The Best of Friends Page 22

  On our last evening, Old Old/Gui, soft, beaded leather draped around his waist and a long white ostrich plume jutting out from a band around his head, pulled a thick root from the fire. Its smoke would drive evil spirits away and prepare the backdrop for the three traditional healers to dance. Dance is an ageless ritual, designed to bring the community together. If a healer reaches a trance state during the dance, it can bring about healing. As described by Old/Gui, dance is “the highest form of prayer.”

  That night, for the first time, they invited an outsider to be a part of the healing circle. Long into the night, I clapped alongside the other members of the community as the healers circled the fire, their feet beating rhythmically in the sand, dancing, chanting, reaching out to the Great Gods. When Old/Gui reached the trance state, he stopped in front of Gao, a Bushman hunter who had been sick for a long time. He ran his hands up and down Gao’s body while the other healers stood between him and the fire. They wouldn’t let him fall. They were protecting him as he was healing Gao. There was such power and trust, such faith and serenity. It touched my soul and finally I found the peace I had been longing for. For the first time, my connection to Africa felt complete. It didn’t feel like a betrayal of the life and lives I loved back in the U.S. It was as much a part of me as they were, not disconnected, but reconnected, creating a better whole.

  The next day as we prepared to fly out, Tsessaba, one of the Bushmen trackers, gently touched his wife’s full belly and said, “If it is a girl, we will name her Ginger.” I loved the thought of a little bright-eyed Bushmen child toddling into her mother’s arms and fingering the beads around her neck, answering to the name of Ginger.

  Three weeks after leaving Bushmanland, Nad and I were shopping for supplies in Windhoek. I lingered in front of a pharmacy’s window. Shampoo, vitamins, lip balm, the basics.

  “Do you need something?”

  “I think so,” I whispered. “I think I’m pregnant.”

  “Wow.” Nad beamed and I shook in awe and happiness, grateful to all those we had been blessed enough to learn from before this moment—a baby rhino, Elee, and now the Bushmen. I remembered so clearly that when Kachee’s youngest child crawled into his lap, he told me, “When you hit a child, it locks away his heart. It is better to teach them through example, through the legends.” I prayed to hold tight to Kachee’s words, and I prayed for strength in the months ahead.

  At thirty-six years old, I faced two daunting tasks—having amniocentesis and having to tell Sara. Sara would understand my need to know if my baby was healthy. Living through the pain of my sister Tish’s mental illness had been enough for me. The impact of her destructive moods when you never knew if she would lash out physically, call the police to complain of abuse at the barest slight, or fall down the stairs when a seizure struck had ripped at the core of my family until it had almost torn us apart. Bravely, within the physical, emotional, and mental limits of her illness, Tish struggled on. But I knew I wasn’t strong enough to go through it again, not with a child of my own.

  But I was also aware that my pregnancy would be hard on Sara. Two years after my wedding, she and Andrew were still trying to figure out their relationship. Had my angst over getting married cost them these years? Years where they too could have started a family? Sara was on assignment to Australia and Andrew had moved back there. I knew what that meant. I picked up the phone and got ready to track her down.

  22

  SARA (1997)

  I OPENED THE DOOR and smiled in delight. The honeyed cream room of the Park Hyatt was stunning, but having a balcony with a view of the astonishing Sydney Opera House was pure bliss. I sighed and threw myself onto the luxurious pile of pillows on the bed, craving relaxation after a month in which I’d been ricocheted around the globe.

  I’d just completed an assignment in Tokyo and was at Narita Airport when I’d learned of the tragic car crash in a Paris tunnel which had killed Princess Diana and her boyfriend, Dodi Al-Fayed, as well as their chauffeur. I’d immediately volunteered to go to London, where I’d covered the aftershocks of the death of the enchanting, complicated princess. Rich, royal, and an international superstar, Diana was nothing like me except in one way. We were both thirty-six years old—far too young to die. The fact that in her mid-thirties this gorgeous, entitled woman had finally appeared self-confident, reveling in hard-won independence as well as giddy romance, made her death especially poignant. But it had been her charitable endeavors, first with AIDS patients and more recently calling for an international ban on land mines, which made me admire her. I’d interviewed inconsolable men and women who’d regaled us with tales of her kindness and her convictions, but tall, handsome Ken Rutherford had a story that walloped me for a different reason.

