by Heidi Kling
Dad pulled a cinnamon-raisin bagel out of his leather backpack and handed it to me. “You might feel better if you ate something. And remember, we’re perfectly safe up here.”
The perfectly safe line again. But I didn’t say anything. Biting my lip hard, I checked it out for myself.
Outside my circle window the sky was death black. I couldn’t see the ocean, but knew it was down there lurking. Waiting. Ready to swallow us up if it had the chance. I slammed the window shade down and turned my back to it, then choked down a few bites of dry bagel.
“See? Everything’s fine,” Dad said, squeezing my arm more meaningfully than he did back home. “Try and get some more sleep.”
I curled into the seat the best I could, but I couldn’t get comfy. The AC drifted through the cracks where my flimsy blanket was too small to keep me covered, freezing only parts of me. After squirming around in the dark for what felt like hours, I finally rested my head against the plane’s cool vibration and closed my eyes.
Dawn Over the Ocean
I woke up to Dad and Vera talking about me in hushed voices. I kept my eyes closed so I could listen.
“So I’m thinking Sienna can work with you,” Dad said. “She’s good at art. Maybe she could do some art therapy with the younger kids in the morning and attend therapy groups in the afternoons?”
“The art part is fine, Andy, but I’m not sure about the therapy. She was pretty resistant the last time we worked together, if you recall.” Her voice changed cadence like she was making sure he got her point. “I don’t want to cause a bigger strain.”
“Yes, but she’s older now . . . ,” Dad said.
Vera’s voice reduced to a whisper. “Don’t you think that would be too much for her? Listening to those trauma stories?”
“I can handle it,” I said, leaning forward.
Dad’s and Vera’s eyes were wide like I’d caught them making out in their car. Their shoulders were touching, their faces nestled in close together. Ew.
At the sound of my voice, Dad faced me, his tone guilty. “I thought you were asleep, kiddo.” He leaned away from her and sat straight up in his seat. I don’t think I made up the flare of disappointment shooting across Vera’s face. “If you’re sure, that would be a big help,” Dad said. “Also, we’re going to place you in a dorm with a group of the younger kids, to try out the family group approach.”
Vera’s blackout mask pulled back her wild hair like a headband. She asked the flight attendant for coffee; Dad and I ordered orange juice.
“Don’t the little kids already have older kids rooming with them? Or an adult?” I asked.
“Strangely, no,” Dad said. “But we’ve persuaded the pesantren owner to try out our theory. We’ll mix the teens with the younger kids and observe the pros and cons of doing so during our two weeks there.”
“Two weeks doesn’t seem like long enough to do something like that,” I said.
Dad shrugged. “We couldn’t close the practice for longer than two weeks this time around. Two weeks will make a difference. You’ll see.”
“I don’t see how changing the bunking arrangements is going to help a six-year-old deal with the fact that her entire family was killed in a tidal wave,” I said.
He studied me for a beat. “A tsunami isn’t a tidal wave,” he said, totally ignoring the meat of my comment.
“It’s not?” I asked.
“No. There was an underwater earthquake. It hit about a 9.0 on the Richter scale and changed the level of the water, so instead of a single wave, like you might imagine, the entire ocean rose a hundred feet higher than it had been for centuries, if that makes sense.”
“Not really,” I said.
“Apparently, you had to see it to believe it. The entire ocean rose and poured through the city.” He glanced at Vera. “And, well, you know the rest.”
“But the kids on the video. Most of them looked so happy? I can’t imagine that.”
I couldn’t imagine losing your parents and still being okay.
Vera leaned forward and peered at me over her reading glasses. “Remember the children were being filmed. My guess is they’re not happy all the time.”
Dad turned back to Vera. “Good point,” he said. “Here comes the breakfast cart.”
I ordered eggs, which turned out to be some sort of noodle dish. While I picked at it, I wondered about Mom and Dad. What they were like on their trips back when it was just Tom, Dad and Mom instead of Tom, Dad, Vera and me. What did they talk about on long trips over the sea?
