Missionary Position (29 page)

In my room, I propped myself up on my bed with pillows and checked my mail for a response from Anita. Nothing.

Unopened messages from friends filled my inbox. I randomly clicked through them and caught up on the gossip at home. My sister-in-laws pestered me to confirm Christmas. Maggie invited me to her and Gil’s holiday party. Quinn sent pictures of Lizzy dressed up as Tinker Bell from Halloween. Jo had tagged me in an old college picture on Facebook.

An hour later, I’d caught up on everything. I responded to Maggie, spilling my heart out all over the text box. Unloading felt amazing. I missed her.

I refreshed my inbox.

Anita had responded to my email.

I scanned the page for the words “dead”, “killed”, or “loss”.

Hi Selah!

I’m happy to hear from you. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that my little introduction turned out so well.

Sorry about the whole Gerhard/Kai thing. It’s too much fun teasing him. You should have known him before he had the stick removed from his ass.

You sound worried. One thing you should understand about Kai is he does this. He disappears into work sometimes and forgets people worry about him. Hell, he forgets everything.

That said, he’s okay. He texted us when they returned to Nairobi last night.

He’ll probably contact you soon. Feel free to yell at him about worrying you, but don’t expect it to change.

Hope our paths cross again.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Anita

Last night?
After almost two weeks without a word other than a garbled voicemail, he’d returned to the capital where cell service, and most definitely cell telephones, existed. Yet I hadn’t received so much as a text in the last twenty-four hours. I had to find out from his ex-wife what he was really like.

Anger replaced the fear that had taken up residence inside my chest.

What the hell?

Tiny bubbles of rage percolated, blocking out any feelings of relief.

He might be alive, but I wanted to kill him for making me worry and behave like a ridiculous, pining girl.

I wasn’t a moony teenager.

I didn’t pine.

I didn’t sit around waiting for the phone to ring.

Closing my laptop, I resolved to stop being whoever this woman was and return to being myself.

Strong.

Independent.

In charge.

I turned off my light. In the darkness, I gave thanks for Kai being alive, letting the knowledge comfort me. Traitor tears escaped. Maybe he hadn’t called because it was over.

Ugh.

I was a mess. A hot mess as Quinn would say.

Stupid men.

Stupid feelings.

Stupid love.

Stupid elephant taunting me from atop my dresser.

I fell asleep chanting the lyrics of
I Am Woman
. My mother played that song non-stop during my childhood, and along with
Our Bodies, Ourselves
, it was the feminist foundation of how to be a strong woman—the kind who didn’t cry over boys.

AMA AND I sat at the little table near the railing, which I’d first considered my own all those months ago. Since my resolution two nights ago, my anger created a barbed hedge around my heart. My pride acted as a super-hero cape, enabling me to leap to conclusions in a single bound.

I am Selah, hear me roar.

Writing in my notebook, I plotted killing off my Nordic pirate. Death by orgasm or during one. Or maybe I’d make him suffer longer. Pirates had many clever, creative ways of torture.

Ama took a call at the front desk and then returned, clapping like fool with a huge grin plastered to her face.

“You have a phone call!” she shouted.

“Who’s calling me on the hotel phone?”

“Answer it and find out!”

I gave her a sidelong look before I walked to reception.

Fourteen days.

That’s how long I waited to speak to Kai. Five of those days spent thinking he could have been kidnapped or dead. Two days stewing he hadn’t bothered to let me know he was neither.

“Hi, love.” His voice sounded happy.

To say I was livid would be a mild understatement. “Hi.”

“It’s Kai,” he explained.

“I know.”

“You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”

“I’m relieved you’re alive and not held for ransom by terrorists.”

“Why would I be held for ransom?”

“That’s usually what happens when someone is kidnapped.”

“Who told you I was kidnapped?” His voice rose.

“No one, but after almost two weeks with nothing, it was a possibility. Or death.”

“In your mind you had me dead or kidnapped?”

I bristled at his amused tone. “Anything’s possible.”

“Selah.” He sighed.

“What?”

“I’m fine. After I called you from the satellite phone, I lost my cell phone … well, a Jeep ran over it, and I didn’t have your number memorized. Stupid of me, but I never wrote it down. I called Ama to get it. I’m so happy to hear your voice. I love you.”

I paused, my heart and mind debating my response.

“Hello? Hello?”

“I’m here.”

“You’re mad.”

“I am.”

“I’m sorry. This isn’t typical.”

“I emailed Anita because I thought you could have been dead.”

“You did?” His voice revealed his surprise.

“I did. How dare you put me in a position to have to email your ex-wife to find out information about you.” Anger colored my voice.

He paused. “I travel frequently. You knew this. I traveled while I lived in Ghana.”

“I know.” I sighed. “It’s different now. Anita told me you do this, this disappearing act, a lot. I loved learning about you from her. Things I should probably have learned from you.”

The line crackled for a minute.

“What are you saying, Selah?”

“The past two weeks freaked me out. More than anything, they were torture.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You apologize, but it doesn’t change things.”

“Are you having second thoughts about us?”

