When he returned from seeing the immunology specialist in London, that morning at his tent, his love for Rose was so raw and tender. Reaching out to hold his hand was such a small gesture, but he gripped her fingers as if clinging to a mossy rock on a cliff. She sat next to him in that concave canvas chair for hours, his need making her stronger. Last night, his voice was scraped raw with the memories of searching for wounded children with her father. When he finally looked up, she wanted to swab the pain from his face with a soft cloth. Or, her lips. Now, she leans closer, just above his shoulder, close enough to kiss the nape of his neck. He needs her, yes he needs her, in some foreign and utterly desirable way.
And yet. A thought that started as a slightly irritating bump is now a full-blown tumor: she needs him, too. Her desire, something she’s not at all certain she can—or wants to—control, takes her aback, propels her toward the end of the bed.
There was a time when she and Mick couldn’t get enough of each other: in the shower first thing in the morning, his touch igniting a spark in the middle of the night. Sometimes, he would email her mid-morning: Lunch? Their code for quick sex on the kitchen table or the couch. But their lovemaking turned scheduled and predictable. Date night. A box to check off on a to-do list. She hasn’t felt this must-have desire for Mick in…how long, exactly? Before losing Serena, for sure. Was it even before becoming pregnant the second time?
Rachel slips out of bed, toward the door, feeling guilty as hell—but not about being in bed with another man. The first miscarriage, yes, that’s when things changed between them. Was Mick right? Had she chosen to be selfish, packing up the nursery and grieving alone? What she feels now for Tucker, might she have shared that intimate bond with her husband? She’ll call Mick, make this right. They’ll have the memorial service with his family on Christmas, bury Serena’s ashes and make snow angels in the Catskills—it doesn’t need to be Vermont. Something stops her, her hand on the doorknob. Has she ever felt this magnetic ache, this longing, for Mick—for anyone—that makes it impossible to leave now?
She sits on the edge of the bed, next to Tucker, who is still sleeping soundly, brushes her lips against his cheek and then lies down between him and the wall. She tosses the blanket onto the floor and places her arm across his chest. Maybe it’s not that her father took a piece of her heart when he left, but that she has chosen—without realizing it—to keep her distance from people. She has chosen to keep her distance from love.
THIRTY-TWO
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, THE SKY breaks open with summer thundershowers that wash away the remnants of ash and smoke. Rachel helps Nadine to sweep off the patio and set up tables in preparation for the Christmas tree decorating party while Lillian is at the Saturday market. She could nearly forget about the fire, except for the two guards Tucker hired, patrolling the grounds with rifles slung over their shoulders.
In the late morning, dozens of children from town start trickling up the driveway and into the backyard, along with the aunties, each woman carrying one or two cloth bags filled with shiny materials to make Christmas decorations or baking supplies that will become cookies and a dinner of goat stew and cardamom bread. Rachel sits at a table on the patio with Nadine, where they have been directed to stay put while most of the widows cook. Lillian is allowed in the kitchen; she is one of them. “This is their party,” Nadine explains. “Something special they do for all the children.”
It’s clear to Rachel that this celebration is also a way the widows honor their own children who can’t be here. She’s surprised by how young some of them are: Sentwali, who can’t be much older than Nadine, is stringing popcorn with Rose and a circle of her friends nearby, shooing away a group of bold vervet monkeys with the snap of a dish towel. Auntie Marie has set up a table on the patio with pinecones, and paint made from plants, berries, petals, and flour. Auntie Julia’s specialty is stars stenciled on cardboard that the kids cut out and then wrap in foil. Over the next few hours, it’s impressive how everyone works together to transform the gnarled old fig tree that looks like something out of a bleak Grimm’s fairy tale with a raven perched on a high branch, into a glittering holiday vision.
Rose appears tired but happy as she skips across the patio with an array of popcorn-and-dried-fruit garlands hanging on her arm. She places one around Nadine’s neck and then Rachel’s. “Sawa,” she says, satisfied, “now you both look ready for Christmas.”
