In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills

by Jennifer Haupt

  “So, she’s expecting us. Right?”

  Tucker takes a bite of the sandwich, chews slowly but can’t seem to swallow.

  Rachel leans forward. “Tucker, she invited me here. She must know—”

  “Technically, I invited you here.”

  “Technically? As in you answered my email for her?”

  “As in, she didn’t even see your last email. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

  “Because…” Rachel gives him a wide-eyed, are-you-fucking-nuts-or-an-asshole stare.

  “It’s better this way. Lillian will like you, once she meets you.”

  She’s still staring, her eyes narrow, definitely considering the nutjob or asshole theory.

  “Look.” Tucker taps his palm. “For starters, you’re Henry’s daughter. And I like you, that counts for something.” She’s smiling now, kind of, so he rushes on. “She’ll love that you chucked your suitcase down the stairs at the airport. Really, you two aren’t so different. You’ll—”

  “I see.” Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose.

  “I’ll try the shortwave.” Tucker escapes to the Jeep and holds up his walkie-talkie for her to see, and then pretends to press the contact button. It is better this way. Besides, it’s too late to turn back now.

  SIXTEEN

  THE WOODEN STAIRS MOAN AS LILLIAN climbs up into the attic, loose slats jiggling underfoot. She stops at the top and bats away a cloud of downy particles that seem to be magnetized to the dim light bulb. Her eyes sift through the shadows, landing on a silver-framed photo atop an old VCR that nobody’s used since Henry left. This photo is where her mind went, listening to Tucker’s phone message. It’s the right thing to do, you’ll see. “Coward,” she mutters. Calling from the airport. He could at least have told her face-to-face before leaving for Nairobi, given her time to…what? Prepare?

  She wipes off the frame with the hem of her batik skirt. Such a handsome couple: Henry wearing a brown suit with blue pinstripes, she in a silk tunic a shade of purple Henry had thought matched the wild pansies carpeting the riverbank in the forest. The extravagant clothes were an impulse buy at a boutique in the Nyamirambo district of Kigali, where the diplomats’ wives shopped. They were in Kigali for the day, just to have lunch and window shop. They were celebrating. The farm was finally paid off.

  She holds the photo firmly in both hands. Their wedding photo. March 7, 1985, twenty years to the day since they had first laid eyes on each other in Ebenezer Church. They bought a small bottle of Pernod in Kigali and spent that night making love, making plans, and writing commitment vows. Early the next morning, she awoke to find Henry sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his new pin-striped suit. “I was thinking all night and it finally came to me,” he said. “The perfect place to recite our vows.”

  She pulled the sheet up to her bare collarbone and edged closer to Henry to give him a long, deep kiss. “Right here is plenty perfect.”

  “Save it for the honeymoon,” he teased. “Now, put on that fancy dress, before the kids wake up.”

  Henry led her deep into the dark forest and stopped at the mopani tree that marks the bend in the river. He spread out a blanket on the flat area between two roots that held them like thick sturdy arms. They watched as the sun rose, pink light filtering through the distinctive leaves shaped like butterfly wings. They stood on the riverbank, no one to witness their vows except a few curious baboons chewing on seed pods high in the trees. Neither one of them had words written down. There was no need.

  I, Henry Shepherd, promise to love and cherish you, Lillian Carlson, every day of my life. I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you, standing in the light of the church window. Now that I’ve found you again, I promise to walk beside you and carry you when you get tired. I’ll be your partner, your strength during the times when you’re running low. I’ll help to complete what you’ve started here, just as you complete me.

  “I, Lillian Carlson,” she whispers, her hand on the photo, “promise to love and cherish you, Henry Shepherd—” She licks her dry lips, tastes the salt and tinge of champagne on his lips. “I am so blessed that you showed up exactly when I most needed you. From this day forward, I’ll be your light when there is darkness and comforting shade when the world is too big and bright. I’ll be your muse and your faithful disciple in this amazing adventure. I’ll always be your home, and you mine.”

