The next best thing to having Quattro as a boyfriend was claiming him as a friend. So while my every girl instinct told me to flip my hair (which probably wouldn’t have moved, given how greasy it was) and challenge him with a coy “Afraid?,” I didn’t.
Instead, I said, “Our turn.” I held my hand out to him, waiting patiently as he hesitated before clasping mine in his.
Chapter Nineteen
At the end of our slog back to civilization, I was alarmed by the teeming crowds of bedraggled trekkers in Machu Picchu Pueblo. Every square inch in the town plaza had been turned into a homeless encampment and garbage dump. Whatever charm the square had was lost in the mess of tents, trash, and unwashed bodies. I stepped over a couple of discarded beer bottles on our way to the main street. A snaking line of frustrated people waited at an ATM, but after Christopher made an inquiry, we learned that all the cash had been withdrawn. What everyone was waiting for, I don’t know. Even worse, tourist after tourist confirmed that every single train had been canceled. A state of emergency had been declared. There was no way out.
Mom said, “Maybe we should find Stesha now?”
“Let’s try Ruben. Who’s got a phone?” Christopher asked, but Quattro didn’t own a cell phone, and all of us except Helen had lost ours in the mudslide. Luckily, she had programmed Ruben’s number, but there was no answer. Not from him or from Stesha, Grace, Hank, or our hotel.
“Maybe we should go straight to the hotel then? Make sure Hank got us our rooms?” Helen suggested, glancing around uneasily. Half the people near us looked drunk, messy drunk. “We may be here for a while.”
Christopher studied the throngs and started going all militia on us. “I think we should buy as much water and food as we can carry first. Grab anything packaged.”
Nobody argued with his logic. Most of our provisions had gone with the porters. So we fanned out in three groups, me teaming up with Quattro. Fifteen minutes was more than enough time. Five would have been fine. The stores had been mostly cleaned out, leaving us with few choices.
“Beef jerky?” Quattro asked me. Then with a vestige of his old self, he held up a package of Twinkies. “America at its finest.”
“Hey,” I said, “you know, if we can find maple syrup, we can make our own—”
“Do-it-yourself bacon maple bars?” he guessed. His eyes glittered as he laughed. “I knew you’d see the light.”
I did.
Who would have known that his wide, easy grin could have hurt in the best and worst way? As thrilled as I was to see its reemergence, I wanted it to mean more than an inside joke between friends. Get it together, Wilde Child. So I wrinkled my nose. “I still think bacon and doughnuts are two food groups that should never be combined.”
“See? I knew you secretly agreed.”
“About what?”
“Bacon is its own food group.”
As I sputtered, Quattro grabbed the bottles of water I was holding and brought them to the cashier.
Between all of us, we had managed to assemble a small stockpile of water, crackers, and peanuts. Christopher asked for directions to our hotel from a backpacker wearing a Union Jack T-shirt. The reaction we received was one I didn’t expect: total antagonism.
“Good luck with that,” the backpacker said, mouth puckering like he was preparing to spit at us.
What had we done to him? We must have looked confused because, disgusted, the backpacker said, “Your embassy airlifted some people out yesterday. But they would only take Americans.” With a last disdainful look, he turned his back on us, but not before one parting shot: “All the hotels have jacked up their prices.”
Worriedly, Mom asked Dad, “What if our rooms have been given away?” Her hand fluttered toward the plaza. “I mean, look at all these people.”
Dad had no solution, just more problems. He pointed out, “Just think about all the other groups who are still coming down from the trail.”
At last, after a few wrong turns and a helpful shopkeeper, we reached the modest hotel where we were supposed to spend the night, only to discover that it was overbooked and no one at the front desk remembered seeing Hank or Grace. But then again, everything was a blur to them, considering the fifty tourists who’d dropped in that morning alone in hopes of finding available rooms.
“But we have reservations,” Christopher protested firmly. The receptionist gave a helpless shrug, explaining that guests were refusing to vacate.
