“Ohhkay,” D’Melo said, feeling a tad freaked out. “But how’d you even know that she needed help in the first place?”
“I didn’t. I just knew someone in that house was suffering.”
D’Melo lifted his hands, Well, how’d you know that?
Zara shrugged uncertainly. “I get strong feelings sometimes.”
She explained that she was six years old when the first of these mysterious sensations struck. She was climbing trees with her friends in the forest behind her house. Then, for no apparent reason, her throat constricted. She struggled for air, wheezing desperately. In a flash, she sensed that she was experiencing someone else’s suffering, and that it was coming from her house. She shot home into suffocating bitter smoke. She found her mother in bed, motionless. Zara shook her frantically. Her mom woke, groggy and coughing harshly. After her mother got her bearings, she scooped up Zara and bolted out of the house.
“So,” D’Melo said. “You know when someone’s in trouble. That’s awesome!”
Zara sighed. “Try to imagine not only feeling your own pain but other people’s also.”
D’Melo winced sympathetically.
“Okay, now try to imagine that you can’t escape it, even when you’re asleep.
“There’s this one nightmare that’s haunted me for years,” she went on, her voice quavering. “A woman is in the front seat of a car. Out of nowhere, an SUV blasts into her full speed.”
D’Melo unconsciously slowed his gait, hanging onto Zara’s every word.
“At first, it was like any other accident, but then the SUV didn’t stop.”
D’Melo’s pulse quickened.
“It actually revved up again. White smoke curled around its furiously spinning wheels. For months after the dream, I couldn’t get the smell of burning rubber out of my head. The SUV pushed the woman’s car onto the other side of the highway. A truck slammed its brakes but wasn’t able to stop in time. Her car was sent tumbling. When it settled, it was nothing more than a heap of mangled metal.”
D’Melo’s chest squeezed sharply.
“What’s horrible is that even though the woman’s body was terribly shattered, that pain paled in comparison to the suffering in her heart. I got an image of murky fog descending ominously through her body, devouring the flickering light of her soul. Eerie howls of rage, crushing guilt, and agonizing sorrow echo inside her. A small child’s face flashes in the darkness—a child she had previously lost. Then, a desperate heaviness overcomes her when she realizes that she is about to abandon another child. So the woman must have had a second kid.” Zara paused, her eyes now burdened with sadness. “I try not to think about it, because when I do, that dark heaviness surfaces in my body.”
D’Melo was relieved. Although this sounded strikingly similar to how his mom died, the woman in Zara’s dream couldn’t have been his mother. I’m an only child. Just a weird coincidence.
Zara concluded, “That dream ruined what would have been the best Christmas of my life.”
D’Melo’s relief was short-lived. “Which Christmas?” he pressed, his heart pounding against his ribs.
“Well, I remember exactly which one.”
Zara recounted how, on Christmas mornings, she would usually have hopped with merry anticipation down the staircase. But having just woken from the harrowing dream, the bounce in her step was replaced by a morose trudge. Typically, Christmases in the Zanič home were modest, the tree adorned with a single handmade gift for Zara. But because her mom had just been promoted at the factory, that particular Christmas was bountiful. The twinkling tree boasted several presents and Zara’s first bicycle!
“I’ll never forget that Christmas. I was seven years old. So, it must have been the Christmas of 2008.”
D’Melo’s haggard face grimaced at the shooting pain in his chest.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said stoically. He squeezed his eyes shut, then blinked hard to refocus them.
They plodded the final block to the drugstore. For the first time, they hugged goodbye. It felt natural for D’Melo after experiencing so much together.
“I’ll see you tomorrow for your first tutoring session,” D’Melo reminded her.
Zara allowed the hug to linger, then maneuvered straight into a dramatic performance. “How can I thank thee, oh great one.” She planted a foot in front of her and bowed. “I am but a lowly servant girl. And you are the great King of Kipaji.” She swung her arm upward in an exaggerated salute.
“What are you doing?” D’Melo looked around, embarrassed. “Stop being so crazy!”
