Out of the Shadows (3 page)

In silence, Ben opened the passenger door and adjusted the seat forward. He stepped back and motioned for Leslie to climb into the rear seat. “Be sure to watch your step.” His tone was short, and his gesture hinted at annoyance.

Leslie moved forward to comply, but Mama Joe took her arm. “No. No. Here, let me ride in the back. The view is much better from the front!”

Leslie looked at the narrow opening leading to the rear seat and recognized that it would be difficult to maneuver into. She started to protest, but Mama Joe waved her away. “I may be old, but I’m agile!” Ben assisted the elderly nurse as she stepped up and crawled deftly into the rear of the plane. He readjusted the front passenger seat and then stood back to allow Leslie room to board.

She shifted her large canvas bag to her left shoulder and placed her right foot on the small metal step welded to the landing-gear strut as Mama Joe had done. She was determined to appear as coordinated and capable as the woman who was almost forty years her senior, and she grasped the door to pull herself up into the plane. But her bag slipped off her shoulder and the strap snagged on a small hook that held the seat belt. She let go of the door’s frame to free the strap, but became unbalanced. Groping frantically for something to hold on to, she found nothing but air.

A well-placed hand to her bottom caught Leslie. Ben held her weight easily with one hand as he loosened the strap of her bag with the other. Then he pushed her into the seat. He watched as she cleared the door before closing it firmly. Without comment, he turned and walked toward the back of the plane.

Leslie felt her face turn scarlet. She couldn’t believe that for the second time in less than an hour, Ben’s quick response had kept her from falling flat on her rear. She clenched her teeth as she settled into her seat. In humiliation she realized that she could still feel the pressure of his hand.

She took deep, calming breaths and studied her surroundings. The plane was compact. The front bucket seats were separated by only a few inches, and a dizzying array of dials, gauges, knobs, indicators, switches and buttons comprised the instrument panel.

“Have you ever flown in a small plane before?” Mama Joe asked, leaning forward.

Leslie turned awkwardly in the confined space to face the older woman and shook her head. “No, this is my first time.” She wondered again if she should mention Ben’s drinking.

Her nervousness must have been evident, because Mama Joe patted her arm. “There’s no need to worry. Ben’s an excellent pilot. He was in the air force, you know. Besides,” she added cheerfully, “it’s much safer than driving.”

Leslie wanted to answer that it wasn’t the flight she feared—it was the pilot’s level of sobriety. She managed to keep her concerns to herself and merely nodded in reply.

Leslie watched Ben walk around the plane, examining the fuselage as he commenced his preflight inspection. At least he didn’t
seem
drunk. “Do you need to fly often in your practice, Mama Joe?”

“Oh, every now and then. If a call is nearby and the distance can be traveled in a few hours, I’ll have Titus take me—he’s my driver. But for an emergency, or if it’ll be more than three hours by car, I’ll fly if I can.” She took a breath. “It seems like it goes in clusters. Sometimes I’ll stay near Namanga for weeks without being called away, and at other times I’ll fly to distant villages or to Nairobi several times in one week. There’s really no way to predict it.”

“Does Ben always take you when you fly?” Leslie tried to keep her tone casual.

“About half the time. He’s freelance, and for the most part he ferries supplies and equipment all over East Africa. Sometimes he flies tourists from one game park to another.” She leaned forward and added conspiratorially, “I don’t think he likes flying tourists, but it pays well.”

“So, how much does he charge you?” Against her will, Leslie found herself watching him inspect the propeller. His shirt stretched across his wide chest as he reached up to run his hands along the length of the blade.

Mama Joe smiled. “Oh, he doesn’t charge us. If we need him, and if he’s around, he’ll take us wherever we want to go for free.” She looked at Leslie and added, “But if he’s off somewhere, we call one of the guys from MASS—that’s Mission Aviation Support Services.”

“Are they nearby?”

“Andy Singleton works out of Mutomo, about seventy miles northwest of us. Ed Jones is in Tsavo, about fifty miles southeast. The problem is it takes at least an hour for them to get to Namanga. Ben is local. Also, if we use Andy or Ed, they won’t be available for others. Besides, we have to pay a small fee for their services—just enough to cover fuel and maintenance, but it adds up.” She frowned slightly. “Now that I think about it, I’m not really sure how Ben manages to work for free.”

