One morning when I was tracking Kagiso, I realized that she was no longer walking with her herd. I began to search the vicinity, and found her a half mile away. Through my binoculars I spotted the tiny form at her feet, and I raced to a vantage point where I could better see.
Unlike most elephants giving birth in the wild, Kagiso was alone. Her herd was not there, celebrating with a cacophony of trumpets and a pandemonium of touching, like a family reunion where all the elderly aunties rush to pinch the cheeks of a newborn. Kagiso wasn’t celebrating, either. She was pushing at the still calf with her foot, trying to get it to stand. She reached down with her trunk and twined it with the baby’s, which slipped limp out of her grasp.
I had seen births before where the calf was weak and shaky, where it took longer than the usual half hour to get it up on its feet and stumbling along beside its mom. I squinted, trying to see if there was any rise and fall to the chest of the calf. But really all I needed to examine was the set of Kagiso’s head, the sag of her mouth, the wilt of her ears. Everything about her looked deflated. She knew already, even if I didn’t.
I had a sudden flash of Lorato, charging down the hill to protect her grown son when he was shot.
If you are a mother, you must have someone to take care of.
If that someone is taken from you, whether it is a newborn or an individual old enough to have offspring of its own, can you still call yourself a mother?
Staring at Kagiso, I realized that she hadn’t just lost her calf. She had lost herself. And although I had studied elephant grief for a living, although I had seen numerous deaths in the wild before and had recorded them dispassionately, the way an observer should—now, I broke down and started to cry.
Nature is a cruel bitch. We researchers are not supposed to interfere, because the animal kingdom works itself out without our intervention. But I wondered if things might have been different had we monitored Kagiso months earlier—even though I knew it was unlikely that we would have known further in advance that she was going to have a baby.
On the other hand, I myself had no excuse.
I didn’t notice that I’d skipped my period until my cargo shorts no longer fit and I had to close them with a safety pin. After the death of Kagiso’s calf, after I spent five days recording her grief, I drove off the reserve and into Polokwane to buy an over-the-counter pregnancy test. I sat in the bathroom of a peri-peri chicken restaurant, staring at the little pink line, and sobbed.
By the time I returned to camp, I had pulled myself together. I talked to Grant and asked for a three-week leave of absence. Then I left Thomas a voice mail, taking him up on his offer to visit the New England Elephant Sanctuary. It took less than twenty minutes for Thomas to call me back. He had a thousand questions: Would I mind bunking at the sanctuary? How long could I stay? Could he pick me up at Logan Airport? I gave him all the information he wanted, leaving out one very critical detail. Namely, that I was pregnant.
Was I right to keep this from him? No. Blame it on the fact that I immersed myself in a matriarchal society every day, or blame it on cowardice: I just wanted to take a careful, closer look at Thomas before I let him claim partial ownership of this child. I didn’t know, at that point, if I would even keep the baby. And if I did, clearly I was going to raise it in Africa by myself. I simply didn’t feel that one night under a baobab tree meant Thomas necessarily deserved a vote.
In Boston I stumbled off the airplane, rumpled and tired, stood in line at passport control, collected my luggage. When the doors belched me into the arrivals lounge, I saw Thomas immediately. He was standing behind the railing, sandwiched between two black-suited chauffeurs. In his fist, he was holding an uprooted plant upside down, like a witch’s bouquet.
I wheeled my bag around the barrier. “Do you bring dead flowers to all the girls you pick up at airports?” I asked.
He shook the plant so that a little dirt rained down on the floor, over my sneakers. “It’s the closest I could get to a baobab tree,” Thomas said. “The florist was no help, so I had to improvise.”
I tried not to let myself see this as a sign that he, too, was hoping we could pick up where we had left off, that what we’d had was more than a flirtation. In spite of the carbonation of hope inside me, I was determined to play dumb. “Why would you want to bring me a baobab?”
“Because an elephant wouldn’t fit in the car,” Thomas said, and he smiled at me.
Doctors will tell you that it wasn’t medically possible, that it was too early in the pregnancy. But at that moment, I felt the butterfly flutter of our baby, as if the electricity between us was all she needed to combust into life.