The next twenty-four hours were the longest in Derek’s life. Everyone was edgy and tense. Only three people so far had had a helping of the second batch of Matoke and they hadn’t found the person who’d drunk directly from the jug. He should have a big F attached to his forehead. Failure chipped away at him, bringing home his inadequacies.
The only solace was that Cam was getting better with every passing hour. The boy was lively and had a quick wit that Derek enjoyed. The yearning to have a child of his own caught him by surprise. But he couldn’t let his mind go there. He would never allow himself to be put in a position where he could cause disappointment and pain to a child.
Cam’s grandfather told the story of how Cam’s parents had died during a skirmish between Moswani’s rebel forces and the Ugandan militia.
Derek had almost forgotten about the threat of the civil war since the village and clinic hadn’t been affected thus far. But to the Africans, war, famine and disease were a way of life.
Little by little Derek was gaining a better understanding of the passion his father had for the country and its people. Those he’d met were kind and gentle with loving and generous spirits. It was a travesty that the modern world was so slow in sharing the fruits of its labor with underdeveloped countries.
It saddened him, as well, to learn that James was a rarity in that he was elderly. Gwen had explained that most people died before reaching old age, either from disease, war or injury. The reality of that seemed somehow harsher.
Few children had grandparents to spoil them with love. Derek couldn’t fathom having gone through life without his grandparents. Both sets were still alive and he enjoyed the time he spent with them.
As Derek sat talking with Cam and James, hearing more about their lives, he decided that whatever money he gained from the upcoming race would be used to help Cam and James.
He didn’t have his father’s skills to help many, so he’d have to settle for helping a few.
He was telling Cam about seeing the Bonobo family when Gwen walked in. She stared at him for a long moment. Her expression was subdued even if her clothing wasn’t. The shocking green velour top and matching bottoms contrasted with her red hair and pale skin and made Derek think of an elf at Christmas.
“You didn’t tell me about that,” she finally said with an edge of reprimand in her tone. “What if the monkey had felt more threatened?”
He’d meant to tell her, but had decided that doing so didn’t serve his purposes but would only make her more crabby about his treks through the bush. “I didn’t think you’d take it well. Obviously, I was right.”
She pressed her lips into a tight line. “Ned’s checking the culture if you want to come watch.”
“I’m right behind you,” he said while dread ate away at his stomach.
With dragging feet he followed Gwen. Dear God, please don’t let anything bad be in the water.
Inside the clinic a group had gathered around to watch Ned as he examined the culture under the microscope. “Hhmm,” he murmured.
“Well?” asked Joyce as she bobbed on her toes. Her agitation fed the tension filling the air.
Ned slid his gaze over the group and landed on Derek. “The strip’s gray.”
Around the lump lodged in his throat he asked, “Meaning?”
“Indicates some bacteria.”
The news winded Derek like a short uphill sprint.
Ned’s gaze shifted to Gwen. She toyed with her braid, her long graceful fingers combing through the feathered tail where the rubber band ended.
“There’s coliphage present,” Ned stated.
“E-coli?” Gwen asked in a hushed voice.
Ned shook his head. “More like cholera.”
Derek sucked in a strangled breath. He recognized the name but didn’t know anything about the disease other than it killed. Great, now he was a potential murderer. Could things get any worse?
Apparently they could. Tito arrived a few minutes later saying his cousin was sick and could a doctor please come. Derek’s insides twisted. He knew how much Tito respected his cousin, who encouraged his running.
“I’ll come,” Gwen said shooting a quick glance at Derek.
His stomach knotted. Please, God, let Al have a simple cold.
Gwen took charge and spoke with efficiency. “Craig, you start getting the meds for cholera to the people over at the church.”
“Will do,” Craig said as he and Moses started gathering supplies.
“Ned and I will keep the clinic going,” Joyce stated with a firm nod of her head.
“Thanks.” Gwen grabbed her stethoscope and placed it around her neck. She took a small bag of supplies from a cupboard and headed outside. “We don’t usually do house calls because we get so busy here,” she said to Derek as they fell in step together. Tito had run on ahead.
“I appreciate that you’re doing it now,” he replied. He picked up the pace but kept his gait even and on the short side. He was impressed that she matched him stride for stride. She was an astounding woman and there was no one he wanted walking beside him more than her.
Even if he wouldn’t ever say that out loud.
Ten minutes later they arrived at Tito’s cousin’s house, a mud structure with a thatched roof. On the small wooden porch sat two bamboo rocking chairs where Derek and Tito had sat many times in the last week.
Gwen paused at the door and handed him a mask. At his quizzical look she explained, “We don’t know what he has yet. It may not have anything to do with the water.”
He nodded and prayed that was so, then amended that prayer. Too much sickness prevailed on this continent.
Inside the house was stark but comfortable.
Al was older than Tito, burly and strong looking, except now he lay curled in a ball on his cot. He wore loose-fitting green pants and a T-shirt that had a sports logo Derek recognized. Al’s insides were cramping and nothing wanted to stay in his body.
Al admitted that he’d taken a swig from one of the jugs of water when he saw Derek put it down. He figured since Derek was with the clinic the water was safe.