My heart hurt. I nodded silently, knowing he couldn’t see me, and tears stung my eyes.

“Selah …”

“Kai …”

“Please don’t give up on us. It won’t be easy, but I love you.”

I found my voice, but it came out a whisper. “I love you.”

“Let’s not do this right now, please?”

“It won’t become easier later.”

He inhaled a deep breath. In the background, something hit a hard surface. “Don’t.”

With the tips of my fingers, I swiped the tears from under my eyes. “I love you, but I can’t be this person. I’ve spent weeks consumed by you, losing my mind listing the horrible things that could have happened to you. Before you, I loved my life. It wasn’t conventional, but it was mine. I had control and I liked it.”

“Love—”

I cut him off. “No, don’t. It hurts too much to say good-bye to you again.”

“Then don’t.”

I bit the thin skin of my knuckle to the point of pain to stifle my voice.

“We’re only at the beginning. We have plans for the future,” he continued.

Ignoring him, I spoke again, “The other night I cried myself to sleep. I haven’t done that since high school. Not over a boy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice thick.

“And I remembered a saying my mother told me about fish and bicycles.”

“What saying is that?”

“A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.” I spoke calmly. “Gloria Steinhem.”

“What does that even mean?”

“A fish has no use for a bicycle.”

“Ouch.”

“It means even without a man, a woman will be fine.”

“I’ve never said you needed me.”

“No, but God help me, I wanted you.”

“I love you.”

“I know, but sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“It’s everything.”

“Not to overcome reality.”

“I disagree,” he argued. “Don’t I get a say?”

“I’m sorry, but no.”

“Stop. I’ll change my ticket to Chicago and come to Ghana. I can be there tomorrow.”

“If you fly here, you’ll miss Thanksgiving.”

“It’s not even my holiday.”

“But it’s important to Cibele. I’m sure she misses you.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve disappointed her, and probably won’t be the last. I’m far from perfect.”

“Don’t be that father—the one who disappoints his daughter because of a new woman in his life. I’m not that woman, and never want to be that woman. Go, be with your daughter, Kai.”

“Damn you, Selah. We are not over.” Anger, frustration, and hurt overlapped in his voice.

The hurt sliced through me.

“I love you, Kai. There’s a part of me that always will. Forever.”

“I love you,” he said, resigned.

“Good-bye.

“Selah—”

I hung up so he wouldn’t hear my sobs.

AMA HELD A Thanksgiving dinner for any ex-pats who wanted to attend. The veranda was filled with American accents while I processed the strange sensation of being around so many Americans at once. I texted my parents and sent a group email to friends, telling them how grateful I was for all of them.

I ignored the texts from Kai. The voicemails, too.

I suspected Ama gave Kai my cell number again. Meddler. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t on the same continent anymore. I pictured him with his beautiful ex-wife and daughter, eating and laughing over a traditional meal—the wet dream of Norman Rockwell.

I finished my gin and tonic and asked Sarah for another.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Ama warned.

“Now you’re my mother?”

“No, but you’ve had enough. Eat something.”

I shoved a forkful of greens into my mouth, acting petulant. No one should have to deal with me. This was why I was alone.

It might have been the three gin and tonics or something in the food, but my head reeled and my stomach gurgled. I put down my fork and sipped some water.

The water didn’t help.

I dashed to the bathroom, sparing my shoes, barely, when I lost my dinner. Perhaps it was my ungrateful attitude, or maybe something I ate. Resting my forehead on the cool tiles of the wall, I let my misery loose and sobbed.

Cried out after several minutes, I splashed some water on my clammy face and attempted to appear less vomitus.

Ama frowned at my appearance when I sat down at the table. “I’m worried about you.”

“Please don’t. I think I drank too much gin on an empty stomach and maybe my malaria meds. Bad combination.”

Her expression serious, she touched my forehead. “You’re warm.”

I waved her hand away. “I’m fine.”

“You should take it easy. Otherwise, you’ll end up in the hospital.”

“I promise. I’m fine, but I should go home.”

I said my good-byes. While Kofi drove me to Ama’s house, his worried eyes met mine in the rearview mirror several times.

“I’m fine,” I reassured him. “Too much gin. Same thing happened when I drank in high school.”

He frowned at me. “You take care of yourself, Dr. Selah.”

Ama checked on me in the morning. She brought me a bowl of clear broth and some dry toast. The gesture was lovely, but my stomach revolted after two sips. My head pounded from the gin hangover.

When I asked for additional blankets, Ama touched my forehead again and turned off the air conditioner.

“You have a fever,” she declared.

“It’s probably a stomach bug.”

I slept most of the day, waking again when it was dark outside. It could be early evening. Or the next morning. The dry toast laid on the table. I tested a few bites, and then sipped from a fresh bottle of water.

And waited.

Nothing happened.

I finished the toast and water.

When I woke up, light peeked around the curtains. I hadn’t been sick for hours.

Relieved whatever hell virus had been expelled, I dressed and left the room to find food.

Ama scowled at me. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m fine. Hungry even.” I grabbed some plain rice from her pot on the stove. “In fact, I’m setting out for the markets to do some Christmas shopping.”