The Garden of Burning Sand (31 page)

Zoe followed suit, pausing only to shake hands with Senator Hartman and to give Frieda Caraway a hug. Trevor met her at the exit and guided her through the horde of cameras and journalists. They left Dirksen by a side exit and walked around the Capitol to the National Mall. The wide grass of the commons was half-dead, trampled by tourists, but the clouds had broken up and left the sky full of light.

“There’s something I want to know,” Trevor said, sitting beside her on a bench. “What did you mean at the end? When were you alone in a vulnerable place?”

The pain in his voice made her cringe. “If I tell you, it’ll be worse.”

He took a sharp breath. “It’s that bad?”

She nodded slowly.

“Tell me anyway.”

Zoe watched a young father throwing a Frisbee with his daughter. The girl was seven or eight years old, and her smile was frank, uncluttered by the world. “It happened the summer you left for Harvard,” she began, and told him the whole story.

When she finished, he massaged his face with his hands. “Clay Randall. I should break his kneecaps. Why didn’t you say something?”

Tears came to her eyes. “There were times I almost did. But it never seemed right.”

He shook his head wearily. “Sometimes I wish Dad never got into politics. Partisanship turns friends into enemies.”

“I never wanted to be his enemy. I just wanted an apology.”

Trevor looked resolute. “I should break
his
kneecaps.”

“Please don’t,” she said, laughing softly.

“The press is going to have a field day with the hearing.”

If only you knew what I was about to say
, she thought, feeling an overwhelming relief that she had stepped back from the ledge. The word in her notes, the word she almost used, was the word “betrayed.”

“I’m going back to Africa,” she said. “It won’t matter.”

“You can’t hide there forever.”

She frowned. “I’m not hiding.”

He looked into her eyes. “Did you hear yourself today? You were magnificent. You’ll be thirty in a few months. The trust will be yours. Imagine what you could do with it.”

Zoe turned away and saw the girl running to catch the Frisbee, her blonde hair flowing behind her.
I can’t
, she thought, picturing Joseph’s face, but the idea stuck to her like a burr and would not let her go.

The next morning, Zoe awoke in the goose-down warmth of Trevor’s guest bed. She grabbed her iPhone off the bedside table and checked her messages. More than twenty-four hours had passed since Kuyeya’s MRI, and Dr. Chulu had promised her quick results now that the chief radiologist was back from leave.

She saw a text from Joseph, sent at 4:07 a.m. D.C. time:
“Good to talk yesterday. Happy the hearing is over. Call Dr Chulu ASAP.”

Her pulse quickened as she searched for the physician’s number. She reached him on his mobile. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“There have been complications,” he said guardedly. “Kuyeya needs surgery.”

“Why?” she asked, sitting upright in the bed.

He took a breath. “Children with Down syndrome sometimes have laxity in the ligament that separates the bone of the atlas—that is, the top cervical vertebra—from the spinal cord. It’s called atlantoaxial instability. Most of the time it doesn’t become symptomatic. But trauma can trigger it, such as a fall or a violent incident—”

“Like a rape,” Zoe interjected.

“Yes. It can take months to manifest. But when it reaches an advance,
stage—when the cord itself is threatened—the only way to correct it is to perform a spinal fusion.”

“Shouldn’t you have caught this before?”

“An MRI is much more revealing than an X-ray.”

That’s why I wanted one before now
, she thought. “So when is the surgery scheduled?” she asked, forcing herself to stay calm.

“That’s the problem. A fusion requires a neurosurgeon operating in theater with an orthopedic surgeon. The closest hospital equipped to perform the procedure is in Pretoria.”

“Why can’t UTH do it?”

“We have qualified surgeons,” he answered a bit defensively. “We lack a proper facility.”

“So medevac her to Pretoria. Get the South Africans to do it.”

He cleared his throat. “That would involve substantial expense.”

“How much?”

“Pretoria Wellness Hospital is a private facility. With the medevac, it will cost at least one hundred thousand dollars, perhaps more.”

Zoe was stunned. “How soon does this need to happen?”

“She needs to be operated on immediately. Her spinal cord is in peril. If she were to fall again, it could kill her.”

Dear God
, Zoe thought, chills racing through her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She hung up and placed a call to Atticus Spelling. The octogenarian was both a compulsive workaholic and a habitual early riser. His secretary—an old bird named Harriet—greeted Zoe officiously and transferred her to Spelling.

