Out of the Shadows

The expressions on the faces of the three men accentuated her fear. One of the uniformed officers spoke. “Ma’am, I’m Sergeant Hunton, from the Dallas Police Department. Are you Mrs. Carpenter?” His voice was slightly tremulous.

Leslie felt the blood leave her face. She gave a tiny nod.

The man in the suit said, “Mrs. Carpenter, I’m Jerry Zeiger, one of the chaplains for the DPD. Can we come in?”

Leslie’s legs were wobbling so badly she barely managed to step aside to let the men in. The chaplain took her arm and led her into the living room. “Please sit down, ma’am.”

She glanced toward the two uniformed officers, who remained standing just inside the door. Neither looked at her. Her hand was visibly shaking now as she reached out to move a cushion before sitting on the edge of the sofa.

* * *

THE CHAPLAIN SAT beside her and took her hand in his; hers was icy. He had to force himself to look at her directly. “I’m so sorry,” he said in the quiet, calm tone common among clergymen. “We have some bad news.... There was an accident. A delivery truck ran a red light and collided...” He paused and watched the young woman with growing concern. At that moment, he actively hated his job. He sighed, then said, “Ma’am, your husband’s car was hit and he was killed instantly.”

Leslie shook her head from side to side. She swallowed twice before she managed to whisper, “Emma?”

The chaplain held on to her hand, trying to give even a small amount of support. He no longer looked at her directly; instead, he stared at their hands. “Mrs. Carpenter, I am so sorry, but the little girl was killed, too.”

Even though he was expecting it, Zeiger was still affected by the wrenching sound of her sob. Pulling away from him, the young woman doubled over and buried her head in her hands. He wanted to comfort her, but he knew she would find little solace for a long, long time. And he understood too well that she’d never forget this moment. She would never totally recover.

* * *

THAT NIGHT, SHE lost the baby.

CHAPTER ONE

THE FIRST THING Leslie Carpenter noticed as she stepped off the British Airways jet in Nairobi was the smell. It was earthy, rich with the scents of soil, manure, tropical flowers and sweat. After being confined in the stuffy, crowded 747 for more than ten hours, she welcomed it.

Leslie shouldered her large canvas tote and joined the slow line of passengers. She was struck by the odd mix of people carrying loose clothing, bags, sacks, briefcases and children as they made their way down the corridor into the terminal. Most were African, with a significant number of white and Asian faces in the crowd. These, she surmised, were tourists or expatriates, although a smattering appeared to be businesspeople.

As she headed toward the immigration officials working at glass-enclosed desks, Leslie noticed soldiers scattered throughout the processing area. They were dressed in camouflage fatigues and carried wicked-looking machine guns. She could see at least three from her location in the passport control line, and their presence reminded her of the acts of terror that were relatively common in Eastern Africa. She took a deep breath and told herself the situation had calmed in recent months.

After getting her passport stamped, she followed the crowd to the baggage-claim area. The conveyer belt was already laden with suitcases, boxes, foam containers wrapped with duct tape, duffels and even heavy black garbage bags. Various emotions tugged at her as she watched the carousel, feelings she hadn’t experienced in many months. She recognized excitement and anticipation along with nervousness and more than a twinge of fear. Feeling very alone, she wondered for the twentieth time—What am I doing?

The incongruity of standing in the capital of a developing country hit her, and not for the first time. For the past year and a half she had depended on her family and friends in Dallas. Their love and patience, along with her compassionate colleagues at the nursing school, had helped her through the tragedy that had shattered her life. The very idea that she could leave them and fly halfway across the world struck her as preposterous—even now that she had done it.

It had taken months to recover from the emotional assault that followed the accident. Living with her parents had helped.

More than a year had passed when a colleague mentioned the need for a volunteer nurse-practitioner to run a rural clinic in Africa for six months, allowing a long-term missionary to return home for a much needed sabbatical.

