Inconceivable! Page 29
“It was that day you came to my office.”
“That’s right. I still feel that way sometimes. But then I remember pregnancy wasn’t my goal. What I wanted was to be a mom. And I’ve got that now.”
“Yes, you do. I love you, Hatty. Now, get yourself to Toulene so I can squeeze you and Tigist.”
“I will. Hey, I’ve got to go. The connection’s breaking up. Love you! Talk to you soon!” I said as the static increased. The line went dead.
I walked into the living room where John was reading a book to a wide-eyed Tigist who sat in his lap. Standing in the doorway, I watched as he took her finger and rubbed it on the soft fur of the bear in the book.
Tears stung my eyes as I saw the ways in which John and I were becoming parents. It didn’t happen in a single moment, like we once thought it would, in a hospital with a baby meeting us, and the world, for the first time. Instead, the transformation was incremental, measured in teaspoons of mashed peas, ounces of formula, and milligrams of teething biscuits.
Tigist’s eyes were heavy. Her head drooped to the side as her loud snoring cranked up. I reached for her, and John shook his head. He stood, careful to keep his balance, walked past me, and laid her in the crib in our bedroom.
When he returned, we sat on the couch.
“Tilda said your dad is issuing a decree stating the royal family will cover the costs of all infertility treatments for couples who exceed the coverage limit under the federal healthcare program. Is that right?”
“Yes.” John flipped on the television, filling the room with Ethiopian Orthodox hymns.
“How did you manage that?” I picked up the remote and clicked off the TV. “Tell me.”
He smiled. “I told my father if he didn’t step up on this issue, we’d release the photos of him and Louisa to Xpress tomorrow. I also said if he expands infertility coverage, we’d delete all the snapshots.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m not getting rid of those pictures.”
“Of course not. But he doesn’t have to know that.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t want you to have any more reasons to visit Leisel de Vries in prison.”
“Damn it. Why can’t anyone keep a secret?”
“Because we’re royals. At least, we were. C’est la vie, baby.” He pulled out a deck of cards and began to deal. “Want to play?”
Streaks of burning orange ripped through the inky darkness of the sky, heralding the coming sunrise. I sat outside the cottage, sipping my coffee from a chipped white mug, watching chickens peck around the ground by Desta and Tariku’s back door. I’d gotten up while John and Tigist were still asleep, desperate for a few moments of consistent Wi-Fi.
I scanned the coverage of Henri and Adela’s second pregnancy. Almost all the articles framed the pregnancy news to convey the sense of relief it brought to John’s family in light of my continued failure to conceive. Intellectually, I knew what I was reading was speculation, innuendo, and outright lies. Still, my heart ached at some of the words in the Xpress article.
Baby Dos! Prince Henri and Duchess Adela Bring an Heir to Spare to Roeselare
By James Compson
November 27, 2015
A palace insider says the Meinrad family is heaving a collective sigh of relief at the news, especially after Prince John and Duchess Hatty reportedly experienced a miscarriage. They underwent in vitro fertilization this fall during a visit to the United States. Sources say the stress from that failure continues to plague the pair, who are seeking counseling for their marital strife.
Duchess Adela, originally from Spain, said in a written statement she and Henri are exploding with joy over their big news. “It’s truly a blessing to bring another child into this wonderful family.”
Meanwhile, no one’s seen Prince John or Duchess Hatty in recent days, fueling speculation their marriage is in trouble over Hatty’s inability to produce an heir.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if we see an official statement about their pending divorce by the end of the year,” said Nic Capucine, longtime royal observer.
Still no news of John’s abdication. When would Cilla decide to drop that bomb? She and Leo were probably still trying to figure out how to spin it.
“Hatty!” John’s frantic voice pierced the morning air. I set my mug on the concrete porch and rushed inside.
“Her breathing doesn’t seem right. And she was coughing in a weird way,” John said, cradling her body. Tigist looked glassy-eyed, her breaths coming in gasps.
