King of the Mountain:
Part 29
Lynn Jepsen
I didn't even know international law was a thing people actually
practiced until we came to Europe after the assassination. I wouldn't
have ever thought of pursuing that type of law if Lionel hadn't moved to
California and started beating a few sovereign nations over the head.
Even then, I didn't imagine it being like this. This is sometimes scary
and always satisfying. This is journalism colliding with investigation
and law. This is everything political I've ever done. This is nothing
like Gage Whitney. So I broke my resolve and went back to law.
Of course, another crucial difference between this and Gage Whitney could
be attributed to the fact that I'm making a bad fashion statement in the
middle of a field in Gnjilane taking two rolls of film illustrating the
industrial wasteland that followed the war. The industrialization has
destroyed the countryside. The same thing happened in the Czech Republic,
and in Russia, and over most of the former bloc. That's why I'm surprised
to see it here. I would have thought someone would have learned they're
lesson. I would also be wrong.
Today's guide is starting to squirm, and when I finish documenting the
barrels and landfill, he's chomping at the bit to take me back to the
hotel in Pristina. I lean my head back against the passenger seat and try
to decide if I should send the photos back to the firm now, or wait until
I get back to California. That's about the time I get jerked out of my
happy little daydream where problems are sane and manageable. We've
stopped, and my guide is cursing at the car in a language I don't
understand. I do understand the sign on the building in front of us
though. Before I know it, I'm jogging up the dirt path with my camera in
hand. I don't know why, and when someone asks me about it, as I'm sure
they will, I won't have an answer. I also don't care. The Sisters of St.
Joseph.
*
I feel like a genuine celebrity, and it has nothing to do with Sam. It
has everything to do with the camera I'm holding and my fractured, and in
all honesty, pathetic attempts at the native tongue. Fortunately, the
sisters are polite enough to let that pass without too much laughter, and
I can't stop taking pictures of the crumbling walls, the dust on the
windows, the sisters, the nurseries, the children.... I have never seen
this many children in this much poverty in one place before. These
children, they're... they're so tiny. Samantha wasn't even this small
when she was born. I just want to pick them all up and play with them,
and rock them to sleep.
The car's transmission is shot, but other than the small dose of panic
someone will experience when I don't come back to the hotel, things are
okay. The sisters have a car, and we're going to drive back in the
morning. Sister Magdalena has guided me around the building, and everyone
is so eager for me to document everything. I know they're hoping for
donations, and to be honest, I'm tempted to pull out my checkbook right
now. I'll wait though. I'll get cash, something they can use, and send it
back with the car.
"You have children." I'm surprised by the voice, not because I thought I
was alone, but I'm just not used to hearing anyone talk to me in English.
The last English I heard was from the stewardess in Paris. It's been a
long nine days, and I'm starting to dream about Sam's voice at night.
Scary, huh. Turning my head, I stop the soft rocking of the little girl
in my arms long enough to smile at Sister Magdalena. I had a daughter.
She'd be five now. "I'm sorry, ma'am." She pauses then, and adds, "She's
with God now." Yeah, but Sam and I would rather have her with us. "You
are good with her." She nods towards the child in my arms, and I abruptly
set her back into the playpen.
"I see you in the newspaper in Pristina." She doesn't elaborate, and I
don't ask. Either that fact-finding trip Lionel and I made a few years
ago was really big news, or Sam's getting international press. Either
way, I'm not sure I care. Not only do I not care, I am completely
uninterested in how a woman half a world and a lifetime away from my
hectic career, my husband's ambitions and ideals, and my personal life
which leaves something to be desired, knows anything about me. Well, not
exactly, but I'm not going to ask.
The sister bustles around the room, and I unstick my feet from where
they've froze to the floor to reach back into the playpen and tickle the
little girl I rocked on the tummy. Samantha always loved that. God,
listen to me, here. Five years and I'm getting maudlin over a child I
don't know. How am I going to deal with CJ?
I glance up, and find myself being watched. Sighing, I decide to give in
to temptation. After all, it can't hurt to make conversation. Tell me
about her. Magdalena crosses the room and peers at her. "She is ten
months. Her mother is sixteen and not want her." Two things occur to me
then - Sam and I are old enough to be her grandparents, and the death
grip on my hand tells me her feelings on the matter. "She could be
adopted." My head snaps up, and I wonder if I'm that transparent or if
God is speaking to her. She must sense she pushed too far because
suddenly I'm alone in the room with a dozen small children.
Well, little one. You need a name. I pick her up again, and then it
occurs to me that I've gotten horribly attached to this little girl in
the course of an evening. When I leave tomorrow, I want to take her with
me. What's a good name for a pretty blond little girl who'll have her
Uncle Josh and her daddy wrapped around her little finger? The answer
pops into my head, and I nearly reject the idea on principle - but I
don't. Well, Donnatella, let's go find out what I have to do to take you
home.
King of the Mountain: Part 30
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