Angel of Mercy Read online

  “You should be inside.”

  “I woke up and missed you,” she confessed. “Where’d you go?”

  “Up to the bridge. Most of the crew’s been up all night, making sure we didn’t wash overboard. We lost some deck chairs, and a mooring on one of the lifeboats broke loose, but they were able to secure it again. The captain says that according to the radar, the storm’s well west of us now. All in all, we weathered it well.”

  Heather sagged with gratitude. “I’d hate to go through that ever again.”

  He hooked his arm around her shoulders. “Yes, thank God for bringing us through.”

  “I—I was so scared, Ian. Weren’t you?”

  “Yes. But if I had died, then this morning I would have waked in a far better place for having crossed over.”

  “Well, I’m not ready to ‘cross over,’ ” she told him. “I’ve still got a lot of living to do.”

  He laughed as if she’d just told him a funny joke. “Lass, we don’t choose when we get to cross over. God does. And for those who believe, it doesn’t matter which side of time we live on. This side, we do God’s work and spread his word to others, waiting for when he calls us home to heaven, where we will spend eternity with him. We lose our life in order to gain it.”

  Heather longed to share Ian’s faith and self-assurance, but the storm had left her bruised and badly shaken. Until the previous night, it hadn’t occurred to her that she could actually die—that all her plans and dreams, her very future, could have been swept away by the wind from an angry sea.

  6

  Hi, Sis—

  I survived a storm at sea! I’m not kidding, it was the scariest thing I’ve ever lived through—waves as high as downtown buildings. Believe me, it’s sure changed my take on the ocean! Back home, the beach is a cool place to spend the day, and waves are swoopy heaps of water to ride our rafts on. But out here, with nothing but a few tons of metal between me and the bottom of the sea, I saw the ocean in a whole new light. It’s strong and violent. And nothing can tame it. It makes a person feel helpless and insignificant. And it’s made me wonder why people ever wandered off dry land in the first place.

  It also makes me glad that I’m flying home straight from Uganda and not sailing again on the ship. One thing’s for sure, I DON’T want to become fish bait!

  BTW, the storm also set us back a few days. Now we’re not due to reach Kenya until the first of the week, so there’s been a little change in plans. Evidently, planes don’t fly in and out of Nairobi each and every day. We have to wait until Thursday to fly into the airport in Uganda. That means me and the rest of Dr. Henry’s team will help for a few days at a special World Health Organization project about half a day’s drive from Nairobi. We’ll be taken in buses to the compound, where Dr. Henry’s told me that hundreds of people are already gathering for medical help. He says some of these people have walked for days, even weeks to be there when the doctors from the Great White Ship come to treat them. The worst cases will be bused back to the ship.

  Ian tells me that it can get pretty crazy, and that I should be prepared to see some awful sights, diseases, open sores, malnourished kids. I’ve told him that I can take it, that I’m familiar with gross medical things. Honestly, he worries about me and it isn’t necessary. I can do this, Amber. I can make a difference!

  Heather signed off after reminding Amber that this would be her last chance to e-mail until she reached Uganda. She wished it weren’t so, because she didn’t like feeling totally cut off from her family and everything familiar. Still, she was glad to finally be getting to do the work that she’d come so far to do.

  The storm had left a mess that had to be cleaned away before the boat docked. The ORs needed special attention, and it seemed to Heather as if she would never get out of the galley. She’d spent long hours packing the food and other supplies her group would need for the days they were to stay at the World Health Organization compound. She entered the galley, asking, “What’s cooking?”

  “Rice,” Ingrid answered. A huge pot simmered on the stove.

  Heather made a face. She was sick of rice and longed for a helping of french fries. “Yummy,” she said without enthusiasm.

  Ingrid laughed. “There’s dried herring, too.”

  “Double yummy.”

  “I’d kill for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” a boy named Boyce said. He was from Alabama, and his heavily accented Southernisms usually sent Ingrid into fits of giggles. As for Boyce, he’d taken one look at the stately Scandinavian girl and proclaimed her “cuter than a sackful of puppies.”

