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  “I’m sorry,” the doctor told him. “I wish there was more I could do to help.”

  The man shook his head. “There is no help for us. When the mines are open, there is work, but then the fighting comes back, too. The people suffer, and the warlords get rich.”

  Like Kayembe, thought Sylvie.

  She and the doctor watched the young man lumber slowly out of the clinic, planting his crutches on the ground and swinging his good leg between them. Sylvie glanced to Doctor Van de Velde, and saw that he was not without feelings after all. He looked like he wanted to yell at someone. He looked helpless. How many times had he heard the same story? For millions of people, since before Sylvie was born, it had been the same, over and over again.

  “Are you here to work?” the Belgian asked, at last acknowledging Sylvie’s presence. He was stern, even when he was trying to be friendly.

  “No. I’m waiting for Doctor Marie.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  There was, in fact. “Is Canada bad?” Sylvie asked abruptly.

  He got a puzzled half-smile. “No, Canada is not bad. Why?”

  “Someone told me the big mining companies in the Kivus are owned by Canadians. Is it true?”

  “Yes, it’s true,” answered Marie. Sylvie and Doctor Van de Velde turned to see her coming into the waiting area, pulling surgical gloves from her hands. She looked tired. “A lot of the companies are Canadian-owned.”

  “But…you said people in Canada want to help us,” said Sylvie, struggling to make sense of it.

  “There are many people in lots of countries who want to help, Sylvie,” remarked Doctor Van de Velde. “Take my country. A long time ago, a Belgian king declared he owned all of the Congo and everything in it! Now, some of us are trying to make up for that arrogance.”

  “Most people have no idea what the mining companies are doing over here,” added Marie. “That’s why Alain and his group started their website.”

  “Why don’t you tell them what’s happening, Sylvie?” said Doctor Van de Velde with a shrug. “Marie, this website your boyfriend started, it’s a good start. But how about a video, telling people exactly what’s going on, from Sylvie’s perspective?”

  From the look on Doctor Marie’s face, Sylvie could tell she liked the idea. “Sylvie, what do you think?” she asked.

  More people staring at me, is what she thought. But if it would help to change things… “What would I say?” she asked.

  “You could start by telling people what happened to you,” suggested Marie. “I mean, the parts you’re comfortable talking about,” she hastened to add.

  Sylvie thought about it. “We need a movie camera, don’t we?” she asked.

  Marie fished her mobile phone out of her pocket, tapped the screen with her finger, and suddenly it was a video camera. “Voilà!”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it, that there’s coltan in that thing,” commented Doctor Van de Velde.

  Sylvie thought he had missed the point. “Coltan is just a rock. ” she said. “It’s the fighters who hurt people.”

  The two doctors exchanged a look.

  “Sylvie,” Doctor Van de Velde told her, “I think you know exactly what to say.”

  AT FIRST IT SEEMED STRANGE to Sylvie to be speaking to a mobile phone. Marie held it up in front of her as they sat together in the clinic waiting area, after the staff and patients had gone. Sylvie tried to convince herself that she was simply telling the story to Marie. Still, it was hard to know where to begin.

  “How old were you when your village was attacked, Sylvie?” prompted Marie.

  “I was ten.”

  “When did you first see the soldiers?”

  “I was in our house, playing with Pascal, my little brother. We heard a truck outside. The next thing I knew, soldiers were breaking the door down.”

  “Then what happened?” asked Marie.

  Sylvie saw the soldier in her mind, felt his weight on top of her. Smelled his heavy stink of diesel and sweat. She wanted to tell Marie about it, wanted to let go of the festering memory, but her mouth refused to form the words.

  Marie turned the camera off and let the phone rest in her lap. “Do you want me to stop recording?”

  “No,” she replied in a whisper.

  “If you say something, and you decide you don’t want it to be in the video, I can erase it,” Marie told her.

  Sylvie nodded. Marie lifted the camera-phone up, and they tried again. “The soldier pushed me down…” Sylvie began. Her heart raced. She couldn’t speak.

