Egypt is brown and dusty, yellow and hazy, and the pyramids, at least when I saw them, looked like giant toys lost in a carpet of sand. We were in Egypt for a week on our way back from India to the States, the year Davey -- my son -- turned ten. Davey and I went to the pyramids one afternoon while my husband, Paul, was chasing around Cairo trying to get our passports back from the government. It was too late in the day to go inside the pyramids, but Davey thought even the outsides were fun, with worn corners to climb over and high sides to crouch behind and chipped-out niches to step into as if he meant to climb to the top and fly away.

One time he came running back to me, all excitement, carrying a chunk of limestone longer than his hand and thicker than his arm that had broken off one of the pyramids. Then he was off again and I had to follow, slipping on the sand that kept getting into my sneakers. The pyramid rock was heavier than it looked and the edges scratched my hand almost raw, but I didn’t put it down. Davey would have thrown a fit and then Paul would have exploded at him when we got back to the hotel, and I had tried to stop too many explosions to set off another one. Besides, it didn’t seem unreasonable to let him have one souvenir of Egypt, especially….

But I didn’t want to think about ‘especially’ just then. The decision was made and Davey was going to Kansas, because there was a place there, a hospital, that might be able to help him -- help us, I should say. It wasn't Davey's fault we were living in a war zone, that dealing with him felt sometimes like walking on the wrong side of the signs by the Egyptian roads that warned you about Unexploded Ordinance. I found myself glaring at the dusty horizon, as if a look could pierce the haze and reach Paul in Cairo. Then Davey ran up, showering me with sand. "Mom, come on. There's a guy over there, his name is Dawoud and he knows all about the traps and things inside the pyramids!"

"I'll be right there." I almost sighed as I stepped out of my small patch of shade. As usual, his American red hair and excitement had found him a friend. At least this might keep him in one place for a while. I found another patch of shade and settled down to watch.

Then, before I knew it, it was six o'clock and time to meet Paul. Davey was still deep in conversation and pretended not to hear when I called him. I looked for the dust cloud that meant a Land Rover coming, but the few cars in sight were filled with tourists leaving. I went back to my shade and shifted the pyramid rock to my other hand, prepared to wait, as usual. But barely ten minutes later -- early, in Paul-time -- Paul did show up, on foot. He'd parked a ways down the main road, to avoid traffic, he said. He waved when he saw me waiting, and smiled the smile I missed sometimes even when he was there. Then he was there, and I was moving the pyramid rock out of the way of his bear hug. For a while I just leaned against him, breathing sweat and Old Spice and the dust of the Great Pyramid. Finally I looked up. "How did it go?"

"Got 'em," he said. "We can leave as soon as the plane gets in."

"Where's the plane?"

"It broke down in Somalia. It'll be another day or two."

"Again?!"

He made a face and nodded. I leaned a moment longer, then stood up. "All right. I'll get Davey." He nodded again, but didn't answer.

Davey looked up quickly when I called him, then turned back to something they were sketching in the sand. The old Egyptian, Dawoud, looked up and smiled with all his teeth, pointing at whatever it was. "Red, he smart!" he proclaimed. I smiled at him uncertainly -- he did seem friendly, and his hands sketching in the sand were strong and sure -- reliable hands, somehow. But he had already turned back to their project and didn’t look at me again.

"Davey, we have to go," I said more loudly.

Davey ignored me.

"Now, Davey."

Davey looked up -- looked at me -- looked at Paul. His face turned sullen, but he stood, took two steps -- and took off running in the other direction.

Paul's voice exploded behind me: "David James, get back here!" But Davey was already gone, out of sight behind the Great Pyramid. Paul moved to follow and I caught his arm, almost dropping the limestone rock. "He'll be back. He'll follow us back. Don't chase him."

Paul went rigid under my hand, glaring at the pyramids as if ordering them to produce his son now. He shouted after Davey again.

No answer.

The old tour guide sat in the sand, tracing patterns and smiling at us.

Finally Paul turned and stalked towards the road, glaring at nothing. It was the hardest thing I've ever done -- just like every other time -- but I walked after him. Much as I would have liked to call it off, take Davey and fly back to India and my other children, the decision was made and I could not change it now -- could not walk away from a chance that might help my son. So I kept walking, back to the car, back to the hotel, back to the plane and the States and Kansas. Finally I snuck a look behind me. Sure enough, a small red-headed shadow was lurking at the edge of my vision. I looked back once more to be sure, and saw him creeping out from behind the last pyramid, safely following. Paul was still striding ahead, so I ran and caught his arm, pulling him back. He stiffened again -- then relaxed and took my arm, and slowed down. We walked away from the pyramids, arm in arm, in silence. I still held the chunk of limestone, firmly cradled in my other hand.

(c) 2000
By Annie McAndrew
All Rights Reserved
Biography