Angel of Mercy

by Lurlene McDaniel

  For Heather, it was the end of a world of color and light. It was the beginning of her immersion in grief. Cold, bitter, gray, bottomless grief.

  “Stay the night here,” Jodene had urged. “You don’t have to be alone.”

  “I’m not alone. I have my friends.” Heather’s teeth chattered, she was so cold.

  Ingrid, Debbie, and Cynthia surrounded her all that night, and all the next day, too. They wept with her. And Boyce, Miguel, and Patrick came and took turns holding her, rocking her, weeping with her.

  “He was my friend,” Boyce said, his eyes red-rimmed. “I can’t believe I’ll never see him again.”

  “Not in this life,” Patrick said. “In the next life.”

  Heather wanted to scream. She wanted Ian in this life. She wanted him now. She wanted to touch him, feel his skin on hers, hear him call her lass. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

  She knew that time passed because her friends told her when it was time to eat, covered her with a blanket, and told her when it was time to sleep. She did not go to the hospital to work. She could not be around death one more minute.

  Dr. Gallagher came and talked to her, offered her some pills that made her sleep. He could give her nothing for the pain inside her soul. “ ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away,’ ” he quoted from the Book of Job. “ ‘May the name of the Lord be praised.’ ”

  Heather tuned him out. God was cruel. He had no mercy. He had no pity. He had allowed Ian to vanish on a grassy African plain in a ball of fire. God could have prevented it but had not. Why?

  One afternoon, she became aware that her roommates were packing. “We must go home on Thursday,” Ingrid told Heather tenderly, as one might address a child. “We are packing up your things for you. We’ll take care of everything. Do not concern yourself.”

  Inertia ruled her. Leaving seemed impossible, requiring more energy than she possessed. How could she possibly make it across two continents and an ocean? Listlessly she walked to Jodene’s. But once she arrived, she couldn’t force herself to step inside the house where grief had first assaulted her. The house would be filled with the sounds of the Warring children. Their laughter. Sweet, adorable, innocent children. With hardly a clue of the cruel sorrows life held.

  She eased her back down the trunk of a tree, raised her knees, folded her arms, buried her face in her arms. Sobs racked her, heaving, gagging sobs that left her weak, as if she were being turned inside out.

  She heard a noise, a rustling. Choking back her tears, she looked up. Beside her, in the dry dirt, Kia sat, staring at her through large brown eyes. Too startled to move, Heather let out a long, shuddering breath, half gasp, half moan. She braced her back on the tree trunk and stretched out her cramped legs. Kia did not scamper away. Instead, she lifted her hand and, with a feathery touch, ran her fingers down Heather’s damp cheek.

  “He’s gone, Kia,” Heather whispered in a cracked, thick voice. “My Ian’s gone.” She knew the girl couldn’t understand her words, but it didn’t matter. She had to say them, taste the finality of them.

  Kia crept forward. Wordlessly she curled into a tight ball, lay down on the earth, rested her head in Heather’s lap. Heather stroked the child’s head, the smooth, soft skin of her face, the tightly curled hair. “You know, don’t you, little Kia? You know how bad it hurts.”

  The hot sun beat down from the blue sky, on ground tufted with patches of green, on two people from different universes. “We’re connected now, aren’t we, Kia?” Heather whispered. In a cruel and hateful twist of fate, with a bridge of tears, grief had bound them together. Here, in the heat of the day, they had been joined, not by overtures of friendship, not by bribes of candy, but by loss. The loss of Kia’s mother, of home. The loss of Ian McCollum, of love.

  Heather’s sobs quieted as she continued to stroke the child’s head. The air settled around them heavily, like a drugged sleep. And Kia’s arms drifted around Heather’s waist, holding on. Holding on.

  “You can’t be serious, Heather. I won’t allow it.” Dr. Henry’s expression looked both alarmed and haggard.

  Heather was standing in his room, where his gear lay stacked, ready for the pull out in the morning. “But I am serious,” she said calmly. “I’m going to get Kia’s sister.”

  “But there’s no time left. We’re leaving.”

  “The baby still needs rescuing. I’m not leaving until I finish the job Ian set out to do.”

  Dr. Henry raked his hand through his white hair. “No. No, you can’t do this. It’s noble of you, but—”

  “I mean no disrespect, sir, but I’m eighteen. I’m an adult. I can do what I want.”

  “I’m responsible for you.” He shook his head stubbornly. “Your family is expecting you to get off that plane in Miami. What am I supposed to say to them?”

  “This won’t take me but a few days. I can catch a plane in Entebbe next week, after I bring the baby back. Tell my parents I’ll call them from London. My sister, too; Amber is my sister. They’ll understand.” She didn’t know if that was true, and she didn’t care. After days of despair, she’d discovered purpose. She wasn’t going to let it evaporate. Ian had always told her to help one by one. This was now her mission.

