I wait for any kind of an acknowledgement that she hears me, but other than her gasps for air, she is still. I swallow hard, but each time, the lump in my throat grows bigger, I can’t speak. The tears are streaming down my face. I have to say it. I have to let her go.
“You can go, Mum.”
She tries to speak but she can only gurgle. I will never hear her voice again. Hope and faith will never be reignited. I am finally letting her go. There is no going back.
“I will be okay, Mum. You can stop holding on. Just let go. Let go, Mum. Please let go.”
I feel her hand flinch. She wants to yank it out of mine. It is the most movement in her hand since the night I found her on the floor at home. Disapproval, anger, disappointment, I feel it in her hand in that moment. It cuts through my heart like a dagger, leaving it heavy in guilt. She is not ready to give in. She still has the fight within her, but without me by her side, she can’t hold on. The strength that she relies on within me is no longer there. I have surrendered to Death. I have accepted his triumph and told her to do the same.
Her eyes blink and a tear rolls down her cheek. Guilt and failure consume me. I want to embrace her to beg her not to go, but I can’t, I have to free her and myself.
I quickly stand up and walk out of the room, firmly closing the door behind me. I am in a trance. My whole body and mind are numb. I take the elevator down to the main level. I walk into the cafeteria, but never sit down. I don’t know what to do with myself. I am lost.
I end up outside in the bitter cold air. The mountains are socked in with ice clouds, but they don’t look nearly as cold as I feel inside. I cross the street and slide behind the wheel of my car and wait, staring straight ahead.
Eventually I put the key into the ignition and turn over the engine and pause again. I take one last look up at her window on the 6th floor. What have I done? From the outside, it looks peaceful, the twinkling lights and the Christmas decorations. But inside there is a battle going on and defeat is imminent.
19
Mending Fences
“Can you feel that?” the Drill Sergeant asks.
“What?”
“There’s something in the air. I can’t really explain it. It’s like the air is new, like the storm has washed it, but there’s something else. I feel… something.”
“I feel that this weather sucks.” I thought Africa would be hot and sunny; I didn’t expect rain and near freezing temperatures.
“Effervescence,” he blurts out suddenly.
“What?” How would the Neanderthal know a word like effervescence?
“There’s a certain effervescence out here. Do you feel it?” he asks again, smiling.
“Do you even know what effervescence means?”
“Yes I do. Do you feel it?” he asks impatiently.
“No.”
“It must be all this cold air, I’m not use to it.”
I am feeling something, too, but it isn’t effervescence. What I’m feeling is something much more sinister than mere excitement. It’s epicurean, and it’s obviously stemming from my vulnerable state after seeing the dying hartebeest. How dare I even feel a hint of these vile feelings towards HIM? This weather isn’t helping either. He looks different since the storm hit. He hasn’t shaved in a few days “to keep his face warm” as he says.
He looks rough around the edges with that five o’clock shadow, making me want to see him after five o clock, if you know what I mean. Ugh, vile thoughts! With rigid jaw and full lips, he’s the South African version of Grizzly Adams. It’s not just his overgrown facial hair that’s changed. He’s traded in his summer uniform for a winter digs: a khaki rain jacket that has Ranger printed in bright yellow letters across the shoulders over a khaki fleece. He even wears a khaki wool cap—there’s something barbaric and animalistic about it. Ugh! I must fight off these feelings for that Neanderthal. “What are we doing today?”
“Pulling down a fence.”
“Seems like you pull down a lot of fences around here. We pulled down that big one last week.”
“And we’ll be rebuilding it next week,” he grumbles.
“What?”
“We pulled down the wrong fence last week. Today we’ll pull down the right one.”
“Wait. You got us to pull down the wrong fence? Ha! How did you manage that?” I can’t believe it. Finally the Drill Sergeant has screwed up. We spent nearly an entire day pulling down that fence last week.
“Paperwork was mixed up.”
“Well, I think it’s hilarious that you had the crew pull down the wrong fence! Too bad I won’t be here next week to help you rebuild it, ha ha ha!”
“It’s almost as funny as you sleeping in the common area every night isn’t it?”
What? How the…? Damn Mama Magda. I curse her for disclosing my secrets and for breaking the international code of honorable blackmail by playing both sides. She has a teapot to return, and I will make damn sure she does so as soon as I get back to the camp.
“I see you coming out of there every morning from across the camp. You didn’t know that, did you?”
The tops of my ears threaten to burn off.
“It’s no big deal. You’re not the first volunteer to sleep in the common area, you know.” He sounds compassionate, and from the corner of my eye, he looks more handsome than ever.
“Don’t take this the wrong way…” he starts.
Oh my God, is this the moment when he tells me he also knows of my nickname for him? And that he, too, has one for me? I’ve seen him looking at my butt in the elephant stable. He probably thinks it resembles the back-end of a rhinoceros, or maybe he thinks I look like a distant cousin of Kittibon from behind. His nickname for me is probably something like Wide Load, or Big Bertha. Or perhaps he just calls me BB, short for Bubble Butt.
Or maybe it is not my butt. Maybe he’s going to tell me he finds me attractive, too. Does he?
“I must say that you are the hardest working volunteer I’ve seen here,” he says.
“Pardon me?” I don’t know if I should be pleased or disappointed.
“You’ve worked hard, and yes, you’ve pissed me off enormously at times, but overall, you’ve stepped up to the challenges. I thought you’d be long gone to Cape Town by now.”
I don’t quite know what to say. I guess if it can rain in this drought-laden part of Africa, then it’s not too far of a reach for the Drill Sergeant to give me a compliment.
The only thing I can muster is, “Thanks.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence… again, until we reach the lions’ camp where several other rangers are already busy at the fence line.
“The lion camp?” Not the lion camp again.
“Yes. There’s an old perimeter fence around the lion camp beside the other one, and we’ve got to take it out.”
“I never saw another fence.” I can’t believe we have to work beside these bloodthirsty predators again.
“It’s right beside the camp perimeter, just a few inches outside of it, hard to see unless you’re looking for it.”
I step out of Harrison into the tall blonde grass just outside the lion camp. My feet sink about six inches in the mud. I yank my foot out leaving my sneaker behind. The rangers begin to roar with laughter.
“Come on everyone, let’s do this,” orders the ever-impatient Drill Sergeant.
There’s a bit of scrub brush in between the two fences, blocking the view into the lion camp. The fence was part of the old farm that was here before the reserve was built. It’s made of wooden posts spaced fifty feet apart with four rows of barbed wire running the length of it.