“Is her throat constricted?”
“I don’t know. She was like this when I checked on her.”
“Bring her to Desta’s,” I said, holding open the front door.
We sprinted across the small yard between our houses, John cradling Tigist in his arms, and I banged on the door. Tariku appeared, dressed and holding a newspaper.
“What is wrong with the baby?” he said, instantly assessing the situation.
“We don’t know. I heard her cough in a funny way, so I got out of bed to check on her. She looks sick and her breathing isn’t right.” Adrenaline accelerated John’s speech.
“Come. We must get her to the clinic.” Tariku grabbed a set of keys from his pocket.
We were in a private room at the orphanage clinic. John had not let go of Tigist since he’d first scooped her out of the crib. A clear plastic mask was over her nose and mouth so she could receive a breathing treatment. The doctor, a new staff member, said she had croup, a potentially serious childhood illness. He also told us Tigist’s “throat problem” is actually a floppy larynx that makes her airway somewhat crowded. It was the reason she snored loudly and aspirated formula, propelling droplets into her lungs where they developed into pneumonia.
Tigist drifted to sleep as the soft hiss of the nebulizer sent the mist of medicine to her nose and mouth. When I looked at John, I saw a tear streaming down his cheek.
“Hey,” I said, placing by hand on his arm.
“When I picked her up from the crib and felt her body limp in my hands, I thought we might lose her. I didn’t want her to die without a mother and father. That’s the loneliest thing I can imagine.” He rubbed his cheek against his shoulder to wipe away the tear.
“She’s not going to die. And it seems to me she has a mother and father.” I stroked her cheek. Her dark brown skin was smooth and soft.
As I sat back in my chair, my mind permanently captured the image of Tigist nestled in John’s arms. My heart grew to encompass them both; this moment cemented them as a package deal: father and daughter.
ohn and I strolled with our arms linked as we let the smells, sights, and sounds of the Addis Mercato envelop us. Known as one of the largest outdoor markets on the continent, it was an epicenter of commerce and culture. We passed rudimentary cages holding chickens, rows of cookware piled on the ground, and shacks selling piles of dried leaves known as khat, a mild narcotic that was wildly popular.
“Don’t you want to try it?” I held up a handful of the leaves.
“No, thank you. You wouldn’t want to kiss me if I had a mouth full of that stuff.”
“You’re right.” I smiled at the vendor as I put the leaves back in his pile and laid a few bills on top since I’d handled his product without buying it.
Desta, Tariku, and Plato were our guides. They named the unlabeled bins of spices we passed. We were on the hunt for a brightly colored wicker basket that would hold injera, the slightly sour, thin, and bubbly bread that was a staple of the Ethiopian diet.
We came to a small shack that was serving coffee, and took seats around a plastic table. Plato ordered drinks for us.
“I can’t tell you how happy we’ve been to have you both here. I know you haven’t decided what your long-term plans are going to be, and I understand your desire to care for Tigist has complicated things, but I wanted to ask you something,” Desta said, rubbing sanitizer on her hands.
I looked at Plato. He was grinning but
also trying to stifle it.
“You may have heard from our staff that our sister orphanage in rural Ethiopia, in the village of Aleta Wondo, has lost its directors. I wondered if the two of you might be willing to spend some time there… Just until we can find permanent staff to take over,” Desta added the last bit hastily, as though she didn’t want her proposal to sound like an imposition.
John squeezed my hand. “Do you need an answer now?”
Desta laughed. “That would be ideal, but I know you may need to discuss it before making a commitment.”
“Hatty, John. If I may offer you some wisdom as you consider this opportunity.” Tariku shifted in his seat and leaned across the table toward us. “There is an Ethiopian proverb that says ‘the long nights end with the breaking of days.’ It means we can’t escape the darkness without breaking our routines, our habits, our way of thinking about things. This would certainly be a clean break.”
