The Vanishing by Gary Brown (top 10 motivational books TXT) 📕

director handed Martin a wallet-sized photograph identical to the photo he had shown to her in their meeting. “It was in Melanie’s pocket when we bathed her and provided her with clean clothes. The man who delivered Melanie here told us her mother was killed in an LRA raid.” She pointed to Martin in the picture. “He said nothing about her father. We assumed they had killed both parents, not just her mother, which was an egregious error on our part. I explained to the sister who was in charge of this file that we have a duty to God and state to exhaust every effort to locate surviving relatives prior to placing a child with a family. I don’t know why, but it appears we did not do our due diligence in this case. If you are her legal guardian, and I believe you are, then you have every right to be reunited with your daughter. I’m very, very sorry, Mr. Belgrade. If there’s anything I can do to make this any easier for you, I will.”

Martin’s voice trembled. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I can come with you if you wish,” the director said. “I can talk to the family. Besides, we can do nothing until the authorities have been advised of the situation.”

“Can you call them for us? Ask them to help?”

“Of course,” the director agreed. “I’ll do that immediately. Come inside. We’ll make that call right away.”

78

THE MISSION VAN was rusted out and barely roadworthy. Claire stared down at the road rushing past her through the gaping holes in the floorboards.

The director glanced in the rearview mirror at Claire, saw the look of concern on her face. “I’m sure you’re accustomed to much better means of transportation than this, Dr. Prescott,” Director Ubweete said. “I’m afraid we have to make do with what is donated to us, and this is the best we can do.”

“It’s fine, Director,” Claire said unconvincingly.

The director smiled. “This is not America, Dr. Prescott. We are not as privileged as your people.” She pointed to the hoards of street children seeking refuge from an afternoon shower under the galvanized awning of an abandoned building. “Unfortunately, as you can see, Kampala is a city of slums.”

“These children,” Martin asked. “Are they homeless?”.

The director nodded. “Too many to count, I’m afraid.”

“Why so many? Doesn’t your government have social programs to help them?”

“Our government does what it can, Mr. Belgrade,” the director replied. “However, in a country ravaged by war and disease, progress is painfully slow, if at all noticeable. These children are on the street because they have no other choice. They’ve been orphaned, forced from their villages because of war or AIDS. It’s a very sad situation and an inhumane way to live. Do you see those garbage bags they are sitting on?”

“Yes,” Martin said.

“They’re filled with cheap toys and cigarettes, which they sell to tourists on the street during the day,” the director explained. “At night they sleep together in packs, like wild dogs, just to keep safe.”

“Are there no other missions like yours that could care for them?” Claire asked.

“There are only so many people who are willing to help, Dr. Prescott. Sacred Heart alone relies on the support of nearly three hundred foster families. Some children simply can’t be helped because families with healthy children refuse to provide foster care to those with AIDS, so they end up living and dying in the street or joining the rebel forces in the north.”

“You mean the LRA,” Martin said.

“Yes.”

“LRA?” Claire asked.

“The Lord’s Resistance Army,” the director said. “They are responsible for much of the killing that happens in our country. They’ve forced the vast percentage of our people to abandon their homes and villages and flee for their lives. Those who remain are raped and slaughtered. They give the children one choice: join the resistance or die.”

The director turned to Martin. “If your daughter had not been brought to Sacred Heart when she was, she would have been dead years ago.”

Martin said nothing. He stared silently at the road ahead, refusing to consider for even a second that Reginald Fallon’s decision to deliver his daughter to Sacred Heart might very well have saved her life.

“It’s just around the corner,” the director said. “I called the police and explained your situation before we left. I was told a car would be dispatched to meet us there, just in case.”

Martin felt his chest tighten. “In case of what?”

The director smiled faintly. “You have to appreciate this will not be easy for Melanie’s foster parents.”

“Of course,” Martin said thoughtfully.

“They have been exceptionally good to her over the years, Mr. Belgrade,” the director continued. “They have treated her like she was their own daughter, kept her safe from harm. You’ve seen the other side of life here in Kampala, the street life. That could easily have been your daughter’s reality.”

Ahead, the lights of a police car flashed at the end of a driveway.

The van squeaked to a stop as the director pulled in behind the police car. The officer stepped out, greeted them.

“I’ve been authorized to escort you back to your hotel and later to the American Embassy,” the officer told Martin. “Take your time. Just let me know when you wish to leave, and you’ll be safely on your way.”

“Thank you,” Martin replied.

Claire opened the van door and stepped out, walked over to Martin, took his hand in hers.

“Ready?” Claire asked.

Martin smiled. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my entire life.”

“Do you want me to wait here?”

“No.” Martin squeezed her hand. “Stay with me.”

“Don’t worry, Martin,” Claire said. She kissed him on the cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

79

THE DOOR TO the small bungalow opened. A young girl stepped outside, holding her foster mothers’ hand.

“Oh, God!” Martin said. He stepped forward. “Mellie!”

“Mr. Belgrade, please wait,” the director said. “Give me a moment to speak to her foster parents. They never imagined a day like this would ever come. Now it has. This