“Zoe,” he said. “Such a pleasant surprise.”

She dispensed with pretense. “Atticus, we’ve had our share of disagreements, but I know how much you love your grandchildren.”

“That goes without saying,” he agreed cautiously.

She told him a boiled-down version of Kuyeya’s story. “I need a hundred thousand dollars from the trust to save her life. I can put you in touch with Dr. Chulu if you want confirmation, but that’s the number he gave me.”

Spelling sighed. “I sympathize with the plight of this child, I truly do. But there are thousands of others just like her around the world. You would squander the trust principal quickly if you tried to cover all their bills.”

Zoe’s temper flared. “I’m not talking about
every
child. I’m talking about
one
child.”

The trustee didn’t break stride. “I’m sure there are charitable programs in place that can assist her. Find me one that has appropriate accountability structures, and I will consider a disbursal of that magnitude.”

Zoe exploded: “
Damn
you, Atticus. I’m asking for one half of one percent of the principal balance six months before it’s mine anyway. Please give me the money.”

“I’m sorry, Zoe, I can’t do it,” said the old man. “I have a fiduciary responsibility to fulfill. Call your father if you like.”

The next thing Zoe heard was the dial tone. She took a deep breath, struggling to maintain her composure. Then she threw on jeans and a T-shirt and went to find Trevor. He was in the dining room, eating a plate of scrambled eggs.

“Did I make the paper?” she asked.

He laughed wryly. “The front page of the
Post
. Below the fold, but still prominent.”

The noose around her neck tightened. “What did they say?”

“They were complimentary. But it isn’t the last we’ll hear of it.”

She sat down across from him. “Have you talked to Dad?”

Trevor regarded her frankly. “A few minutes ago. He isn’t happy.
He thinks the media is overplaying the story. It’s not like you said anything damaging.” He paused, looking conflicted. “I’m sorry. This has put me in an awkward position.”

“I know,” Zoe said apologetically. “Look, it’s simple. He should just let it go. It’ll blow over in a week, and the press will find something else to talk about.”

“It’s
not
simple,” Trevor disagreed. “You opposed him in a very public way. It doesn’t look good to the voter on the street.”

Zoe allowed her pain to show. “He should have thought of that years ago.”

Trevor ran a hand through his hair. “This is such a mess.”

“Not to change the subject,” Zoe said, doing exactly that, “but I need a hundred thousand dollars.” She told him about Kuyeya and the door Atticus Spelling had slammed in her face.

Trevor shook his head slowly. “You are one complicated human being. The most I can give you is ten. I maxed out my savings to buy the M5.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking of you. I was thinking of your trust.”

He looked perplexed. “I transferred all the money to Mom’s foundation. I told you that.”

“Yes, but that puts you in the Founders’ Circle. You could talk to Monica.”

“I barely know her. You’re the one with the relationship.”

For the first time that morning Zoe smiled. “Then come with me to Manhattan.”

The Acela Express train from Washington to New York was a pale shadow of its European cousins, but Zoe preferred it to flying. After stops in Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey, the train deposited them
at Penn Station just before one in the afternoon. Zoe and Trevor navigated the crowded underground corridors and emerged on Seventh Avenue not far from the taxi stand. They climbed into a cab, and Zoe gave the driver the address.

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi pulled to the curb outside the Park Avenue headquarters of the Catherine Sorenson Foundation. Zoe introduced herself to the doorman, who ushered them to the bank of elevators. They got off on the tenth floor and entered the foundation’s elegant wood-and-glass reception area. The receptionist greeted them by name and escorted them down a hallway lined with photographs to the office of the Executive Director.

Monica Kingsley rounded her desk and shook their hands affectionately. At just under sixty years of age, she had the look of New York high society without the affectation. “It’s so
good
to see you again,” she said, gesturing toward a pair of leather chairs opposite her desk.

“Thanks for working us in on short notice,” Zoe replied, taking a seat.

“I always have time for you,” Monica said.

Zoe traded a glance with Trevor. “We need your help. It’s a bit unusual.” She summarized Kuyeya’s story and outlined her prognosis. “There are a number of charities in Lusaka that are assisting her, but they don’t have funding for something like this. I—we—were hoping the foundation could cover the cost of her treatment.”

