Page 44 of Scarred Crown

The woman begins to speak in rushed Swahili, and I’m catching every third or fourth word—not enough to piece together a narrative. I turn to Kafil. “Translate?”

He nods and begins to reel off the woman’s welcome, offers of tea, a seat by the makeshift hearth.

“We just want to know how to help,” Julia says, taking the lead. “We read in the vehicle on the way here that a clubfoot can be fixed for free in Tanzania. There’s an organization that does it.”

Kafil translates, and the baby in the crib stirs. I hold my breath, praying the kid doesn’t burst into a flood of tears over the strange white people in her home.

The mother speaks again, but I’m focused on the crib. Can I walk over and look for myself? We’re assuming clubfoot, and I’m not sure I’d know the difference if I saw it, but we could compare the foot to images on Jules’s phone.

“The wait list for the procedure is two years,” Kafil translates. “By then, she’ll be almost four. The best time for the surgery according to the doctors is before eighteen months.”

“How old is the baby now?” I ask before Jules can beat me to it.

“Seventeen months.”

“Narrow window,” Julia mutters.

“There aren’t many doctors in Tanzania capable of doing the procedure.” I glance at Kafil. “According to the internet, at least. I can make some calls.”

“Can we do more than make calls?” Julia asks, giving me a hopeful look.

There isn’t much I won’t do for those blue-gray eyes when she sets her sights on me. It’s been a minute since they were filled with such naked pleading directed at me. I’d quite like her to be actually naked and pleading. I take a deep breath and rub my face. Of all the times…

“We?” I raise my eyebrows at the implication she’ll be doing anything and distract myself from all the inappropriate thoughts rising to the surface.

“I can help, somehow.” She steps toward the crib. “Can we—are we able to see your daughter?”

Kafil translates, and the woman lifts her sleepy daughter from the crib. When the toddler sees us, her brown eyes widen. Perhaps I should have shaved or had a haircut. I’m well aware that I look like a sasquatch—according to Julia. Then she puts her arms out in my direction as though asking me to hold her, and her mother laughs, a quick string of Swahili following. I catch what she says, and heat rises to my face.

“What’d she say?” Julia examines me.

“Nothing important,” I say. Not sure why the mother calling me handsome is so disarming.

The baby squirms in her mother’s arms and reaches for me again. Reluctantly, I offer my hand, and the little girl practically crawls up my arm, and I’m forced to take her from the mother’s outstretched hands. Her tiny fingers weave into my beard, and we make eye contact. She calls me pretty, and I chuckle. One of us is pretty, but I think it might be her with her wild curls and petite features.

“What happens if she doesn’t get the surgery until later?” I ask, maintaining eye contact with the little bundle in my arms.

“Hard decisions will have to be made. She won’t be able to walk,” Kafil says. “She has it in both feet.”

“Both?” I glance down, surprised. Sure enough, both of her little feet are turned at odd angles. “Can she stand up?”

When the mother answers, I don’t need Kafil’s translation, but he gives it anyway. “Not well.”

“Nick,” Julia whispers.

She doesn’t need to worry. From the minute this little one clambered into my arms, I started mentally planning the steps to get her treatment.

“I may not be able to arrange the surgery in Tanzania. She may have to come to Bellerive or some other location.” I make eye contact with the baby’s mother. “Flights. Stays in the hospital. I’ll cover it all, but I want to be sure she understands what might need to happen.”

Kafil translates, and Julia breathes a sigh of relief. Her hand hovers near my bicep before sliding down my arm in a silent thank you. The contact makes me long to shift the baby to the other side, to wrap my arm around Julia and draw her against me.

We make arrangements for me to touch base with them again in a few days once Julia and I have had a chance to contact relevant people. I haven’t touched my phone in weeks, so I’ll have to charge it before I can do anything.

When we leave the house, it’s almost nightfall, but I recognize one of the mothers in the street. She spots me and rushes over.

“Asante, asante,” she says.

“Why is she thanking you?” Julia’s brow is furrowed. “How does she know what you’re going to do already?”