Silently I start to sob, unable to contain the grief. The little boy with the car, the woman with the Chanel purse—they are just two among thousands. Almost everyone who passed through the medical tent today had suffered loss—homes and jobs, fathers and uncles and sisters.
I stand with my face under the spray of icy water, letting my hot tears run free. I don’t know how to hold all their stories, the reality of so much loss and pain. It is clear that there is so little we can do. Cucumbers and bottles of water pale into insignificance in the face of such great suffering. What they need is a safe place to start over, a reunited family, peace in their countries. No more war. I am ill equipped in the face of such trauma, such loss. I wonder how I can bear weeks of this. And it is just the first day.
* * *
The next morning I meet Maryam and Yousef.
“Your sister is sick, but this medicine can help her.” Delphine stands by the examination table giving instructions and a packet of medicine to Yousef, an Iraqi man in his early twenties who is traveling with his younger sister. Maryam is not yet fourteen, a slender girl with a sweet smile. She does not talk, Yousef tells us, not since their parents died a few months ago. She and Yousef bear a strong resemblance to one another, their narrow, homely faces alight with good humor. Yousef studied English in university and translates Delphine’s instructions into Syriac for his sister, who nods her understanding, glancing at us shyly from under long, dark lashes.
During the examination, I notice the gentle way he treats her. It is clear they adore each other. Their eyes are shadowed, but they are smiling, buoyed by their arrival on Hungarian soil.
“We are going to meet our older sister in Sweden,” Yousef tells us. “We hope to be at her home in Gothenburg before Maryam’s birthday next week.”
“Your sister needs to rest and take this medicine along with liters of water,” Delphine says firmly. “I don’t like the sound of her cough. Bring her tomorrow for me to check her lungs. You are not to leave the camp until I say she can travel. Do you understand?”
Yousef nods, looking sober. “I will bring her here tomorrow.”
Maryam ducks her head and smiles gratefully at us.
Delphine and I work ceaselessly throughout the morning. She and another doctor, Stefan from Switzerland, whom I have yet to meet, are rotating shifts around the clock to make sure that someone is always available to offer basic medical care. Delphine is on the day shift, 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., as am I.
We’ve seen all sorts of patients in just a few hours. Most have infected blisters from walking so far, or nasty-sounding coughs from sleeping outside in the rain on their journey. Many of the children are running fevers.
We are establishing a workable rhythm already, although I am far from an adept nurse. Delphine gives me a startled look when I confess that I have no idea how to take a patient’s blood pressure. “What do they teach you in America?” she mutters with a shake of her head.
“Sociology,” I reply, too low for her to hear. Nothing in my college education is remotely helpful in this situation. Nor has baking proven to be particularly useful either, unfortunately. My fake medical skills, however, are in very high demand.
Chapter 32
By early afternoon we finally have a slowdown in the line of people. Delphine sends me to restock our supplies and instructs me to take a ten-minute break and get some food in my stomach.
“You must take care of yourself, even in a crisis. Especially in a crisis,” she admonishes me. “The need is always great, but you cannot run and run until you collapse. Then you are no good to anyone. You must take care of yourself so that you can care for others, oui?”
I nod and duck out of the tent, grateful for the fresh air and a few minutes to stretch my legs. At the food tent I ask Abel for a bottle of water.
“It’s getting crowded,” I observe as he tears the plastic on a six-pack of large bottles and hands one to me.
Several more groups of people are making their way down the railroad tracks toward the camp. As we watch, a family of five arrives—middle-aged mother and father, a girl of eight or nine, and a young man in his teens carrying an ancient woman on his back. She has her skinny arms wrapped around his neck, and he is hunched over, holding her slight weight. When they reach the camp, he gently lowers her to the ground, relief and joy written large across all their faces.
“This is the beginning of a new life for them,” Abel observes. “They know when they arrive here, they are safe. They are free.” There is something in his tone, an understanding. I glance at him.
“Was it like that when you came to America?” I ask, twisting off the bottle cap and taking a long swallow of water.
