“Yeah, for sure. Living here all these years has taken a toll. She’s not as strong as she makes herself out to be.”
“But, why does she…” Hate me. That’s the first thing that comes to Rachel’s mind. “Well, she certainly doesn’t want to talk about my father.”
The sound of Lillian’s voice rings out from inside the house. “Everyone gather round, Gabrielle’s going to model her new hairdo. Keza, beautiful. Right?” There are murmurs of approval and clapping, a few whistles.
“Another crisis solved.” Tucker grins, rakes a hand through his hair. “The thing is, once you get under Lil’s skin, she’ll help you. She will.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because she wants what you want.”
Rachel sits on the bottom step, looks up at Tucker, the buzzing louder. “Which is…?”
He laughs softly, like it’s obvious. “You both want Henry to come home.”
TUCKER LEADS RACHEL OVER TO the farmhouse. There’s a trail of red begonias winding through a trellis that frames the front porch and two big wooden chairs on either side of the front door. “Lillian and Henry built this place a few years after he arrived, so they could take in more kids,” Tucker explains. “Lillian sleeps downstairs. Upstairs there are a few other rooms—mine, which I hardly ever sleep in, Nadine’s, and then the door at the end of the hall leads to the attic.”
It’s comforting, seeing her familiar duffel bag in the simply furnished room where she’ll sleep. There’s a full-sized bed with a satiny purple quilt enveloped in mosquito netting, a small wicker dresser where she places the basket of sunflowers, and a desk under a picture window. She can barely make out the silhouette of the mountains against a starlit sky. The only things hanging on the pale green wall are a blue and orange Florida Gators baseball cap and a headdress made of long white and gray feathers.
A single photo, set in a wooden frame with hearts carved into it, is displayed on the bedside table. Rachel goes to take a closer look and sits heavily on the bed, trying not to crumple completely. Dad. Her throat closes around the word, knocking the breath right out of her.
“I’ll put these flowers in water, and get you a tall glass,” Tucker offers, but Rachel barely hears him. Her father is kneeling beside a younger version of Nadine, showing her a camera. A Brownie camera, like the one he gave her for Christmas. Was it when she was five? Six? Rachel looks up at Tucker, lips parted. There’s something she’s supposed to say; she can’t imagine what that might be.
“I’ll be right back.” He hastily pulls a giant sunflower from the basket and places it on the bed beside her. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
Rachel can’t help but place herself in the picture frame. Cricket, you just look through that little square window, point at some pretty flowers, and click the button. Being a photographer is as easy as pie. She has a vision of the two of them spending entire afternoons at the Jacksonville Botanical Garden, her father snapping photos while she sat on a bench and wrote in her Nancy Drew journal. Had that actually happened?
“You and Nadine didn’t get much of a chance to meet,” Tucker says, placing a glass of water on the nightstand. “The haircut debacle and all. But, no doubt, you’ll get along great.”
“My father, the way he’s looking at her—it’s eerie.”
“Must be weird, like déjà vu.” Tucker sits beside her, the thick-stalked sunflower between them, to examine the photo. “Dahla and Enoch, Nadine’s folks, lived here for years and helped out in dozens of ways. They bought a place of their own when Nadine was born, but she hung out here all the time. She grew up here.”
“What happened to her parents?” Rachel asks. The pained look on Tucker’s face is answer enough. People hiding in the river. Bodies stacked along the side of the road.
“Enoch grew up in Swaziland and came here by himself as a boy. He was so proud when he could finally pay for a house and some land of his own in a village on the other side of Mubaro,” he says, his voice sounding faraway and strained. “Most of Dahla’s family lived in a village in the south that was wiped out in the late eighties.”
“Her entire family’s gone?”
“We’re her family now. Henry’s the one who found her in town shortly after the Hutus came storming through the region.”
Rachel studies the frame, running her finger over the indentation of a heart. He rescued her. “Were they close?”
“All the children thought he was cool. He was the fun one, while Lillian was stricter. Nadine felt safe with Henry, after all she’d been through.” Tucker takes the photo and places it back on the table. “She started calling him Papa Henry. That says a lot about the guy, right?”
