone, and then quieter, “It’s okay, Ray. The ambulance will be here soon.”

  It might be minutes or hours later; Rachel’s floating somewhere beyond time. She no longer feels the ache in her abdomen, the stickiness on her legs, the weight of her body as she’s lifted onto a canvas slab. “Are you cold, ma’am? Need another blanket?” a woman’s voice asks. Rachel doesn’t answer. She can’t. She’s no longer there. It’s okay, baby girl, I’m here. She echoes Merilee’s voice in her head, blocking out the stab of a needle, the waxy oxygen mask slapped onto her face, the siren wailing.

  RACHEL AWAKENS AT THREE A.M. out of habit, anticipating the tiny kicks of Serena’s early morning calisthenics instead of the throbbing in her womb. A soft blue light falls across her shoulder and she adjusts her eyes, at first confused to see a railing at the bedside. The needle taped into her forearm comes into focus, and then the tube running to a clear bag suspended in air. Beside it, a monitor shows the steady up and down line that verifies life. She watches the screen and smiles with groggy satisfaction, rubbing a hand over her belly. Her fingers freeze, grazing the sticky edge of a bandage. “Serena,” she shouts, but all that comes out is a hoarse whimper. Her husband’s arms wrap loosely around her—too loose. She’s weak and exhausted, wants to sink safely into him but can’t shake the dizzy sensation of falling. Falling, falling, as if she’ll never again land on solid ground.