“Murakoze,” Rachel says. “In America we have a tradition of holiday sweaters decorated with sparkly candy canes and reindeer whose noses light up. I should have brought mine.”
“Like my Scooby Doo shirt?” Rose asks, climbing into Nadine’s lap and handing her several barrettes that have fallen out of her braided hair.
“Kind of. I’ll send you one for next Christmas.” Rachel holds out her hand so that Nadine can deposit barrettes as she unwinds dozens of braids. Rose shakes her head, curls springing every which way. She plants a kiss on Nadine’s cheek and runs off to spread holiday cheer to one of the guards, a handsome young man posted by the kitchen door. He declines the garland, but then glances over at Nadine and takes it when he sees that she’s watching.
“You should talk to him,” Rachel says. “Lawrence, that’s his name, right?”
Nadine blows out a puff of air, clearly embarrassed, and turns to the line of girls that has formed in front of her. She claps her hands, signaling the next customer to climb up and get her hair styled. Rachel smiles wistfully, watching her friend untangle and rewind the girl’s braids. “Do you want kids of your own one day?” she asks.
“Perhaps. Many children is a sign of great wealth in Africa, but it was not to be for our family.”
“I was an only child,” Rachel says. “Sometimes, it was pretty lonely. My mom worked all day as a secretary, and then at night she watched TV and went to bed early. She was lonely, too.”
Nadine finishes braiding the girl’s hair and convinces the others in line that they should go decorate cookies while they are warm. She reaches across the table and touches Rachel’s arm. “My mother was with child when I was quite young. She became ill with fever and the baby arrived too early to survive. I remember the village healer telling Umama that her womb was cursed.”
“Not being able to have children can feel like a curse, but that’s terrible—blaming her. So unfair.”
“Umama was never with child again. She said that God sent me as her only blessing and that was enough. He chose his most precious angel because she could only have one child.”
“That’s beautiful.” Rachel watches the children playing. Her due date was last week, but Mick was certain they’d have a Christmas baby. “I miscarried not long before coming here. I think of my baby that way. An angel.”
“Serena,” Nadine says tenderly. “I looked at your website. I hope that’s alright.”
“Of course,” Rachel says. The sound of her baby’s name is so sweet. Comforting.
“You will be a mother again,” Nadine says. “An awesome mother.” She walks over to the glittering fig tree and adjusts a star here, a pinecone there.
Rachel goes to stand beside her and admire the tree. That’s when she notices the tears sliding down her friend’s cheeks. She takes a tinfoil star from a branch and hands it to her.
“I cannot have children,” Nadine says, eyes on the star in her hand. “A doctor in Kigali told me this when she examined me after…”
Rachel hugs her friend, smoothes a hand down her trembling back, once and then again. The church massacre. She can feel the fear crawling under Naddie’s skin.
“Felix did this to me,” Nadine whispers. “This is what they want me to tell at the gacaca. Maman does not understand it is still happening. At least, it feels that way. My body sometimes hurts, terribly. I imagine everyone can see he ruined me.”
“Inshuti, you should tell Lillian.”
“I don’t want to worry her.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
Nadine p
ulls away. “There is something else. This afternoon, I’m going to Christian’s home to assure him and Felix that I won’t testify.”
“But what about the things you saw…your friends and family. Don’t you want the truth to come out?”
“I’ll always carry the sorrow of my loved ones who are gone. The gacaca won’t bring them back to me.” Nadine looks toward the ashen garden. “If I testify, this will not be the end of the violence. It doesn’t matter if Felix is locked away. There are many others who will take revenge. Protecting my loved ones who are still alive, this is what is important now, my sister.”
Rachel takes both of Nadine’s hands in hers. Lillian was right: even if Henry Shepherd doesn’t show up, she still has family here. “What’s the Kinyarwanda word for sister?”
“Shika.”
“Shika, I’m not going home tomorrow. I’m staying right here.”
