A Thousand Sisters (30 page)

Christophe nods, despite his confusion, as Maurice tries to explain Women for Women. I picture the girls carefully following my instructions, walking eight miles into Walungu's town center.

They cannot be enrolled, but I won't learn this until tomorrow, when I visit the Women for Women office to implore Jules, the head of sponsorship, to help.

“But Lisa, the time of the Walungu enrollment has passed.”

“You don't understand. The Interahamwe are coming back for them.”

“Anyway, they are too young.”

“But
I'll pay.”

Jules will smile at the painfully awkward position I'm putting him in. “It is against the regulations.”

“Forget the regulations! We have to get them out of there!”

He will stare at me, unwilling to budge. After five and a half weeks of taxing Women for Women staff, there will be no more
muzungu
credits left in the bank. I will have no rank left to pull.

If force of will would work, I would grab Jules, shake him as though he's the gatekeeper to saving Congo, and make him understand the urgency. If screaming, or throwing a diva fit, or banging on the doors of the powers that be would change the situation, I would do all of it shamelessly. But I know the rules here, and none of it would work.

There's only one tactic left. I will beg.

“Please. Please do this. Jules.
Please.”

He will simply hold up his hands.

I am standing at the hard edge of the “one person can make a difference” story I've been telling myself, with my arms draped at my sides, watching the girls disappear towards the hills. They are still innocent. They follow the long, winding path back to the compound that sits at the far edge of civilization, where they will
burn like a field of poppies at the edge of a rainforest.

IN THE TINY
Rwandan hilltop airport, which overlooks Lake Kivu and Congo's hills beyond, I file past security. Zainab, Alice, and Prathiba pull up Congo's hills beyond, I file past security. Zainab, Alice, and Prathiba pull up and emerge from their car. They will be on my flight to Kigali, the only flight this airport will host today.

Passports stamped.

Fees paid.

Luggage checked.

I wave my final goodbye to Serge and Maurice and proceed to the pale cement waiting room while Zainab and Prathiba navigate their way through the bureaucracy. Alice has already cleared her paperwork and stands alone by the wall, wearing a do-not-disturb look. Instinct tells me to leave her alone—but come on. It's Alice Walker, fresh out of Congo. I can't resist. I set my bags down and approach her. With desperate curiosity I ask, “What were your impressions?”

She looks at me, seemingly shocked at my question. “I could not begin . . . It will take months.”

Embarrassed, I slink across the waiting room and find an empty wall. I
stand under the TV and face the waiting room, its tattered couches and plastic seats hosting twenty or so bored-looking travelers. I'm already feeling raw and shaky; I'm wired on caffeine and sugar from a lunch of Coke and french fries at the airport snack bar, where Maurice, Serge, and I moped, dreading our imminent goodbye. I asked Serge, who claimed to speak no English, “What will you do when I'm gone?”

Serge grumbled, “Some f——ing job.”

We burst into laughter that ended with the quiet heartbreak you feel when you look into the eyes of someone dear, unsure if you will ever see that person again. Maurice shrugged and said, “We are like orphans.”

Adrenaline woke me at four this morning. With the finish line in view, something was rumbling inside me. Ted called around 4:30 AM to let me know the house sold following a bidding war. Our move-out date is set for three weeks from now.

We drove to Panzi after breakfast to say a last goodbye to Generose. Bonjour's mom approached me in the parking lot and, with a big hug, told me Bonjour is okay.
“Aksanti sana.”
Thank you so much.

Later, in the light-filled office with a view of the lake, a Women for Women staff member and I talked about memorials. She said, “We are not like Rwanda. It is not possible here in Congo to leave the dead on display. We bury our dead.”

I know of the genocide memorials she was referring to, though I'd had no time to visit. “I imagine this is why some journalists say Congo doesn't photograph well,” I said “They're thinking, Where are the bodies?”

“Exactly,” she says. “If you come across a body, you must bury it, even if you don't know the person. Otherwise, we believe they will haunt you.”

The conversation went no further; I understood the point. I thought of the foot-square box, the three mini-urns, and the Build-a-Bear that hold my father's ashes.

Now, standing against the wall in the airport, I scan the couches, noticing the blank stares fixed on the TV above me, the mix of stoic aid workers
and African businessmen. I'm hoping the embarrassment doesn't show in my face. No such luck. Alice reads my expression and approaches to ask, “What were
your
impressions?”

The question slaps me like an alarm bell sounding during a deep night's sleep. I scramble for words, but I'm at a loss. My defenses seem to have crept away, abandoning their posts somewhere between my last breakfast on Orchid's terrace and Generose's final call to Maurice's cell phone, which came as we chugged up the smooth, Rwandan road above Lake Kivu. Generose called to announce that she had “fainted from grief ” after we said goodbye.

“You see how difficult that is?” Alice asks, rhetorically.

I don't have impressions. No well-formed ideas, no neat prescriptions. Only fragments, unedited and unfiltered. In my embarrassment, the raw and shaky feeling is giving way to something nameless, something that's roaming into the territory of pain.