I pushed the tray aside, the smell making me queasy.
The sky outside the plane broke into the full colors of day: swirls of orange, red and yellow. The glaring sun warmed my forehead as I thought about the Orange Popsicle Haze and daydreamed of Mom sitting next to me on the plane. Of her laughter instead of Vera’s as Dad told a joke. I closed my eyes again but didn’t bother trying to sleep.
Even Later
“Are we almost theeeere?” I whined. My butt was killing me. The too-small blanket was driving me so crazy, I chucked it onto the floor. Dad’s hair was starting to look all oily—the shadows under his eyes darker. We’d been flying nearly eight hours.
“Easy, tiger. We still have a long way to go. How much of the guidebook have you read? If you’re bored, this would be the perfect time to crack it open.”
I grumbled and, needing to stretch my legs, I excused myself to the bathroom.
“Hey, kid, if you want to switch places with Vera later, we can watch this game show together,” Tom said as I passed him. “It’s hilarious!”
A spiky-haired male host wearing a plaid suit was jumping around on a circus stage, screaming into a microphone. “How can you understand what’s going on? You aren’t even wearing headphones.”
“I can’t.” He laughed. “That’s the fun of it.”
Okay.
The line outside the bathroom was three deep. Nasty poop smells were leaking from the crack under the door. Great. I thought the one in the front of the plane might be better, so I headed up the aisle, passing ten rows of young Chinese men wearing matching red uniforms. A soccer team, maybe? One of the guys smiled at me and I smiled back. The door to this toilet was unlocked and it didn’t smell as bad as the first one. I pulled down my pants and sat on the pot. Before I even had a chance to go, the tiny bathroom started rattling. The plane jerked, and I fell forward, grasping onto the wet sink. Another big bump followed by a bunch of smaller ones; my hands were slipping around on the slick metal basin. Even the mirror and the soap and the paper towel dispensers were jiggling around. My heart was racing like crazy. It was just like my nightmare. I knew we were going down.
The flight attendant said something frantically over the loudspeaker in Chinese. The flashing light above the door read:
RETURN TO YOUR SEAT
FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT
What was I supposed to do?
If I got up, I’d fall. But I had no choice. I had to get back to my seat and prepare for whatever would happen next. My chest pounding, I pulled up my pants and flung open the door. I ran back as fast as I could, bumping against the aisle chairs. Like in my nightmare. I was expecting the other passengers to be in turmoil too, shoving dangling oxygen masks onto their faces like in the instructional video, but no one seemed to notice. Or care. And no oxygen masks were in sight.
When I reached our section of the plane, Vera and Dad were blabbing away and Tom was still hypnotized by the game show.
“Dad!” I yelled. “Didn’t you feel those bumps? Buckle your seat belt!”
“It’s okay. It was a bit of turbulence; it’s already stopped.”
I plopped down into my seat as fast as I could and buckled up, tugging the belt tight across my lap. “I was stuck in the bathroom!” I said accusingly. “Weren’t you going to come look for me?”
I blinked away anxious tears, hating how my fear got the best of me.
Dad squeezed my arm reassuringly. “It’s okay, swe
etie,” he said, his green eyes calm. “Turbulence happens from time to time. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the plane. Take a deep breath and relax.”
I knew he was right. Turbulence happened. But as Dad knew well enough: planes did crash.
“Just forget it,” I said. Feeling stupid, I stared back out the window.
Over Taipei, Taiwan. Didn’t know the time. Didn’t care.
Dad held my hand as we prepared for landing.
As the plane started to descend, I lost my stomach. Literally. A death drop, yes, but this time, no death. Just pools of barf all over my pants that dripped down my knees onto and into my favorite pair of yellow Converse. Blech. Dad mopped up the nasty throw-up with the blue blanket. Vera and Tom wore masks of sympathy. My face was greasy, my hair disgusting and oily, and now my mouth was filled with cream-cheesy puke. You’d think with two world-adventuring relief-worker parents that some sort of recessive tough gene would have kicked in with me by now, but nope. No such luck.