Zara ignored his plea, frolicking to the apartment entrance. She leapt into a leg stretch, landing nimbly on the balls of her feet. She performed one final curtsy before flitting inside.
For a brief moment, Zara’s nightmare faded from D’Melo’s mind. He floated along the street, as carefree as a bubble in the wind. He was growing fondly accustomed to the world of Zara. It was distressing but exhilarating. It was edgy but centered on something powerful. It was profound but lighthearted and whimsical. It was frighteningly out of his control . . . but D’Melo had never felt more at peace with anyone.
But before long, D’Melo’s bubble burst into sobering thoughts. Zara dreamed exactly what I’ve been telling Baba, but he doesn’t believe me. Or does he? Is he keeping something from me? But why would the police have lied? Maybe they didn’t. Zara’s dream had to have been about a different woman. My mom only had one kid. D’Melo’s mind twisted with possibilities until it ached.
D’Melo tapped lightly on Zara’s bedroom door. Hearing a muffled voice, he tentatively nudged the door open a slit. He peeked in, uneasy with being in a girl’s bedroom alone. “Did you say come in?” he murmured skittishly.
“What are you doing?” she snipped. “Get in here.”
Zara’s voice carried more stress than usual. D’Melo padded in gingerly. Zara sat straight-legged on her bed, propped against the headboard. She had one pencil locked in her clenched teeth, another jutting out of her wildly twisted bun. A math book was planted firmly in her lap, like it had been there long enough to grow roots. There were loose papers strewn across the bed, a few jettisoned on the floor.
“You’re twenty minutes late,” she mumbled around the gnawed pencil. “I think you want me to fail my math test!”
“Sorry, dawg,” he said. “I was choppin’ it up with your grandfather. He’s a trip.”
Zara cleared space next to her for D’Melo to sit. But he wasn’t at all comfortable with joining her on the bed. He slid a chair to her desk.
“This is a good spot to study.” He rattled the desk. “Very sturdy.”
Irritated, Zara cobbled her papers into a bunch. She fumbled over to the desk, her math book clamped in her armpit and calculator nestled between her neck and shoulder. The moment she was settled, her phone sounded—the cluck of an endangered bird, the Kakapo.
She sighed as she pushed herself up grudgingly. “I’ll be back.” She clumped out. After a few minutes, she returned and plopped down at the desk. The air in the room was thick with tension, carrying every sound heavily. Even the cooing of the mourning doves just outside her window sounded strained.
D’Melo attempted to lighten the mood. “So, the key to chemistry is you first have to—” Usually that would have gotten D’Melo at least an “Oh, shut up” or “You’re such a jerk” from Zara. But not this time.
Zara snapped, “Would you stop screwing around!”
“Whoa, what’s up with you?”
“Something has to be up with me because I don’t want to fail my math test?”
D’Melo glanced at her apologetically. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He opened her math book. Zara shut it back closed.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m taking my frustration out on you. It’s just this boy from back home
. He keeps asking me to go to North Carolina for Thanksgiving with his family. I’ve already told him I’m not going. I don’t like being pressured.”
D’Melo was stunned. “A boy? Or a boyfriend?”
“I guess you can say he’s my boyfriend.”
D’Melo’s heart dropped, but not because Zara had a boyfriend. D’Melo had no intention of veering from his no-relationship-until-marriage plan. Although he distanced himself from his African heritage, his values were deeply influenced by his Kipaji upbringing. His angst came from suddenly feeling distant from Zara. Over the previous couple of months, they had become really tight—so he thought. Why is she only now mentioning a boyfriend?
“We’ve been friends forever,” Zara explained. “Brandon lived a few houses from me. From the time we were in kindergarten, we’d walk to school together. And when my mom got sick, his was the shoulder I cried on the most.”
“Well,” D’Melo said, concealing his disquiet. “It’s nice of you not to leave your grandparents on Thanksgiving.” He paused questioningly. “Do they even celebrate Thanksgiving?”