Trevor chimed in: “I would have put the money up myself if I still had my trust.”

“Of course,” Monica replied. “I’ll be perfectly frank with you. If Catherine were sitting in this seat, she would call the bank and they would wire the funds. I don’t have that power. I have to take it to the board. I’ll do my best to make the case, but I don’t know how they’ll vote.”

“How long will that take?” Zoe asked, struggling to suppress her discouragement.

“I’ll need a couple of days to call a meeting.” Monica looked quizzical. “Can’t you talk to your father? Surely he would help.”

Zoe listened to the hum of traffic far below. She couldn’t believe how spectacularly her plans had backfired. In challenging her father, she had not only succeeded in damaging their relationship, likely beyond repair, but also—and far worse—she had endangered Kuyeya’s life.

“I’ll talk to him,” Trevor said suddenly. “He might listen to me.”

She regarded him in surprise. “He’ll think you’re taking sides.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’d rather be with you anyway.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Please talk to the board,” she said to Monica. “We don’t have much time.”

Monica nodded. “When are you leaving the country?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll send you an email as soon as I have an answer.”

“Thank you,” Zoe said, standing up.

“Wait,” Monica said. “I have something for you.” She reached into a drawer and extracted a yellowed envelope. “This doesn’t seem like the right time, but I doubt I’ll see you again before your birthday. It’s from your mother.”

At the mention of Catherine, Zoe’s pulse quickened. “I don’t understand.”

Trevor touched her shoulder. “It’s all right. I got one, too.”

Zoe gave him a baffled look.

“It’s a letter,” Monica explained. “She left it with her will.”

Zoe’s spine tingled when she took the envelope. The sight of her name traced out by her mother’s flowing penmanship triggered a cascade of emotions—astonishment, grief, nostalgia, and love. She fingered the flap. “Should I open it now?”

“I’d save it for a quiet moment,” Monica said.

Zoe shook her hand and walked with Trevor to the elevator.

“Is Dad still in D.C.?” she asked.

He shook his head. “He’s on the Vineyard. He needed to get away.”

She took a sharp breath, wondering at the irony. “I’m coming with you.”

Her brother grimaced. “It could get ugly.”

“I don’t care. I need to be there.”

Martha’s Vineyard
May, 2012

The Gulfstream III executive jet touched down on Martha’s Vineyard a few minutes before six in the evening. The plane was the oldest in the triumvirate that made up Jack Fleming’s fleet. The “Three,” as they called it, was Sylvia’s favorite, but Trevor had no difficulty requisitioning it from Westchester County Airport for the short flight to the Vineyard.

They rented a car at the airport and drove east through the plantations and pine groves of the island, reaching Edgartown just as the sun fell behind the trees. Zoe inhaled the moist air rolling in through the open window and allowed the tranquility of the village to soothe her nerves. As pristine as a museum piece, Edgartown was both the haven of her childhood and the scene of her worst memory. She cherished the place and resented it at the same time.

Trevor made a series of turns and took them toward Eel Pond. Zoe saw the gray-blue sea through a break in the trees. Then the water became the horizon, presided over by blushing clouds. She saw the house next—the gabled roofline, the gray clapboard siding and white casement shutters. Two members of the Senator’s security team greeted
them at the gate. The men recognized Trevor and admitted them without delay.

They drove up the winding drive and parked behind Sylvia’s Porsche and the Senator’s Mercedes. Zoe took a breath, wishing she could still her trembling hands.

“Why don’t you go for a walk?” Trevor said, sensing her mood. “Let me talk to him.”

“No. I’m not going to run from this.”

“Suit yourself.”

He led the way to the porch, where a third security officer was sitting in a lounge chair.

“The door’s unlocked,” the man said, making no move to get up.

They entered the foyer together. Built just after the turn of the century, the house was a throwback to a simpler architectural era—low ceilings, square rooms, and wide-plank floors minimally polished. Over the years, Sylvia had begged Jack to remodel it, but Jack had resisted, prompting her—out of his hearing—to nickname the property “the shrine of St. Catherine.”

Zoe inhaled the familiar scent of lavender and spice. She heard voices coming from the kitchen. A fluffy white Bichon Frisé lapdog skittered up to them and sniffed her toes.