“Well, we can’t exactly boot people out,” Mom said, shaking her head. Still, she leaned forward as if she might hurdle over the reception desk and commandeer the computer. But the electricity had gone out. The computer was useless. “Are there any rooms in other hotels? What about the hostels?”
The receptionist shook her head regretfully. “Even the train seats are being used as beds. You can try Inkaterra.”
Mom glanced at Dad. “That’s the spendy one.”
If the hotel had been expensive before the floods, I hated to guess how much a room would cost now that beds were hot commodities. An anxious expression calcified on Mom’s face.
The sound of a chopper sent us scrambling outside, all of us craning our necks to spot where it would land. We followed the exodus of tourists to the makeshift helipad that some volunteers must have cleared earlier. People actually pushed and shoved each other to climb aboard until two soldiers disembarked, each gripping a machine gun. Did the Peruvian government really think automatic weapons were necessary?
Without thinking, I began photographing the scene, starting with the unlucky soldier who got the job of announcing that the first helicopter would evacuate only the elderly and infirm.
“This place looks like it’s going to blow,” said Quattro softly in my ear.
When had he moved to stand close to me like he’d appointed himself my personal bodyguard? Before I could spend more than a nanosecond processing that thought, Grace’s distinct objection—“I am not elderly!”—cut through the crowd’s mutterings. I scanned the area until I spotted her, then shot her with Hank, who was holding a visibly pale Stesha near the front of the line. Ruben was gesturing emphatically to one of the impassive soldiers, universal sign language for “She’s getting evacuated. Now.”
Grace hurried over, intercepting us as we walked toward them. “You made it!” she said, hugging me tightly. “I was so worried about you all.”
“What’d the doctor say?” Mom asked, bending her head down to Grace as they walked side by side back to Stesha.
Grace shook her head. “No doctor. She’s worse, but she’s refusing to leave.”
Overhearing Grace, Stesha cracked her eyes open and said, “I’m the captain, and I’m not leaving until you’re all safe.” That spot of defiance sapped her energy. Stesha sagged into Hank’s arms.
“Come on, Stesha. You might have a concussion,” said Quattro, glancing at me with a slight nod to tag-team with him.
So I added, “Reb’s going to kill me if your chin gets infected. You’ve got to have that taken care of.”
“It’s just a little cut,” Stesha protested feebly, but she didn’t even bother opening her eyes this time. Yet with some kind of finely tuned internal radar for trouble, they opened just as a soldier approached her with Ruben trailing close behind.
“Traitor,” she said softly to him.
“You have to go,” I told her.
“I know.” Still trying to take care of us, Stesha dug a last PowerBar from her pocket and pushed it on Ruben. “But I’m not leaving Cusco until you’re all there.” Even as she was led to the helicopter, we could hear her calling back to us, “I’m not leaving Cusco.”
“Where’s Grace?” Ruben asked, glancing around increasingly worried. There was no sign of her.
“Figures,” said Dad, rubbing his temples.
What possible reason could compel Grace to remain in an overcrowded town with no promise of a bed, hot meal, or shower? I knew what would make me stay. My gaze shifted over to the remainder of our
ragtag group, lingering on Quattro.
“At thirty-five people per helicopter,” said Dad, now eyeing the growing crowd, “this evacuation is going to take an eternity.”
“But you’re lucky. You’re going blind,” said Hank, who then ducked his head, embarrassed. “I mean, you and your family can be evacuated now.”
“I’m not an invalid,” Dad answered, and he straightened himself to his full height. I was so glad to hear him say those words aloud, and wondered if he was listening to himself.
Twenty minutes later, my eyes filled with tears as the helicopter door slammed shut and the rotor whirred loud. Our group was fragmenting. None of us had been able to say a proper good-bye to Stesha. I hadn’t even hugged her. Everything had happened so fast once she was trundled off with a soldier. The lump in my throat grew larger as the helicopter rose. Selfishly, I didn’t want to see Stesha go. My eyes caught on Quattro, who nodded in understanding at me.