The conversation halted as the object of their discussion opened the pilot’s door and climbed in. All three were silent as Ben finished his preparations; Leslie watched as he flipped several switches and turned some knobs. He pulled a pair of headphones from under his seat and put them on. The propeller began to revolve, and within seconds the cabin was filled with a loud roar. Ben pushed a button on the flight control, and Leslie heard him speak to someone in the tower through the microphone attached to the headphones.

“Roger that, Ground,” he said. “Clear for taxiway Delta. Stop short of runway one-eight.”

Ben taxied the plane toward the end of the runway, and they waited in silence as another plane took off. It was a little unnerving to be sitting in such a small aircraft among the much-larger cargo and passenger jets. Over her shoulder, she saw that Mama Joe was reading a book and didn’t seem the least bit nervous. She shifted and glanced at Ben. He was wearing dark glasses and appeared to be idly watching the other planes on the runway.

Suddenly he spoke, startling her. “Roger, Tower. Centurion, November-Four-Two-Alpha-Romeo cleared for takeoff.” With that, he pushed in the throttle and released the brakes. Within seconds, they were in the air. Even before they had reached the end of the enormous runway below, he turned the control and the plane banked gently to the right. It straightened briefly and then turned toward the left, all the while in a gradual climb.

The view from Leslie’s window was spectacular. She was awed by the striking beauty of the land and the brilliant colors. The greens of the grass and foliage seemed deeper, and the cloudless sky more brilliantly blue, than any she had ever seen.

They had been airborne about fifteen minutes when Ben lightly touched her arm.

“Look just below us,” Ben said loudly. He banked the plane sharply to the left and pointed down. Her eyes followed where he indicated, and she saw a large herd of zebras. As she watched the animals move gracefully through the high grass, Leslie forgot her concerns.

Ben circled and descended to bring the herd into view again. As he maneuvered the plane, Leslie had to shift her gaze from looking out of the left window back to the right, and, as she did, her eyes met his. She smiled with sincere appreciation and said “Thank you,” pitching her voice so that he would hear.

Something in Leslie’s expression made Ben’s heart accelerate. She’d looked at him with childlike amazement, and her lovely eyes, which had held an unmistakably desolate look and then irritation, were shining. The discomfort he’d felt in the bar returned. Unconsciously, he rubbed his hand against his leg. He forced his attention back to the instrument panel, adjusting the directional gyros to guide the small aircraft home. But after engaging the autopilot, he found his mind drifting, and he wished she’d look at him with the same excitement she had just shown a herd of zebras.

Irritably, he shook the thought away. It was her eyes—her spooky eyes. He didn’t like what they did to him. He frowned as he stared at the controls. No, he didn’t like it at all.

Intent on the views from her window, Leslie did not see the flicker of response that crossed Ben’s face, or the furtive glances that followed. But Mama Joe did.

Concerned, she watched the man she had known since childhood. She’d been worried for him since his return to Kenya almost three years before. It had been disheartening to see how much he’d changed from the friendly, eager-to-please and focused youth she had known, and she was keenly aware of the rumors that followed him.

She was well acquainted with his solitary lifestyle, had heard reports of heavy drinking and knew he was often seen with the daughters of wealthy tourists. His questionable employment led to periodic absences from Namanga, and the words
smuggling
and
guns
were frequently used in conversations about him.

His reaction to Leslie surprised her. He was unable to hide his interest, but she sensed a pronounced wariness in him, too. And she knew that the young woman was vulnerable. Indeed, she appeared emotionally fragile, and she certainly didn’t seem prepared to handle a relationship with a man like Ben.

Mama Joe watched the pair and recognized curiosity mixed with animosity. Close proximity to each other for the next six months could be extremely painful, maybe even devastating, for both. She began to silently pray.

She was still praying when the Cessna landed an hour later.

CHAPTER THREE

N
AMANGA
’
S
AIRPORT
CONSISTED
of a single narrow grass landing strip. Leslie noticed a sheet-metal shed that held tanks for aviation fuel along with a small office and a dilapidated hangar for the Cessna. Two planes rested alongside the hangar, but as far as she could tell, they were long past airworthiness. The lone man on duty waved to Ben while approaching the plane as it taxied toward the hangar.