  Ken had been working as a loan officer in Somalia back in 1993, just a year after I’d been there, trying to rebuild the country’s shattered economy. His vehicle had hit a land mine and both his legs were blown off. As I listened to him speak passionately about the Landmine Survivors Network, the group he’d cofounded, and the princess’s tireless support, I willed myself to stop the shiver which raced from my neck down to my toes as I thought about my time in Somalia and Nicaragua, and about how very fortunate I had been.

  Now, just a few weeks later, I was in Australia, depleted, jet-lagged, and feeling stretched taut as a piano string for the simple reason that I was actually on the same continent as Andrew and would see my ex-boyfriend as soon as I finished my Dateline assignments.

  Recently Andrew had finished his two-year stint in Japan and returned to Australia, where he now worked in the capital of Canberra, three hours from Sydney, as chief political reporter for the largest newspaper in Australia. That job had taken him to New York a few months before on a trip with Prime Minister John Howard, and when our “just friends” lunch had turned into something more, we’d agreed to sort things out when I came across. The situation was entirely romantic and hence wildly improbable, and the thought of his slow grin and long-lashed gaze made my stomach hurt.

  But my stomach was about to hurt even more. The phone rang and it was Ginger, who’d tracked me down to deliver news which left me gasping.

  “You’re pregnant?!”

  “Kind of a surprise, isn’t it?”

  “Kind of. Wow!” I was gripping the phone so tightly I thought it might implode, but at least I was able to hold back the selfish tears which had filled my eyes. “I mean—you must be really happy, Gin.”

  “I am. Just a little nervous. Are you okay, Sara?”

  “Of course.” With effort, I pulled myself together. “Congratulations, Ginger. And to Nad, too. I’m so happy for you. I wish I could talk longer, but I’d better dash—I’ve got to meet my producer.”

  But when I hung up, I couldn’t seem to move. My best friend would be having a baby. What exciting news. She would be a wonderful mom and the pregnancy seemed yet another sign her marriage to Nad was secure. So why hadn’t I screamed with joy? Why hadn’t I at least asked how she was feeling? Why had I been tongue-tied instead of supportive? I could only imagine she must be anxious about raising a child in the middle of nowhere, about trying to juggle being both a mom and a wildlife filmmaker. I knew it was hard enough for her to straddle two continents as it was, and couldn’t imagine how much more difficult it would be with a child in tow. What’s more, Ginger had acknowledged being nervous, which I could understand, especially given her sister Tish’s complicated medical history, and she’d needed reassurance. But I hadn’t been able to offer it.

  Most of my old friends had children already. The photos taped to my refrigerator back home told the story: Beth’s son, Trent, now with little sister, Elisa; Scottie’s children, Logan and Conner; my college roommate Carol’s girls, Maria and Monica; and Lisa’s new baby, Luke, cuddled by big sister, Hannah. It was a gallery of gorgeous children, including my two darling godsons, Daniel, flanked by sister Sarah, and John. Recently both Linda and Fiona had discovered they were pregnant. Now Ginger.
While I felt unequivocally thrilled for all of them, occasionally I also felt sorry for myself, and even, in some strange way, abandoned. I wasn’t ready for yet another pal to choose diapers over deadlines, Sesame Street over Mary Chapin Carpenter, being sleep-deprived over being jet-lagged, even though such behavior was entirely understandable.

  Ginger’s defection felt especially treacherous. For some reason I just hadn’t expected her to get pregnant. Not yet, anyway. We’d known each other so long, our lives were so intertwined, our timing in many ventures so uncannily similar despite the geographical distance, that watching her embark on this journey, solo, seemed like a violation of the unwritten Friendship Code of Conduct. Who would I play with now? In spite of an expensive new haircut and chic, updated wardrobe, it was only with good friends who led similar lives that I could kid myself into thinking I was still twenty-something instead of thirty-six.

