Forgive Me

Nadine and Lily had grown up like sisters, as they had no siblings of their own. Jim worked late at Falmouth Fish, so Lily’s mother would take Nadine in after school, feeding her Chips Ahoy cookies and strawberry milk. On Sunday, his day off, Jim took Nadine and Lily hiking along Sandy Neck Beach. Though both girls dreamed of being detectives like Nancy Drew, Lily fell for Dennis and went to Cape Cod Community College. Nadine went to Harvard and then traveled four continents before NYU journalism school.

Until the twins were born, Nadine and Lily still wrote and called constantly, reveling in the differences between their lives. But something changed after Lily’s frightening childbirth. The babies were early and sickly, and Nadine–traveling with the Zapatistas–couldn’t make it home in time to help out. By the time Nadine visited, Lily had already become someone else. She wasn’t interested in Nadine’s stories or the La Reliquia mezcal Nadine had brought from Mexico. Nadine spent the weekend cold and miserable, trying to feign interest in Bo and Babes sleeping patterns and weight percentiles. There was a new alliance between Lily and Dennis, too. Where once Lily had laughed about his dream of a McMansion and six kids, now she seemed to have bought in hook, line, and sinker, showing off her mini van and giant TV. Was Lily happy? Nadine couldn’t bear to believe it. She drank the mezcal herself on the bus back to Logan and made out with the man next to her on the flight to Mexico City, fondling him under the thin polyester blanket.

Nadine missed the Moleskine notebooks.

She bought a pack of Merits and made her way back to the Sandy Toes, jumping when she heard a loud rapping sound. It was someone inside The Captain Kidd, pounding at the window to get her attention: Dr. Duarte. He came outside wearing a yellow T-shirt with a salmon printed on it, his arms folded across his broad chest. “Nadine,” he said, “what are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same.”

He nodded quickly, his cheeks turning red from the cold. When he spoke, his words were frosted. “Left my coat inside,” he said. “Nadine, I’m serious. You need to be in bed.”

“You’d have to buy me dinner first.”

He looked bewildered. “It’s a joke,” said Nadine. “I’m sorry. I’m going back right now. I just needed–”

“Some cigarettes?”

Nadine looked down at the pack, visible through the plastic bag.

“Anyway,” said Dr. Duarte. “Please go home, Nadine. I don’t need a dead woman on my conscience.”

“Jesus,” said Nadine. “I’m not that bad off. I’m headed back to Mexico next week.”

“The hell you are,” said Dr. Duarte.

“I want a second opinion.”

“All right,” said Dr. Duarte. “You need to lie down and eat. Go home and get in bed. I’ll bring you some fried clams in an hour.”

Nadine blinked.

“Onion rings or fries?” said Dr. Duarte.

“I don’t–”

“Its freezing, Nadine. Give me an answer.”

“Onion rings.”

“Fine,” said Dr. Duarte. “See you soon.” He raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled, then darted back into The Captain Kidd.

At the front desk, a package from La Hacienda Solita waited. Inside, Nadine found her dirty backpack. She sat on the floor and emptied the pack with her right hand: rubber sandals; Pepto-Bismol and antibiotic tablets; three tamarind candies; a roll of toilet paper; condoms; a jar of Nescafé (when coffee was hard to find, she stuck her finger in the jar and sucked the crystals off); a Nalgene bottle; a headlamp; a Swiss Army knife; three lined notebooks; two Bic pens; an envelope of tobacco; and a tin of rolling papers.

And taped inside a composition notebook, the photograph of her mother, Ann, sitting on Nobska Beach. Even when she was sick, Ann had loved hiking to the lighthouse with a picnic dinner. She wrapped a warm blanket around her diminishing frame, a Red Sox cap covering her bald head. They would walk at sunset, the sky rippled with color. “I’ve never been outside New England,” Ann told six-year-old Nadine, “but there can’t be anywhere more beautiful than this.”

In the photo, Ann was young and healthy. Her black hair was tucked behind her ears, and her hand shaded her violet eyes. She wore a green bikini and smiled at Jim, who was taking the picture. Ann’s stomach was slightly rounded with baby Nadine.

“Knock, knock,” said Dr. Duarte, rapping on the door to Room 9.

“Oh, hi,” said Nadine.

“Why’s there trash in the middle of your room?”

“That’s not trash,” said Nadine. “It’s all my worldly possessions.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Duarte, “wow. I’m sorry.”

“It’s a reasonable mistake,” said Nadine, easing into bed.