Mama Joe indicated the smallish, middle-aged man. “That’s Charles Endebbi. He and his son manage the airstrip and do some mechanic work. Ben’s plane is the only one based here, but quite a few tour operators use the field because it’s close to several national parks.”

As Ben cut the Cessna’s engine, a Jeep approached, driven by a sturdy man of indeterminate age. “There’s Titus,” Mama Joe said as she waved to the newcomer. “He’s been my driver for more than a decade.”

A considerable amount of gray was scattered through his short black hair, but Titus’s dark face was smooth and youthful. He helped both women from the plane. As they were introduced, he gave Leslie a nodding bow and welcoming smile.

Mama Joe turned to Ben, who had been giving instructions to Mr. Endebbi. “Thanks again for the ride, Ben. Are you sure we can’t take you home?”

“No, thanks. I’ve radioed Simon. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Although they had barely spoken, Leslie was anxious to be free of the playboy pilot. However, she followed Mama Joe’s example and held out her hand. “Thank you for picking me up.”

Ben accepted her hand but dropped it quickly. “No problem.” His eyes were focused on her left shoulder. After the terse response, he turned away to help Titus with the luggage.

They drove from the airport in the aging Jeep that Mama Joe laughingly assured Leslie was more reliable than it looked. “We’ve had this old Jeep longer than I want to admit. It hasn’t let us down yet, and Titus keeps it running like a clock.”

The terrain around them contrasted starkly with Nairobi. The Jeep bumped and jolted on an unpaved road through a vast savanna. The land was dry and dusty and vegetation consisted primarily of tall brown grass and stunted thornbushes. She recognized flat-topped acacia trees and bottle-shaped baobab trees from the books she had read to prepare for her journey. Some of her earlier unease returned as she studied the surroundings, and she fleetingly wondered if it was too late to go back.

Mama Joe interrupted her brief moment of panic. “We’re only about twelve miles from the landing strip,” she said over the rumble of the Jeep. “We should be at the clinic in about twenty minutes. It’s located a few miles from town, which is a relatively short walk by Kenyan standards.”

They saw no other vehicles, though occasionally they passed locals walking or jogging along the road. The women were conservatively dressed in bright-colored
kangas,
and most had two or three children in tow. The men wore long, Bermuda-type shorts or khaki slacks and T-shirts. Most wore shoes or leather sandals, but a few were barefoot. Whenever they met someone, without exception, the local people smiled and waved to Mama Joe and Titus.

Dusk was fast approaching when they arrived at the clinic complex and Leslie got her first look at her home for the next six months. She was encouraged and relieved as she examined the fairly large compound in the waning light. There were two main buildings surrounded by an eight-foot cinder-block wall. “Titus and his wife, Naomi, live there,” Mama Joe said as she pointed toward the smaller dwelling. “And the clinic and my apartment are in here.”

The Jeep stopped before the larger building—a long, low, sturdy structure. A slender Kenyan woman with short graying hair and excellent posture had come out of the clinic and waited on the covered, screened porch.

“This is Naomi,” Mama Joe said with sincere affection as she stepped up to the porch. “Naomi has been nursing with me for more than a decade. The clinic couldn’t operate without her.”

Naomi was obviously pleased but embarrassed by Mama Joe’s praise as she shook Leslie’s hand. She was wearing what Leslie later learned was a Kenyan nurse’s uniform: a blue-striped dress with a white collar and apron. “I am very much looking forward to working with you,” she said shyly. Her velvety brown eyes were friendly, and Leslie liked her immediately.

“In addition to Naomi,” Mama Joe told her, “the clinic employs a bookkeeper and receptionist named Elizabeth, and a woman named Agnes who helps with cleaning, cooking and laundry. They’ve already gone for the day, but you’ll meet them early tomorrow.”

Mama Joe turned to open the freshly painted screen door and stood to one side. “Well, this is it.” She flipped on a light and invited Leslie in. “It’s nothing fancy, but it works.”