I’d never felt so revolting in all my life.
Our plane bounced to the ground, pinning me to my seat as it screeched to a halt. I squeezed Dad’s hand so hard, his knuckles turned white. The flight attendant spoke over the loudspeaker in Mandarin. Part one of our flight was over.
I was covered in barf, but at least I was alive.
LANDING
The airport was crowded. And broiling. And so humid it was like walking through a vaporizer on full blast.
“Great, now I will reek even more like rotten milk,” I moaned, imagining curds popping up all over my clothes. Me. A human quart of cottage cheese. When you start grossing yourself out? That’s when you have a problem.
“You can change in the bathroom,” Dad said. “Hang in there. And make sure you stay right next to me. I don’t want to lose you in here.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I said. As our group was pushed along by a huge wave of Asian people swarming the terminal, I clung to Dad like a stinky little kid.
In Taipei, we boarded another plane, swapping Chinese passengers for Indonesians, and again, we were the only Caucasian people on the flight. I’d never felt like such a fish out of water in my life, and I tried not to stare. In California, I’d seen Muslim women before dressed in traditional robes with silky scarves covering their hair. But I’d never seen so many all at once.
I felt out of place. Like I should go change into something more, I don’t know, formal. “Do all the women in Indonesia wear those wraps on their heads?” I whispered to Dad.
“The Muslim women usually do. In Indonesia they are called jilbabs.”
“For religious reasons, right?”
“Yes,” Vera said. “The more devout they are, the more their skin is covered. See that woman over there?” She gestured across the aisle subtly and lowered her voice. “Hers is wrapped loosely, showing some of her neck and hair, but more-conservative Muslim women show only the front of their faces.”
“Will all the girls at the orphanage be dressed like that?”
“Most likely, since it’s a pesantren, a formal Muslim orphanage,” Dad explained.
“Will I have to wear one too?”
“You won’t have to at the pesantren. Just keep your hair back in a ponytail and it should be fine.”
I wasn’t sure which way would be worse. Standing out because I was the only girl not wearing one or awkwardly trying to fit in by trying it. I guessed the ponytail route would be a happy medium. “Okay,” I said.
The dot to dot of islands below my window was lush and green. Normally I wouldn’t dare look down, but I felt ten times better than I had on the last leg of the flight. I de-barfed the best I could at the last airport, changing into a clean long-sleeved T-shirt and dark tan cotton pants, which I would never wear at home.
It probably sounds gross that I ate so soon after puking, but when I spotted the Golden Arches at the Taipei airport, I was suddenly starving. I almost hugged the Chinese boy taking my order when Big Doctor Tom, my new personal hero, ordered my meal in Mandarin.
After dipping them in my vanilla milk shake, licking the salty fries was the best moment I’d had since listening to Spider’s story on the sand. I ate until I was stuffed and when it was time, I boarded this plane without complaint.
I had a fresh blue blanket, a fresh white pillow, and an Ashton Kutcher movie dubbed in Indonesian playing on the wide screen a few aisles away. I sat back and savored. Not because I liked him, I didn’t really, but because outside of Team Hope nobody on the plane was even slightly familiar to me and it made Ashton feel like home.
Yogyakarta, Indonesia
De-boarding the plane at the Yogyakarta airport, my eyes darted this way and that, taking in the flood of different faces.
The airport was sort of like the ones in Hawaii: all open and bathed in moist hot air like a sauna with too many people piled inside. My new shirt was already sticky with sweat. Women draped in colorful robes and head coverings walked by, carrying bundles of packages or full baskets of food. Some men were wearing turbans, and some women’s faces were covered with veils, with only their dark eyes peering out. Most of the veiled women walked straight ahead without looking around.
“Man, it’s hot.” I paused, shifting my backpack from one shoulder to the other. “Don’t they have air-conditioning here either?” I asked Dad. Dumb question. If they had it, why wouldn’t they turn it on?
He didn’t humor me with a response because he was reading a sign posted above us that froze me to my spot in line.