Leslie had contacted the East Africa Mission office in Atlanta, and less than five weeks later, she tearfully kissed her parents, sisters and closest friends goodbye at Dallas’s DFW airport, promising to email as often as possible.

Now, following two ten-hour flights, she was in Nairobi.

She located her bags and stood in the slow line for Customs. After presenting the required forms, she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and moved toward the exit.

Anna MacDonald, also known as Mama Joe—the nurse who would be heading home for sabbatical—was supposed to meet her at the airport and accompany her back to the village clinic. Leslie had seen pictures of the veteran nurse and, scanning the faces, she quickly spied the petite woman in the crowd. She was easy to spot, with her white face, silver-gray bun and black-framed glasses, standing beside a smallish, middle-aged white man. Leslie waved to the pair and was relieved when they waved back. Mama Joe and her companion hurried forward and, without hesitation, she scooped Leslie into a warm hug.

“Hello, dear! You must be Leslie. I’m Mama Joe. We are so happy that you’ve come!” Her voice was a little deep and a bit raspy, with the hint of a Southern accent. “You’re a wonderful answer to my prayer.” She pulled back and smiled, taking Leslie’s hand. Behind the heavy glasses, her eyes were a soft brown.

“I’m very happy to meet you, too, Mama Joe.” Leslie hoped the warmth in her voice matched that of the older woman. “I can’t believe I’m actually here, and I can’t wait to get started at the clinic.”

Mama Joe’s smile widened, and lines creased her tanned face. “We’ll be heading out for Namanga—our village—later this afternoon. I’ll be able to show you everything before I leave in a couple of weeks.” She indicated the man beside her. “Leslie, this is Dennis Williams. Dennis is the regional director of the East Africa Mission.”

Leslie shook his hand. “Yes, Mr. Williams, we spoke on the telephone a few weeks ago. It’s good to meet you.”

“Call me Dennis, please. Thank you again for helping out at the last minute like this. We feel very lucky to have you take over the clinic for the next six months.” He took her suitcases and headed toward the exit. “If you aren’t too tired, we could show you a little of the city, have lunch with my wife—then our driver can bring you back to catch your flight to Namanga.”

“The village is a couple of hours south of here by plane,” Mama Joe explained. “It takes six hours to drive because the roads are riddled with potholes, so we fly when we can.” She took a quick breath and continued, “I came up this morning with Ben Murphy. He’s one of the pilots who help us from time to time. We’re supposed to meet him here at three.”

Leslie glanced at her watch. It was a little after ten. It had been more than twenty-four hours since she left Dallas for London. After a three-hour layover at Heathrow, she’d been able to doze with her head propped against the small window of her red-eye flight. Yet, despite the grueling trip and minimal sleep, she was wide-awake. “That sounds terrific!” She smiled. “I’d love to see Nairobi.”

Leslie accompanied Mama Joe and Dennis toward the busy terminal’s exit. She’d passed her first hurdle and she felt welcomed by her new colleagues. Maybe, she thought, I’ve made the right decision after all....

* * *

THE TRIP FROM the airport was like nothing Leslie had ever experienced. In the parking area, she was introduced to a young Kenyan named Marcus who chauffeured the mission’s van. “I rarely drive,” Dennis explained. “I’ve lived in Nairobi for more than five years, but I still can’t get used to driving on the left.”

Mama Joe acted as tour guide, pointing out the various sights. As they neared the city, the trees and lush grassland quickly gave way to signs of human habitation. People walked and jogged on a roadside path, their numbers growing as the van progressed. Mama Joe explained, “Most people don’t have cars. They grow up running everywhere. That’s why so many of the great runners are from Kenya.”

Leslie watched in amazement as the van passed men in dress pants and sometimes even suits jogging toward town, often carrying briefcases or backpacks. The women wore dresses or skirts and blouses of batik cottons in a rainbow of colors. A lot of them carried bundles, often on their heads, and babies in cloth slings on their backs. Many pedestrians lugged wooden carts filled with bananas, mangoes and other fruits, building materials, chickens, bolts of cloth, and what appeared to be car parts. She stared when she saw two men leading a Cape buffalo.