“Yes, it does,” Rachel says dryly. Henry Shepherd did find a new family. He even found a daughter to replace her.
“Nadine didn’t speak for about a month, just stuck to Henry like glue,” Tucker continues. “I remember, he used to tell her and the rest of the kids these fantastical stories. That’s how he took their minds off the gunshots echoing in the mountains and all they had lost.”
Rachel clenches her jaw, setting loose a rumbling in her temples. All they had lost, all they lost.
“It was beyond horrible,” Tucker says. “But Henry made them feel better, he did. You can be proud of your dad.”
Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose, hunching forward so that her hair hangs over her face. Stop talking, just stop… It’s absurd, ludicrous really, the way he’s trying to comfort her and is only making things worse. Her stomach clenches against the fear that she’ll laugh; Jesus, she may very well throw up. She wants to be proud of her father, wants to feel something for these children he took care of, rescued, made to feel safe. But all she feels is sick. She bites her lower lip until the shaking subsides, until she can—well, not look at Tucker—at least take a deep breath.
“Sorry, just tired,” she says, rubbing her eyes, relieved as he takes the hint and gets up. She opens her eyes, the toxic laughter flushed out of her system, replaced with a hollow loathing. He’s standing right in front of her, just standing there. Why? “You must think…” she says, her voice ragged. Why the hell doesn’t he just leave? She’s an awful person, they both know it. Jesus, jealous of orphans.
Tucker hands her the sunflower from the bed. “I think you’re extremely brave coming here. Lillian will come around; give her a few days. For now, get some rest.”
A shower and a fresh T-shirt later, the jet lag has transformed into something like the coffee-and-donut buzz after a late bartending shift, when Rachel’s past the point of tired and may as well stay up a few more hours to see Mick off to work. She checks her phone out of habit, but of course it still doesn’t light up. Her eyes dart from the unpacked suitcase next to the bed to the wicker dresser, but it seems invasive to open Nadine’s drawers. Instead, she lies atop the purple quilt, hoping to tempt sleep, uncomfortable crawling under the covers in this room that clearly isn’t hers. Her ears strain for the comforting sounds of home: the 24/7 drone of traffic and sirens, Mick’s steady breath beside her, and the yip of her dog, Louie, if he hears anything remotely suspicious. There’s always someone keeping guard while she’s unconscious. Finally, she turns on a fan in the corner of the room and lets the whir-click-whir rhythm lull her into sleep.
EIGHTEEN
NADINE LIES ON A MATTRESS ON THE floor, Kingston’s tail dangling within reach, and sings the lullaby her grandmother made up, passed down to Umama and then to her. Now, it is her gift to Rose. The murmur of Umama’s low voice resonates in Nadine’s chest and somewhere deeper, trickling into the vacant spaces that sometimes make her feel floaty and unreal. The tempo is slow and mournful, almost painful, similar to the Brahms violin sonata she chose to examine for music theory class. The great composer culled the tender notes from his soul, when there were no words to express his sorrow over the death of his godson.
She sings quietly, “Holl amrantau’r sêr ddywedant, ar hyd y nos, ‘Dyma’r ffordd i fro gogoniant
, ar hyd y nos.” Sleep, my love, and peace attend thee all through the night; Guardian angels God will lend thee, all through the night. As a child, she had believed in angels. She had believed in God.
When she was a small girl, perhaps age three, Maman Lilly gave her a leopard with green glass eyes that was supposed to protect her while she slept. When did the stuffed animal disappear? No matter. She has stopped believing that anything outside of her body can be of any protection or comfort. Umama’s lullaby is embedded deep within her, an essential organ that enables her to breathe and move her limbs, even when she is afraid.
At breakfast this morning, Madame Shepherd said that she came to find her father—or at least her memories of him. Reclaim, that’s the word she used. As if her father took something that belonged to her, packed up these memories in a suitcase and spirited them away. Nadine can’t quite connect the girlish woman who arrived last night, who seemed like she was trying to disappear—hands retracting into the big sweatshirt she wore today and long hair that hung in her face—as being Papa Henry’s daughter. He had filled the room when he walked in. Why is Madame Shepherd here, not in London where Papa Henry is living? Why is it that she does not want to find him?