Azab untuk penyelundupan narkoba adalah Kematian
THE PENALTY FOR DRUG SMUGGLING IS DEATH.
Oh, great.
Finally something written in English and that was it? Death. A scene from that scary movie where the girls end up in a Thai prison because some jerk at a beach resort planted drugs in one of their bags played in my mind. I patted my pockets and prayed that the customs officer didn’t find anything on me. Where did I put that extra Tylenol PM? Was that considered an illegal drug here?
Sweat poured from places I didn’t even know had sweat glands.
Then Dad pulled out some American money and paid the armed Indonesian officer. “What are you paying him for?” I whispered through clenched teeth. Was he paying him off to let us in? A bribe?
“Visiting visas,” Dad said.
I gulped with relief as the officer waved me through after I handed him my passport. Spending the rest of my life in an Indonesian prison? Not part of my plan.
“Our host should be waiting for us outside. The hard part is over,” Dad said, resting a palm on my head and ruffling my hair like he had when I was a kid. The relief in his smile matched mine. We made it over the ocean in one piece.
The closer we got to baggage claim, the more the open-air terminal filled with spices. Whiffs of cinnamon and cloves wafted through the heat. Locals were selling wraps weaved in all colors of the rainbow. Flowing skirts and elegantly carved wall hangings were displayed in small wooden booths. Masks, marionettes and large orange spiky fruits I’d never seen before were for sale by eager shop owners who called out to us, “Lady, lady!” holding up their wares.
“Can we buy stuff?” I asked Dad as a gap-toothed man dressed in a deep purple tunic pedaled by right through the center of the airport driving a meat-on-a-stick cart. My eyes darted from him to another booth. “Hey, are those puppets made out of paper?”
“They’re shadow puppets,” Tom said, sweat trickling down his hairline. “Pretty cool, huh?”
Vera scooted between me and Dad. “We’ll have plenty of time to shop later,” she said, as if I were asking her. “We have to get our bags.”
We did and then, near the airport’s exit, a group of men stood holding signs with various names written on them. I scanned for ours. Not one read TEAM HOPE.
Vera’s high forehead glistened with sweat as she poked at her BlackBerry with her pen. “We have a message. The driver went to the wrong airport.” She looked apologetically at Da
d. “I’m not sure what happened.”
Dad touched her elbow. “No problem. We’ll just take a cab.”
Keeping Vera at ease was apparently a top priority.
“Hey,” Dad said, “did everyone remember to take their malaria pills this morning?”
Everyone nodded except for me. “Oh, sorry. I forgot. Is there a drinking fountain?” I asked.
Tom burst out laughing. “Yeah, if you want to get malaria! Bottled water, sweetheart. Remembering that will save you a lot of time in the mandi.” He handed me a fresh bottle of water out of his backpack.
“What’s a mon-dee?” I asked.
Vera’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell her, Andy?”
Tell me what?
“She read the Indonesian handbook,” he said. “Didn’t you, Sienna?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Uh.
“I read some of it,” I exaggerated. I did flip through it, but I was looking mainly at the pictures. But I couldn’t exactly admit that now and look totally unreliable. “I don’t remember anything about a mandi.”
Tom snickered. “Then clearly you didn’t read the handbook.”
“You only had umpteen hours to read it.” Dad sighed. “Never mind. Let’s just get our bags and hail a cab. They’ll be expecting us at the pesantren. You can catch up on your reading there.”
Feeling guilty, I looked down at my ratty orange Converse.
“Hey, cheer up, kid,” Tom said. “Now you’ll get to find out about the mandi the fun way.”
I slugged him on the shoulder. Whatever this mon-dee thing was, how bad could it be?
CRACKERS
As we waited at the curb for an empty cab, motorcycles whizzed down the busy street in front of the airport, weaving through taxis and tiny square cars that were screeching along way too fast.
“Look at that lady,” I said, pointing out a woman dressed in a traditional black robe and head covering. She rode a motor scooter sidesaddle. “Oh my God,” I cried, “is that a baby on that thing?”