Abel tips his head, a tacit agreement. “When I finally stepped onto American soil, I kissed the ground, right there at the airport arrivals curb. I thought I could leave all the sorrow behind me, all the things I had seen.” He is watching the newly arrived family, but his tone of voice tells me he is far away. “But we cannot escape our experiences.”
He smiles sadly, his eyes shadowed. “The memories are always with us, but sometimes we can ease the way for others. That is what we must do, use our pain to build understanding and empathy, not to build walls. Then it is transformed into a thing of beauty, then our suffering has value.”
“That’s a beautiful way to look at it,” I say, capping the bottle and watching him closely.
“It is beautiful because it is true,” Abel says. His eyes meet mine.
There is so much about him that I do not yet understand, a depth I find compelling. I want to know more of his story.
A moment later a father and son approach, looking for some milk for the boy, and I take my leave of Abel, stopping at the food table for a quick snack. Rosie presses an apple, a white roll, and a few triangles of processed cheese wrapped in thin foil on me. “You have to eat, sugar, to keep up your strength. We have tons, so don’t think you’re taking it out of the mouths of the hungry.” She looks conspicuously glamorous in a white striped shirtdress with a wide leather belt and a pair of leather mules in a floral pattern with metal studs.
“How does this outfit look?” she hisses at me in a stage whisper. “Still too much?”
“Maybe lose the belt and the flowered shoes,” I suggest. “The dress isn’t bad.”
“I gave half the stuff Lars sent me to them this morning.” Rosie nods toward the back of the food line where I see the middle-aged woman and her two daughters from yesterday standing together. The mother has her Chanel purse clutched tight to her side; the girls are both dressed in their manteaus, but one is wearing Rosie’s Balenciaga cat-eye sunglasses and the other holds her silver clutch.
“Good job,” I say, admiring Rosie’s generosity.
Beside Rosie, Winnie pauses from assembling sandwiches and eyes the girls. “Just what every refugee needs, a classic evening bag,” she says caustically. Rosie rolls her eyes and gestures for the next person in line to approach. Jake lingers nearby, taking some photos and filming Rosie and Winnie at work.
Munching my snack, I drift around to the side of the tent where Kai is sorting and stacking bags of fruit and boxes of packaged snacks.
“Hey, how’s it going over in medical?” Kai asks, taking a break from organizing.
“Okay,” I say around a mouthful of apple. “I’m not a great medical assistant, to be honest, but the doctor, Delphine, is awesome. She’s with Medecines Sans Frontieres.” I unwrap a triangle of cheese and pop it into my mouth. It tastes creamy and a little slimy. “Actually, I should take some food back to her.” I haven’t seen her eat or drink anything since we arrived. Speaking of taking care of oneself, what is she living on, air?
“Here, let me.” Kai assembles a quick snack from the items he’s been organizing—a granola bar and an orange. “For the doctor.” He hands the food to me, and I add two triangles of cheese from my own stash.
“Say cheese,” Jake says from behind us, and we turn to find his camera pointed in our
direction. Without thinking, I move closer to Kai, and he throws his arm around my shoulders. We both hold up the packages of cheese in our free hands.
“Cheese,” we chorus, and then Kai adds, “Or processed cheeselike food product.”
I laugh, then sober, aware that we are being photographed, that we are in a refugee camp and should perhaps not be so glib.
“I better get back to work,” I say, taking a last bite of apple and gathering the snack for Delphine. “See you later.”
“Bye, Mia.” Rosie waves. Kai gives me a nod and a wink as I turn back to the stifling tent and the growing line of people waiting for our help.
* * *
That night at the hostel, after our shift is over, I slip into my pajamas, grab my phone, and climb into the top bunk. Winnie is already snoring quietly below me. Rosie is on the top bunk across the room, texting on her phone, her cheekbones illuminated by the soft glow of her screen. I check my email and send a message to Henry and my parents, giving them a quick update. All is well, I write.