Derek wished the ground would swallow him up right there as he explained where the water came from.
Gwen examined Al and said she’d have to go to the clinic and bring back water and medicine. The tenderness and compassion she displayed with Al moved Derek. He found himself hoping one day she’d treat him with the same level of care, and not because he was in a sickened state.
Whoa! Wait a minute. He shook that thought away. He wasn’t even going down that trail.
Derek pulled up a chair. “I’ll wait here,” he said to her rather pointed look.
She gave a curt nod and left. An awkward silence descended. Al closed his eyes and moaned.
“Hey, man. I’m so sorry about this. I shouldn’t have taken any water from the well,” Derek finally said.
Al’s pain-filled eyes regarded him. “You tried to help. No blame in that.”
Tito put his hand on Derek’s shoulder in agreement with his cousin. Derek appreciated their grace but guilt overflowed inside him making him feel ill.
Gwen returned a few minutes later with several bottles of drinking water and some pills. “Al, these pills will work to kill the cholera. You need to drink all of these bottles of water to flush the bacteria from your insides.”
She nudged Derek out of the way and then placed a hand under Al’s head and lifted him enough to take the pills with a gulp of water.
“Let the medicine do its job. Keep drinking. Tito will help you as you need.”
She gave Tito instructions and then motioned for Derek to leave with her. He wanted to stay and keep Tito and Al company, but helping with the clinic took priority. He needed to work to redeem himself from this mess.
“Will he be well enough for the race next week?”
Gwen shrugged her slender shoulders. “Hard to say. He’s young and in good health. Plus, we caught it early.”
Derek stopped walking. “Do you believe God hears your prayers?”
She halted to stare at him. “Yes. He hears all of our prayers.”
“But He doesn’t answer all of our prayers,” Derek said as a little bubble of anger floated to the surface and materialized in his voice. He’d prayed for a father who would pay attention to him. That prayer went unanswered.
Contemplation shimmered in the gold of her eyes. “Everyone’s prayers are answered. But not always in the way we want.”
He frowned. “Then what good is prayer?”
Her eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. “Wait a second. God isn’t some genie in a bottle that you pull out to grant your wishes. Life doesn’t work like that. We make a request and He decides the outcome. But always it’s for the good of those who love Him.”
“I prayed that no one would get sick but Al still did.”
Gwen could barely contain the warmth or the smile spreading through her. It was an odd yet pleasant feeling. She rarely got warm and fuzzy except when it came to children. Adults, especially younger, attractive men, left her cold.
She realized God had handed her an opportunity to help Derek understand Him. She sought for a way to tell Derek without preaching.
In her mind she saw her friend Claire and took a page from her book on how to talk to those whose hearts and minds were resistant to the Lord as hers had been all those years ago. God had seemed so far out of reach and not worth seeking. But Claire had talked with simple, straightforward truth.
And so would she. “God always answers. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. If we come to Him with our burdens, we have to trust He’ll do what’s best for us.”
He shook his head, clearly confused. “But how does Al being sick help anyone?”
Here came the tricky part; trying to explain a concept that had taken years for her to grasp. But she had to give explaining it a try, hoping that her words would bring him closer to God. Give me the words, Lord. “You care about Tito.”
“Yes, he’s a great kid.”
“But you feel let down by God because Tito’s cousin is sick.”
A resentful shadow crossed his face. “I do.”
She understood that emotion. Sometimes when she looked back at her childhood, she couldn’t fight the bitterness that grabbed at her for what she’d gone through. Yet had it been different she wouldn’t be the person she was today. “Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes God allows circumstance to come into our lives for the sole purpose of getting our attention so that we can see His hand at work and build our faith. Whether it’s your faith or Al’s or Tito’s, I don’t know.
“The book of James talks about rejoicing in trials, which is so against our human nature, but the trials we go through and the trials we witness in others help to teach us to trust God.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. His gaze was directed out to the distant horizon but she sensed his focus was inward.
“Does that make sense?” she asked, feeling inept.
“It’s a little hard to get my mind around the concept, but my father has said similar things.” He clenched his fists. “I just wish there was something I could do to help right now.”
“It would make you feel better if you could fix the situation. But maybe God wants you to trust Him to fix it.”
“So trusting Him means we do nothing?”
“No. Our faith must be active.”
He moved his hands in a wide arc that clearly showed his growing exasperation. “Which means…?”
“Which means, we do our part and let God do the rest.”
“Okay. What is our part?”
She started walking. “That’s what we have to figure out, Mr. Problem Solver.”
He kicked a rock, sending it skidding into the bushes. “Great.”
She smiled and tucked away the knowledge that maybe she would be able to fulfill her promise to Dr. Harper after all.
But would it be at the risk of losing her heart to Derek?
The next day, Derek and Moses drove the white van back to Kampala for the purpose of bringing back more water and a list of meds that Gwen had written on a sheet of paper now residing in the back pocket of Derek’s lightweight khaki pants. The people they’d quarantined in the church had mild cases of cholera because the water had been diluted.