“It really looks like trash,” said Dr. Duarte, taking a Styrofoam container from a paper bag. The smell of onion rings filled the room. “They were out of clams, so I got you a scrod sandwich.”

“Fried seafood. What kind of a doctor are you?”

“Believe me,” said Dr. Duarte. “Fried seafood is nothing compared with an amputated arm.”

“Come on,” said Nadine. “It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

“You’re on Demerol.”

“Right.”

“Eat your sandwich,” said Dr. Duarte.

“Speaking of Demerol,” said Nadine, biting into the soft Portuguese roll, savoring the hot fish, the melted cheddar cheese.

“No,” said Dr. Duarte. He sat on a chair in the corner of the room and turned on the television with the remote control.

“You don’t even–” said Nadine, wiping her lips with a napkin.

“Yes I do,” said Dr. Duarte. “You want some extra Demerol to add to your–” He gestured to the backpack. “–your worldly possessions.”

“But what if my wrist starts to hurt in the middle of the Sierra Madres?”

“Stop showing off,” said Dr. Duarte. “We’ll talk about it when you’ve sat in that bed for a while longer.”

“Right,” said Nadine. “By the way, this is fantastic.”

Dr. Duarte cracked open a bottle of beer. “You think I’m kidding,” he said. “Next time I come, Nadine, I’m bringing an X-ray of your arm. Haven’t you ever read A Separate Peace?”

“The boarding school book?”

“Phinneas dies,” said Dr. Duarte, pouring into a glass. “He dies of a broken bone.”

Nadine dipped an onion ring in ketchup. “Dr. Duarte, how about a beer?”

“You can call me Hank. And no, no beer for you. I got you an iced tea.” Hank handed Nadine the bottle, then settled back into his chair.

“What kind of beer is that, anyway?” said Nadine. “Looks delicious.”

“It’s my favorite, Whale’s Tail. They make it on Nantucket. Ever been to Nantucket?”

“No,” said Nadine. She thought for a moment of Jason Irving, who had grown up on the island. Then she forced Jason–and his sad story–from her mind.

“Too bad,” said Dr. Duarte. “The fast ferry only takes an hour. It always surprises me how many Cape Codders have never been. Ah, fourth quarter,” he said, finding a Patriots game on television.

“I hate football,” said Nadine.

“Well,” said Hank, stepping from his boots and propping his stocking feet on the ottoman, “it seems I have the remote.”

“To tell you the truth,” said Nadine, “I don’t get football.”

“You want me to teach you?”

“No,” said Nadine, “I have some research to do anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” said Hank.

Nadine opened the newspaper and scanned the headlines. “Damn!” she exclaimed.

“Beg pardon?”

“Damn Kit Henderson! He got my story.” Hank hit MUTE, came over to the bed, and leaned in. Nadine pointed to a picture of three men in handcuffs. “These guys, they shot twelve little boys. That’s why I was in Mexico, looking for them. They were drug traffickers, like I thought. Cleaning up their boy smugglers.” She scanned the story. “Kits a stringer. He must have followed up with my contacts. Goddamn it.”

“Nadine,” said Hank, “you’re lucky you made it home.”

“Home,” said Nadine, bitterly. “Kit Henderson got the front page.”

“The front page,” said Hank. “That’s what it’s all about?”

“Now you’re a therapist?”

“No,” said Hank. “I’m a generalist.”

“Teach me about football,” said Nadine. She folded the paper and put it in the trash.

“Well, to begin with, that’s the tight end,” said Hank.

“You’re telling me,” said Nadine.

Five

“Please,” said Nadine. “I’m going. Send me to Lima. I can get in with the Shining Path.” Nadine’s hand rested on the newspaper spread across her lap. Her room was filled with papers, and news blared on the television. She had pulled the gingham curtains closed, and she fought to ignore the searing pain between her temples.

“It’s a standoff, Nadine,” said Ian. “Nobody’s coming in or out. And I’m not sending you anywhere until you get your doctor to give the good word. Nadine, honestly. Are you listening?”

“Ian…,” said Nadine. She drained her soda and stacked it on top of the other Diet Coke cans on her bedside table.

“We’ve already sent Clay anyway. By the time it’s in the paper, we have someone there. You know that.”

“Well where, then? Where do you need someone?” Nadine opened another soda.

“Where do we need a nutcase with a broken wrist?” said Ian. “We’ll talk next year, okay? I’ve got to run.”

“Next year?”