Leslie tried to absorb the sights of the engulfing commotion when they reached the city. The streets were crowded with trucks, cars and buses, many of which appeared decrepit, with rusting fenders and duct-taped bumpers. With surprising frequency, their relatively new and well-maintained van was passed by large passenger vans overflowing with people. Following her stare, Mama Joe laughed. “Those are matutus, Kenya’s primary means of public transportation. The vans are supposed to hold about fifteen people, but as you can see, they typically carry at least twice that number.”

Leslie shook her head slightly in sympathy as she continued to look through the window. Drivers here were aggressive—really aggressive. She watched in astonishment as a rust-covered car swerved around them and nearly cut them off, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a car in the right-hand lane. Leslie clutched the seat and glanced at Mama Joe and Dennis. They didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the darting traffic, sudden stops and starts and blaring horns. With slightly nervous resignation, she determined to avoid watching the traffic ahead and concentrated on the sights from her window.

The city’s skyline loomed. Modern skyscrapers were interspersed with two-and three-story buildings that appeared to date back to British colonial rule. Occasionally ramshackle structures were adjacent to office buildings, and a variety of crowded shops and stores could be seen only a few feet off the busy street.

“I’m surprised there are so many tall buildings,” Leslie said as they approached the city center. “Nairobi reminds me a little of Chicago or even New York.”

Dennis nodded. “Nairobi is very cosmopolitan. Of course, the majority of people are African. But because of British colonization, there’s a large contingent of Europeans here. And there are a lot of immigrants from South Asia, particularly India and Pakistan.”

“This is very different from where we live,” Mama Joe added. “In our area, there aren’t many who aren’t African. Mostly farmers. We also take care of quite a few Masai—the nomads who tend cattle.”

Leslie wondered anew about the conditions she’d be exposed to in the rural area. She had vaguely pictured mud huts with thatched roofs and cooking over open fires.

They drove out of the primary business district and entered a residential neighborhood. As they progressed down a tree-lined street, the houses grew rapidly in size until they became mansions on huge lots surrounded by high walls. “We are very fortunate,” Dennis said. “The building that houses the East Africa Mission was donated about fifty years ago by a wealthy family who returned to England.”

Marcus turned the van through a gate and parked in front of a large Victorian. Inside the old brick walls, Leslie saw a lush lawn, edged by deep beds with layers of flowers. As they walked to the front door, Leslie recognized the sweet smell of honeysuckle and lilac. Dennis held the door open for the two women. “The main offices of EAM are on the first floor,” he explained. “My family and I live on the second.”

Two African women were seated at desks in the first room of the mansion. The young women smiled shyly at Leslie as they were introduced, revealing beautiful white teeth which contrasted strikingly with their very dark faces. Mama Joe stopped to chat as Dennis led Leslie through the lower floor.

A slightly plump woman with gray-tinged brown hair met them at the top of the stairs. Before Dennis could make the introductions, she took Leslie’s hand. “Hello, I’m Connie. I’m so glad you had time to come by.” She pulled Leslie into the living room. “Please sit down. I know you’re exhausted—that trip is a killer!” Leslie sat back in a cushioned chair with the lemonade Connie had handed her and surveyed the room with its enviable collection of Victorian antiques. It gave her the impression that she was in a parlor in southern England rather than in a missionary’s home in central Kenya.

The disconnect was vaguely perplexing.

At Connie’s suggestion, Leslie spent a few minutes in the modern bathroom freshening up before lunch. She changed into the spare blouse from her carry-on bag. It was slightly wrinkled but clean. The high humidity had caused her wavy, dark brown hair to curl, so she brushed it into a heavy ponytail and confined it with a large barrette. There were faint dark rings under her large blue eyes. She sighed. Only a good night’s sleep would remedy that.

Lunch was anything but exotic: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and salad. The only nod to their being in equatorial Africa was the selection of fruits for dessert—mangoes, pineapples and papayas.