Chapter Nineteen Bounce Back with Resilience
Chapter Nineteen
Bounce Back with Resilience
San Jose, California
After spending a miserably cold and lonely night at the Aspen airport, I finally flew out on the red-eye back to California. I’ve been home for three days now, and I haven’t spoken to Hart, though he’s been on my mind more than I’d like to admit.
Christmas is normally a time I look forward to. This year is different. Rather than feeling excited to decorate the tree and bake Christmas cookies, I feel lost and alone.
I spend a miserable Christmas Day with my parents. It rains the entire day, gray and cold, which is fitting for my mood.
My phone pings with an incoming text message.
Hart: Merry Christmas
I don’t reply. I can’t. It’s too painful.
Later I head over to Scarlet’s. The little ones are still in their matching Christmas pajamas, and they’re eager to show me what Santa brought. Scarlet is nursing the baby, sitting on the couch with a sleepy smile.
A hard knot settles in my throat as I watch them.
Will burping the baby high up on his shoulder, his big palm moving over his son’s back.
Scarlet singing along to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” for what is undoubtedly the hundredth time with Chloe.
The whole house smells like cinnamon rolls and evergreen boughs and is filled with a deep sense of love and shared purpose.
I think about my own empty condo and feel another pang of loneliness.
Later, over a mug of spiked hot cocoa, I fill Scarlet in on the last several months of my life.
Not only about my time in Nairobi. But also the Maldives.
Aspen. She and I have each been so busy, we haven’t been the best about keeping in touch—other than my panicked phone calls.
But right now, I need more than just triage.
I need ... I don’t even know what I need. Probably therapy.
As I talk, Scarlet peers over at me, a line of concern creasing her brow. “I thought this fling with Hart was just temporary. Something fun for you, and you needed that. You really did. I know how much pressure you’re under. But this, this seems like something different.”
She can be very intuitive. Even with all that’s going on in her life, Scarlet can read me like a book.
“I ended things,” I croak.
The look she gives me is filled with doubt. “You mean things got hard and you fled.”
“That’s not fair.” I shake my head.
“ Life’s not fair. You felt something for him—I know you did.”
I fell hard and fast, and even if I never said those words out loud, my heart knew they were true. “There were obstacles, more than just our age gap,” I admit.
“Are you going to elaborate on that?”
I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I lived in a world where everything just magically worked itself out. Where I could pretend that everything was fine and good and normal.
“I told you about the conversation in Aspen, when his friend Vaughn asked if he wanted children and how painfully awkward it was.” She nods. “His answer was someday, maybe. ”
Her eyes widen, imploring me to elaborate. “And?”
I swallow past a lump in my throat. “I can’t date another someday, maybe type of person, like Sean. I just can’t.”
Anytime I’d bring up the future, like kids or marriage, or whatever, Sean made me feel like a nag. I hate to say it, but my past baggage makes opening up to a guy like Hart feel impossible.
She looks ready to fight someone, until I calm her by placing my hand over hers. “It’s fine, Scarlet. I don’t like it any more than you do, but if I put myself in his shoes, I get it.”
“But you never even asked him, did you? You could have asked him point blank if he wanted kids and when ...”
I shake my head. “No. This is too important, and it means too much to me. It’s my thing to figure out. It’s not even on his radar yet, and I didn’t want to burden him with it. I should never have let myself fall for him in the first place.”
“So you take the burden yourself instead?”
“It’s not like that.” I brush her off.
“It’s exactly like that.” She lets out a long, slow sigh. “It’s what women do. We put the needs of others first. We play nice and suffer so others don’t have to.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe it does,” she says softly.
When I get back to Nairobi just before the first of the year, things are more unsettled than ever in Kibera.
A local election and allegations of corruption have left things tense and unstable.
Progress for the school has stalled, and I’m at a loss about how to get things moving again when they feel entirely out of my hands.
There’s also a new article online, a lengthy one about how the Winthrop family is funding my project and how this whole thing stinks of corruption. Words like bias and conflict of interest and sentences like she should be ashamed of herself make up the bulk of the hit piece. It’s awful.