“It’s Christmas,” said Ian. “It’s Kwanzaa. Hanukkah. The holiday season. Kiss someone under the mistletoe. Recover, Nadine. I’ll be in touch.”

“You can’t–” said Nadine.

“Happy holidays,” said Ian.

Tucking the phone under her chin, Nadine clamped a cigarette between her lips and lit it with her right hand. She swallowed, and decided to play her final card. “How about sending me back to South Africa? When I took the Mexico City job, you made me a promise.” She tapped her cigarette on the scallop shell she was using as an ashtray.

“And I intend to keep it. I know your heart’s in Cape Town, Nadine, but you’re not strong enough to go anywhere yet.”

“My heart? Ian, please.”

“Do you have any idea how much you talk about it?” said Ian.

Nadine laughed, blowing smoke. “What?”

“Will Mandela bring peace to South Africa, what about the townships, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission… and on and on.”

“Really?”

“Everyone has a story that sticks in their craw,” said Ian.

There was silence, and then Nadine said, “But seriously, Ian? I need to get back to work.”

“Dear?” Gwen’s voice was tentative from the hallway.

“One second!” said Nadine.

Ian’s tone was kind. “Talk soon, Nadine.”

“But–”

“Good-bye,” said Ian.

“Wait,” said Nadine, but Ian had hung up.

“Nadine?” said Gwen.

“Come in.”

“Are you still on the phone?” said Gwen, opening the door. She came into view wearing a sweatshirt with a reindeer appliqué. In her ears were tiny ornaments, and she held an old shoe box.

“No,” said Nadine. “I’ll pay you back for the long distance,” she added.

“Don’t worry about that, dear,” said Gwen. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“I brought you something,” said Gwen.

“For the love of God,” said Nadine. “Please, no more crossword puzzles.”

“Well,” said Gwen. She stood in the doorway for a moment, and then she said, “There’s no need to be nasty.”

“I know,” said Nadine. “I don’t mean to be. It’s just… Gwen, I don’t need mothering. I’m happy for you and my dad, and I’m just ready to get back to Mexico.”

“Speaking of lovebirds…,” said Gwen, settling on the corner of Nadine’s bed, tracing a circle on the coverlet.

“Hm?” Nadine put down The New York Times and opened the Boston Tribune.

“What about you settling down? Getting married? Babies?”

“Don’t think babies are in the cards for me.”

“You still have time,” said Gwen. “Well, a little.”

“I guess I’m missing the mommy gene,” said Nadine.

“You’re so pretty,” said Gwen. “And you have lovely panties. Are they French? You could get a man, Nadine.”

“I don’t want a man,” said Nadine. “I want to get back to work.”

“What about that nice Dr. Duarte?” said Gwen. “Everyone has a past, you can’t fault him for that.”

“What?”

“Poor Dr. Duarte,” said Gwen, leaning in. “I really shouldn’t gossip.”

Nadine was silent.

“Okay,” said Gwen. “Twist my arm. His wife ran off with a Greek man she met on a cruise ship!”

“Jesus,” said Nadine.

“A Carnival Cruise,” said Gwen in wonderment. “Now she lives on Mykonos and has two children. Both Greek. So Dr. Duarte moved here.”

“I’m missing something,” said Nadine.

“Oh, he used to work in the city. Some terrible emergency room. He worked all day and night.” Gwen warmed to her story. “So Maryjane finally convinces him to take a break. They go on a Caribbean cruise. A Carnival Cruise, did I mention?”

“Yes, Gwen, you did.”

“So who knows? I heard she met the Greek in the buffet line. I keep telling your father: they have really good food on those cruises. Everybody says so. And things like Tex Mex night, sushi night, what have you.”

“I am really tired,” said Nadine.

“Tex Mex night with margaritas. He’d like it, don’t you think?”

“Gwen,” said Nadine, “I’m going to take a nap now.”

“Oh.” Gwen was quiet for a moment, and then said, “Well, I just had to show you what I found in your daddy’s things.” She held out the shoe box.

“Sneakers?”

“No, silly,” said Gwen. “It’s all your articles.” She lifted newspaper clippings. “He saved every one,” she said.

One of the clippings fell from her hand, and Nadine held it up. It was a story she’d reported from South Africa: EVELINA MALE-FANE: MURDERER OR MARTYR? Nadine’s stomach clenched.

“That is the most terrifying story,” said Gwen. “That little African girl! How could she have killed an American? And a boy from Nantucket, no less.”

“Jason Irving,” said Nadine.

“Right. What a sicko. Did she get executed? I certainly hope so.”

