Every Breath(73)

“That was kind of you. To help them, I mean.”

“They had no more ability to choose the family they were born into than I did. Beyond that, though, I think it’s what my mum would have wanted me to do.”

“What about your biological father? Did you ever see him again?”

“No,” Tru said. “We spoke on the phone a couple of weeks after I returned to Zimbabwe, but he passed away not long after that.”

“How about his other children? Did you ever change your mind about meeting them?”

“No,” Tru answered. “And I’m fairly sure they didn’t want to get to know me, either. The letter from the attorney informing me of my father’s death made that clear. I don’t know their reasons—maybe it was because I was a reminder that their mother wasn’t the only woman our father loved, or maybe they were worried about an inheritance, but I saw no reason to ignore their wishes. Like my father, they were strangers.”

“I’m still glad you had a chance to meet him.”

He turned his gaze toward the fire. “I am, too. I still have the photographs and drawings he gave me. It seems like so long ago,” he said.

“It has been a long time,” she said quietly.

“Too long,” he said, taking her hand, and she knew that he was talking about her. She felt her cheeks flush, even as his thumb began to caress her skin, his touch achingly familiar. How was it possible that they’d found each other again? And what was happening to them now? He seemed unchanged from the man she’d once fallen for, but it made her think again how different her own life had become. Where he was as handsome as ever, she felt her age; where he seemed at ease in her presence, his touch triggered another wave of emotion. It was overwhelming, almost too much, and she squeezed his hand before releasing it. She wasn’t ready for that much intimacy yet, but she gave an encouraging smile before sitting up straight.

“So, let me see if I have this straight. You were in Hwange until…1999 or 2000? And then you moved to Botswana?”

He nodded. “1999. I was in Botswana for five years.”

“And then?”

“I think, for that, I’ll probably need another glass of wine.”

“Let me get it.” Taking his glass, she retreated to the kitchen before returning a minute later. She got comfortable beneath the blanket again, thinking the room was warming up nicely. Cozy. In many ways, it had already been a perfect afternoon.

“All right,” she said, “what year was this?”

“2004.”

“What happened?”

“I was in an accident,” he said. “A rather bad one.”

“How bad?”

He took a sip of wine, his eyes on hers. “I died.”





DYING




As he lay in the ditch by the side of the highway, Tru could feel his life slipping away. He was only dimly aware of his overturned truck with the demolished front end, and of the way one of the tires was finally rotating to a stop; he barely noticed the people rushing toward him. He wasn’t sure where he was or what had happened, or why the world seemed blurry. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t seem to move his legs, or what was causing the relentless waves of pain throughout his entire body.

Nor, when he finally woke in a hospital he didn’t recognize in an entirely different country, would he remember the accident at all. He remembered that he had been returning to the lodge after spending a few days in Gaborone, but only learned later from the nurse that an oncoming supply truck in the opposite lane had suddenly crossed into the path of his pickup. Tru hadn’t been wearing his seat belt, and in the collision, he’d rocketed through the windshield, cracking his skull and landing forty feet away, which caused eighteen more bones to break, including both femurs, all the bones in his right arm, three vertebrae, and five ribs. He was loaded into a vegetable cart by strangers and rushed to a temporary NGO clinic that was offering vaccinations at a nearby village. It had neither the equipment, medicine, or supplies that Tru needed, nor was a doctor even present. The floor was dirt, and the room was filled with children who had learned to ignore the flies that swarmed over their faces and limbs. The nurse was from Sweden, young and overwhelmed, and had no idea what to do when Tru was rolled into the waiting room. But people expected her to do something—anything—so she moved toward the cart and checked for a pulse. There was nothing. She checked the carotid artery. Still nothing. She put her ear to Tru’s mouth and checked for breathing. She heard and felt nothing, then raced toward her bag for a stethoscope. She placed it on his chest and listened carefully for the faintest murmur without hearing anything before finally giving up. Tru was dead.

The owner of the vegetable cart asked that the body be placed elsewhere, so he could go back and retrieve his vegetables before they were all stolen. There was an argument about whether he should wait for the police, but the owner shouted the loudest and his opinion carried the day. He and the father of one of the children lifted Tru’s body from the cart. The bones clicked and made grinding noises as Tru was placed on the floor in the corner, and the nurse draped a blanket over his body. People made room for the corpse, but otherwise ignored it. The owner of the vegetable cart vanished back onto the street and the nurse continued to administer injections.