Leaving Time(99)

I lean down, still gasping for air. The house on the hill looks just as ramshackle and uninviting as it did when we first arrived; the only evidence of our visit is the damp, frantic trail of footprints on the path—tracks that are rapidly vanishing in the heat, as if we were never there at all.





ALICE




Two months is a long time to be gone. A lot can happen in two months.

I didn’t know where Thomas was, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. I didn’t know if he was coming back. But he hadn’t just left Jenna and me, he had left seven elephants and a sanctuary staff. Which meant that someone needed to take over the business.

In two months, you can start to feel confident again.

In two months, you might discover that, in addition to being a scientist, you are also a very good businesswoman.

In two months, a child can start talking up a storm, cobbled sentences and twisted syllables, naming the world that looks just as new to her as it does to you.

In two months, you can start over.

Gideon had become my right-hand man. Although we talked about hiring a new employee, we didn’t have the money for it. We could do this, he assured me. If I could balance my research with the more cerebral financial work, he could be the brawn. Because of this, he was often working an eighteen-hour day. One evening after dinner, I picked up Jenna and wandered out to the point on the property where he was trying to mend a fence. I reached for a pair of pliers and went to work beside him. “You don’t have to do that,” he told me.

“Neither do you,” I said.

It became a routine: After six o’clock, we would work in tandem at whatever was still left on the endless to-do list. We took Jenna with us, and she would collect flowers and chase the wild rabbits that ran through the tall grass.

Somehow, we fell into that habit.

Somehow, we fell.


Maura and Hester were together again in the African enclosure. They had begun to bond, and were rarely seen apart. Maura was definitely in charge; when she challenged Hester, the younger elephant would turn around, presenting her bottom, a sign of subordinance. I had witnessed Maura returning to the grave site of her calf only once since our evening in the swimming pond. She had managed to compartmentalize her grief, to move on.

I took Jenna with me every day to observe the elephants, even though I knew Thomas thought it was dangerous. He was not here; he no longer got a vote. My toddler was a natural scientist. She would move around the enclosures collecting rocks and grasses and wildflowers, and would sort them into piles. Most of these afternoons, Gideon found some work in our vicinity, so that he could sit down and rest with us for a little while. I started to bring an extra snack for him, more iced tea.

Gideon and I talked about Botswana, about the elephants I had known there and how they were so different from the animals here. We talked about the stories he’d heard from the keepers who traveled with the elephants when they arrived at the sanctuary, of animals being beaten or stuffed into a chute while being trained. One day, he was telling me about Lilly, the elephant whose leg had never set properly after breaking. “She was in a different circus before that,” Gideon said. “The ship she was traveling on was docked in Nova Scotia, when it caught on fire. It sank; some of the animals on it were killed. Lilly made it out alive, but with second-degree burns on her back and her legs.”

Lilly, who I’d been taking care of now for nearly two years, had been hurt even more than I’d imagined. “It’s amazing,” I said. “How they don’t blame us for what other people did to them.”

“I think they forgive.” Gideon looked at Maura, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I hope they forgive. Do you think she remembers me taking the baby away?”

“Yes,” I said bluntly. “But she doesn’t hold it against you anymore.”

Gideon looked like he was about to respond. But suddenly his face froze, and he leaped up and started running.

Jenna, who knew better than to stray close to the elephants—who had never tested her limits before—was standing two feet away from Maura, staring up at her in a trance. She looked at me, smiling. “Elephant!” she announced.

Maura reached out her trunk, huffing over Jenna’s fairy-fine pigtails.

It was a moment of magic, and of supreme danger. Children, and elephants, are unpredictable. One sudden move and Jenna could have been trampled.

I rose, my mouth dry. Gideon was already there, moving slowly so as not to startle Maura into action. He scooped Jenna into his arms, as if this were a game. “Let’s get you back to your mama,” he said, and he looked over his shoulder at Maura.

That’s when Jenna started to scream. “Elephant,” she yelled. “I want!” She kicked against Gideon’s abdomen and squirmed like a fish on the line.

It was a full-blown tantrum. The noise startled Maura, who bolted into the woods, trumpeting. “Jenna,” I snapped. “You don’t go near the animals! You know better than that!” But the fear in my voice only made her cry harder.

Gideon grunted as one of her little sneakers connected with his groin. “I’m so sorry—” I said, reaching for her, but Gideon turned away. He kept rocking Jenna, bouncing her in his arms, until her screams thinned and her sobs became hiccups. She grabbed the collar of his red uniform shirt in her fist and started to rub the corner of it against her cheek, the way she did with her blanket when she was falling asleep.