“Ohhh, yeah,” Zara said, widening her eyes. “Every year my grandparents go on a cruise with their Nečzian friends. This Thanksgiving it’s the Caribbean. But I’m not going with them. This is their thing. I’m not big on cruises anyway. Do you know how much those cruise ships pollute? I’d be miserable the whole time thinking about how I’m contributing to dumping sewage in our oceans.”
“So, if you’re not gonna be with your grandparents, why aren’t you going to North Carolina?”
“Too many bad memories.”
About two years ago, Zara told him, her mother was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. She had surgery to remove a tumor, but the procedure created a hole in her liver. After that, she was in and out of the hospital with various infections.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said. “You don’t want to hear about all my issues.”
“Of course, I do,” D’Melo assured her, longing for the closeness he thought they already had.
“Well, then,” she continued. “My mother needed a new liver, but the insurance company denied coverage. It claimed that a transplant wasn’t a promising treatment, even though several doctors agreed it would save her life. The surgery would have cost my family over $200,000. We couldn’t come close to scraping together that much money.
“Watching my mom deteriorate and not being able to do anything was—” She covered her face with quivering hands. “There are no words to describe it. I’d wake up in the morning and for a second, I’d think it was just one of my horrible nightmares. But then I’d realize it wasn’t.”
Zara’s family had a glimmer of hope when the drug company, Pharma, released a new treatment for colon cancer. It would have extended her mother’s life long enough for Zara’s grandparents to sell the drugstore to raise enough money for the transplant. But Pharma wanted $40,000 for the treatment.
“We wrote Pharma, pleading for them to reduce the price. But my mom was meaningless to them.” Zara’s eyes burned with fire. “I will never forgive them!”
“Where was your dad all this time?” D’Melo asked, unwittingly kicking a hornets’ nest.
“I don’t have a dad,” she muttered tersely, leaving no room for discussion.
After a tense silence, D’Melo said, “So you’re gonna be alone on Thanksgiving?”
“I don’t mind. I can use some quiet time. And you? What are your plans?”
“I have a tournament in Harrisburg,” he said. D’Melo hadn’t had a real Thanksgiving for three years because of these annual holiday games. He struggled with feeling that the tournament had taken Thanksgiving away from his father.
“That sounds fun.” Zara bounced back. “A holiday road trip!”
D’Melo pondered, unsure about what he should say next. Should I ask whether she wants to come with us? Would it be offensive? She did just tell me she has a boyfriend. But is she saying she’s interested? She shouldn’t be by herself on Thanksgiving.
He decided to put the onus on Zara. “Are you saying you’d like to come?”
“Well, I haven’t been invited.” She squinted her eyes playfully at him. “But if I was invited, I’d love to.”
“Wouldn’t your boyfriend be upset if you spent Thanksgiving with me and not him?”
“Why would he be upset?” Zara said. “You and I are friends. Am I not allowed to spend Thanksgiving with a friend?”
D’Melo crinkled a brow, questioning her logic; it seemed naive.
“What?” she quipped. “Is D’Melo, the great king from Lincoln Downs, afraid of Brandon from Hillbilly Redneck, North Carolina?”
D’Melo chuckled. “And your grandparents? They may not be happy about you going with me.”
Zara brushed off the notion.
D’Melo tilted his head, I’m not comfortable unless you ask.
“Dude, seriously?” she puffed exasperatedly. She leaned back in her chair and cracked open the door. “Děda,” she shouted, calling her grandfather. “Can I go with D’Melo to his Thanksgiving tournament in Harrisburg?”
Tomáš yelled back, “Of course! I wish I could go with you.” Apparently, Zara’s
grandmother was next to him, because she slapped Tomáš’ arm hard enough to be heard down the hallway.
Tomáš cried out, laughing. “Zara, help! Your Babička is abusing me again!”
Zara pursed her lips at D’Melo, You see? “They trust me. So, when do we go?”
“We’ll hit the road right after you fail your math test on Wednesday.”
“Oh, shut up. You’re such a jerk!”