As soon as we left the perimeter of the helipad, Grace magically reappeared, smiling innocently. I could feel Dad fuming, but any scene I was afraid he might cause was trumped by a more urgent problem.
“We don’t have a room at our hotel,” Helen told Hank, concern creasing her forehead.
“We’ll figure it out,” Hank said confidently, and with a homing instinct for the only five-star hotel in the town, he steered us to Inkaterra.
The boutique inn could be reached only by crossing a private wood bridge. On the other side, we found ourselves in a lush oasis that couldn’t have been farther from the fear, filth, and garbage back in town. Elegant, understated casitas dripped with vibrant bougainvillea. The fountain in the central courtyard burbled sweetly, nothing like the bellow of the river. A discreet wood sign pointed to the spa, gift shop, and restaurants.
I could hear my parents murmuring as we approached the reception building, worrying about the cost of the rooms. Having to admit to everyone—including Quattro—that we couldn’t afford this place was going to be sheer awkwardness.
Hank strode in as though he’d stayed in places this luxurious hundreds of times before. Of course, he had. The woman at the front desk had her hair pulled into a sleek updo, not a strand out of place, as if this sanctuary made her immune to the disaster beyond the bridge. After Hank inquired about a room, she informed us that there was, in fact, one ultradeluxe casita available, complete with its own plunge pool and private garden.
And then she named the price.
I’m not sure who gasped louder, me or Mom. I could have dressed myself for two years, maybe three, with the cost of a single night here; we’d never be able to afford this.
Dad cleared his throat. “We’ll find other accommodations in town and meet up with you all later.”
“Come on. It’s what? Nineteen hundred square feet? We can all fit in,” said Hank, plunking down his platinum card. When the receptionist mumbled something about an extra fee per guest, Hank waved her off. “No problem.”
“We can pay—” started Christopher.
“This is on me,” Hank said with finality, glancing at Helen. The way he still sought her approval was sad, especially when she just nodded once in agreement. His gushing fangirl was gone. Maybe it wasn’t confidence that made him come off all brash and bold but insecurity. Who was I to talk? Hadn’t I been all I-know-boys to Reb and Ginny when, really, I had been dumped by Dom?
Grace said, “Well, this is so kind of you, Hank, Helen. I know we all appreciate it.”
At last, a real smile spread across Hank’s face. “It’s the least I could do,” he said, no longer fighting to be heard or first or right.
If anyone had told me that a hotel casita could be larger than our home, I’d never have believed them. But here I was, standing in one. Handwoven rugs brightened the terra-cotta tile floor. A couch and two chairs were arranged before a fireplace in a snug sitting area. Another rich tapestry that Mom immediately inspected hung on a wall. If anyone thought I was weird for taking a picture of the king-size bed with blankets made from alpaca, they didn’t mention it. I think we were all overwhelmed. One moment we were escaping tents collapsed in a mudslide, and the next we had stepped into a man-made paradise.
I geared myself up for Dad to jump into his usual bedbug-hunting mode, but he just lowered himself into one of the dining room chairs as though he’d given up. It was futile to fight anymore.
Chapter Twenty
Reacquainting myself with running water and flushing toilets—blessed, beautiful porcelain toilets—took no time at all. Which made me doubt whether photojournalism could ever truly be my calling. Four days without bathing was more than enough for this girl. I didn’t mind sleeping on the rug in front of the fireplace that night, especially not when I luxuriated in a five-minute shower with lukewarm water the very next morning. Electricity was so spotty, I had three minutes to blow-dry my hair before the power disappeared. Who cared about a little dampness? My hair was clean.
My parents returned from their walk around town with a couple of browning bananas they had scavenged for our breakfast and news. First, Stesha had called sometime while everyone was out. So she had left a message at the front desk, assuring us that she was recuperating so well in a hospital she was ready to make a break for freedom. And second, rescue helicopters were arriving today. Even better, Mom’s age-group had been called, which meant that families lucky enough to have someone fifty-five and older would be home-free in four or five hours.