  Lillian replaces the photo in its rightful spot, just so. There was no pastor, no ring, no wedding cake; they didn’t need those things. Just as she rarely feels the need to come up here and peruse the pictures of their life together, hundreds of them in boxes on shelves and frames leaning against the walls. Henry is embedded in the mud-plaster he used to cement together the stones and beams of this place. He is in the land they tilled and harvested together. She steers back toward the stairs, negotiating a maze of boxes bulging with rainy day art projects and school papers stockpiled over the past twenty-four years. She pats the top of a filing cabinet as if greeting an old friend. It holds letters and photos from the children, now adults with broods of their own.

  Henry has been her strength all along, so that she could be strong for all these lost children and give them a family. Kwizera has been their commitment to each other, not a small symbol—a ring, a piece of paper, a white dress and veil. That’s why it hurt so deeply when she asked him to return for Rahim Kensamara’s trials and he couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

  Lillian stops and looks around the small jam-packed room with its sloping ceiling, her hand on the frayed string that will turn off the light. The truth is, she feels Henry beside her, day in and day out, in these walls and the land. She needs him as much as ever, even though he’s been gone for two years. How could she possibly keep this place together alone? And now, Rachel Shepherd will be here soon, looking for what Henry might have left behind, what she might take for herself, the pieces to shore up her own home. No, there’s no preparing for that.

  SEVENTEEN

  A PEACEFUL STILLNESS WASHES OVER Rachel as the Jeep turns down a path leading through an expansive banana field, no houses in sight, only the craggy Virunga Mountains hugging the horizon. The sun dips behind the dark mountains, the sky brightening in preparation for one final, spectacular moment before nightfall.

  “Back when Lillian bought this land the farm was trashed,” Tucker says. “Abandoned and ransacked. She brought it back to life.”

  “You spoke with her, right?” Rachel asks.

  “Not since we stopped for lunch.”

  “When you left a message.”

  “She knows you’re coming. Relax.”

  “Relax?” Rachel repeats, glancing pointedly at Tucker’s fingers drumming on the steering wheel. She looks down at her own hands, clenched in her lap around her phone. There’s a medicinal taste creeping into her mouth: Malarone sloshing together with stomach acid. She should have eaten more of that sandwich at lunch, skipped the beer. “I should stay in town,” she says. At least get a good night’s sleep. Call Mick.

  “The nearest hotel is in Ruhengeri, about an hour away. Besides, if you want to learn more about your dad’s life, this is the place.”

  “And, he knows I’m here?”

  “I sent a letter to his post office box in London, but no answer yet,” Tucker says, and then adds quickly, “Don’t worry, I have to go to London next week to see an immunologist about Rose. I can track Henry down if he hasn’t gotten in touch.”

  “Thanks,” Rachel says hollowly. Why wouldn’t he answer? Need to be tracked down? She rolls down the window to take in the cool night air. A layer of glowing lavender-gray clouds blanket the sky, like smoke lingering after a forest fire.

  The Jeep rolls to a stop. “The Virungas erupted twelve million years ago,” Tucker whispers, as if not to disturb the rustling banana trees. “You’re looking at the oldest wall of this stretch of the Rift Valley. Spending time here, in the mother of all valleys, keeps everything in perspective for me.”

&nbs
p; They watch in silence as the sky turns deep blue and the mountains blend in with the night. Rachel feels Tucker next to her, his reverence as the sun sets. He could be seeing this for the first time right along with her. “Ready?” he asks.

  “Ready,” she says, now glad that he’s the one who picked her up at the airport.

  Not far ahead, the Jeep stops again at two sections of whitewashed fence held together with rope. “This is it. Looks better from the inside.” Tucker jumps out of the Jeep to open Rachel’s door. He struggles a few minutes at the gate, unknotting the loops of rope. Silly, really, since anyone could climb right over the low fence. Rachel runs her hand over a thick wooden sign lit up by the car headlights, a splash of rainbow colored block letters. “Kwee-zair-ah,” she says, pronouncing each syllable. “What does that mean?”

  Before Tucker can answer, crunching gravel announces someone approaching on the other side of the now-open fence. A petite woman appears, carrying a basket of huge sunflowers that seem to light up her face in the dark. Tucker steps forward, arms open. His smile twists into a wince as she offers her cheek for a quick kiss. Or, maybe, Rachel thinks, she’s simply turning away.