Gwen predicted they would be well within a few days as long as they continued with the medication and drank plenty of water to flush out their systems. Al, on the other hand, was still bedridden and miserable. The weight of guilt settled heavily on Derek’s shoulders.
The long drive to the country’s capital looked much different than it had the night they’d arrived. Lush foliage lined the dusty, dirt road. They passed interesting huts and fields full of workers, both young and adult. People walked along the edge of the road, stepping off as cars whizzed by. Some held their hands up in greeting, others didn’t acknowledge them as they stepped aside to keep from being run over.
At the checkpoints, people rushed to the car, hawking their wares—roasted pig on sticks, clay pots, figurines, fruit and vegetables. He and Moses waved the vendors away.
Kampala came into view, a concrete world looking out of place amongst the greener hills, yet reminiscent of most any other big metropolis. Tall buildings, a bit of hazy smog, the smell of diesel in the air all brought the city into focus.
The roadway became more congested the closer he and Moses drew to the city. Moses deftly maneuvered their vehicle through the traffic of battered cars, white-and-blue checkered taxis and pedestrians. A roundabout spiraling off in several directions sat in the center of the main thoroughfare.
Derek hung on to the door handle as Moses swerved suddenly to the left, cutting in front of a jeep and barely missing a minibus’s back bumper. Moses skillfully brought their van to a halt in a parking spot on a narrow strip of road in front of a row of shops.
“What an experience,” Derek commented as he climbed out of the van. He’d thought Seattle’s traffic problems were bad.
Moses grinned. “I’ve been driving since I was ten. I’m good, yes?”
“Very.” Derek grinned back. He wondered about the life Moses had had growing up here. Driving at ten when he should have been playing sports and doing homework. “Did you go to school here in Kampala?”
Moses shook his head. “I attended four years of school in Masaka.”
“Just four years?”
“I was lucky.”
A twinge of disquiet settled in Derek’s soul. He, like most Americans, took their way of life for granted. Growing up, he’d considered school a chore, not a privilege.
Moses held out his hand. “Give me the list of supplies. I will go in and buy them.”
Derek hung on to the list. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, no. You mustn’t. If they see a Muzungu, they will double the price. And if they realize you’re an American, the price will be four times the amount.”
“Why would they do that?”
Moses shrugged. “It’s Africa.” As if that should explain everything.
Derek trusted Moses knew what he was talking about. He handed over the list. “Okay, I’ll stay here.”
Moses pointed to a newer-looking structure with many stories and lots of windows. “You might want to go there.”
“What is it?” The view of the marquee was obstructed by a strand of trees.
“American hotel.”
His reaction wasn’t as strong as it would have been a week ago. “Sounds good. I’ll meet you back here in an hour and then you’ll take me to…”
He pulled out the papers that had the information about registering for the race. “To this address on Victoria Avenue.”
“Yes. That won’t be hard to find.”
They separated. Moses disappeared into one of the stores and Derek walked toward the hotel. As he drew closer, he saw that the hotel was a Sheraton. A bit of home away from home.
As he walked in, it struck him that he could have been walking into the same hotel in any part of the world. The familiarity of the atmosphere was welcome, yet strange. He realized how accustomed he’d become to life in the village.
The rhythmic, steady pace, the feeling of community. Not so alone.
As he passed through the lobby and headed for the front desk, he recognized several runners he’d competed against in the past. One in particular snagged his attention and he veered toward where his old college classmate and fellow runner sat in a big, plush chair reading a newspaper.
“Hey, Owen,” Derek called.
Owen Sparks looked up from the paper, his broad features breaking into a genuine smile. Owen stood, his hand outstretched. He wore pressed chinos and an oxford button-down that hung on his lean body. “Harper, you dog. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
They shook hands, each squeezing the other’s hand in a friendly display of power.
“You racing next week?” Derek asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it. The purse is good. You’ve never run this race, have you?” Owen peered at him, speculation plain in his light gray eyes.
“No,” Derek admitted. He’d never been interested in running the longer dirt-trail marathons. He usually stuck with the more civilized road races. But his father had shown interest and talked up Africa, so here he was. And his father wasn’t. Typical.
“It’s grueling. Hot days, cold nights. No comforts along the way.” Owen grinned. “You’ll love it.”
“Yeah, we’ll see. Where can I get a soda around here?”
“Follow me.”
Owen led Derek to a small café in the hotel. They sat at a table by the window and ordered drinks. Though the glass buffered them from the hustle and bustle of the city, Derek found himself fascinated with the people.
He saw many pedestrians stop and chat with those they passed. Drivers waved at those on the street. Most of the people had smiles on their faces. Even in the city it seemed the African people were a good-humored lot.
“So where’re you staying?”
Derek turned his attention to Owen. He hesitated for a moment, not sure he wanted to reveal too much about himself. But then he decided not to make a big deal about it. “I’m at a village a few hours drive from here. My father has a clinic set up there.”
“Your father’s here?” Owen said, breaking into an eager smile.
The familiar sensation of resentment bored into Derek. Like most of the people in Derek’s life, Owen loved his father. And why wouldn’t he? To most people, he was practically a saint, who went around helping the poor and healing the sick.
Just like Gwen.