  Marie saw her difficulty and said it for her, “He raped you?” She said it in a calm way that made Sylvie realize she had guessed it a long time ago. Sylvie gave a short nod. Marie kept the camera-phone steady. “Have you ever told anyone about this before?”

  “The Congolese don’t talk about things like that,” she told Marie.

  “But talking about it can help,” Marie said, choosing her words carefully. “It’s what psychotherapists do with their patients. It can help people to be able to remember traumatic events without reliving them.”

  “Reliving them,” said Sylvie, grasping her meaning, “like in nightmares, and panic attacks?”

  “Exactly. Should we keep going?”

  Sylvie hesitated before replying, “Yes.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “I woke up in a truck,” she said. “I couldn’t see because there was a bandage over my face, but then I pulled it up a little.” She lifted an imaginary bandage. “The first thing I saw was Pascal, sleeping, and that made me happy because he was safe. Then Mama told me it was my own fault that the soldier cut my face, because I was so stubborn.”

  “She said that to you?”

  Sylvie nodded. She could tell that Marie was struggling not to let anger show.

  “Then my other brother, Olivier, said, ‘Papa is dead.’ Just like that.”

  Sylvie stopped. She was remembering Olivier in the truck, sitting apart, sullen—his words so cold and hard, twisting in her like a knife.

  “What did you feel in that moment?” asked Marie, her voice thick with emotion now. “I felt…” What had she felt? Until this moment, she hadn’t realized. Now, she was sick with shame as it came to her. “I hated him,” she said. “I hated Olivier, because he was the one who told me about Papa. Because of the way he told me.” That was why she had let her heart turn against him, finding defect in everything he did. Mama had been right all along—he stayed away because of her bad temper. Sylvie looked past the camera-phone, searching Marie’s eyes. “He was only nine,” Sylvie said, tears streaming freely. “It wasn’t his fault.”

  Marie turned the camera off. “But, Sylvie,” she told her, her own cheeks wet with tears, “you were only ten.” Marie was quiet for a moment as she ran her thumbs under her eyes, wiping them clear. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all,” she said, turning back to Sylvie. “It’s good you’re talking about these things, but it’s too personal for a video.” Sylvie watched as Marie tapped the phone’s screen a couple of times. “There!” she said, forcing a smile. “Erased, all gone. It isn’t your responsibility to be the poster child for coltan.”

  Poster child? Sylvie didn’t understand what Marie was talking about, but it didn’t matter. She was busy thinking about Olivier, and how she could make it up to him. I can get him away from here, to a better life! she thought. If only I can convince Mama to go.

  “Marie,” she said, “we have to make the video.”

  “No, Sylvie. It’s too hard on you.”

  “But we won’t make it about me,” she said. “We’ll make it about all of us. My family.”

  Marie studied her for a moment. “Will they agree?”

  That was the question. Sylvie couldn’t be sure if they would. But she was sure of this—that unless she could persuade her mother to go with her to Canada, Olivier would never leave. And if Olivier stayed, how long would he go on living?

  AT THE BE
GINNING OF THE SUMMER, Fiona found a job working part-time at the food concession at Kitsilano

  Beach, dishing ice cream bars, fries, and burgers for swimmers and sailboarders. Kits Beach had the most California vibe of all the Vancouver beaches. It was where the under-thirty crowd made the scene, showing off hot bodies in skimpy swimwear. Fiona wasn’t into competitive tanning, but it was nice to be near the water, and she liked her boss, Cathy. Still, by the middle of July she was having a hard time even looking at a hot dog, and she missed her friends—all of them, it seemed, were either away at camp, or vacationing with their families.

  She missed her cell phone, too—more than ever. Without it, it was so much harder to stay in touch with Lacey and Megan and Brit. She’d been hoping that her dad would relent and help her get a new one without making her wait for her birthday, but no. Mr. Learn-Your-Lesson was holding fast.

  “You’re making money now,” he told her when Fiona raised the issue at a Sunday barbeque in early August. Fiona had taken the bus over the Lions Gate Bridge to her dad’s place in West Van. “You should be able to pay for a basic phone in no time.”