It doesn’t take long for Rose’s breath to become deep and even. Nadine tucks Kingston securely between the sleeping girl and the wall before leaving. Down the hall in the dark kitchen, Tucker’s computer glows on the counter next to the phone. She crosses her fingers as she opens the laptop, hoping the screen isn’t blue and lifeless. The Internet has only been available here since last summer and the connection, when there is one, is slow, the screen freezing up often, impossible to listen to music. Thankfully, the Google logo cheerfully greets her. She feels like a spy, deceitful and sneaky, typing “Rachel Shepherd” into the search box. But there are questions she can’t ask anyone: Why is Papa Henry’s daughter here for so long? Why now? Is he in trouble? Why didn’t Tucker or Maman tell her there would be a visitor for the entire holiday break? All she wants to do is relax and have fun with her family, not deal with a stranger living in her room.
Google comes up with some links to music reviews on a few ezines that Nadine scrolls through. The Violent Femmes. Nine Inch Nails. Death Cab for Cutie. The names are playful and ghoulish. Intriguing, but not what she’s searching for. She makes a mental note to read some of them later. A marriage announcement in the New York Times from three years ago doesn’t provide any useful information, but the photo is interesting. Madame is wearing a pale blue dress, rather informal for her wedding day, holding a bouquet of lilacs and daffodils. She appears uncomfortable, standing beside her new husband in his formal tuxedo. There’s a noticeable gap between them, even though his arm is around her waist.
One tap on a Geocities link springs open Rachel Shepherd’s life, but her website isn’t at all what Nadine expected. There are recipes for organic baby food, photos of infants in ridiculous Halloween costumes, and a section labeled “Tips for New Moms.” Nadine puts a hand to her mouth. Rachel doesn’t look pregnant, but perhaps it’s the big sweatshirt she was wearing today. Is that why she wants to find Papa Henry, to tell him he’s going to be a grandfather? She clicks on the section labeled, “Serena’s Diary.” There are entries for every day in September. Today Serena did a double flip. Happy six-month birthday. Second sonogram today—looking good! And then, after the first week of October the entries stop.
Nadine closes the laptop, her hand to her throat. After her family was murdered, she didn’t speak for a month Maman tells her, although it felt longer. She stayed in her bedroom, listening to the rustle of the pines in the forest that seemed to cry for her; the fear had drained her of tears. Most of the people in her village were dead. It was being alive, not the deaths, that was somehow shocking. Her existence seemed to be an accident of fate, her life spent waiting in this room in Lillian’s home, this room that was not hers. She was paralyzed, waiting for the inevitable correction.
She still misses her family’s home in the foothills that rise on the other side of Mubaro from Kwizera. Umama’s sister and her daughter, cousin Sylvia, had come to live with them before Nadine started primary school. Their village in the south had been taken over by the government, the rich land given to Hutus. Mubaro, a small town edging the rugged mountains, was far from the capital of Kigali. For decades, the Hutus had no use for the coarse land or the people. Many Tutsis lived there in peace. They were inferior to their Hutu neighbors, that was a given. Less education, lesser jobs, and forbidden to relocate without government permission. But at least their homes weren’t burned down; their families weren’t murdered as Sylvia’s father and two brothers had been. And then, during the course of one week, the second week of April 1994, the entire village disappeared. The Hutus either joined the Interahamwe or fled the country, and the Tutsis were sent to the church.
One day after the killings at the church, Maman Lilly brought a fresh notebook and a pen to her room, both scarce, valuable gifts. She told her to start writing a song or a story; it needn’t have anything to do with what had happened during the past month. Nadine chose to write an operetta: a short story set to music. It wasn’t very good, mostly ideas taken from the book, A Wrinkle in Time, that she and Sylvia had read together many times. But she needed something to make tomorrow and the day after seem, if not hopeful, at least purposeful. Perhaps, she thinks now, coming here is Rachel’s purpose for tomorrow.