“Maria, is that you?” her father called out when Trevor pulled the door closed.

“It’s me, Dad,” Trevor announced, glancing furtively at Zoe.

Zoe braced herself at the sound of her father’s footsteps. When he reached the foyer, he stopped and blinked, staring at her. Zoe looked back at him, her heart pounding like a charging horse. From the floridness in his cheeks, she could see that he had been drinking.

“Hey, Dad,” Trevor said, trying to affect nonchalance.

“A family reunion,” the Senator said ambivalently.

“Who is it, Jack?” Sylvia called. Seconds later, she appeared beside her husband and stopped cold. She scooped up the dog and stared at Zoe without a word.

“We’re here to talk,” Trevor said. “There are some things I need to understand.”

“Let’s talk then,” the Senator replied, leading the way to the living room.

Zoe walked to the bay windows and looked out at the scene that lived in so many of her memories—the sugar maple that shaded the servant’s cottage, the path through pines and thistles that led to the marsh at the edge of their land, the sandy beach where she had learned to swim, and, beyond, the Atlantic, restless beneath a darkening sky. After a moment, she went to the couch and sat beside Trevor. Her father took a seat in his favorite leather chair, and Sylvia remained standing, petting the Bichon Frisé.

“What do want me to tell you?” the Senator began.

“Clay Randall,” Trevor said. “I want to know why you didn’t do anything about it.”

Jack gave his son a deliberate look. “It wasn’t clear what happened.”

Trevor squinted in disbelief. “What are you talking about? Rape is a simple concept.”

“Oh, Trevor, nothing is simple,” Sylvia interjected. “They had a relationship. They were infatuated with one another. I was there; I saw it with my own eyes. I was certain they were having sex. That’s what teenagers do. I did it, you did it, I’m sure. When the lines aren’t clear, things can happen.”

Trevor regarded her indignantly. “You were
not
there. You didn’t see what he did to her.”

“Trevor,” the Senator cut in. “Look at me, son. I never meant to
hurt your sister. You’re right—we weren’t there. We didn’t see it. The only thing I knew for sure was that her heart was broken. Harry Randall is my best friend. I wasn’t about to accuse his son of rape unless I was absolutely certain of it.”

Despite her best efforts, Zoe began to cry. Suddenly, she was seventeen again, wounded, confused, and incapable of comprehending why her father had chosen not to believe her.

Trevor squeezed her hand. “Zoe’s sitting right here, Dad. Look her in the eye and tell her she made it up. If you can’t do that, then the last twelve years of your life are a lie.”

The Senator stood abruptly. “I can’t believe it. I’ve given you both privileges I never
dreamed
of when I was a kid, and this is what I get in return?” He faced Zoe. “Do you know how many calls I’ve gotten since the hearing? My party, my campaign, no one knows what to do with the footage on TV. I have to tell them something, but what I am supposed to say? That my daughter opposed me in my own committee because of something that happened a decade ago?”

“Stop it,” Zoe said, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t want this. I don’t care about the White House. I hate politics. I hate what they’ve done to us. I never asked you to punish Clay. All I wanted was for you to believe me, to say you were sorry and that you’d do whatever it took to make it right. But no, you couldn’t do that. You had too much to lose.”

She took a breath and tried to calm down. “The irony is I’m not even sure
you
really
care
about politics.” Seeing her father stiffen, she forged ahead. “Tell me I’m not right. You were spinning after Mom died. You needed a distraction, and Sylvia gave you a mountain to climb. You convinced yourself it was your idea because you needed to escape the guilt.”

“What guilt?” the Senator asked in a near whisper.

“That you weren’t there to save her.”

“That’s absurd,” he said unconvincingly.

“Look, I don’t care what you tell people. Lie to them if it makes you feel better. I have no intention of speaking about this ever again. I’m here for one reason. There’s a girl in Zambia who has a medical condition that could kill her. The doctors in Lusaka can’t perform the surgery. The nearest hospital that can do it is in Pretoria, and it’s going to cost a hundred thousand dollars. I asked Atticus, and he won’t give it to me.” She leaned forward. “So here’s your chance at redemption. You can change what happens to this girl. But the clock is ticking.”

Silence enveloped them when Zoe concluded. She heard the calls of gulls playing in the wind and the distant sound of the surf. To her surprise, it was Sylvia who spoke first.