  “I stashed a couple of jars in my backpack,” Heather said.

  “I stashed some myself,” Boyce admitted. “But I ate it during the storm.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I was nervous. Eating it made me think of home.”

  “Thinking of food turned me green,” Heather said.

  Boyce leaned on his elbows across the counter. “So, what do you want for one of your jars? How about an Alabama football sweatshirt?”

  “Dream on. I’m not parting with my peanut butter.”

  Boyce dropped to his knees and folded his hands in supplication. “Please. Pretty please with sugar on it. I’ll be your slave for a day.”

  She poked him playfully. “Not for anything.”

  He begged all the harder, making them laugh. Heather ignored him but later that day did send him a small container with a scoop of peanut butter inside. When she told Ian about it, he said, “Yes, it’s hard to come by some of these Uganda things.”

  “Are there any grocery stores?” she asked. They were standing on deck, watching the sun set over the water. The evening sky was streaked with pastel colors, and a few puffy clouds had turned bright pink, as if they were blushing.

  “There are some small stores, but without refrigeration there’s little that can be kept except what can be housed on the shelves in boxes and in cans.”

  “Where do the people get their food? Their fresh food, I mean?”

  “They grow it. It’s said that if you poke a stick in the ground, it’ll sprout; the soil’s that rich. And the wealthier people, they own cows and chickens. A man who has many cows is very rich indeed.”

  “I have no cows. Does that mean I’m poor in their eyes?”

  He laughed. “You are an American. They believe all Americans are rich. But without a cow, what man will ever marry you?” His eyes danced mischievously. “A dowry of cows can get you a husband, you know.”

  “Is that the way a girl gets engaged? Her family arranges it with cows?”

  “Sometimes. But men and women fall in love and get married without its being prearranged. Television has shown them the way we do things in the West, and so they want to follow in our ways. Yet tribal customs still remain. A man’s tribe is his pride.”

  “His tribe?”

  “In Africa, it matters which kingdom or tribe a person belongs to. It is a source of much fighting in this country. One tribe hates another. They go to war and many die. It’s one of the things the church is trying to change. To help men see each other as brothers in God’s eyes.

  “In Kampala, on Kasubi Hill, is the palace tomb of the kings of the Buganda Kingdom, still maintained and guarded by the Buganda clansmen. Their palaces are made of reeds and thatch, not like the palaces of the kings of Europe. You must remove your shoes, though, for it is sacred ground.”

  The ancient African world seemed mysterious and exotic, and it captured Heather’s imagination. “Will you take me there? I’d love to see it,” she said.

  He sighed. “If there’s time. There will be much to do, and we haven’t much time.”

  “We have plenty of time,” she chided. “Four whole months.”

  He smiled and brushed a wisp of hair away from her face. “It will pass in the twinkling of an eye. But we will be together, and that will make it happier for me.”

  “I like being with you, too,” she said, feeling warm all over.
“Even if we are from different tribes and I have no cows.”

  His laugh sounded rich and full. He hugged her shoulders. “Lass, you’re a wonder. A blessing from the Lord. I will never forget you.”

  And then and there, she decided she would never let him.

  Two days later, she saw her first glimpse of the Kenyan coast. “Look!” she cried, pointing to the west. “There it is!”

  Ingrid and Boyce, who were with her swabbing down a deck, dropped their mops, and all three of them hurried to the railing. “That’s it, all right,” Boyce whooped. “We have arrived!”

  “Not quite,” Ingrid said in her practical way. “Two more days, I’d say.”

  Boyce hooked his arms through the girls’ and together they stared out to the land rising on the edge of the sea. “My feet are begging to hit solid land.”

  “Mine, too,” Heather said. Her lifelong dream of going off to other lands was coming true. She was more than five thousand miles from the sun-kissed shores of Miami, far from America and her way of life. All the plans, all the effort, all the work was about to pay off for her. And as a bonus she had never expected, she’d met Ian. Life didn’t get any better than this!