RACHEL’S FIRST DAY IN RWANDA has been pretty much a bust, spent mainly hiding out in her room with the excuse of recovering from jet lag except for a walk around the grounds with Tucker and the three boys who live here. “Tomorrow,” she resolves, climbing under the purple quilt. She won’t even mention Henry Shepherd to Lillian, just offer to help out in the fields or with the children…wash windows. Something to make both of them feel like she somehow belongs here.
There’s a clang in the hall and she jumps out of bed to open the door: Nadine is retrieving a spoon from the floor. “Madame, I’m so sorry,” she says, rubbing the spoon with a napkin.
Rachel kneels to pick up the tray that holds a pot of tea and a mug, and a plate with a few cookies. “I was surprised, that’s all,” she says. “A nice surprise.”
It’s not much past eight o’clock but everyone goes to sleep, or at least heads to their rooms, right after dinner. The girl is dressed formally, her nearly black skin luminous against a crisp turquoise blouse tucked neatly into white pants. Rachel fingers the frayed edge of her own shirt, vaguely recalls dipping the sleeve in her dessert on the plane ride from London yesterday.
“Karibu,” Nadine says, and bows. She looks at the tray in Rachel’s hands. “For you, Madame Shepherd. You didn’t eat much at dinner. I thought you might be hungry.”
It strikes Rachel that this girl looks much older than a college student. She’s beautiful: thin and statuesque, hair confined in a barrette at the nape of her neck. Nadine’s intense dark eyes are trained on her, but not Spanish Inquisition-style like Lillian. More like she’s trying to intuit the answer to a question too impolite to ask.
“Murakoze,” Rachel says, taking the tray. “That’s ‘thank you,’ right?” There’s only one cup for tea, but Nadine’s peering in the doorway—of course, this is her room. “Thanks for the snack and letting me use your room.”
“Sawa? The room is okay?”
“More than sawa. Awesome.”
“Awesome. I know this word from Tucker.”
“He teaches you English?”
“Yego.” Nadine’s hand flies to her mouth. “I mean, yes.”
“Yego,” Rachel repeats slowly, filing the word away.
“Well, Tucker tries, but…” Nadine makes a sour face. “He says things like, jammin’ and groovy. Does anybody really call their friend, dude?”
Rachel laughs. “Only in California.”
“I think Tucker’s stuck in a time machine.”
“A time warp.”
“Yes, quite. Precisely!”
Rache
l goes to place the tray of food on the bedside table and glances at the photo of Nadine as a young girl, holding the camera. She’s looking up at Henry Shepherd with wide-eyed amazement. Twelve years old when her parents were murdered. “I’m sorry,” she says.
Nadine gives her a puzzled look.
“I mean, about taking over your space,” Rachel says. “Would you like to come in?”
Nadine’s eyes light up, but then she frowns at the floor.
“I feel silly, asking,” Rachel continues. “I mean, it’s your room.”
“Well, I do need a few things.” Nadine glides past. She opens the closet and pulls a sweater off the shelf above a row of mostly empty hangers. And then, she pulls out something that catches Rachel’s eye.
“That’s pretty.”
“Ah, yes, my dreamcatcher.” Nadine shows her a bowed circle of twigs covered with white and blue yarn. “Papa Henry made it for me,” she says and then quickly adds, “It’s yours if you like.”
“No, that’s okay, it’s just…” Rachel looks at the web of sticks and yarn. Native Americans, not Indians. “My father helped me to make a dreamcatcher in the second grade, for school.” It can’t be the same one. But the four white feathers hanging from it look like the egret feathers she used to collect at the pond near their house.
Nadine holds the dreamcatcher up to the light, twirls it as she blows a cascade of dust particles into the air. The sight strikes Rachel as childlike. Magical. “I remember him telling me,” she says, “something about it having special powers.”
“Wards off bad dreams.” Nadine shrugs. “Or some such thing.”
Rachel watches the slowly twirling web, mesmerized. “No, it catches them, like a spiderweb…” But instead of bugs it catches bad dreams, Cricket. The good ones slide down the feathers and right into your head while you sleep.
“It’s a nice story.” Nadine places the dreamcatcher on the bed. “I prefer to keep the dreams away altogether. You keep this, Madame Shepherd, and sleep well. We’ll talk more, yes?”
In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills Page 14
