Inconceivable! (52 page)

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.”