I’ve always prided myself on staying six steps ahead, so this really throws me for a loop. But I try not to panic, because it shouldn’t matter now. Hart and I aren’t together, so it is no longer a conflict of interest. I tell myself I did the right thing after all when I ended our relationship.
My phone rings and I pick up. “Alessia’s office.”
“This is Richard Winthrop.”
“Hello, Mr. Winthrop.” I manage to keep my voice steady; instead I feel anything but.
The fact that he’s calling me directly sends panic racing through me.
This is a man who doesn’t have to get his hands dirty.
He could have easily had one of his assistants or counsel make this phone call or send an email.
Or he could have just pulled the funding entirely if he wanted to.
“I’ll cut to the chase.” His voice is stern.
I brace myself for something terrible; then I begin babbling, like I do when I’m nervous. “I’m guessing you read the article in the Post . And I just want you to know that you have nothing to worry about, and I’m happy to provide a complete accounting for where every last dollar will be spent.”
“What I was going to say was that the article is nonsense.”
“Wait. What?”
“And while I won’t pretend to understand this thing between you and my son, it’s none of the damn press’s business.”
Instant relief floods through me. “Thank you, sir, I appreciate that, but we’re no longer seeing each other anymore, so I’m not sure this matters much.”
“It’s not because of this ridiculous article, is it?”
“No. It’s not. At least not mostly.” It might have fueled my anxiety, but the conversation at the restaurant that night in Aspen had sent it over the edge.
“Did he do something to upset you?” Concern laces his words. An unexpected tenderness.
“No. Nothing like that. We’re just too different.
I decided it was time to move on.” Even though my tone is practiced, calculated, the words feel like razor blades inside my throat.
“But thank you for calling and lending your support. I do appreciate it. I would hate to think I did something to undermine your trust in me with this investment.”
“Nonsense. Ignore, ignore, ignore where the media’s concerned. They’ll have a new enemy to pick on by sundown tomorrow.”
His words should make me feel better, but I still feel completely hollow.
Later that day I receive a text message from Vaughn inviting me to come skiing with them again.
They’re heading to Vail next week. I let her know that I am back in Nairobi and resist the urge to ask about Hart.
For all I know he’s already moved on with someone new, a prospect that’s too painful to even think about.
I can’t look at the pictures of him on my phone because even the sight of him makes me physically ache to hold him and touch him again.
Taking Richard’s advice, I ignore the things being said about me online and I spend my days in the village talking to anyone who will listen. The appetite is still there; the locals are just as hungry for this school as I am.
A local woman stops me to pray with me over the school, but her words of advice are what stick with me long after she leaves.
When a snake bites you, don’t waste time looking for a spear. You use whatever stick you have.
My plans are temporarily thwarted, but rather than waste time figuring out logistics, I realize I can still start the school.
We may not have classrooms or uniforms, but I decide to fight with everything I’ve got, to use the resources I do have.
This is how, just six days later, we hold our first day of classes—outside under the shade of an acacia tree.
I briefly consider teaching myself, but my goal has always been to give the students a role model they could see themselves in. Miraculously I find a teacher who is willing to work in this informal setting. This is how we launch the school.
Joslyn takes photos on her phone to commemorate the occasion, and even if it’s not the grand opening I envisioned, I’m so happy. There are a dozen students present, happily chattering away, not seeming to care that we’re not inside a classroom.
I stand in front and welcome everyone to our first day of school. The children clap and smile. I’ve hired two local women to prepare lunch for the students, which they are busy working on at nearby charcoal grills.
Emotion bubbles inside me as I watch the girls dutifully take a seat on the dusty ground, quieting down, eager to learn. “You did it,” Joslyn says, smiling broadly at me as we watch the teacher, Miss Nelly, begin to settle the students for a lesson.
“ We did it,” I correct her.
The first person I want to call is Hart. Instead, with happy tears in my eyes, I settle for scrolling through the photos Joslyn took, letting the enormity of this moment sink in.