The arrangement reminded Leslie of pictures she had seen of clinics from the 1950s. The large waiting area held a receptionist’s desk, tall filing cabinets and rows of neatly arranged chairs; the open, airy room smelled of bleach and alcohol. The worn but spotlessly clean linoleum creaked a little as she wandered over to one of the large, curtainless windows.

“There are three examination rooms on this side of the building,” Mama Joe explained as she led Leslie to the back of the main room. She opened a door to reveal a small room furnished with an examining table, and she pointed out a glass-and-metal cabinet against the far wall. “Each exam room has a locked cabinet, which holds our supplies and medications. In the hall is a large storage closet where we keep other equipment and items that we don’t use as frequently.”

Leslie skimmed the contents of the cabinet and found it to be well stocked. Bottles and jars of medications were clearly marked. Boxes of exam gloves, dressing materials, suture sets and similar supplies took up the middle shelves, while disinfectants and cleaning implements were neatly lined up on the bottom. “This looks great, Mama Joe.”

Leslie followed the two women through a door at the rear of the clinic into the living quarters. A generous kitchen with a small eating area took up one side of the apartment; on the other side were a 1960s-era bathroom and two bedrooms. “Our electricity comes from propane tanks and generators that are located behind the clinic,” Mama Joe explained as she showed Leslie around the homey, nicely provisioned kitchen.

Leslie nodded appreciatively. “I must admit I’m relieved to know that everything looks pretty normal.” She grinned a little sheepishly. “I was afraid that things would be a lot more primitive—like cooking over campfires.”

Mama Joe and Naomi laughed. “We have to be fairly modern,” Mama Joe explained. “In addition to holding my milk and eggs, the refrigerator is needed for some of our medications and vaccines, and we need electricity to filter water and run the autoclave.” Her smile faded. “AIDS is such a threat, we have to be able to sterilize equipment. Later on I’ll introduce you to the generators and water filtration system.”

Titus entered the kitchen carrying Leslie’s bags and proceeded toward the two bedrooms, which were accessed through a short hall off the kitchen. “Titus and Naomi have been working for over a week to get your room ready.” Mama Joe gestured for Leslie to follow him, and under her breath she whispered, “I hope you like blue!”

The warning was appropriate. Titus set her bags down in a room with cinder-block walls that had been painted a soft blue. Blue-and-white gingham curtains adorned the windows, and the single bed was covered with a lightweight blue cotton spread.

“How did you know that blue is my favorite color? This is wonderful!” Leslie exclaimed as she gave Titus and Naomi a smile of thanks and shook their hands in appreciation. She managed to suppress a grin as she looked around the baby-blue room, grateful they hadn’t chosen pink.

As Leslie lifted one of her bags onto the bed and started to unpack, Mama Joe pointed to the mosquito netting hanging from a hook above the bed. “Other than vigilant attention to HIV precautions and the water filtration system, using that net is probably the most important thing to remember. Long-termers don’t generally use drugs to prevent malaria because of the side effects. Instead, we rely on insect spray and nets. If, God forbid, we do get malaria, we just treat it.”

Leslie nodded, studying the netting. “I’ll be careful.” She hung several shirts in the small closet. “Have you had malaria?”

“Yes, a couple of times. It’s not fun, but with the right antibiotics, we can treat it quickly and effectively. But always sleep with the net.... Oh, and another thing. It’ll help keep the spiders away.” Mama Joe turned to walk toward the kitchen. “While you unpack, I’ll come up with something for supper.”

Leslie frowned as she watched the retreating nurse. Glancing warily around the room, she whispered, “Spiders?”

* * *

L
ESLIE
’
S
FIRST
DAY
in the clinic was a trial by fire. Over a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and fruit, Mama Joe outlined the course of a normal day. “Titus opens the compound gates at seven. There are almost always people waiting. We have some scheduled appointments, but most patients are walk-ins.” She took a bite of toast. “Once or twice a week we’ll get calls on the telephone or radio to assist people from other villages within a sixty-mile radius. Those are usually emergencies, like accidents or difficult births.”

“When do we stop?” Leslie pushed the eggs around her plate. Her appetite was negligible. She ran her hands across her khaki skirt. Although she had several years of working as a nurse-practitioner in clinics, she felt ill equipped for her new role.

