“You expect me to be ready to leave Africa in four days?”
“Yes.” His tone was implacable.
“That’s not enough time.”
“To pack one suitcase of clothes?”
“To deal with my patients. To find another—”
“The patients aren’t your problem anymore—and neither is my staffing shortage. In fact, I’m taking you off rotation, effective immediately.”
“Jack! You can’t.”
He crossed the room, scribbled something on the schedule that was always hanging by the door. “It’s already done.”
“Who will take care of my patients? You can’t do everything—”
“That’s no longer your problem.”
It was as if he’d slapped her, her entire body recoiling with pain and betrayal. “We’ve been friends too long for you to treat me like this. How can you do it?”
“Because we are friends.” He crossed the room and took her hand in his own, ignoring her sudden stiffness. “Because I want to work with you for another fifteen years, at least.” He reached up and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her left ear. “This isn’t forever, kid. Only until you get yourself rested and back in fighting form. I can’t hold the fort indefinitely, you know.”
But that was exactly what she was afraid of—that he would have to hold the fort alone, forever. It was why she’d worked her way past exhaustion, beyond burnout. Because she feared if she ever left this place, she would never come back. Not just here, to Somalia, but Haiti or Cambodia. Bosnia or Sierra Leone. Chechnya, Afghanistan, Lebanon, Palestine. So many places. So much pain.
“Well, that’s it, then.” Anger and fear came through in her voice, despite her struggle to regain her professionalism. Amanda didn’t mind if Jack saw her anger, but she would be humiliated if he knew how afraid she was to return to the easy, civilized life most people took for granted.
“For now. Go back to your room and lie down. Get some rest and I’ll check on you later.” He paused, shot her a guilty look. “Three days ago, I emailed—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. Didn’t want to hear him admit that he’d ratted her out to the administrators of the program. Instead, she turned and left, walking briskly through the clinic, despite the calls of nurses and patients. They weren’t her responsibility anymore.
The thought cut like a knife.
So, what happened now? she wondered, dazed. What on earth was she supposed to do?
It was crazy, really, how completely unprepared she was for life away from here. How could an intelligent woman of thirty-five be so frightened of living a normal life? And how was she supposed to get past the gut-clenching, palm-dampening fear?
She headed outside, toward the tents pitched to the left of the clinic. She’d lived in them for almost a year, never leaving this stretch of desert since she’d arrived, fresh from Mozambique, ten months before.
She’d run here, one more stop in the headlong flight that kept her from thinking about—
Amanda shut the thought down before it could form. She wasn’t ready to go there yet. She wasn’t strong enough to examine her feelings about Gabby. She’d buried them for one year, six months and twenty-three days. She could bury them for a few more days or weeks or months—whatever it took for her to feel strong enough to deal with them.
But even as she mentally repeated the too-familiar sentiment, she knew it was a lie. She would never be strong enough to accept Gabby’s death. She’d failed her daughter, and that was not something she could get over.
Shaking again, Amanda paused for a moment and looked around the camp and surrounding desert that were as familiar to her as her own face. It was hot, the sun high in the sky as it roasted this part of East Africa. Drought and famine, AIDS and Ebola, tuberculosis and cholera, more diseases than she could count had taken their toll, year after year, until some weeks bodies actually piled up in the villages, waiting to be buried or burned.
But despite everything that had happened here in the past three decades, Africa was beautiful. The landscape was empty, barren, but there was an elegance in its stark simplicity. Endless miles of dirt and sand and desert brush as far as the eye could see, the sun reflecting brightly off the hard, arid ground. It appealed to something primitive inside of her, this country with its harsh truths and frightening realities.
There was beauty in its complete and utter devastation.
At a loss for what else to do—knowing only that she couldn’t go back to her tent and stare at the four canvas walls without losing what was left of her control—she began to walk. Without her patients, without her job, it wasn’t as if there was anything else to do out here but wander for a while, saying goodbye to this continent that had such a huge impact on her life. If things went as she was afraid they would, then it didn’t matter what Jack said. She was done here.
She walked for a long time—through the village and beyond, oblivious to the heat that was so much a part of Somalia. It was harvest time for the meager crops that this poverty- and drought-stricken nation could produce, and the men were few. Between the wars, the famine and the harvest, the village was almost a ghost town during the day. Many of the children were in the fields with their mothers; the others were in the hospital or at the government-run school that was built on the east side of the village. It was here that they learned math and history and how to read and speak English—at least until they had to give up their education to help feed the family.
She shook her head. Somalia had so many languages. Somali and Arabic were the two main ones, but each village in the line sweeping through the nation’s interior had a variation of its own. Her village, Massalu, spoke Chimbalazi, but most of the children who lived here were almost illiterate in the language of their parents. The language of their blood.
Her fatigue—a soul-deep weariness—caught up with her, and Amanda slumped onto a large rock. Her thinking rock. She’d used it so much in the past ten months that she could swear she’d worn a flat spot on it. Or maybe she wasn’t the only one who came to this desolate stretch of land to brood. God knew, there was more than enough to think about…
The sound of a faraway engine caught her attention and she looked up in time to see a Learjet coming into view. She watched it for a few minutes, until it passed over her, but she grew alarmed when the plane slowed as it approached the village.
Who could it be? Only the top government “officials”—Samatru and his crew—had access to planes like that. But even they usually arrived by car. Fuel and airplanes were hard to come by and saved for very special occasions.
The plane coasted in for a landing on the dusty road that ran about a thousand yards in front of the hospital, and though it was officially no longer her business, she couldn’t help worrying. Nor could she stop herself from running toward it as she tried to figure out what new threat the clinic was in for.
Despite the famine ravaging the country, it had been almost impossible for their organization, For the Children, to gain access to Somalia—the government frowned on outside interference. Even reporters and tourists had very restricted access to the small besieged nation—which made running a clinic here that much more difficult.
Add in the fact that the government had decided the doctors were ripe for exploitation, and it was a miracle that the hospital managed to hold on to any supplies to treat their patients.
As she ran, Amanda wondered what official had gotten a sudden “concern” about their presence here? And how much money it would take for his “attack of conscience” to be mollified.
How many people had to die so that he could wear his expensive suits and fly in his little plane? How many children had to starve?
Concern whipped through her, making her run faster despite