CHAPTER TWO
I’d traveled enough to be prepared, and thankfully, had my toothbrush and a change of clothes. I caught a whiff of myself while waiting at the counter for my flight to be rebooked. The reek of adrenaline-laced sweat had left my underarms damp with moisture, deodorant notwithstanding.
I rode in a dream-like haze, my mind buzzing with sleep deprivation. The lights melted into each other as we wound the snake-like streets around the airport, the signage in Chinese characters. Where was I again? Was I drunk? I certainly felt like it.
I needed food. And water. I needed sleep too, but the old days of surviving on little of those necessities was coming back to me with disconcerting ease.
I don’t know how you do it…it was my mom’s voice breaking through the fog. It can’t be good for your body, pushing yourself like that.
She’d made that comment when I was in my last year of nursing school. I’d come home to our little bungalow in Bellaire, Texas on one of my breaks, dark circles under my eyes, and about fifteen pounds lighter.
“Just gotta get through it, Mom…working won’t be this hard. I’ll just be working, not working and studying.”
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave, dear…now I know you’re not a child anymore, but I am still your mother.”
Our lives imploded when Dad ran off with his company’s attorney. Why did he do that? Only nine at the time, I saw him at Christmas and birthdays after that, but I grew up watching Mom struggle with the pain and shame of betrayal.
Our relocation to a new neighborhood opened a new chapter for our little family. Mom found religion, Jonathan, my older brother, found swimming and I just wanted to do everything he did.
In a daze, barely noticing the other passengers shuffling off the tram, I checked in at the hotel, thankful the lady behind the counter spoke English, and found my room on the 3rd floor. A forceful smell of chemical cleaner assaulted my nostrils upon entering.
The room was simple—two full size beds that looked over twenty years old. Where was I—Hong Kong, really?
I pulled the thick gray curtains back from the glass and looked out past my distorted reflection to the lights dimpling the city below.
The young stewardess flashed in my memory. She probably thought her prayer saved Mr. Morales. Why did it bother me so much? I’d grown up going to church with mom, but after Jonathan died, I’d stopped pretending God played an active role in humanity.
I stood motionless for another five minutes, letting the days events catch up to me, until I closed the curtains, peeled off my dank travel clothes and started the shower. I stood at the mirror taking in my reflection and actually laughed out loud, surprising myself.
“Looking rough,” I said to my reflection, barking like a little dog, reminding me of Sasha, my old Golden.
My thick blond hair, frizzy and ratted from rubbing against the seat on the plane, framed my pale face.
Fatigue gave my hazel eyes a sunken appearance.
I splashed my face with water and cupped my hands to gulp what I could, but promptly spit it out. It was too warm and tasted metallic.
Freshly showered and clad in a clean shirt and underwear, it was 6:15 a.m. An orange glow slit the curtain, and I pulled it back to watch the sky slowly light up with the rising sun.
I should contact Greg.
I’d be delayed for almost all my connecting flights, and hoped someone at the mission could help me sort it out in time for my 3 p.m. flight.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up the world clock. I’d saved Port Moresby, the closest city to Greg. I searched for it and found it was only two hours ahead, 8:00 a.m. his time.
Greg and I were members of the Hallston International Mission.
The mission sent a two-man team to the Makia tribe over a year ago to host diplomatic meetings between the rivals of Makia and Hundi, but the talks had quickly turned to small-scale attacks throughout the tribe.
Greg was chosen as one of the doctors to give medical aid—a prestigious honor that fulfilled his need for adventure and success .
It’s what I both loved and loathed about Greg. He always wanted to be where the need was greatest. As a vital role player, he came alive at opportunities that demanded quick direction and action. It’s what made him a good surgeon. The accolades of others seemed to give him fuel.
We’d met in college—as an aid in Professor Tillery’s biology class—Greg held open the door for me after a long day of classes.