“She’s in jail,” said Nadine.

“I would have voted for execution, myself,” said Gwen.

“She was fifteen,” said Nadine.

“A bad apple,” said Gwen, standing, “is a bad apple, any way you slice it.”

“Actually, she’s getting out of jail, if you really want to know,” said Nadine.

“Out?” said Gwen, sitting back down.

“The Truth and Reconciliation Commission. TRC, for short.”

“You have lost me, Nadine,” said Gwen.

“Under apartheid–” Nadine began.

“Oh Lord,” said Gwen, holding up her palm to stop Nadine.

“What?”

“Well, to be honest, sweetheart,” said Gwen, “I’m just not interested in history.”

Nadine sighed.

“What? A bunch of people over in Africa killed each other. I mean, what can you do?” She lifted her hands, a gesture of helplessness. “ Anyhoo, I just wanted you to know about this shoe box. Your daddy’s cut out every article you’ve ever written. He cares, Nadine, is what I’m saying.”

“Evelinas appearing before the TRC,” said Nadine. “She could be given amnesty.”

“You’re like an onion,” said Gwen. “Lots of layers. I mean that.”

“Okay,” said Nadine.

“An onion,” said Gwen. “Seems all rough, but then it’s tender underneath. Makes you cry. Best when softened up a little…”

“I get the picture,” said Nadine.

“Anyhoo,” said Gwen, “I’m real glad we had this little chat.”

When she was alone, Nadine stared at the article, which she had written almost ten years before.

Six

The summer she flew from JFK to Cape Town International Airport, Nadine was twenty-five, her hair in a long braid down her back. On her face, Nadine wore only sunscreen and ChapStick, and she was often mistaken for a student. But the lines in her forehead and the coldness in her eyes, her angry cynicism, betrayed her experience. By twenty-five, Nadine had been to Bhopal, India, where she had seen and reported on hundreds of dead bodies, victims of a slow, lethal leak in a Liberty Union methyl-isocyanate plant. She had comforted dying children in an emergency feeding center on the edge of Ethiopia’s Danakil Desert, filing detailed accounts for the Boston Tribune. Her articles about the torture wrought in Haiti by the Tonton Macoutes won her a five-hundred-dollar award, which she put toward credit card bills. She didn’t shy away from the gruesome details. In fact, as her Tribune editor, Eugenia, said, Nadine was “hot for gore.”

Nadine was ready to stare the worst in the face. But a steady paycheck still eluded her. It was part of the job: stringers paid their own way, hoping to sell enough stories to cover plane tickets, hotels (or crummy apartments), meals. Sometimes Nadine was forced to share a room with a more established reporter. Eugenia often bought Nadine’s stories, but Nadine dreamed of a steady position. Or the ultimate prize: paid expenses.

Eugenia called Nadine first when something unimaginable happened in a far corner of the world. “I don’t know how she handles it,” Nadine once overheard Eugenia telling another editor, “but she handles it. For now, anyway.” Eugenia had a foul mouth and a nose for ratings. “Nadine, babe,” she’d say, “I’m FedExing tickets to Haiti. Can you smell the blood?”

In Port-au-Prince, Nadine met Padget Thompson, the bureau chief for The New York Times. One night, as they drank whiskey at the Hotel Oloffson, Padget fixed her with a stare. “May I give you some advice, my dear?” he said.

“Of course,” said Nadine. She sipped her drink quickly, trying to pry her mind away from the boy she had seen that morning, killed in a voodoo ceremony.

“Your work is shocking. It’s fresh and energetic.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Nadine.

“But there will come a day when shocking people will grow tiresome. You’ll want to teach, to change things.”

“I’m hardly a tabloid reporter.”

“Oh?” said Padget. He ran a hand over thinning hair. “I don’t have a daughter,” he said. “Indulge me my fatherly tendencies.”

Nadine sighed, but revolved her hand to say go on.

“What you do is good. You rush in, detail the facts. You’re courageous. But to get better, to become a great reporter, you’re going to have to learn what it is you’re doing. You need to take it apart and put it back together with thought. You need to go to graduate school, and then stay in one place for a while. Your work needs perspective. Yes, horrible things are happening, and thank you for telling us. But why, Nadine? And what can we do about it?”

Nadine ordered another drink. She was quiet.

“For example,” said Padget. “When Duvalier flees the country, which he will, what’s going to happen? He’s a vicious asshole, yes. But who’s going to replace him? And what will become of Haiti then?”

Nadine looked up. “Whatever comes,” she said, “it will be better than Baby Doc.”