“Jack, can I talk to you for a minute?”

The Senator nodded and joined her in the hallway. Instantly, Zoe was struck by déjà vu.
I’ve been here before. Is it possible it could happen again?
When her father reentered the living room, she noticed a change in his countenance. In confronting the subject of Catherine’s death, he had seemed human, even vulnerable. Now the steel of the candidate had returned.

“We can help each other,” the Senator said. “I’ll give you the money, but I need you to close Pandora’s box. I’ll make a brief statement to the press that you will attend with Trevor and Sylvia. I’ll talk about our family’s commitment to philanthropy, and you’ll show the world that you respect me and support my candidacy.”

His words pierced Zoe like a knife in the back. “I can’t believe you want me to bargain with you.” She shook her head. “It’s amazing, Dad. After all these years, you still can’t say it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Say what?”

Zoe knew what decision she had to make, but still she hesitated. In the end, her legs were stronger than her heart. “You can come, or you can give me the keys,” she said to Trevor.

“I’m coming,” he replied, following her toward the door.

“You’re really going to walk away from this?” her father called after her.

Zoe turned and met his eyes. “No, Dad. I walked away a long time ago.”

Trevor drove her to the airport in a silence as deep as the dark Vineyard sky. Zoe looked out at the forest and felt something inside her break. A jumbled torrent of memories and fears cascaded through her mind—the day her father won the Senate race and she understood why he had not defended her; Kuyeya playing at St. Francis, a misstep away from paralysis; Amos lying in a pool of blood; Clay Randall watching her cry; Flexon Mubita meeting with Patricia Nyambo; cameras flashing in the Senate chamber; the pain in her father’s eyes; the black mamba slithering across the floor; Joseph’s HIV. She leaned her head against the window, overwhelmed by it all.

“Are you okay?” Trevor said.

She took a moment to answer him. “I’m not sure.”

“What are you going to do about the girl?”

She shrugged. “I’ll figure something out.”

He stared at her in the darkness. “I’m sorry, Zoe. For everything. If I could change it …”

“I know, Trev,” she said, touching his arm. “It’s not your fault.”

When he focused on the road again, she rolled down the window and leaned into the slipstream, allowing the island air to envelop her, to whip through her hair and fill her lungs as she had when she was a girl. She could see the brightest stars twinkling through the sea haze.
Their names came to her like a fragment from a long-forgotten lesson: Castor, Pollux, Capella, Regulus. She smiled at them in an easy way and felt her confidence beginning to return.

In the airport parking lot, she had an idea. She took out her iPhone and called a number in South Africa. She listened as the phone rang and rang, waiting until a male voice delivered a sleepy greeting in Afrikaans.

“Jan,” she said, “it’s Zoe Fleming.”

“Zoe?” He sounded bewildered. “It’s one thirty in the morning.”

“I’m in the United States. Your daughter needs help.”

“My daughter?”

“Kuyeya,” she said impatiently. “Do you know anyone at Pretoria Wellness Hospital?”

“No,” he replied, still fuzzy. “Why?”

She outlined the situation and made her request. He hesitated, and she heard only static on the line.
Come on, Jan
, she thought.
Be a man
.

Eventually, he spoke. “I’ve heard of AAI. Dr. Chulu says it’s progressive?”

“Life-threatening. She needs an operation right away.”

“I know a medevac outfit in Johannesburg that does charity flights.”

“That’s a good start, but we’re still well short. Do you have savings?”

He hesitated. “Ninety thousand rand, but that’s not nearly enough.”

“And your parents?”

His reaction came swiftly. “They don’t know anything about this.”

“What about a loan? You have friends. Somebody will help.”

“What about you?” he countered. “You have connections, too.”

His words fell like salt on her open wound. “What do you mean?”

“Zoe Fleming, daughter of Jack.” He paused. “It seems both of us had secrets.”

She gripped the phone. “This isn’t about me. It’s about your daughter’s life.”

He sighed, sounding weary. “I’m not denying that. Let me see what I can do.”

“Start with the medevac and your savings. I’ll work out the rest.”

Her words seemed to embolden him. “When are you flying back?”

“I’ll be in Johannesburg on Sunday morning.”

“Good,” he said, speaking with sudden conviction. “With any luck, so will she.”