  7

  Dust. In her hair, in her mouth, in her nose, in her very pores. Heather was choking on dust. She’d been in Kenya two days but had barely had time to do anything more than help unload supplies and food from the ship and reload it all into two decrepit buses, two vans, and a Jeep. On the third day, the convoy pulled away from the dock, away from the Great White Ship and through the city of Nairobi toward their destination, a World Health Organization facility a hundred kilometers to the north—into the grasslands, and into clouds of clinging red dust.

  They left paved roads behind in the city and struck out on rutted dirt roads that jarred her teeth and kept her from taking a much-needed nap. The grasslands were flat and yellow with wild grass, broken only by an occasional gnarled tree. Far in the distance, she saw a range of mountains, but the mountains never seemed to get any closer, no matter how far the group traveled.

  “How’re you doing?” Ian asked, squeezing into the bus seat beside her.

  “I think this is worse than the storm,” she said, half shouting over the noise of the engine and the voices of the others. “Are my teeth loose?” She bared them, making him laugh.

  “They look fine.”

  “Hey, I thought it was winter here. How come I’m sweating?”

  “It’s cooler at night. It’s really quite pleasant, you know. In the summer it’s over a hundred degrees.”

  “No complaints,” she said, throwing up her hands. “I’m here, and I can’t wait to get started.”

  He gave her an amused look. “You can’t be faulted for lack of enthusiasm, lass. But get some rest if you can. We’ll be there in a few hours, and then there’ll be no time for resting. No time for anything except seeing the sick.”

  To oblige him, and because she was exhausted, Heather closed her eyes. The bus hit a pothole and tossed her hard into Ian’s shoulder. She yelped. He caught her. Silently they stared into each other’s faces. No need to apologize. No need to say anything. He steadied her, then returned to the back of the bus.

  The WHO compound rose out of the flat land like an old-time fort. Several portable buildings were clustered behind a tall wire fence that stretched around a large open area, with a gate made of wire and timber. Guards dressed in military uniforms were positioned at the gate. Heather didn’t need to ask why guards were needed. One look at the mass of humanity camped around the gates explained everything.

  As they drove up, people surged forward, surrounding the bus and forcing it to slow to a crawl. Heather stared out at an ocean of dark faces. Men crowded against the bus. Women held up babies and small children, as if imploring the workers to take them through the windows.

  “What do you think?” Boyce asked, leaning across Heather to peer out the window. “Think they’re anxious to see us?”

  “I—I’ve never seen anything like it,” Heather answered, immediately consumed with pity for the children.

  “Then you’ve never been to a ’Bama game,” Boyce joked, but Heather could see by the expression on his face that he was taken aback too. “Looks like half the country’s showed up.”

  “How will we ever help all of them?” The bus inched forward. Packed along the fence were makeshift shelters of cardboard and other tattered material. Small cooking fires dotted the ground, and the smell of charcoal hung in the hot, sticky air.

  “We’ve got four days to find out,” Boyce said. “Then it’s off to Nairobi airport and on to Uganda.”

  Ian’s words came back to her. How would they ever take care of so many people in such a short time?

  By now, the convoy was through the gates and parked inside the compound, where order prevailed. Heather stood, slapped the dust off her arms, and filed off the bus with her group. Dr. Henry led them inside a small building adjoining a larger one. There they were greeted by a Dr. Greeley from England. He shook hands with Dr. Henry, then turned to the new arrivals.

  “Welcome,” he announced in a booming, rapid-fire voice. “As you can see, we’ve got our hands full. A few of the peacekeeping soldiers will help offload supplies, and nurses will direct their disposal. The OR schedule is already full for the day, but we will need some of you to help organize tomorrow’s group. It’s important that each patient understand that they can’t eat or drink eight hours prior to their surgeries. Interpreters are available.