  Thirty-six. Ten years older than my mom had been when she’d had me. I’d been an adult when Mom had revealed how she’d been forced to quit her job as an elementary school teacher early in her pregnancy because she was “showing.” To lose your job because you were pregnant was so outrageous it almost hid a second indignity—that she’d then taken a job as a secretary, even though she’d graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Smith College. Over the years sometimes Mom mused about how she would have gone to law school if she’d been born a few years later. Instead she’d become a sought-after piano teacher and accompanist, juggling students and performances with raising three girls. I felt like my childhood had a score as I listened to Mom play Schumann’s About Strange Lands and People, a Chopin prelude, or Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. A devoted mom, she was married to a man who still charmed her and us forty years after they’d met aboard the Liberté. We loved the story of how the band had taken a break one night, and our outgoing dad had jumped onstage with his trumpet. My reserved mother must have been impressed, because she promptly joined him at the keyboard.

  While Mom had no complaints about her life, secretly I had two major reservations. I felt she’d been denied a broader choice about career, as well as greater economic opportunity, by virtue of gender and generation. How could I fail to take advantage of all the choices that beckoned women my age, especially since the doors had only opened recently? I not only had the right but the obligation to succeed in my career.

  But it had taken me nearly fifteen years to get where I was at NBC, and now biology was a factor I just couldn’t ignore. What if professional achievement came at the expense of having a family? It almost seemed as if there had been a currency exchange at some invisible border and I’d been fleeced, only to discover my error too late. I had so much. And yet I couldn’t help but feel that so much was missing.

  With enormous effort I rose from the bed and stumbled toward that beautiful balcony. As I watched the boats bob in the harbor, I thought about how a collision of one egg and one sperm on one particular night had started that exponential fizz-bang of limbs and libido, elbows and attitude, marrow and mind which would change so many lives, especially Ginger’s, and by extension my own. This was no mere concept, but conception. And at that moment somehow everything I’d created seemed like little more than words howled into the wind.

  My feelings were all the more unsettling because they clashed with my thoughts. I’d never believed you needed to have a child to lead an interesting, meaningful life. No woman should be judged by whether or not she had a child, not to mention that the real test of parenthood wasn’t having a child, but raising one well. But watching my unconventional friend choose this time-honored path seemed to highlight the topsy-turvy nature of my own existence. Deep inside a voice shouted, Wait for me! then selfishly continued, And if I don’t catch up, don’t do it. A third grader’s notion of friendship. Me too. Or neither of us.

  I headed back inside to get ready for dinner, caught sight of my woebegone face, and shouted, “Grow up!” at the mirror before turning away in embarrassment. Clearly I’d spent too much time on my own. Besides, I was now late to meet Sandy Dennison, a Dateline producer and new friend. I’d call Ginger back later. Her gentle tone had indicated she’d known how difficult our conversation would be. Sometimes it seemed she knew me better than I knew myself. And I had work to do.

  “WE COULD SEE one anytime now,” Steve Irwin whispered. The two of us were tiptoeing across a scorched, pockmarked expanse of desert, hundreds of miles from Sydney, searching for a delightful creature known for its venom, fangs, and attitude.

  “Are these snake holes we’re standing on?” I asked anxiously.

  “Perhaps. Underneath, the ground here is like a subterranean labyrinth…These snakes can travel from here, three miles over that way.”

  Sandy and I were in the middle of shooting a Dateline profile on Steve Irwin, owner of a wildlife park in Queensland and host of an increasingly popular American show then on the Discovery Channel called The Crocodile Hunter. We’d chartered a plane to Windorah, a tiny outback outpost, in search of the deadliest snake in the world—the inland taipan, more commonly known as the “fierce snake.”

  Steve told us that local lore had it, if you got bitten, forget phoning the doctor. Just call the undertaker. The fierce snake was so deadly that the venom from one bite was enough to kill one hundred people. Years before, I’d slept in the back of a Land Rover in Namibia to avoid spitting cobras, yet on this assignment I was walking two steps behind a manic Australian snake charmer who’d actually survived having a taipan lick him on the nose. I’d always been best able to confront my fears when I looked at them through the prism of a work assignment. Just then I spotted a ripple of black straight ahead.

