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My father, I eventually found out, began seeing a psychiatrist around that time, which both my brother and I thought would help. But my dad, I alone seemed to recognize, had been maintaining a Jekyll-and-Hyde existence for years. He could fool people--indeed, no one at work ever mentioned that anything seemed amiss--and I think he was able to fool the psychiatrist as well. Instead of putting my father on antidepressants, which I think would have benefited him, the doctor instead prescribed Valium, which only made matters worse.
With Dana and Bob back together, the twins healthy, and dad limiting--though not cutting off--contact with us, Micah concentrated on work, excelled at his job, and continued to date.
As for me, three thousand miles from the rest of my family, life went on as usual with one small exception. Right after Cat and I celebrated our fifth anniversary, and using my wife's grandparents as inspiration, I began writing again.
Throughout 1993 and 1994, my brother and I saw quite a bit of each other, despite the distance between us. The pharmaceutical company we worked for would hold national sales meetings to promote their new product releases. In addition, training sessions were conducted out of the home offices in New Jersey, and Micah and I would inevitably end up in the same sessions. He also visited me in North Carolina and I would make it out to California at least once a year. As always, we would talk about Dana and my dad. Because my brother was the conduit I used to follow the goings-on in the family, I needed to talk to him. Because I was the only one with whom he could speak freely, he needed to talk to me, too.
In late 1994, we were at a national sales conference and relaxing after a day of meetings when the same subjects arose.
"How's dad doing?" I asked.
"Who knows. But I think he's met someone new and he's dating again."
"Does he ever go to see the twins?"
"No, not really."
"Have you asked him why?"
"He'd rather spend the weekend with his dog."
"He didn't say that."
"Not in so many words. But that's the way he acts. It's like the dog and this new woman are the only things he cares about anymore."
"Any word on why he won't talk to his family?"
"No."
"But he's dating?"
"Yeah. Can you believe it? Half the time, I think he's getting better. But when you look at the whole picture . . ." He trailed off. "I hope he snaps out of it, but this time I'm not so sure. He seems so angry all the time."
"How's Dana?"
"The babies are keeping her busy. Her last CAT scan was good. There's no sign of the tumor. But man, you should see those boys. They're so cute. It almost makes me want kids."
"Almost?"
"Not now," he said quickly. "In a few years, I mean."
I laughed.
"So what do you think of all the buy-out and merger rumors we've been hearing lately?" Micah asked.
We'd heard that American Cyanamid--the parent company of Lederle Labs--was supposedly on the sales block, and thus all of the attendees at the meeting had been worried about the possibility of losing their jobs.
"Who knows. Whatever happens, happens. After everything we've been through, I'm sure we'll land on our feet."
Less than two weeks after the meeting, as 1994 was coming to a close, we learned that the company was to be bought by American Home Products. In January, the company began the slow process of restructuring; to keep my job, I had to move to Greenville, South Carolina. Micah was offered a position just south of Los Angeles. While I reluctantly took the transfer, my brother decided to give up his job.
"I can't leave," he said to me. "This is my home, and besides, I can't leave Dana and dad."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'll probably go back to real estate and see what happens. How's your novel coming?"
"It's just about done. Before editing, I mean."
"Are you going to try to get this one published?"
"I think so."
"Is it better than the first two you wrote?"
"I guess I'll find out."
"Hey, maybe you'll be out of the pharmaceutical business soon, too."
"Maybe." I sighed. "We'll see how it goes. I've given up trying to predict the future."
CHAPTER 15
Lalibela, Ethiopia
February 9-10
We'd started the morning in Jaipur, had flown to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, and later that afternoon we boarded the plane once more for a flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. We arrived late, landing well after dark.
Even in darkness Addis Ababa surprised us. Our impressions of Ethiopia were largely based on what we'd seen on television or read about in newspapers, and I suppose I imagined a city similar to Phnom Penh, or even Jaipur. Yet Addis was far more similar to Lima, and we were struck by its cosmopolitan atmosphere. Long, well-manicured greenbelts lined the main thoroughfare, the streets were clean, well lit, and used only by cars, and for the first time in weeks we saw elements of American culture; billboards advertised Coca-Cola and jeans from the Gap.
Our guide spoke excellent English, and when we asked him about the city, he nodded.
"Yes, Addis is a modern city. But it is not normally this clean."
"What do you mean?"
"Last week, they held a major meeting with all the nations of Africa represented. The government has been cleaning the city for weeks to make a good impression."
Still, there's only so much cleaning one could do. Addis Ababa, on the surface anyway, seemed incredibly, almost shockingly, wealthy compared to the cities we'd recently visited.
In the morning, we rode back to the airport and boarded two small propeller-driven planes for the flight to Lalibela.
Lalibela is the spiritual home of the Abyssinian (or Ethiopian) Orthodox Church, but is most famous for the monolithic cave churches carved in the thirteenth century. King Lalibela had ordered their construction, and using forty thousand slaves, eleven cave churches were carved from stone. What makes the churches unique is that they don't sit aboveground; instead, they had been carved into the earth so that the rooflines of the churches are at ground level.
The airport where we landed was located in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by peaks of the Ethiopian highlands. Aside from the airport, there were no other buildings at all and the land was reminiscent of southern Nevada, near the Sierras. Few trees grew in the rocky soil, and lowlying scrubs stretched across the valley as far as the eye could see.
Lalibela, we learned, was roughly twenty-five miles away, and two thousand feet higher in elevation. The winding asphalt road curved through the valley and along the peaks; in the hour it took to reach our destination, we never saw another vehicle.
We did, however, see a young boy around ten years of age, eight miles from Lalibela. Walking along the road, he was hauling a monstrously overstuffed burlap bag of charcoal that he intended to deliver to the city. The bag, both taller and wider than the child, had been strapped to his back and looked many times heavier than the child himself. When he saw our bus passing, he smiled and waved a greeting before continuing his slow march to the town.
Most of the town of Lalibela was situated off the main highway, along bumpy gravel roads. Its thatched-roof adobe homes featured few glass windows, but the town boasted numerous places to eat, small, family-owned businesses, and souvenir shops. Nearly everyone we saw wore western clothing. A number of tables lined the roads, offering various T-shirts, most emblazoned with American logos. For all intents and purposes, the town of Lalibela was an Ethiopian tourist trap.
Our buses parked near the carved rock churches, and as soon as we stepped off the bus, we were besieged by teens; unlike other places we'd visited, they had no trinkets for sale. Instead, they asked for money; every child who came up to us told us that he needed money either to attend school or to buy the books he needed at the school he was currently attending.
In the end, they were forced back by Ethiopian guards swinging sticks.
