A House in the Sky: A Memoir by Lindhout Amanda & Corbett Sara

Author:Lindhout, Amanda & Corbett, Sara [Lindhout, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2013-09-10T04:00:00+00:00

23

Blame the Girl

I lay for a long time on my mattress, hoping that something would reverse itself. I waited for one of the boys to come in carrying Nigel’s mattress and for someone else to hustle Nigel back through the door, maybe even apologetically, as if taking him away hadn’t been the plan. I expected to hear some sort of noise—a shuffle, a creak—that would tell me the change was under way, that we were soon to resume our old spots, with our belongings, our routine. Instead, the house was quiet. The silence sat heavily in my ears. I was alone.

One hour passed and then two. Alone felt like a new country. Alone felt like a new planet—one containing just me and my mattress with the blue-flowered cloth and the room’s four walls, which seemed to have shot up like tall trees in a dark forest. Without Nigel, I had nothing to say, no one to look at, nobody stirring the air. Alone in that big room, I was nothing but small.

I couldn’t guess why they’d chosen this day to separate us. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it had been eight weeks since we’d been taken from the road, and there was no sign of a ransom payment. Frustration seemed to be mounting among our captors. The previous afternoon, there had been a commotion at the front of the house, and one or more of the leaders had shown up. We’d heard a long, intense conversation with Captain Skids on the patio. I wondered now whether the leaders had been instructing him to prepare for a long haul, informing him that we’d be houseguests for longer than anticipated. Skids already seemed to view us as a burden. He expressed no curiosity about me and Nigel. He spoke no English and showed no warmth. I wondered whether it was he who’d insisted that Nigel and I be separated, as an exertion of his control. An I’m-the-boss-of-the-house move.

Later that day, Jamal returned, carrying my backpack and the plastic bags with my toiletries, clothes, and the English books, dropping it all on the floor with a clunk of finality. I stared at the divot in the wall where the nail holding Nigel’s mosquito netting had been. Had he been there to hear it, I would have said something encouraging and bright to stop the slide of emotions. I would have said, Come on now, we just need to get through this morning. Or Tell me about the happiest birthday you ever celebrated. There seemed no point. My throat felt as if it had pinched shut. Calm down, I told myself. Calm down, calm down.

Sitting up, I took out the spiral notebook they’d given me for my Islamic lessons and opened it to a fresh page. “Breadbeard,” I wrote, using a nickname I’d had for Nigel in Ethiopia. “Stay strong. Don’t give up. We are going to get out of here and be with our families again. I am just on the other side of the wall and will be sending love your way.

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