  “But you don’t understand what it’s like going into a camp.” Dr. Henry’s voice turned pleading. “The camps can be chaotic, perhaps even unsafe. I can’t come with you. I’m responsible for the others.”

  “I’m not asking you to come with me. I’m going by myself.” She’d never dream of taking him away from his duty to the rest of the team. Bob Hoover was already gone, on his way to re-board the Mercy Ship on the way to North Africa, to be with his family.

  “Who will be there to protect you?”

  “Dr. Wilson will be there. Paul talked to him on the radio last night. He said Kia’s sister’s still alive.” Her heart was hammering now, her body running on pure adrenaline. She hadn’t slept all night, not since she’d devised the plan.

  “Someone else will go—”

  “No.” She interrupted him. “There’s no one else. I’m going. Paul will drive me into Kampala on Tuesday. I’ll catch the Mission Air flight. I’ll go to the camp, pick up the baby, catch a flight back. Two days is all it will take.”

  “Heather, please, be reasonable. It isn’t safe.”

  She shook her head, spilling her hair from its clip. Tension filled the room. “I can do this, Dr. Henry. I must do it. For Kia. For Ian, too. Try and understand. . . . I’m not afraid.”

  “You should be afraid,” he countered. “These are dangerous times.”

  Suddenly, the image of a long-dead Persian queen, the Jewish Queen Esther, who had spoken up for her people, rose like a specter in Heather’s memory, and she recalled Ian’s voice.

  At the door, she turned and said, “Well, Dr. Henry, if I perish, I perish.”

  Dawn was breaking when Heather, Jodene, and Paul helped the group load up two minivans for the drive to Entebbe airport.

  “I wish you were coming with us,” Cynthia said, chewing on her lip.

  “I won’t be far behind you.” Heather gave her friend a hug.

  For the most part, the group had understood and supported her decision to stay behind and go after Kia’s sister. But now, saying goodbye, Heather realized how much she was going to miss everybody.

  “It won’t be the same without you with us,” Boyce told her.

  “Just don’t pig out on peanut butter when you reach civilization.”

  “Never happen.”

  Ingrid kissed both of Heather’s cheeks. “Take care of yourself.”

  “I will.”

  Boyce reached into his backpack and hauled out a gray sweatshirt with the words University of Alabama written in crimson block letters. “Wear this.” He draped it over her shoulders and tied the sleeves together. “So they’ll know what tribe you’re from.”

  Heather smiled, squeezed his arm. “You’d better write to me when we’re both home.”
/>   She stepped back and watched as her friends climbed into the vans. Dr. Henry was the last one to board. “I—I’ll pray for you,” he said.

  She stood on tiptoe and hugged him. “I’m going to be fine. You’ll see.”

  The vans slowly backed up, made a wide turn in the open yard, and started toward the road. The sound of the engines broke the stillness, while beams from the headlights bounced up and down, shooting streams of light into the darkness. Heather watched until the tail-lights were swallowed up in the distance. She felt Jodene slip her arm around her shoulders.

  “Come on,” Jodene said. “Let’s go get breakfast. We’ve got a lot to accomplish if you’re to leave for the camp on Tuesday.”

  Heather nodded. She felt momentarily lost, a stranger in a strange land. But the feeling passed quickly, and she hurried into the house just as the sun flared over the tops of the trees.

  18

  "Things are heating up in Sudan again, but stay with the Mission Air people and you should be fine.” Paul Warring stuffed clothes into a duffel bag while he talked to Heather. He was driving her to the airfield in Kampala in the morning. He’d wait until she returned from Sudan with the baby.

  “The Mission Air pilots are usually retired military,” Jodene added. “Many have been missionaries themselves, so they’re sympathetic to our work.”

  “In the old days,” Paul continued, “it was the only way they could get around Africa. You’ve seen the roads, so you know what I’m talking about. A family could get stuck in the bush for months, so men took flying lessons in order to move around more freely.”

  “What about a ticket?” Heather asked.

  “You’ll buy it tomorrow at the airstrip. And you can pay for it with your credit card.”

  Heather remembered being surprised at the large number of banks and ATM machines in Kampala. But with the number of international travelers coming through Africa, it made sense. The universal use of credit cards made purchasing things a snap for tourists.

  “How much money should I take with me?” she asked.

  Paul and Jodene exchanged looks. Jodene went to the closet, took down a pouch from the top shelf, and unzipped it. She reached in, pulled out several coins, and plopped them into Heather’s hand. “Take these.”

  “I have money. I don’t want to take yours.”

  “You don’t have these,” Jodene said.

  Heather turned the shiny coins over in her hand. “What are they?”

  “South African Krugerrands—coins made of gold bullion. We keep them on hand in case of emergencies. In case something terrible happens to Uganda currency, well . . . people will always take gold in payment.”

  “I have American dollars—” Heather began.

  “If you run into any trouble, all paper currency may be useless. Goldspeke is the universal language, trust me. Use it if you need it. You can pay us back when you get to the States.”

