Zoe turned and met his eyes. “No, Dad. I walked away a long time ago.”
Trevor drove her to the airport in a silence as deep as the dark Vineyard sky. Zoe looked out at the forest and felt something inside her break. A jumbled torrent of memories and fears cascaded through her mind—the day her father won the Senate race and she understood why he had not defended her; Kuyeya playing at St. Francis, a misstep away from paralysis; Amos lying in a pool of blood; Clay Randall watching her cry; Flexon Mubita meeting with Patricia Nyambo; cameras flashing in the Senate chamber; the pain in her father’s eyes; the black mamba slithering across the floor; Joseph’s HIV. She leaned her head against the window, overwhelmed by it all.
“Are you okay?” Trevor said.
She took a moment to answer him. “I’m not sure.”
“What are you going to do about the girl?”
She shrugged. “I’ll figure something out.”
He stared at her in the darkness. “I’m sorry, Zoe. For everything. If I could change it …”
“I know, Trev,” she said, touching his arm. “It’s not your fault.”
When he focused on the road again, she rolled down the window and leaned into the slipstream, allowing the island air to envelop her, to whip through her hair and fill her lungs as she had when she was a girl. She could see the brightest stars twinkling through the sea haze. Their names came to her like a fragment from a long-forgotten lesson: Castor, Pollux, Capella, Regulus. She smiled at them in an easy way and felt her confidence beginning to return.
In the airport parking lot, she had an idea. She took out her iPhone and called a number in South Africa. She listened as the phone rang and rang, waiting until a male voice delivered a sleepy greeting in Afrikaans.
“Jan,” she said, “it’s Zoe Fleming.”
“Zoe?” He sounded bewildered. “It’s one thirty in the morning.”
“I’m in the United States. Your daughter needs help.”
“My daughter?”
“Kuyeya,” she said impatiently. “Do you know anyone at Pretoria Wellness Hospital?”
“No,” he replied, still fuzzy. “Why?”
She outlined the situation and made her request. He hesitated, and she heard only static on the line. Come on, Jan, she thought. Be a man.
Eventually, he spoke. “I’ve heard of AAI. Dr. Chulu says it’s progressive?”
“Life-threatening. She needs an operation right away.”
“I know a medevac outfit in Johannesburg that does charity flights.”
“That’s a good start, but we’re still well short. Do you have savings?”
He hesitated. “Ninety thousand rand, but that’s not nearly enough.”
“And your parents?”
His reaction came swiftly. “They don’t know anything about this.”
“What about a loan? You have friends. Somebody will help.”
“What about you?” he countered. “You have connections, too.”
His words fell like salt on her open wound. “What do you mean?”
“Zoe Fleming, daughter of Jack.” He paused. “It seems both of us had secrets.”
She gripped the phone. “This isn’t about me. It’s about your daughter’s life.”
He sighed, sounding weary. “I’m not denying that. Let me see what I can do.”
“Start with the medevac and your savings. I’ll work out the rest.”
Her words seemed to embolden him. “When are you flying back?”
“I’ll be in Johannesburg on Sunday morning.”
“Good,” he said, speaking with sudden conviction. “With any luck, so will she.”
chapter 33
Johannesburg, South Africa
May, 2012
Zoe spent the fifteen-hour flight from New York sleeping and scheming—making a list of influential friends and acquaintances and compiling numbers to call on the ground. Somehow, six miles in the air, her frame of reference had changed. It no longer mattered that Atticus Spelling had turned her down, that the decision of the foundation board was a crapshoot, or that her father had asked her to put on a show for the media in exchange for Kuyeya’s life. She would find a way to pay for the surgery. She couldn’t afford to fail.
When the plane parked at the gate, she checked her iPhone for email, hoping for a missive from Monica Kingsley. Instead, she found a handful of queries from reporters, which she deleted. She collected her bags and followed the crowd to customs and immigration. Thirty minutes later, she entered the cavernous terminal and saw Jan Kruger waiting for her.
He surprised her with a hug. “I just got a call from the orthopedic surgeon. She goes into theater in two hours.”
“You did it,” she replied. “You came through.”
He showed her the way to the parking garage and a black Audi coupé. “I’ve been thinking, assuming all goes well, I’d like to spend some time with her.”
“You’ll have to work at it. She’s never had a decent man in her life.”
“Any advice?”