“I’m going to Johannesburg,” she said. “I gave Judge van der Merwe my word.”
“In a year you could be clerking for the Supreme Court,” he replied, as if he hadn’t heard her. “After that, you can have your pick of any legal job in the world.”
“It’s an honor someone else can have. Judge van der Merwe is an international expert on human rights. He’s never taken an American clerk before.”
The Senator sighed in exasperation. “All doors open to you and you pick the Constitutional Court of South Africa. This country has never been big enough for you.”
“I love America,” she disagreed, stopping in front of Center Church, its great spire cloaked in night. “I just don’t like being confined to it.”
Zoe opened her eyes and saw Mwila standing in front of her, her face darkened by concern.
“Are you all right?” Mwila asked. “You were standing so still.”
Zoe blinked, momentarily trapped by the past. She took a breath. “Are you ready?”
Mwila gestured toward a Toyota Prado idling in the driveway. “Maurice is waiting.”
They climbed into the SUV, and the guard opened the steel gate. Maurice pulled out onto the street and accelerated to make the light at Church and Independence. The trip to the pediatric center was brief. When they approached the lobby doors, Zoe saw Joy Herald standing beside a pair of African women with notebooks—the Social Welfare contingent.
“We’ve taken care of the formalities,” Joy said, greeting Zoe and Mwila, “but the girl has been a bit of a challenge this morning. I meant to bring my iPod, but one of my kids must have taken it out of my purse. I hope you have yours.”
“I made her a mix this morning,” Zoe said, following Joy into the outpatient center.
She heard the child before she saw her. The high-pitched sound—somewhere between a warble and a bleat—sliced through her. When she entered the admissions ward, she saw the girl rocking violently in her bed, a trio of nurses attempting to quiet her down.
“Where is Dr. Chulu?” Zoe asked. He promised this wouldn’t happen.
“He’s not on rotation this morning,” Joy replied, picking up her pace. She quickly took charge of the nurses. “Give us a little space, please,” she said.
When they stepped back, Zoe took out an iPod and put the headphones on the girl’s ears. She selected the new playlist and stood back, watching as the music performed a feat that seemed almost magical. Like a lamp lit on a dark night, the soulful acoustic notes of John Denver’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” chased away the girl’s turmoil. She placed her hands on the headphones, as if willing the song not to end.
Joy uncovered the girl’s legs and swung them over the edge of the mattress. “Help me lift her,” she said to Zoe.
The limpness of the girl’s frame made her ungainly to carry, but together Joy and Zoe scooped her up and placed her feet solidly on the ground. When the girl stood on her own, she glanced around the room and blinked, looking disoriented. Joy knelt down in front of her and removed the headphones briefly.
“It’s time to go now,” she said in a soft voice. “I need you to walk with us.”
Joy stood again and took the girl’s hand, tugging her toward the door. The girl hesitated a moment longer and then followed in Joy’s wake, clutching Dr. Chulu’s monkey in her free hand. Her gait was slow and she walked with a slight limp, favoring her right leg. Zoe strolled beside her, holding the iPod and keeping the cable from tangling.
Eventually, they emerged into the sunshine. The Prado was waiting for them at the curb. Maurice opened the back door, and Joy and Zoe helped the girl onto the vinyl bench.
“I’ll ride with you,” Joy said. She slid in beside the girl, and Zoe climbed in after her.
The girl seemed to startle when the vehicle began to move. She looked around and let out a low moan. Joy took her hand again and squeezed. “I bet all of this is unfamiliar to her,” Joy said. “Her family probably didn’t take her outside much.”
When Zoe frowned, Joy explained herself. “It’s the stigma. Zambians think children with intellectual disabilities are cursed, so parents keep them locked up inside to avoid being judged. Sometimes the neighbors don’t even know they’re there.”
The St. Francis Home for Children was located on a rocky plateau on the outskirts of Lusaka near the international airport. Every time she visited, Zoe was struck by the contrast between the arid expanse surrounding the home and the lushness of the property itself. The drive was rimmed with bougainvillea, and at its center was the largest poinsettia tree she had ever seen.
Maurice parked the Prado at the entrance, and the ladies from Social Welfare pulled in behind them. A gray-haired nun in a green and white habit stood in front of the low-slung building. She smiled when she saw Zoe.
“Sister Anica,” Zoe said, taking the nun’s hand.