D’Melo warmed. Ahhh, she’s back!
After Thanksgiving, D’Melo was riding high. The Panthers won the tournament for the first time in over a decade, and he and Zara had grown closer by the day. Hardly a day passed that they didn’t spent at least some time together. Life was good!
He plopped himself down to watch The World This Week with Baba, like he did every Sunday night.
The first story featured a famous documentarian and activist, Kyle Sandersen, who had just released the trailer of his new film, The Next Colonization of Africa.
Interviewer: “Let me first congratulate you on your latest film. What was your motivation to make this documentary?”
Kyle Sandersen: “I wanted to raise awareness of the destructive impact that American companies have on other countries. Following the money trail of big business, I was led to Central Africa, where exploitation has reached unparalleled levels. But then, the film took an unexpected turn. The focus narrowed to one company in particular, Pharma.
“While gathering information, we uncovered claims of extraordinary corruption and crimes that Pharma committed in cahoots with the government of Malunga. During our investigation, one name kept surfacing—Wilem VanLuten, Pharma’s president of product development for Africa.”
“Hey,” D’Melo straightened in his seat. “That’s the company Zara was talking about!” He texted her to tell her to watch the program.
Kyle Sandersen: “I don’t want to give away too much, but we even uncovered information that sheds new light on the assassination of President Amani.”
Interviewer: “Wow. Now you’re just teasing us. I think this is a good time to play the trailer for those who haven’t yet seen it.”
The program cut away to the trailer.
Meanwhile, in an almost empty tavern in Nanjier, the trailer played fuzzily on a tiny TV above the bar. Wilem VanLuten was having a drink with his marine buddy, Zachariah.
“Hey, Wilem!” Zachariah piped, gesturing to the TV. “Isn’t that you?” Wilem’s intoxicated eyes, a bit unfocused, swung to the screen.
“Hey, barkeep,” Zachariah shouted over the background music. “Turn it up the TV. My friend over here is a star.”
/> At first, Wilem was tickled to see himself in the documentary, even if only in a few photos. But then the trailer alluded to Pharma’s illegal practices in Malunga. His tickle turned into an uncomfortable pang and then searing anger. His face contorted and turned red as he fumed.
Interviewer: “That’s powerful stuff, Kyle. You’re making some very serious allegations against Pharma.”
Kyle Sandersen: “Pharma uses every means at its disposal to create situations where it can continue to exploit the land and people—some legal and some not so legal, but all immoral. We show in the documentary that the civil war between the Shujas and the Malungan government was influenced by Pharma’s interests in the Nyumbani. This sacred homeland of the Shuja tribe is the heart of the conflict.”
Interviewer: “Yesterday, Henry Stinton, the CEO of Pharma, announced that he’s retiring. He cited health concerns as his reason. Do you think his sudden retirement has anything to do with your film?”
Kyle Sandersen: “I hope not. I certainly didn’t intend to cause him to step down. I spoke to Henry a couple times for the film. He seems to be a decent human being. I truly believe that he didn’t know what’s been happening in Malunga. When I questioned him, he genuinely seemed to be hearing it for the first time.”
When Wilem heard that Stinton was retiring, he became unhinged. “Stinton’s quitting and no one told me? I can’t believe I have to hear about this from the TV!”
“Wilem,” Zachariah said consolingly. His eyes swept around the bar; there were only a few other patrons, and they were not paying attention. “Relax, man. I’m sure they were going to let you know.”
“I’ve lived on this god-forsaken continent for twenty years and gave up my family for this company. And this is how they treat me?”
The bartender cautioned Wilem to settle down. Wilem looked straight past him. His eyes glued with fury to the TV.
Interviewer: “Some speculate that Stinton’s heart condition has worsened because of the protests outside Pharma headquarters in San Francisco. The commotion had died down recently, but with the release of your trailer, the protests have gained new life. And with it, the drumbeat for Stinton to resign has reverberated loud and wide.”
Spirit King: Return of the Crown Page 10