“Normally, things start to slow down midafternoon. We try to be finished by five or six.”

Before she began to see patients, Leslie met Elizabeth and Agnes. Elizabeth, the receptionist/ bookkeeper, was a couple of inches taller than Leslie and very slender. She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties, with a beautiful complexion and very short kinky hair. Agnes, the clinic’s housekeeper, was a bit older—Leslie guessed she was probably about forty. Barely over five feet, she was slightly plump, at least by Kenyan standards.

Leslie quickly learned that Agnes’s English was somewhat limited, but Elizabeth’s was very good. “Whenever you need help translating or have a question, please ask, and I will drop everything.” Her eyes were sincere, and her smile was infectious. Agnes was much shyer, although just as welcoming, and both women proved to be eager to help Leslie settle in.

Throughout the morning and afternoon, Leslie was introduced to a vast array of maladies, many of which she had only read about. During the first part of the morning, she followed Mama Joe and Naomi and quickly learned how to treat malaria, dysentery, scabies, intestinal worms and an assortment of venereal diseases. The variety of cases was amazing, and prenatal checkups were interspersed with the suturing of small cuts and treatment of dermatological complaints.

For the most part, the problems were routine and could be managed with simple instructions, basic first aid and, occasionally, medications. The day flew by, and it was after six when the last patient left.

“Whew!” Leslie exclaimed as she looked around the empty waiting room. “That was exhausting! Is it like this every day?”

“No. Sometimes we get
really
busy,” answered Mama Joe. Seeing Leslie’s astonishment and slight panic, she grinned. “Just kidding. Actually, this was a fairly heavy day. Normally we see about thirty or forty patients. Today we saw more than fifty.”

“That’s a relief,” Leslie replied. “I don’t know how we’ll manage this many patients without you.”

“We always seem to take care of everyone. If it is really busy, we’ll work faster.”

Leslie helped the other women prepare for the next day before realizing she was starving. Thankfully, Agnes had prepared a hearty supper of vegetable soup with bits of cut-up chicken and rice. She and Mama Joe sat at the kitchen table, eating hungrily, all the while talking about different cases and how to manage various problems.

That night—after checking her room for spiders—Leslie crawled into bed exhausted. As instructed, she carefully arranged the netting to insure she was completely covered. In the quiet darkness, she allowed her thoughts to settle...and realized she was happier than she had been in a long time. She was smiling as she fell asleep.

* * *

I
N
THE
SEVEN
YEARS
Leslie had been a nurse, she had never lost a patient. On the second day of practice at the Namanga Clinic, she lost two. She had been warned multiple times before she took the assignment that death was common, and she thought she was prepared. She was wrong.

Leslie slept well and awakened refreshed. She felt confident and quickly began seeing patients alone, occasionally seeking Mama Joe’s or Naomi’s advice on how to manage a new problem. The morning went smoothly, but around noon, an expressionless young woman carried a small baby wrapped in a colorful cotton cloth into the exam room. The woman gestured to the infant and said something; Leslie recognized the Swahili word for
baby
. She nodded, smiled and indicated the exam table. As the woman placed the infant on the table and unwrapped it, Leslie felt a chill. A quick visual inspection revealed an emaciated face with half-closed eyes and loose skin. Gently, she touched the infant’s chest and discovered an unnatural coolness. There was no hint of movement. As she positioned her stethoscope to listen to the baby’s heart, she yelled, “Mama Joe! Naomi!” The other nurses appeared within seconds.

“I don’t hear anything,” Leslie whispered to Mama Joe as the older nurse picked up the limp form and gently rubbed its back, trying to elicit movement. Like Leslie, she pressed her stethoscope to the tiny chest. Less than a minute passed before she looked up at her colleagues and shook her head. Naomi discreetly left the room to return to her own patient.

Mama Joe spoke with the infant’s mother for a few minutes. Although Leslie didn’t understand the words, she was struck by the mother’s lack of emotion. Was she, Leslie, more disturbed by the baby’s death than its mother? As the woman watched, Mama Joe carefully rewrapped the child in the cotton cloth. She handed the tiny bundle back to the mother and embraced her. Then the woman shuffled out the door to walk back to her village where she would bury the child.