  “I’m Rachel Shepherd, but you already knew that, right?” Rachel laughs nervously and offers her hand.

  Lillian shifts the basket into her arms. “Welcome to my home,” she says, sweeping her hand toward the driveway but not moving.

  Rachel hugs the sunflowers to her chest. There’s a distinct chill in Lillian’s voice, despite the lilting southern accent. And there’s nothing welcoming in those eyes that had been wide open and brimming with love in the newspaper photo. Lillian surrounded by children, flowers in the background, a Mother Earth of sorts. Rachel can’t quite picture it now. “I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I can leave in the morning, go to Ruhengeri.”

  “Nonsense,” Lillian says, “you’ll stay right here.”

  It sounds like an order. Rachel stands motionless, the basket between her and her father’s…what? Second wife? Mistress? The girl in the church window, the woman she has been wondering about ever since seeing her photo in Henry Shepherd’s office. And now, it’s Lillian who is studying her like a photo.

  “I’ll take Rachel over to the house,” Tucker offers, climbing back into the Jeep. “I cleared out some stuff from my room and took it to the tent. She can bunk there.”

  Rachel remains planted on the gravel driveway, and waits for Lillian to release her. She’s staring, eyes narrowed as if casting a spell.

  “I see so much of him in you,” Lillian finally says.

  “Really?” Rachel puts a hand to her thick, unruly hair that she pays big bucks to get straightened if her tips allow. As far as she can tell, it’s the only feature of her father’s she inherited. His face was broad and tanned easily, while she has her mom’s fair skin and delicate features.

  “There’s something…I can’t quite put my finger on it.” Lillian shakes her head. “Let’s get you settled.”

  Rachel walks quickly toward the open passenger door of the Jeep and gets in. Tucker’s revving the engine as if preparing for a getaway.

  “Tucker, why don’t you put Rachel’s things in Nadine’s room? I’ll show our guest around.”

  Rachel gives Tucker a please-stay look. The chilling edge surrounding the words our guest remains frozen in the air. He squeezes her arm, as if to infuse her with strength—or push her out the door.

  The sound of gravel under Rachel’s shoes is like a shovel slowly filling up the silence as she follows Lillian up the driveway. She looks around, her eyes adjusting to the dim light from a lantern Lillian is carrying. “It’s beautiful here, in a desolate kind of way,” she says, and Lillian gives her a polite but measured smile. Rachel’s gaze drops to the ground: red clay, strewn with straw-like patches of grass. They walk past rows of corn, vines of peas, and other low, leafy plants bulging from the ground. “It’s a miracle anything takes root here,” she observes.

  “Miracle?” Lillian stops and swings the flashlight toward her, looks at her as if she suggested that the moon is made of green cheese. “We irrigate, till the soil, plant things with thick roots that can survive if there’s no water for a few days or weeks. It’s a lot of plain, old-fashioned hard work. Hardly qualifies as a miracle.”

  “I’m not much of a gardener,” Rachel says, her face flushed with frustration and exhaustion. “The best I can do is geraniums and mums on our sliver of a balcony. I tried planting dahlias in a pot last year, but it was too early. The frost…” She pauses, but Lillian’s not helping, just smiling like you might at a babbling toddler’s long-winded explanation of how to make toast. How is she supposed to get through to this woman who’s the only link she has to her father? This woman who has nothing to gain from reconnecting Henry with his former family. Why would she help her now?

  Lillian reaches out to touch Rachel’s cheek; it’s like a shock of static electricity. “Your eyes, that’s what it is,” she says, holding the lantern up to Rachel’s face. “Not the color, of course…but, yes, I do see a lot of Henry in you.”

  Rachel brushes her fingers against her cheek, as if tenderly nursing a wound. “Tell me…” she begins. What was the look in her father’s eyes? She doesn’t remember, doesn’t know what the hell that even means. “What does qualify as a miracle?”

  “Your father showing up here,” Lillian says. “Now, that was close to a miracle.”