It had been the day I decided to pursue the ER for my career and the determination must’ve shown on my face because he said, “You look like someone who just made a decision.” A gorgeous Dr. John-Carter-from-the show-ER-kind of man with sandy blond hair, knee-melting five o’clock shadow and blue scrubs that matched his eyes.
He’d gotten my number and we started dating a few weeks later.
Connected with the Mission through a friend of his father’s, and now on the board, he’d pulled me into his travels during the summers we actually took off from school.
Nigeria, South Africa, Kenya, and Peru—just some of the places we’d gone to offer medical aid to the small villagers inhabiting the lush and wild terrain of poverty-stricken, third-world countries.
Ten years with him and we’d never been short on adventure.
I was just ready for an adventure of a different kind—a family, a minivan, soccer practice.
A normal life. Something I never had growing up.
But did I want those things with Greg? The familiar thought wiggled to the surface.
I had to. I’d invested too much time to start over with someone else and time was one thing I did not have.
I dialed the mission operator. The phone rang five times and I almost gave up until a crackle produced a young woman’s sharp voice. “Hallston International Mission, charter 1-1-5, this is Rachel. How may I help you?”
“Rachel, it’s Sidney.”
“Sidney! Shouldn’t you be in the air?”
“I should…is Greg around? I’ve had some changes to my itinerary and need to get some things rescheduled.”
“He’s not here,” the line went silent a beat too long, and then, “The crew left after lunch and haven’t been back. There was another attack…” She let her voice trail. I could hear the hopelessness in the words.
Attacks were getting more frequent—and more deadly—according to one of Greg’s emails.
“Will you tell him I called? And can someone rebook my connecting flight and charter?” I hung up and sent a quick email to the mission outpost in the states with my new flight time, knowing they’d have it all sorted for me by the time I touched down in Port Moresby, only mildly irritated I wouldn’t know the plan until the last minute. I was too tired to worry about it now.
I felt the need to talk to someone who loved me.
Someone who knew me and should know where I was—an anchor in the vast array of unpredictable cross-continental travel.
What day was it? Saturday, my time. So Friday evening at home.
Probably setting up for the first wedding of the weekend, or coordinating with the photographer.
I pressed Mom on my phone and it picked up after the second ring.
“Sidney?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“What on earth, Honey. Last I checked the airline app they had you over Asia. You ok?”
“Had a delay…” I told her what happened.
“My goodness, Sid, I’m just glad you were there to help that poor man. I told you I didn’t think this trip was a good idea. I was doing some research and I read that in Papua New Guinea there have been cannibals! I mean, honestly, Sid, cannibals? I just won’t survive if I lose another child…”
“I’ll be fine, mom. You know Greg wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.”
“I know, I just wish that man would ask what you wanted for a change…you still have the bridal magazine I gave you? I dog-eared some dresses I thought you’d look amazing in.
I know Greg’s parents are set on paying for everything, but damn if my pride won’t let me at least buy the dress, and I know you’ll have plenty of time on the plane to look through it and make some notes. ”
Oh Patricia, always back to business. But when it came to her own daughter’s wedding, the coordinator in her took on a whole new meaning.
“Yes, Mom. I still have it.”
“Now, don’t be going off and getting married on some uninhabited savage island while you’re gone. I know you pushed back the wedding again with this whole ‘offshore adventure,’ but I will not have my daughter wed with sand between her toes.”
What an actually brilliant idea, Patricia, I thought, eyeing the diamond ring Greg had slipped on my finger after dinner at our favorite French bistro, Maison Pucha, two years ago.
I held her and Greg off from planning the wedding bash of the season—which I did not want. The idea of a small beach wedding with a few people from the mission sounded heavenly, and I wondered if Greg would agree.
“New Guinea is inhabited, you know. That’s why we’re going,” I said, with a smirk.
“You know what I mean.”
I hung up and closed the curtains, the room falling into a blackness that pulled my body to the bed like a magnet. The sheets were cool, stiff with bleaching, and I thought for sure sleep would come swiftly…I was wrong.