22

The next morning, Johanna tapped lightly at the front door. She came with a message from Jebet, who requested that I return to the orphanage to continue teaching the children.

Nothing was said about the day before, only that she needed someone to mind the children during the day and she wanted me to do it. I refrained from commenting on the description of “minding” the children; although it required forcibly biting my tongue, I didn’t want to say anything that might lead to Jebet reneging.

I quickly dressed and walked with Johanna to the orphanage. She was tired, her steps sluggish and slow. She tried to keep up with me and I felt sorry for her. I slowed to match her pace, but didn’t voice my concerns about how much she lagged.

“Why did you walk all this way, Johanna? I gave you my cell phone number, why didn’t you just call me?”

“Jebet, she tell me to come get you. She not know I have your number, and if I called you, she might take my phone away. Or ask me why you gave me your number. So I just come get you.”

“Why did she change her mind?”

“I dunno. But Hasina come by yesterday afternoon and I overhear her talking to Jebet. The teacher strike almost over, but Hasina tell Jebet she no want to go back to orphanage. She found new job, paying more money.”

And just like that, Jebet’s quick change in attitude was clear. She had no one to teach the kids — or mind them as she referred to it — and needed me back at the orphanage to get them out of her hair. I started to ask Johanna more about it, but I could tell she was having a tough time talking as we walked; her voice was raspy and her lungs puffed as she tried to keep up.

Instead, I slowed even more, and let silence take over. I turned my attention to the newfound surroundings around us. The rain that had showered the land throughout the night had covered the outside world with a sheen that resembled slick varnish. Gone were the dust clouds that I had grown so used to; the allergies I had been battling disappeared as though I had taken a heavy dose of antihistamine. The red dirt had deepened in hue, turning to a rich russet, and the air surrounding us held a crisper clarity that felt good to breathe.

We kept walking, my thoughts suddenly on the rainmaker, Wambua. I wondered how he would be celebrating.

Once in the classroom, I was relieved to see the learning stations still set up in the places I had left them. I had been worried that Jebet would take her anger out on the classroom and had been certain I would be returning to upside-down desks.

I retrieved the bell from the teacher desk. I rang it loudly and the children came running. They each hugged me on their way in, taking their seats and facing the front of the room in a style that reminded me of troops taking their posts.

We spent a quiet morning working through math puzzles and English lessons. Bursts of pride pumped through my veins as, one by one, different children absorbed bite-sized pieces of knowledge. I could see their confidence growing with each new thing they learned and I relished the fact that the only face showing more delight than mine was that of the student who had accomplished the task.

Once the children were buried in their activities, I panned the room for any sign of abuse: scrapes, bruises, scars. A child acting isolated and inward. Hurt of any kind.

Thankfully, nothing stuck out.

A few days later, I called my parents. It had been almost a week since I had spoken to them and I needed to hear their voices — just as I knew they needed to hear mine. It was tough for them, having both Maggie and me gone, and I had promised I would call home as much as I could.

“Mom? It’s me! Can you hear me?” I asked, excited to hear her pick up the phone. It was just before eight o’clock in the morning and I had purposely called then as I knew they would likely be at home, drinking their coffee and reading the newspaper.

“Oh, yes, sweetie! I can hear you perfectly. It’s so clear it’s almost like you are in the same city.”

“Nicky? How are you?” my dad asked, once again on the other extension.

“I’m fine. And so glad to be talking to you! I have so much to fill you in on. So much has happened since I last emailed you.”

“So fill us in, Nic. How is being a teacher in Africa?” my mother asked. I had sent my close friends and family a detailed email letting them know about the teachers’ strike and that I would be taking over the classroom, but they weren’t aware of everything else that had gone on. I had thought about emailing just my parents about it but, even then, it somehow didn’t feel right to simply email them the tale of the hardships I had learned about and faced.

I was careful to speak of Jebet’s story only in vague details. A promise was a promise, after all, and I had given my word to Mama Bu. I told my parents that, despite Jebet’s abuse and neglect towards the children, the situation was complicated given Jebet’s own recent tragedies, which had changed her, making her jaded and hateful of the world.

“Still, she sounds dangerous. I don’t know about this, Nicky,” my mom answered. “I think you’re right to trust your gut and find a way to get her out of there.”

“Mama Bu and I are working on it, Mom. It’s just going to take some time. Things don’t work here the same way they do back home.”

“Speaking of home, Nic, there’s something I need to tell you. Eric called. Two nights ago. And he didn’t sound like he was doing very well. We hadn’t talked to him since you guys sold the house and he seemed almost apologetic for calling, but he said that he really needed to speak with us. That he needs to talk.”

I paused, listening to a faint crackle in the phone line starting to set in.

“Nicky? Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“What do you think about that? I told him I needed to speak to you first and make sure it was okay. If you prefer that we don’t see him, we won’t. You are our daughter, and you come first. Whatever you feel, or want us to do, is okay and we’ll respect that.”

“Well, I’m not sure. . . . I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“I know. And I almost didn’t, Nic. And I wouldn’t have, except that I’ve never seen that side of Eric before. He’s really broken, Nicky. He ended up begging me for our help, something about trying everything else and not knowing where else to turn.”

“Er . . . well . . . it’s okay, I guess. You can get together with him. I know you were a big part of each other’s lives, for a long time . . . and this has been hard on everyone.” I gulped, listening to the words coming out of my mouth, but not sure I wanted to be saying them. I was torn — a big part of me wanted to tell my parents to hang up on Eric for good and remove him from their lives, just as I had chosen to do. But another part of me silently wept to hear of Eric’s sadness and difficulty moving forward — and if my parents could help him heal, then I felt they should. (Plus, even though I was trying not to admit it to myself, a big part of me wanted to know exactly how Eric was doing, what he was thinking and feeling, and I hoped my parents would share at least some of it with me.)

“Okay, honey, as long as you’re sure?” my dad asked.

“No. Really. It’s okay. I would tell you. I’m okay if you see Eric. Truly. But I should probably go now. This call is costing a lot and I don’t make much of a salary these days!”

“Okay, honey. We love you! Stay safe, and email us soon. We wait every day for another update.”

“Will do. I love you guys too. Bye.”

I blinked back tears, thinking of my parents — and Eric — thousands of miles away.