“But your husband—”
“He’ll understand.” Rachel nods, hoping this is true. She’ll call him later, in his early morning, and tell him to go ahead and bury Serena’s ashes with his family, if that’s what he needs to do. She will always carry their baby with her, whether her ashes are under a tree in the O’Shea backyard or scattered in the mountain snow. They’ll find another way to honor Serena when she comes home, as originally planned, on New Year’s Eve.
“Don’t go to the Kensamara house,” Rachel says. “I’ll do it.”
“Oya, definitely not. Even if I were to agree, Maman would never allow it.”
“Then I’ll go to the bakery right now. Lillian doesn’t have to know I’m gone.” Rachel’s heart starts pounding fast at the idea of facing Maura again. “What should I say?”
Nadine leans forward, and glances toward the kitchen where Lillian is cooking. “Tell her what I told the attorney and Maman. Tell her what I’ve always said. I don’t remember.”
RACHEL STARTS OFF TOWARD THE path that cuts through the banana field, but the handsome guard with the popcorn garland around his neck stops her. “If you must go into town, I’ll take you,” Lawrence says. “The doctor’s orders are that nobody goes anywhere alone.”
When they arrive at the bakery, it’s already closed. She directs Lawrence to drive up the hillside and park at the end of the dirt road leading to the Kensamara house. “I’ll just be fifteen minutes,” she says, getting out of the Jeep. “You’ll be right here if I need you, right?”
Christian is in front of the house, bent over the open hood of a truck. Rachel stops. The same truck that nearly ran her off the road. There’s a fast stab of fear in her stomach as the boy takes a step toward her, fist raised, but then he places his hand to his chest and bows. “Come,” he says. “You are welcome.”
The sign of respect takes Rachel off-guard and she returns it, but stays put. Close enough so that Christian can hear her but not so close that she can’t outrun him back to Lawrence and the Jeep.
“It’s okay for you. Felix is in Ruhengeri, seeing about a new engine. Maman has gone along with him.”
“I have a message from Nadine,” Rachel says.
“For me?”
“You and Felix. You win.”
“Win?”
“She’s not going to testify.”
Christian’s face clouds over with confusion.
“The fire?” Rachel prompts. “It did the trick. She’s afraid that next time it won’t only be her garden that’s destroyed.”
“Oya, Madame, Oya. I knew nothing of this.”
“Well…regardless. It doesn’t matter,” Rachel falters. He looks sincerely upset. “Just pass along the message to your brother.”
“Wait, Madame. Please, wait here.”
Christian returns a few minutes later with her passport and a dusty-pink stone heart that has a chip on one edge. “These are yours. I’ll give them to you in exchange for delivering a message to Nadine. Tell her I had nothing to do with the fire. It was Felix. Only Felix.”
Rachel slips the passport into her pocket. She turns the carved stone over and over, examining the rusty spring, the cracks lined with dirt and time. “Where did you get this?”
“My mother keeps it in her jewelry drawer, but never wears it.”
Rachel rubs her thumb against the spring, coaxing a memory. How does she know it’s jammed shut? A Bic pen…the tip of the cap was a perfect fit, tripping the spring and opening the locket to reveal her own face smiling up at her. She had wanted to get her dad a plastic red heart with a troll inside for Christmas. A good luck charm. But her mom insisted on this one, instead. I’ll wear it myself if your father won’t. “Where did you get this,” she says, her hand closing into a fist. “Was it your father?”
“Oya, Madame.”
“Did he take it from my dad at the church?”
Christian’s face softens. “You should go home, Madame Shepherd. Go back to New York. There’s no reason for you to stay in Rwanda.”
The pink stone is warm in Rachel’s palm, seems to throb with a pulse all its own, as she walks back into town with Lawrence following close behind in the Jeep. Even if Rahim took this trinket from her father, that doesn’t mean he’s dead. She stuffs the locket in her shirt pocket. There’s no reason to alarm Lillian or anyone else. And yet, Christian’s words, the empathy in his voice, continue to haunt her.