“Are you sure?” said Padget. “In ‘57, Baby Doc was the great hope.”

Nadine sipped her drink. “I never…,” she said. “I guess I hadn’t thought.”

“Thanks for listening,” said Padget. “Just a few words from an old man.”

“You’re not old,” said Nadine.

“Got to pass the torch sometime.”

In the morning, Nadine called the NYU School of Journalism, Padget’s alma mater.

Nadine studied writing, photography, and history at NYU. One of her professors was South African, and she urged Nadine to head to Johannesburg or Cape Town for the summer. “I’d give my arm to go back,” said Renata. “The Young Lions are changing the world. They’re braver–and dumber–than we were.”

Nelson Mandela’s struggle for a nonviolent takeover had come to nothing, Renata explained. Mandela was in prison, and many of his ardent supporters–including Renata, a white journalist who had questioned the mysterious deaths of jailed activists–were dead, missing, or exiled. Black youth, born and bred in the townships that surrounded South Africa’s cities, stripped of rights, material pleasures, and education, had grown up angry. “Their parents were too scared to fight. They had jobs, and they didn’t want to lose them,” said Renata. “But these kids? They’ve got nothing. They don’t have one thing to lose.”

They called themselves the Young Lions, and they were coming of age, embracing violence as a way to take back their county, which had been ruled by whites since 1948. South Africa was going to ignite, Renata said, “like a fucking bomb.

“For God’s sake, they just beat that American boy to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I don’t get it,” said Nadine. “I mean, why did they kill him? How could that help anything?”

“It’s the mind-set,” said Renata. “These kids feel like violence is the only way. Maybe they’re right. If they kill people, blow things up, the government will have to take notice. Everyone will stop ignoring apartheid. Jason Irving’s face was on the front page of every paper in the world.”

“But Jason Irving was American. He was teaching in the townships–”

“This isn’t subtle, Nadine. It’s not about thinking actions through. If you see a white person, kill them. If you announce a strike–nobody go to work for the white man–and some people take the train to work, blow up the train. It’s cut-and-dried, desperate. The kids who killed Jason, they had just left a rally. They’d been told to kill. One settler equals one bullet. A simple equation, in a country where there’s no room for nuance.”

“It’s insanity,” said Nadine.

“It’s news” said Renata.

Nadine went to Boston to meet with Eugenia, who was skeptical. “First you ditch me for graduate school,” she said disdainfully, lighting a cigarette in her cluttered office, “and now South Africa? I don’t know, babe. What about Sudan? Starving orphans, Nadine. Hundreds of ‘em. We’ve got Bill there, but you’re better at the misery and death stuff. Hell, Nadine, orphans are your specialty.”

“But I know I could do great work in South Africa,” said Nadine. “My professor, Renata Jorgensen, she fled the country with her notes on Steve Biko–”

“Spare me,” said Eugenia. She touched her springy red curls and then stubbed out her cigarette. “I’ll advance you the plane ticket and one month’s rent. Find something cheap.”

“Thanks, Eugenia. I promise, you’ll be glad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Eugenia. “Let’s go pig out on pizza.”

From the moment she stepped outside the airport, Nadine was entranced by Cape Town. She loved the way the city wrapped itself around majestic Table Mountain, embracing the peak on three sides and spilling out to Table Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Sundrenched vineyards climbed the eastern slopes of the mountain, their picturesque wineries wreathed in oak and pine trees.

Nadine took a rare day to herself, heading south of the city, to the Cape of Good Hope, and hiking out to its craggy point. High above two oceans, she breathed deeply. In the nature reserve, she saw a zebra and ostriches. Small but fierce baboons grabbed at the remains of her picnic lunch.

For the first time on assignment, Nadine looked just like the locals around her: black Cape Townians were not allowed in white areas after dark, and Nadine blended in with the white South Africans as she wandered among the Dutch and British colonial buildings, the cathedrals, shops, and the old slave market, now a shady square lined with upscale restaurants. Only Nadine’s American accent gave her away.

Nadine studied guidebooks and maps of the city. A blank section on most maps between the peninsula and the African mainland was designated CAPE FLATS. Nadine knew this bleak place plagued by wind-driven sand was where the city’s millions of non-whites lived. She visited District Six, once a thriving mixed-race neighborhood in one of the most beautiful parts of Cape Town. It had been “bleached” by the government, its buildings bulldozed, its residents sent to the Flats. Now it was a wasteland of rubble, plans for its revival mired in red tape.