So why was I reluctant to leave? Quattro’s eyes and mine met across the sitting area in our casita as though he had the same thought, both of us looking away shyly.
With a dramatic flourish, Mom placed her hand on her chest as she eyed Dad and me. “O ye of little faith. Aren’t you glad that I slept with our passports and extra cash in the waist wallet that you two made fun of me for buying?”
It was only now, as I listened to Mom gloat about safeguarding our passports, that I kicked myself for leaving the cameras in the mudslide. I knew I should concentrate on being grateful to be alive, but if I had only reached back into the tent and grabbed my backpack. One second and I would have rescued the cameras and all the photos I’d taken.
Gone.
Just like our departure.
Wouldn’t you know it. After all our good-byes and hugs at the casita—even Quattro embraced me briefly but tightly—it started to drizzle on the way to the helipad, and Dad was back to ominous frowning. An hour before the helicopters were supposed to land, we were told that the rescue mission was back on hold due to rain. Nobody but Grace was in the casita when we returned, and that only because she had come back to collect her raincoat. Mom and Dad huddled together on the sofa, complaining about the disorganization of the Peruvian government.
Grace lasted all of a minute before she interrupted their ode to woe. “Then let’s get out and do something.”
“No, we should wait right here in case Stesha calls with more info,” Dad said, jabbing his finger toward the handwoven rug. “Besides, it’s not like any of us will be able to do anything to help much.”
“It’s better than sitting around.”
“Yeah!” I agreed. When did my take-charge dad ever just wait for someone else to fix a problem and right a situation?
“And staying here when you could have left and straining our resources is better?” Dad asked.
“Gregor!” Mom protested as Grace’s cheeks flushed. She said, “Grace, I’m sorry.”
“Mollie, you’re not the one who should be apologizing,” Grace said as she thrust her arms into her raincoat. She left the casita without another word.
White-hot anger burned inside me. Where was my real father? What did Dad have to be bitter about, really—or any of us? There was no reason for my family to harden into lumps of black coal. As I shoved my feet into my hiking boots, Dad sniped about how selfish Grace was being by remaining here. It was as if he wanted to get rid of her.…
“No way,” I muttered, straightening before I tied the laces. Ho
rror-stricken, I looked at my father, who had successfully purged the room of Grace, no different than if she were some troublesome bug. With a shock, I realized that Dad had deployed one of his tried-and-true pest control techniques: Create a hostile environment so pests couldn’t possibly want to stay. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror near the entry. Hadn’t I done the same exact thing with every boy since Dom? Purge them from my life? Get rid of them before they could get too close and hurt me?
I groaned and backed away from my reflection in the mirror. “Whoa…”
“What?” Mom’s eyebrows furrowed at my outburst.
I spun toward Dad. “Have you noticed that we use pest control techniques on people?”
“Your dad exterminates pests, not people,” Mom said.
“Well, didn’t you just do a hostile environment on Grace?” I asked him. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“What do you mean?” Mom asked, shaking her head.
“We froze her out,” I said. “Classic relationship ender.”
“Oh.” Mom’s mouth pursed as the truth hit her.
Dad said defensively, as he gestured to the daybed, “We gave her a bed last night. Your mom and I slept on the floor. We’re not freezing her out.”
These exact same denials could have spewed from my mouth whenever I justified my quick and efficient breakups with boys. Holding out the camera that I had borrowed from Quattro as if it were a divining rod, I searched for a vestige of my parents’ former selves. I wedged between them on the sofa and commanded, “Look at this.”
Dad squinted at the camera, moving it closer, then farther, which made me feel guilty, but not enough to back down.
“Perfect composition,” he said about the photo of a bromeliad, pale green and ghostly in the cloud forest. A semblance of pride animated his face, an expression so familiar, I ached with homesickness. The deep, warm, unflappable man I loved existed somewhere inside that bristly shell of bitterness. But even as he handed the camera back to me, I watched his expression harden once more into resignation.