THIRTY-THREE
LILLIAN SITS TALL AT THE SHINY, VENEERED dressing table she paid way too much to have shipped from Atlanta after Mama passed last year and tilts her chin upward, as her mother used to do while adding the final touches before church. The wide-brimmed straw hat is a bit plain, but a splash of red begonias that match her sundress will help. She dabs a blush of color along her cheekbones and tosses a silver tube of lipstick into her purse. Maybe later. Mama always said that Sunday was the one day each week when you put on your best face for church. It wasn’t about vanity. There are always folks who have it as bad or worse than you, and they don’t go to the house of God to see your troubles, she said. If you’re tired and beaten-down, that’s between you and our lord. Part of the reason we go to church is to lift up others in the community. Don’t let them see anything but your church face.
“Okay, Mama,” Lillian says into the mirror. “I’m ready.”
She hasn’t been to church since last Christmas, instead rooting her faith into the ground, wearing dungarees and sweating side by side with the genocide widows. They are her community. But once a year, she pulls out this red dress. Once a year, she sits on a hard wooden bench and reminds the children not to squirm or fuss with their good clothes which may be a season too tight. She does it for Mama and Daddy, both gone now, for Deirdre and Samuel, for the baby boy she gave away. She does it for the six orphans—two with measles, four with tuberculosis—who she buried at the foot of Mount Kenya. She does it for Enoch and Dahla, and the countless others who died at the church where she’ll worship today. She does it for Reverend King, who never lost his faith in God.
Rachel’s already waiting on the front porch. She gives a low whistle of approval. “I’ve never seen you in an actual dress and sandals with any kind of heel,” she says. “Very chic.”
Lillian buttons her white cardigan self-consciously. The V-neckline doesn’t show much cleavage, but still this is church. “You look quite nice, too,” she says, appraising the new peasant blouse with an embroidered bodice and long, flowered skirt from Nadine’s closet. Henry’s daughter could be a college student herself: hair swept back in a ponytail, orange and yellow beaded earrings that dangle nearly to her shoulders, a splash of sun-freckles across her cheeks.
“These aren’t too much?” Rachel’s hand goes to a dangly earring. “I bought them in town.”
Lillian brushes a rebel curl out of Rachel’s eyes. The lost look that was there when she first arrived is gone. She still reminds her of Henry, but not the broken man who had been afraid to return to his family after the slaughter. There’s a glint of light, a sparkle reminiscent of the man who first showed up at Kwizera looking fo
r adventure. “Beautiful,” she says.
“I bought something for you, too.” Rachel pulls a bolt of magenta fabric out of her backpack.
“You remembered.” Lillian runs her hand over the mesh of glittering threads that attracted her to the fabric at the market.
“It’s not much, considering everything you’ve done for me. I wanted to thank you for the photo album—for everything.”
“You can thank me by helping to make some new kitchen curtains. And we’ll keep enough material for a skirt for you.”
The second gift of the day appears as Lillian enters the main house: Rose is in the entranceway, twirling to show off her satiny green dress, a hand-me-down from Naddie. Tucker looks terrible, wearing the same rumpled T-shirt and chinos from yesterday and quite possibly the day before. “Morning,” he says, like he’s not sure it actually is.
“What happened to Merry Christmas?” Rachel asks in a tone that sounds a lot like flirting. Lillian stifles a smile. She gives Tucker a long hug, trying to infuse some vigor into him.
“Deck the halls and all that,” he mumbles.
“He doesn’t sleep enough,” Rose chides. “That’s why he looks, well, not quite ready for celebrating.”
“You, girlfriend, look marvelous.” Rachel removes the pink scarf from around her own neck and drapes it onto Rose’s shoulders. “This was my mom’s. I’m sure she would approve of me giving it to you as a Christmas present.”
“Murakoze,” Rose murmurs. She pulls the scarf to her neck and looks to Lillian, who nods. Yes, she may keep it. “I’ll wear it only to church, and then put it away.”
“Hold on, there,” Tucker says. “I thought we agreed that you and I are staying home to rest this morning.”
“No, we did not agree,” Rose protests. “I slept fine last night.”
Lillian opens her mouth but then closes it when Tucker looks to Rachel for help, curious to see how this will play out.
In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills Page 27