The coffee arrived and Desta told us more about the orphanage in Aleta Wondo and the difficulties it faced being in such a remote location. As she spoke, a watercolor image of our future unfolded in my mind. It was frightening and beautiful, utterly overwhelming.
John and I left the heavy door open and closed the screen so we could sit on the porch and still hear the loud snores emanating from the bedroom. We’d come to appreciate her nighttime noises because it gave us assurance she wasn’t struggling to breathe.
“So, what do you think about Desta’s proposal?” I tried to sound neutral, though my mind was set on a plan.
“I think it’s an interesting offer. I’m not sure it’s right for us. What happens if we’re in this remote village and Tigist gets croup again?”
“There are two doctors who take shifts at the orphanage in Aleta Wondo. If their clinic set-up is similar to the clinic here, I think she’d receive excellent care.”
“Would you have any concerns about our safety?”
“Isn’t that why we have Bernard?”
“Okay. You’re great with children, but what would I do there?”
“First of all, you’re also fabulous with children. They follow after you like a herd of sheep. Second, aren’t you essentially a farm doctor now that you have your Ph.D.? Couldn’t you help local farmers with whatever problems they’re having?”
“I suppose.”
“And maybe I can do more writing. The world needs to know about the kinds of situations that lead birth families to place children in orphanages. I mean, Tigist is with us because her birth mom is dead. But Desta told me about two-thirds of the children in the orphanages are there because their parents can’t feed them. That’s an outrage. No parent should ever have to give up custody of their children to prevent them from going hungry.”
John reached over and grabbed my hand. He kissed the back of it. “These children need a voice, and you could share their stories with the world. You could do that kind of writing from here. Or from Roeselare, for that matter, if we ever decide to go back. I’m just thinking out loud here. I don’t know. I need to sleep on it.”
he heat in the kitchen made me feel slightly dizzy. As I worked with the cooks to prepare our own version of Winter’s Feast, I savored the smells and textures of the vegetables and fruits in my hands.
John and I hired local restaurant workers to create the many courses for the celebration. All of the produce and meat for the feast came from farms in and near Addis Ababa. With the help of a man from the Ethiopian Institute of Agricultural Research, John had selected all of the food we were about to eat.
He came into the kitchen, grabbed me by the waist, and pulled me out the back door. We stood on a rectangular concrete porch alone except for a mangy dog peering at us through the fence that marked the orphanage grounds.
“Close your eyes. Hold out your hand.” I did as John asked. He placed something small in my palm. “Open your eyes.”
Encased in its signature silver foil, the single chocolate candy also had the tiny tab of paper rising from the wrapper.
“A kiss?”
“A chocolate kiss, different than the ones we’ve shared before, but it’s just as delicious. That’s how I think of our lives here: different than what we imagined for ourselves, but fulfilling and lovely.”
His lips met mine, and a surge of deep love radiated from my heart. Even with my eyes closed, a tear escaped and slid down my cheek.
The door swung open behind us and Desta reached for my arm. “Everyone’s seated! They’re ready.”
John and I walked into the room that normally served as a gymnasium for the older kids at the orphanage. A large group of volunteers had arrived from Illinois over the weekend. They helped us set up the tables and were watching the children so that most of the orphanage staff could enjoy the feast. The volunteers who weren’t helping with the kids agreed to serve the food. Tears stung my eyes at the sight of these men and women tying aprons on each other so they could give our staff a well-deserved evening of appreciation. I was an emotional mess.
John stood beside me at the head table, and I wiped my eyes. In lieu of the delicate bell the queen always used to quiet the crowd at Belvoir when she was ready to make a toast, I rang a cow bell. Everyone fell silent and turned toward me.