  “The mess hall is the building on your right. We have a small refrigerator because we have our own generators. We store vaccines and medications in it, so it’s off limits for anything else. There are bottled and boiled water available too. Those of you on construction, follow Private Luswa. We need more latrines dug.”

  Heather stood wide-eyed. She had thought she’d have more time to get instruction, more time to become acclimated to the hurly-burly, circuslike atmosphere.

  “This way,” Ingrid said, taking hold of Heather’s arm. “We’d better get our tents up, because once it’s time to go to bed, you’re going to want to pass out. We’ll come back for our assignments.”

  Heather followed her friend to the housing area. One-person canvas tents sat in orderly rows, looking to Heather like a Boy Scout farm. Quickly she found her gear in the pile already stacked by the soldiers. At boot camp, she’d learned how to erect a one-person tent and bed down in it. Now, in the wilds of Kenya, the tent would be her home.

  Beyond the tent city, she saw rows of portable toilets, where the construction crew was already digging a long, narrow pit to accommodate the new arrivals. Attached to the outside of another building were outdoor showers with plastic walls just high enough to conceal a person’s torso. A large tank hung over the unit, with open-ended pipes aimed downward.

  “The tank collects rainwater,” Ingrid said. “The sun heats it all day, so it is not too cold to bathe in.”

  Heather unrolled her tent and set to work adjusting the center pole and hammering the stakes into the hard ground. Inside the tent, she rolled out her sleeping bag and squeezed her two duffel bags to one side. She had stuffed everything she could into the bags, making them almost too heavy to lift. Her laptop was wedged safely inside, but it was useless without a place to plug it in. She itched to read her e-mail, longing to hear news of home and to tell Amber everything that had happened since the storm.

  As soon as their things were stashed, Heather and Ingrid returned to the main building, where the clinic was operating at full capacity. A nurse directed Heather to a long line of women and children whom another nurse, Josie, was interviewing.

  “Hello, luv,” Josie said in a British accent. “This is the screening area. I’ll need you to take a history, then send them over there”—she pointed—“where they’ll be examined by a physician. These are the less serious cases— scabies, bronchitis, diarrhea . . .” she rattled off a list of ailments.

  “We give out a
ntibiotics and inoculations and make very sure the mothers understand how the medications are to be given. Sometimes they give it all at once instead of over the days prescribed, which, of course, brings on a new set of problems.”

  Heather nodded, feeling nervous. She wanted to do a good job, but it looked overwhelming. The line stretched outside the door, seemingly endless, while mothers juggled sick and crying children with resignation. She couldn’t even guess at the children’s ages, but many were just tiny babies. She set about taking names and filling in forms, surprised at the number who bore familiar names, such as Harriet, Joseph, Ruth, and Michael. She could not even begin to spell their African names, but many of them helped her, for most were literate. They seemed like gentle people, stoic about the long wait, even jovial when talking among themselves.

  She was also surprised at how young they were. Girls of fifteen and sixteen were mothers, and women who told her they were in their thirties looked worn out, as if their lives had been too heavy for them. She thought about her parents’ patients, who came in for expensive cosmetic procedures to keep them looking young. Here, getting fed was the focus of everyday life.

  Heather had no idea how long she stood taking down information, but when she finally took a water break, she noticed shadows encroaching across the floor. Evening was near, and the end of the line of people could be seen, cut off at the gate, hours earlier, by the soldiers.

  “That’s it for the day,” Josie said, still cheerful, when the last woman and child stepped up. “You look exhausted, child. Do sit down before you fall over.”

  “Thank you.” Gratefully Heather eased onto a wooden bench. Her legs ached from standing, and her fingers were cramped from writing. “Is that it for today?”

  “For today,” Josie said. “It will begin anew tomorrow.”

  “How’d we do?”

  “The doctor saw one hundred and fifteen patients.” Josie smiled broadly. “And most were treatable.”

  Startled, Heather asked, “Most? Which ones weren’t?” She racked her memory, trying to conjure up the faces of those who had passed in front of her. There had been so many.