When we unloaded the last of the jeep and truck and the kids started running for the water, I impulsively raised my face and hands, palms up and let the rays of the sun wash over me. It was bright and warm and felt so good against my skin. I sighed. There was just something about the sun. I drank its heat deep and breathed easily, closing my eyes and wondering to myself why I never really saw it for what it was before I'd come to Uganda.
I'd discovered that the sun equated happiness. Its bright and lovely existence was hope incarnate. It exposed the dark, brought forth the light and showed you that no matter how strong or oppressive the night was, that it was infinitely stronger, exponentially more substantial and just because you couldn't see it with your eyes, didn't mean it wasn't still with you, that you couldn't feel it or that it wouldn't come back for you. It was stalwart and constant. It was infinite.
I followed the sound of boisterous laughter to the water’s edge.
“We’re going to keep the smaller ones here on the shallower edge,” Ian told me.
“That’s fine with me.”
He raised his left hand and placed his palm on the back of my neck, sending a tight heat barreling through my body only for it to settle in my belly. I smiled at him. He flirtatiously smiled back and I bit my bottom lip to keep from laughing. He squeezed a little bit and dropped his hand. I felt a little sad for the brief moment his skin had touched mine. It never seemed long enough. It was incredible to me that I felt that way.
Every time I’d ever let a boy touch my body felt suddenly wrong, suddenly heavy on the heart and soul and I found myself regretting my past life. I’d never really felt that before. I steeled myself against the guilt though, knowing how sorry I was for it. I stood taller, lighter, knowing that although the grief of regret laid heavily on my heart, it didn’t mean I couldn’t move forward, that God wouldn’t forgive me. It also meant that I could forgive myself, especially since I then knew exactly what it meant to be treated with respect. And that was a heady, heavy feeling of euphoria.
A few minutes passed and the older children joined in the raucous. I’d never seen such purely happy people in my entire life. They screamed with joy, jumped and dived, splashed and played with one another. They had this moment and they were ecstatic. They had this simple joy and it was free. Another something I never thought possible. To me, the only time I’d ever convinced myself I was happy was when I could whip out my credit card and charge it.
I’d come to Uganda to fulfill a mandatory sentence but was being fulfilled in a completely unexpected manner and happily, with my full consent. I’d come to help teach these children but instead they were teaching me.
“What are you thinking about?” Ian asked me, his eyes roaming the water’s edge and his mouth silently counting heads.
“Nothing,” I lied.
“That’s an untruth,” he teased, glancing my direction and prodding his shoulder with mine.
“Fine, if you have to know,” I happily pushed back, glad for the brief contact. “I’m thinking that I’m very happy I came to this place.”
His eyes widened briefly and he studied me intently. “What brought on this revelation?”
“Them,” I said, pointing to the boisterous laughing orphans sloshing about.
“And why, Sophie Price, have they made you so happy, do you think?”
“They are funny little representatives of simplicity, of awareness. No one is more aware of themselves as these children are. They have nothing, have no one but us, have seemingly no reason to be hopeful...yet they are. They choose to be happy even though the obviously easier choice would be to be frightened or sad and they have real reason to be those things as well. But they have life and faith and hope and love and they choose those things. Their innocence is addicting, their hope is catching and I’m happy to be surrounded by them.”
Ian didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge what I’d told him. Instead, he looked at me. Really looked at me. It was a deep, penetrating stare, one that a few months before would have left me quaking in my metaphorical boots but not then. Then, I found myself opening the window further for him. I leaned over the ledge and reached my hands out to him to bring him even closer. I was inviting him to see me as I was because I was no longer ashamed. I’d tossed the heavy, bleak curtains, removed the grime coating the view and opened myself up.
His tense shoulders relaxed and finally he nodded but only once. We both turned back toward the water and did our jobs.
Three hours later and the kids were exhausted and starving. We loaded everyone up again, half of our jeep was already full of sleeping children and I couldn’t help but laugh a little at how adorable I found that. Ian and I jumped into the front seats and started the engine but Charles unexpectedly ran up to Ian’s window.
“Karina and I thought you two may want an afternoon break?” he asked. “I could drive the jeep back and you two could stay and swim for a while, as long as you’re okay with walking back.”
“Seriously?” I asked Charles.
“Don’t act so surprised, Sophie. You and Din have done a lot the past few days. Everyone needs a little break now and then.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
We watched the dust from the trucks settle as the jeeps bumbled through the dusty field and toward Masego. My heart leapt in my chest instantly knowing Ian and I were alone for, really, the first time. There would be no children ready to jump out from corners or Masego adults with their watchful eyes, memorizing our every move.
“We’re alone,” Ian whispered, startling me.
I turned toward him, my lids feeling a bit too heavy from the heat of the sun. Or was it the heat of his stare?
“Very,” was all I could muster.
Ian’s eyes traveled from my face down my neck and over my shoulder, the searing fiery gaze branded as it trickled over my skin and soon his hand found that very neck, shoulder and arm until it wrapped itself around my own hand. He brought me closer to him and whispered in my ear.
“Run,” he said quietly before a slow-burning grin split him from ear to ear.