  “That’s a fierce snake!” I yelped, not whispering anymore.

  “Let’s get down as low as we can,” Steve instructed, moving closer to the serpent. “If I say move, just go straight back that way, or if your instincts tell you to freeze, just freeze.” My instincts were telling me I was going to die of a heart attack before the snake got any closer.

  “What’s he doing with his head?” I asked.

  “He’s really grumpy. See that body posture, his mouth open? He’s a particularly aggressive snake. I’d stay right where you are.” I didn’t need to be told twice. Finally the snake darted down into a hole.

  I breathed deeply, trying to slow my heartbeat, but a few minutes later it thumped like a helicopter rotor when we saw another glistening streak.

  “You can see that this one’s a lot longer and thinner,” Steve said, all excitement, taking small crouching footsteps forward. Meantime my legs wobbled and the gap between us widened from two steps to four as he continued, “I’d say this is a young male.”

  But there would be no more science lesson because suddenly, just a few steps from the snake, it turned and lunged. I screamed. Fortunately the cameraman was made of sterner stuff and held steady as Steve executed a backward leap—half pirouette, half tae kwon do—and the indignant reptile wriggled off at full speed.

  “If you got bitten by that snake, Steve, you’re dead,” I said, panting.

  Steve merely grinned, barrel chest heaving. “I’d be in a lot of trouble.” Steve Irwin was, as they say, great TV.

  SEVERAL DAYS AND several thousands of miles later, we’d graduated to larger reptiles. “So what do you think he’ll do next?” I asked Sandy, as a dark green dinosaur lunged toward Irwin, who leapt back in his sturdy Blundstone boots.

  “Who knows, when you spend the day with the Crocodile Hunter,” she replied drily. We’d traveled into remote northern Queensland’s Cape York Peninsula with Steve and his lovely, calm, and capable American wife, Terri.

  Sandy and I shared one tent, the cameraman and soundman another. The communal shower was a bag with showerhead attached, a blanket strung for privacy. But I’d learned a thing or two since Nicaragua, and not just about eluding desperados. By now I knew that I needed to look camera-ready regardless of field conditions. So I pulled out my handy sidearm—a mini Conair blow-dryer—and plu
gged it into the cigarette lighter of the SUV. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

  Despite its idyllic appearance, the lake was home to a number of crocs, including one notorious behemoth. “Old Faithful” had recently been stalking local fishermen, who were increasingly tempted to kill him. Anxious to save this prehistoric troublemaker, Steve had attempted a sort of “Scared Straight” rehabilitation project. Now we’d venture onto the water to see if it had worked. But I had little faith in Old Faithful and sat down carefully so as not to tip the motorboat.

  “Steve, how long is this boat?” I asked.

  “Fourteen foot.”

  “And how big is this crocodile?”

  “Fourteen foot.”

  Perhaps even less comforting were the wavy skid marks on the bank, which indicated Old Faithful had been on the prowl. “Interesting how close he is to our camp,” Steve noted with characteristic Australian understatement. Later that evening when we took a second boat tour to assess whether Irwin’s Crocodile Obedience School had worked, what I thought was a floating log turned out to be the taciturn beast himself. “He’s sitting there watching us watching him,” Steve mused before revving the engine and pointing our bow directly at the croc, an attempt to remind the monster who was master. Old Faithful dove like a nuclear sub, to my mind unrepentant and unreformed.

  When we finished our shooting and sat down for dinner, a campfire feast of fragrant coal-cooked bread called “damper” and enough red meat to feed even a hungry crocodile, I unwound. Fears and worries had charred to embers, then died out. After years of covering dangerous, complicated humans, there was an honesty in the battle between life and death in the animal kingdom, and though it was scary, it was at the same time incredibly refreshing. And I reminded myself that life had a way of working out, even if you couldn’t always guess how. Now in my mid-thirties and four years past a failed marriage, I realized I felt a resilience and contentment I’d lacked in my twenties.