I don’t tell them the truth. That I am seeing an aspect of humanity I’ve never seen before, the devastation of war, the brokenness of trauma and loss. My heart and my head ache, both from the grueling hours of work and the emotional toll it takes. I feel wrung out but at the same time grateful to be able to help in whatever way I can. At least I am doing something, giving these people something to ease their way. It’s not a panacea for their pain, but for those we assist on their journey, it does matter.
I open an email from Nana titled “Who’s the cutie?” and find a screenshot of Kai and me at the food tent this afternoon, holding aloft our triangle cheese. His arm is draped casually around my shoulders, mine clasped around his waist. We are laughing. We look good together, like we fit.
Who’s the cutie? Nana Alice writes below the screenshot. That smile and those dark eyes . . . Treatment is going well. I’m feeling good. The doctors are pleased with my progress so far. Albert has asked me to go steady, but I told him we’re too old for such nonsense. I will, however, go swing dancing with him on Thursday. Love and kisses, Nana A.
Who in the world taught her how to take a screenshot, I wonder? She never fails to amaze me. We haven’t spoken since our conversation during their dinner date at the Space Needle. The past week has been too rushed as Team Caritas wrapped up our time in India and headed for Hungary, but I’ve been thinking about her every day. I should call her and check in, but I don’t have the energy at the moment. I’m so tired I feel like I could fall asleep sitting up. Besides, the Internet connection is molasses slow in our room. I doubt it would support a call. I type a simple reply. Yep, you’re right. Kai is a cutie. He’s great, a good friend and a great teammate. Why don’t you say yes to going steady with Albert? You’re never too old for love!—Mia Then I set my alarm and gratefully fall asleep.
* * *
The next morning I’m scrambling to get ready for the day. Rosie, still in her luxurious jade-green silk pajamas from Lars’ suitcase of mercy, is sitting in bed checking her phone. All of a sudden she gasps. “Mia, have you seen Instagram this morning?”
Curious, I stand on tiptoe and gaze at her screen. There is the photo of Kai and me from yesterday. Kai’s head is bent toward mine, his fingers curled around my shoulder as we hold aloft our triangle cheese.
“Look.” Rosie points. An hour ago AliceWest85 proudly and publicly commented on the photo, Mia, you’re right. That Kai sure is a cutie. I can see why you’re sweet on him!
I stare in horror at the comment. Nana Alice has outed my secret crush on Instagram. This is beyond mortifying. I meet Rosie’s gaze, her eyes wide and startled.
“She sent me a screenshot of that photo and asked about him last night,” I say, feeling like I have to defend myself. “I told her he’s a friend and a teammate. She must not realize other people can see these comments.”
“The entire world can see that comment,” Rosie says, biting her lip. It looks suspiciously like she might be trying not to giggle, but she holds it in and opts for a sympathetic expression instead.
“Argh!” I groan. “The dangers of letting octogenarians loose on the Internet. Just as long as Kai doesn’t see it.” I cross my fingers for luck and hope against hope that he doesn’t check Instagram.
Chapter 33
“We’re out of painkillers again.” Delphine clucks in annoyance, taking inventory of our limited supplies. It is late in the afternoon two days after the Instagram incident, and I am helping her disinfect and organize the medical station during a momentary lull in patients.
“Mia, can you tell Szilvia to put these on the Facebook supplies list?” she instructs. “Paracetamol and ibuprofen, and fever-reducing suppositories for children.”
I jot the items down, making a mental note to give the list to Szilvia before the end of the day. She posts a daily list on the Migration Aid Facebook page detailing what items are needed. People then drop off supplies in Budapest, and volunteers drive the goods in trucks and vans to the border camp. Most of the volunteers are Hungarian—doctors, teachers, metro ticket takers, university students, all giving selflessly and sacrificially, to help refugees at their border.
“I just wish we could do more,” I sigh, wiping the examination table with disinfectant. “I know this is just a pit stop for the refugees, but I wish we could make it feel more welcoming somehow.”
Delphine pauses from her inventory and purses her lips, thinking. “Tea,” she says abruptly.
“You want some tea?” I ask.