  “Nobody has a basic one anymore,” Fiona replied. “I need Internet.”

  “A smartphone is a luxury, not a necessity. Surely you could live without Friendjam 24/7,” he remarked, flipping salmon steaks over a stainless steel grill that was the size of a small car. Looking around at the kidney-shaped pool and the set of outdoor furniture that was nicer than the stuff in her mom’s living room, Fiona rolled her eyes. Her dad wasn’t exactly denying himself his share of luxuries.

  “Dad, seriously. You’re talking social death.”

  “She’s right, Dave,” Joanne chimed in as she came through French doors out onto the patio. Joanne was blonde and perky—pretty much the opposite of Fiona’s mom. Out of loyalty to her mom, Fiona had tried for a long time to dislike Joanne, but resistance had proved futile. She was younger than Fiona’s parents. She got things. “Phone’s are everything to kids today,” she told Fiona’s dad. “Besides, it’s a safety issue. I wouldn’t let Brandon or Katie leave the house without theirs.”

  They all looked over to Brandon and Katie, who were sitting in lounge chairs by the pool. Brandon, who was eleven, was playing Angry Birds on a tablet, and six-year-old Katie had her mom’s touch screen laptop open, using a paint program to trace a picture with her finger.

  “It’s a beautiful summer day, and look at these guys, glued to little screens,” remarked Fiona’s dad.

  “Hey, Brandon,” Fiona said, rallying his support, “Dad’s taking your cell phone away.”

  “No way!” he howled, looking up from his game.

  “Fiona’s just teasing,” said Joanne.

  “Dad, please?” pleaded Fiona. “Just give me my birthday present a few weeks early.”

  “The answer is no, kiddo.”

  His tone told her there was no point in pushing it any further.

  “Fine. So I’ll be a social outcast for the rest of the summer,” grumbled Fiona.

  She headed to the pool, stripping off the cover-up she was wearing over her swimsuit.

  “Hey, dinner’s almost ready!” her dad called to her.

  “I know.” And I don’t care.

  She was about to dive in when Katie’s drawing caught her eye. She was tracing a balloon face with big round eyes.

  “That’s really good,” Fiona told her, even though it wasn’t.

  Katie put her finger above the right eye, and drew a diagonal line to the left cheek.

  “What’s that?” Fiona asked.

  “What’s what?” Joanne came over to look. “Katie, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, her voice rising by an octave. In Joanne’s eyes, Brandon and Katie were mini-

  geniuses. Fiona loved them and everything, but really—it could be a bit much.

  “It’s that girl,” Katie explained.

  “What girl?” Joanne asked.

  “That girl, on your favorites.”

  She clicked the mouse and a blog spot came up on screen, featuring a photograph of a black girl with a scar across her face.

  “Katie!” scolded Joanne, “I don’t want you looking through my favorites, okay? Pictures like that aren’t appropriate for kids.”

  “Like what?” asked Fiona’s dad from his post at the grill. Joanne carried the laptop over for him to see. “Oh, not her!” he groaned. “The media has been after me all week because of her. Why do you have her on your favorites?”

  “Somebody in my book club sent the link. Her story is heartbreaking.”

  Fiona went over to take a look. Under the girl’s photo was a caption. Help Sylvie! “What’s her deal?” she asked. “Help her with what?”

  “She lives in a refugee camp somewhere in Africa. They’re trying to bring her to Canada,” explained Joanne.

  Fiona turned to her dad. “What’s she got to do with you?”

  “Nothing. That’s the point. Our company’s operations

  in the Congo are completely ethical. There’s so much misinformation on the Internet. Another reason you don’t need unlimited access to it,” he added, pointing his barbeque fork at Fiona.

  “But what happened to her face?”

  “Can we drop it, please?”

  “Yeah, what happened to her face, Mommy?” echoed Katie.

  “I don’t know, honey,” replied Joanne, closing the site with a click of the mouse. She handed the laptop back to Katie, “but I’m sure she’s okay now.”