As Zainab finishes up her paperwork across the waiting room, she flashes me a knowing look and winks. Prathiba approaches to usher Alice away, like a security guard who is making up for slackened duty. “Perhaps we should move outside into the sunshine.”

Alice asks me, “Are you taking a day in Kigali?”

I can't speak. I shake my head.

“You fly straight back? Oh, that will be hard on your rear.” As they move to the sunny corridor, Alice says, “It's okay to cry about it.”

I face the room of travelers with their eyes glued to the TV above my head; it's as though I'm on stage. I can't stop it. I burst. As everything goes blurry with tears, I shield my face, my wet hands spread open to cover my eyes. My shoulders are shaking, my belly heaving. I am doing my best to be silent. The packed waiting room pretends they don't see my full-on melt down. I shrink down the wall.

I huddle on the floor of the waiting room in unending sobs
.

I'M ON STAGE
in front of a public meeting hall, alone. I scan the sparse audience. Blank or pained expressions stare back at me as some remove their hands from their mouths or ears. I've just told Generose's story. An African woman towards the back of the room gets up and dashes towards the bathroom, followed by her American companion.

I look down at my outline, written in block letters on yellow legal paper. I'm not even halfway through. I stray from my notes, “This is really long . . . and dark. . . .”

They still stare at me blankly. The African lady's friend discreetly grabs their things from the pew and the two exit quietly through the back door. I dump my outline and make a mad dash for the finish line, quoting every hopeful anecdote I can come up with.

As the stragglers find their way to the door, one of my mom's friends stops me. She has booked me for a talk at her church, so she emails often, anxious to hammer out the details. Now she lays down the law. “That was way too dark for my church.”

Though I try to reassure her it's no problem to edit a talk to be church-appropriate, she follows up by demanding an advanced copy of my speech to preapprove.

 

AND THAT'S HOW it will be this year; every speaking engagement will be a prenegotiated tightrope walk between taste and truth. A more strategic mind might break it down carefully, analyzing the lines and the limits. Instead, I retreat to my easier-to-digest, pre-Congo talking points, which are laced with only occasional illustrations from my trip and result in an unavoidably flat delivery.

The hard truth is that I made no plans beyond Congo. After years of cashing in every karmic credit I had for this work, it is time to face reality: tanking stock-photo sales reports and, in front of me, the years it will take to untangle my business and financial bonds with Ted.

We have only a few weeks to endure together before we turn over the house to the new owner and execute complicated plans to avoid each other until Ted finds a place in New York and I move into my new house here in Portland. In the interest of civility, we go out to breakfast. Ted and I slip into a booth at a hipster dive, each sipping cups of tea while waiting for brunch to arrive. He stirs the milk in his Earl Grey, his head dropped. A tear hits the table. His lips shake as he struggles to form words. “I've been thinking; I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I'm sorry.”

I watch him. He seems like someone running after a bus, pounding on its side after it has pulled into traffic. It is the beginning of Ted's months-long campaign to get back together, which I meet with patient sympathy and a clear view of the impossibility of two lives now on radically different trajectories.

Eventually, Ted gets it. At the coaching of his bachelor buddies in New York, Ted invests fifteen minutes posting his profile on a dating website. It turns out to be an instant remedy for unrequited love. He responds to one of the first four applicants, a woman who works in design for a corporate chain store. They carve out a love nest in Brooklyn and plan to marry.

Months after our return, Kelly and I have lost touch. She doesn't organize another run. I invite her to come down and speak at the Portland Run for Congo Women finish-line celebration, but she can't make it. My heart sinks as I read her scant, post-Congo blog entries. In a tailspin of doubt, she has turned in on herself; she's searching for that perfect soul-place she questioned in me as we stood beneath the Capitol building two years ago. She laments her inability to cleanse the blood out of the oppression-drenched American soil on which she's built her suburban dream, along with her fruitless attempts to scrub her way out of her white skin. . . .

And then, for ages, nothing. No posts.

She has processed herself into oblivion.

Oh, love.
I hardly ever drink. But I want to take her out for a Bloody Mary brunch. We could get fabulously drunk and I might say the right thing to talk her down. But I can't stand to listen to my own platitudes or truisms anymore. Even buckets of pepper and tomato juice and vodka at noon won't help me produce any answers for myself, much less for her.

 

I TRAIN FOR the 30-mile run in only six weeks, a feat made possible because of my new secret weapon: iced coffee. I pound it back at strategic points along the trail and manage my third 30-mile run without incident. At the finish line, I collapse on the park lawn and don't talk much. I watch my mom run around like mad, coordinating. She could just as easily peel away from the crowd and whimper on the sidelines, “I can't do it!” as she could camp at the T-shirt table, offering Japanese acupressure tips to injured runners, or telling volunteers about the summer she wandered the Northern California woods, feeling the power of the earth surge through her as she entered the river naked.