“Good evening, friends. During the celebration of Winter’s Feast in Toulene, we usually talk about remembering our blessings. It’s a way to remind ourselves to be thankful for all we have, even in the bitter depths of winter’s darkness. I want our first Winter’s Feast in Ethiopia to focus on the same thing: the many blessings we have in spite of the challenges we’ve faced this year. I’ve learned in the last few months there is no Plan B. There’s just life.” My voice started to falter as the truth of the words rang through the room.
John put his arm around me. “What Hatty’s saying is we never imagined we’d be here, adopting an Ethiopian baby who stole our hearts, and preparing to help run the orphanage in Aleta Wondo.”
Applause exploded in the room at this announcement. Chairs scooted and everyone stood. Desta, Tariku, Plato, and Alemtsehay gathered around us for a group hug. I wept at the symmetry of the moment, remembering how on a previous Winter’s Feast miles from here, the people we loved surrounded me and John as we celebrated the news of our engagement.
After the clapping subsided and everyone took their seats again, I held up my cup to propose a toast.
“Please raise your glass with me. To endings that are really beginnings, much happier and more beautiful than we could ever write for ourselves. Cheers!”
John kissed me on the cheek as we clinked our glasses and began the feast.
Aleta Wondo, Ethiopia
May 20, 2016
pulled the rag from my back pocket and wiped away the snot creeping from Bereket’s right nostril. She was my shadow, the one child out of the whole orphanage who never left my side. The tiny child clung to my waist as I stepped through the doorway into the bright morning sun, already baking us with its ninety degree heat. It reminded me of the ongoing challenge I faced in helping the farmers in and around the village. They struggled in this unusual heat wave to keep their crops irrigated, but rainy season was just getting started. Soon, we’d be battling the overabundance of rain. We had a couple of ideas we were testing. Today would be a good day to gather some field data.
“Who was that?” I nodded toward the white man walking down the path.
“Oh, just some man with a camera. He had an accent like yours. He asked to meet you, and I asked if he’d like to meet the children in the TB ward. He politely declined,” Alemtsehay said as she draped a limp, faded onesie across the clothes line.
“Ah, I see.” Not even living in a remote area of Ethiopia could keep the paparazzi away. “Here, let me and Bereket help you with the laundry.”
Reaching into the basket with her only hand, Bereket fished around for something pink. “I hang it.”
I lifted her onto my shoulders and helped her place the tank top on the shaky clothes line.
“Not this time, love. Too bad he left without meeting our glamorous Bereket. Let’s go take your photo out by the roses. We’ll see what Hatty’s up to.”
With Bereket perched on my shoulders, I headed around the corner of the orphanage’s main building.
We found Hatty sitting on an old quilt spread across the ground under a tree. Tigist sat beside her playing with an array of new toys that had arrived in the mail from her Uncle Henri and Aunt Adela. Tigist looked up intermittently as Hatty read “Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus.” The sweet sound of accented English floated through the air as the children shouted, “No!” “You can’t drive!”
She finished reading and closed the book. “Hey! Do you want to take over? I’ve got a deadline this afternoon. I promised my editor I’d send my column by 8:00 p.m. their time,” she said, looking calm and radiant even as she stared down a killer deadline for one of the world’s biggest publications.
Hatty’s holistic approach to orphan care, which focused on programs to keep children with birth families, earned her widespread respect. Her testimony last month to a congressional subcommittee in Washington, D.C. focused on ways to eliminate the need for orphanages like the one we now ran in Aleta Wondo.
“Sure!” I said. “But first, I promised Bereket I’d take her picture by the roses.” I pulled the phone from my pocket.
“You stand with me, Hatty?” Bereket held out her hand.
“I will pose with Bereket Rose!” Hatty said in a sing-songy voice as she approached us.
“My name is not Rose!” Bereket protested with a smile.
As they stood laughing and discussing the merits of changing Bereket’s middle name to Rose, I snapped photos. On my phone’s screen, I saw a child and a mother, a mother whose arms enveloped every child in the orphanage, whose heart was full of love for children she did not birth but who belonged to her all the same.