“No, we need to offer tea to the refugees,” she says. “Tea is very important in many of these cultures. It signifies hospitality, comfort. It’s a ritual of civility. My father drank two cups every day. Tea is the perfect thing. It is warming, hydrating, and will make them feel welcome. If you want to help these people feel more at home, we should serve them tea.”
“Yes, perfect!” Spurred into action, I find Szilvia and request to leave my shift a little early to make a Tesco run for tea and the other supplies the camp needs. Kai and Milo volunteer to accompany me, and Jake tags along with his camera.
I’m secretly glad Kai offered to come with me. We haven’t had any time together to talk since our evening stroll in Budapest. I often catch glimpses of him around the camp and we eat meals together with the group, but there’s been no chance for personal conversation since the night he held my hand by the Danube. I keep an eye on him as he drives the van to Tesco. We chat about the events of the day, the people we’ve met, and the stories they’ve told us. He’s acting completely normal, so much to my relief, I conclude that he didn’t see Nana Alice’s Instagram post.
In the vast bright expanse of Tesco, we split up the list. A van came from Budapest with supplies today, but a number of things we need at the camp were not in the load.
“I’ll get everything that isn’t food,” Milo says, taking a cart and heading to the other end of the store. Jake follows him with the video camera.
“How about I get food and you get drinks?” I suggest to Kai. He takes a cart and heads toward the aisle with boxes of juice and milk.
I wheel two carts into the food section and stock up on bread rolls, oranges, and triangle cheese, then head to the tea aisle and start browsing the selections.
“Hey, look what I found.” Kai wheels his laden cart into the tea aisle and shows me a dozen insulated white thermoses, the kind churches and AA meetings use for refreshments.
“Oh great! Those are perfect for serving tea.”
“I thought so.” Kai wedges the thermoses into his cart. “So I’m both useful and a cutie,” he says nonchalantly. “Is that why you’re sweet on me?” He shoots me a sideways look of amusement, and I want to sink through the floor.
Cheeks flaming, I focus intently on a row of medicinal-looking herbal teas, all labeled in Hungarian, trying to regain my composure. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. “That was my eighty-two-year-old grandmother. She misunderstood me. I’m sorry, i
t’s not what you think.” I’m babbling, my words tripping over each other in their haste to not make this awkward, to not own up to my embarrassing little crush.
“Hey, Mia.” He stops me, his voice gentle. I look up at him in the fluorescent glare of Tesco. He has a smudge of dirt on the arm of his T-shirt, and his man bun is a little bedraggled, wisps of dark hair escaping around his cut-glass cheekbones. He puts his finger under my chin and tips my head up. When he smiles at me, the corners of his eyes crinkle in the most endearing way.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I like you too.”
And then he kisses me. He tastes of green grass and something spicy, like chai tea, and his mouth is warm and gentle on mine. Our kiss deepens. Good heavens, he knows what he’s doing. I forget where we are and wrap my arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe to reach his lips. I’ve only kissed one man for the past six years. Kissing Ethan was comfortable, sweet like a butterscotch candy. Kissing Kai makes me feel like I’m falling through space into a deep pile of feather pillows. I could fall forever.
“Um, guys.” Milo clears his throat, and we spring apart abruptly. “I bought all the men’s underwear in every size.” He looks amused and a little embarrassed. He’s pushing a cart loaded with clothing and toiletries. Jake is behind him, filming the entire scene.
“We were just . . . I mean . . .” I press my hands to my red cheeks, feeling guilty and embarrassed. What am I doing? Saint Mia would definitely not be kissing men in the tea aisle of Tesco. Not men, I amend internally. Just one man—one perfectly wonderful man.
I dart a quick glance at Kai, who doesn’t seem perturbed at all. In fact, he looks like he’s enjoying the situation. He’s grinning.
“Hey,” Milo says. “It’s all good.” He peers into my cart stacked high with the food items. “Think that’s enough cheese?”
Jake lowers the camera. I’m pretty sure he got footage of our kiss.
“Jake, can you just delete that last part?” I ask pleadingly, trying to wheedle the footage out of him.
The Enlightenment of Bees Page 17