  Katie turned her attention back to her drawing. Joanne gestured to Fiona with a “don’t go there!” look. If her dad hadn’t been such a hard-ass about getting her a smartphone, she could have been googling the site right now.

  “Come and get it, everybody!” declared her dad, dishing the salmon steaks onto a platter.

  Fiona pulled her cover-up over her head, accepting that her swim—along with her smartphone—would have to wait.

  WHEN FIONA’S DAD dropped her back home later that night, Fiona discovered that her mom wasn’t yet home from her weekend camping trip with friends. Spared the usual debrief that followed a visit at her dad’s, Fiona booted up her laptop and checked her Friendjam account. A bunch of people had posted since she last checked yesterday. Megan wouldn’t be back from camp until next week. Lacey complained about being held captive at her family’s cabin for another two. And Ryan had updated his photo. He must have been working out since they broke up, because he wasn’t looking so ridiculously skinny anymore. In fact, he was actually looking pretty buff. But Fiona didn’t care—she would never forgive him for basically calling her a slut.

  Fiona remembered Katie’s drawing and typed a few keywords into the search box. Congo…mining…Sylvie. Up popped a page on a website—Help Sylvie!—with the girl’s photo. The website was raising money to bring her to Canada. Enough with the guilt, thought Fiona. I don’t even have enough money to buy a phone. But there was something captivating about Sylvie’s picture. The page said nothing about how she’d gotten the long scar across her face. She was staring into the camera with a strange look. Kind of angry, kind of scared. What am I doing here? her eyes seemed to ask. Fiona saw there was a video, and clicked the icon.

  Sylvie was walking along a red dirt path, passing mud huts and scrubby trees, looking over her shoulder to address the camera. She was speaking French, which Fiona didn’t understand. There were English subtitles, but they were so blurry that Fiona could barely read them.

  The girl led the camera toward one of the huts. There was a little girl in a hand-me-down dress, about Katie’s age, seated on the ground outside, playing with a wooden doll, and a pouting boy a little younger than Brandon standing in the doorway. The image went dark when the camera followed the girl inside the hut, but an angry woman could be heard, shouting something, and the girl shouted back. A corner of Fiona’s mouth lifted in a knowing expression. Must be her mother, she thought. Then a shrunken-looking woman came out of the hut into the light, blinking, feebly wavin
g away the camera with her hands. Sylvie came back into frame again and the woman started yelling at her in some African language. Definitely her mother, thought Fiona.

  She was so wrapped up in the video that a sudden knock at the door made her jump.

  “Hi! Can I come in?” Speak of the devil. Fiona’s mom barged in without waiting for a reply. “Just got back!” She planted a kiss on Fiona’s forehead. She reeked of campfire smoke and her curly hair was wildly frizzy around her freckled face. “How was your weekend? Oh, her !” she exclaimed in the same breath, seeing Sylvie on the screen. She sat down on the edge of the bed in her grimy camping clothes and she was off, talking a mile a minute about victims of war. More guilt, thought Fiona.

  “Did you send money to this website?” she asked when her mom paused for breath.

  “Of course I sent money.”

  “Mom, you can barely make the rent!” said Fiona. It wasn’t exactly a secret that her mom didn’t make much from the magazine articles she wrote.

  Her mother folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll find a way to pay the rent, Fiona,” she replied.

  Fiona didn’t want to fight. She turned back to the laptop and exited the video, flipping to Friendjam and pretending to read posts. For several moments neither of them spoke.

  “Okay,” said Fiona’s mom finally, her voice tight as she got up from the bed. “I can take a hint. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Mom,” Fiona said as her mother reached the door. She turned back. “What does this Sylvie have to do with Dad…I mean, with his job?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Dad said something about being bugged by reporters because of her.”

  Fiona’s mom opened her mouth to reply, then she seemed to think twice.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, in an obvious lie that was meant to say, It would be wrong of me to speak against your father. “Goodnight, my love,” she said. “Sleep well.”

  She closed the door behind her. Fiona was left to wonder, as she so often did, why her parents ever got married in the first place.