  “No,” Rachel says sharply, the word breaking loose, rough and brittle, from somewhere deep in her soul. “Ten years after he snapped your photo in the church. Ten years, and he never forgot you.” She clenches her jaw. He stayed here for nearly twenty years. Never once contacted his own daughter. Some fucking miracle.

  “I never asked him to come to Kwizera,” Lillian says.

  “Kwizera.” Rachel hears her father’s twangy Florida accent. The word sounds magical, an exotic land he made up for a bedtime story. “What does it mean?” she asks, looking for a clue. What was her father looking for? What kept him here?

  “Hope. Kwizera means hope.” Lillian turns to walk up the driveway. There’s no choice but to follow.

  It’s a good ten minutes before Rachel spots a single-story cement building painted bright yellow with a red tile roof. “That’s the main house where most of the activity happens during the day,” Lillian explains. “I only have four children living with me now, but there’s a full house after school in the afternoon, usually until after dinner. Their mothers work in Kigali or Ruhengeri, or out in the fields trying to keep their small farms going.”

  “And their fathers?”

  Lillian shakes her head. “Widows.”

  They stop in front of the house, lit up with lanterns on the front porch. Rachel returns the waves of a group of a dozen young children sitting on the steps around Tucker. He’s lounging with his elbows propped onto the top step, legs kicked out in front of him. So comfortable. So at home. “One, two, three,” he prompts and the children shout in unison, “Muraho, Miss Rachel. Karibu!”

  Rachel returns their greeting, and thanks Tucker with a smile. The children stampede down the stairs and gather around but don’t touch her, as if she’s a museum piece. They’re politely curious. “Madame, are you American? Do you have children? Will you stay long?” They keep glancing at Lillian, whose smile is completely transformed: soft and warm. Genuine.

  “Everyone wash up for dinner, now,” Lillian says, herding two of the boys back toward the porch. “Give our guest a chance to settle in. You’ll have plenty of time for questions.”

  Alone with Tucker and Lillian on the porch, Rachel feels the tension between them. She should have insisted on staying in Ruhengeri. “So…” she says, drawing out the single syllable, rubbing her hands together, trying to summon something to say. Anything.

  “The farmhouse,” Tucker says, answering her non-question. He points toward a white, two-story bungalow separated from the main house by a stone path. “That’s where you’ll camp out.”


  “In my daughter’s room,” Lillian says.

  Daughter? Rachel’s heart skips a beat.

  “Lillian is Nadine’s legal guardian,” Tucker adds quickly. “She’s home from college for two months; it’s the equivalent of our summer vacation. She’s studying music in Nairobi. We’re all proud of her.”

  “That’s great.” Rachel takes a deep breath. “Really great.” Her mom might have been wrong about her father having an entirely new family. Lillian is Nadine’s guardian, not him. She’s not even sure he and Lillian are married.

  There’s a commotion inside the house: children shouting and laughing. A statuesque young woman with black hair lacquered into a ponytail appears at the front door, speaking to Lillian in Kinyarwanda. She whispers, as if embarrassed, cutting sideways glances at Rachel. Tucker jumps up. “Nadine, meet Rachel Shepherd. Henry’s daughter.”

  Nadine bows slightly, and then returns her attention to Lillian.

  “Gabrielle, one of the girls from town, has decided to give herself a haircut,” Lillian explains, already on her way up the stairs. “Apparently, she could use some evening out in the back.”

  Rachel and Tucker are left standing outside, waiting, listening as the house quiets down. “You okay?” he asks.

  Rachel shrugs. “It’s a lot…for Lillian too, I suppose.” Her head is buzzing with exhaustion, her mind racing with questions she has harbored during the past thirty years. Not to mention all the new ones cropping up. And, there’s no indication that Lillian’s going to answer any of them. She stumbles, her vision blurring.

  “Whoa, easy.” Tucker eases her over to the porch steps. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine.” Rachel places her hands on her knees, gives in to the buzzing, letting it grow louder than the questions. “I just need some sleep. The travel took a lot out of me.”

  “This country can take a lot out of you.”

  “What about Lillian?”