Melanie Mitchell - Out of the Shadows

Brian nodded and walked back to her. He leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the lips. “We’d better be off. My first patient is scheduled for eight-thirty, and I need to run by the hospital to make rounds before that. Emma,” he called at the door. “Come kiss Mommy goodbye.”

In seconds, the towheaded little girl came bouncing into the room, dressed in denim overalls and a red T-shirt. Although Leslie had combed her hair earlier that morning, it was already falling into disarray. She repositioned Emma’s barrette before kissing her head.

“Be good at school, and remember that Nina will pick you up about lunchtime.” The toddler nodded and giggled.

“All right, baby,” Brian interrupted. “Let’s go. Hop in your car seat, and I’ll buckle you in.” Leslie gave Emma another peck on the cheek, and the toddler ran out of the room, heading for the kitchen door leading to the garage. Brian leaned over and kissed his wife again. “Do you need anything before I leave?”

Leslie pointed to her laptop and the pile of books beside the bed. “No, thanks. I’ve got plenty to do. I need to grade some papers and read a little. I’ll be able to stay sane for a while.”

He grinned. “I love you. Call me later.”

“I love you, too.” She blew him a kiss.

* * *

BY TEN O’CLOCK Leslie was bored. Since she was allowed to go to the bathroom and take occasional trips to the kitchen, she fetched a glass of lemonade and was headed back upstairs when the doorbell rang.

She frowned. It was rare for anyone to come to the house during the day. In keeping with the directives of her obstetrician, she slowly walked to the front door. Peering through the peephole, she saw two uniformed police officers accompanied by a man in a dark suit.

Police? Her thoughts raced, and her heart rate rose. Her hand was trembling slightly when she opened the door.

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.