  Heather took the gold, knowing its value. “If I use any, you’ll get them back with interest.”

  “We can’t put a price on the baby’s life, now, can we?” Jodene said.“Keep them close to your body at all times. When I travel, I put the coins in a pouch pinned to the inside of my bra.”

  “And don’t let go of your passport, either,” Paul said. “Keep it with you at all times.”

  As the seriousness of her undertaking began to sink in, Heather felt growing apprehension. This would be the only attempt to bring Kia’s sister out of Sudan. If Heather failed, the baby would surely die. Heather knew that even if her mission was successful, there were no guarantees. The baby’s cleft palate must be repaired, and Heather didn’t know whether Dr. Gallagher’s team could perform the delicate surgery in their less-than-state-of-the-art hospital. Everything would have to go perfectly if the baby and Kia were to be reunited and live happily ever after, Heather told herself.

  As for Kia, she still preferred the underside of her cot to the run of the house, but she did slip out more frequently. Especially when Heather showed up at the house. Kia took candy from Heather’s hand whenever it was offered and had taken to following Jodene around the yard as she hung out laundry. Kia had still not spoken.

  Jodene said, “You’ll be taking boxes of medical supplies on the plane with you. That will be your entry ticket into the country. At the airport, you’ll hand over the supplies to Ed and he’ll hand you the baby. Then get back on the plane. These pilots don’t stay on the ground long. They load up and return ASAP.”

  Paul took hold of Heather’s shoulders. “In and out, Heather. That’s the plan. Hold your head up and act confident. You’ll do fine.”

  Heather offered a weak smile. “That’s my line, remember?”

  The three of them laughed. Jodene sobered and looked Heather in the eye. “Listen . . . we’ll be holding a prayer vigil for you. From the time you leave until the minute you return, someone here will be praying for you. We’ll pray that God’s angels go with you and bring you and Kia’s sister back to us safely.”

  Angels. Heather would never have thought to enlist the aid of angels. She couldn’t help wondering where they might have been when Ian made his journey, but she didn’t say anything. It hurt too much to even think about Ian. She turned to Jodene and smiled with as much confidence as she could muster. “Thank you. I appreciate all the help I can get.”

  Early Tuesday morning, with the Ugandan children from the home surrounding them in the front yard, Heather climbed into Paul’s Jeep, which was piled with boxes full of supplies. She wore an armband with a bright red cross emblazoned on it, a plain black baseball cap, sunglasses on a cord around her neck, and a small knapsack that fastened around her waist. “Travel light,” Paul had said.

  Jodene leaned into the Jeep, kissed her husband, and squeezed Heather’s hand. “Go with God.”

  Paul backed the Jeep and pulled onto the rutted road. Heather hunkered down, folded her arms, and pulled the cap low over her eyes. The noise of the wind made it impossible to talk, so they rode silently into Kampala. Every mile of the way, Heather looked for some sign that angels were following them, but she saw nothing except charcoal fires beside the road as people stirred to start another day of hunting up food to fill their empty stomachs.

  The Mission Air airfield was simply a grassy expanse with a couple of low buildings and a single runway. By noon, the plane was ready to go. Paul hugged her. “I’ll be here when you return.”

  “Well, at least you won’t be hard to spot,” she said, looking around the nearly empty room that served as the passenger terminal.

  Heather walked out onto the field and up the steps into the belly of the propeller plane, which looked like something she’d seen in an old war movie. Seating consisted of two long metal benches bolted along the interior walls. Seat belts clamped on from the wall behind the benches, fastening over her shoulders and around her waist.

  Her fellow passengers were men—two World Health Organization representatives from Great Britain and several Africans. The pilot came aboard and welcomed them, saying the flight time was approximately an hour and that they expected no turbulence. He and a copilot entered the cabin, and Heather glimpsed a maze of gauges and switches. With the cargo in the hold and the passengers loaded, the plane’s engines roared to life. Heather twisted to see the spinning propellers through the porthole-sized window.

  The plane began its slow roll down the landing strip, gathered speed, and lifted sharply, clearing the tops of the trees surrounding the field. Heather’s heart pounded as she waited for the plane to level off. Commercial airplanes made it appear so effortless, but this plane seemed to groan and clank like a tired knight in rusty armor.

  The engine noise filled the cabin with a dull roar. The air was warm and close. She was glad the flight wouldn’t take too long. When finally the plane began to descend, she braced for the touchdown. She felt relief when the plane rolled to a stop and the door opened. She descended the stairs into blinding heat. She put on her sunglasses and walked into
a small building, trying to act confident and self-assured.

  Heather fell into a short line to clear customs, which consisted of two armed soldiers checking passports. They looked her over as they stamped her passport. The automatic weapons in their hands were black, with tubular steel stocks and barrels. Leather straps held the guns across their shoulders.

  On the other side of customs, she went to where the cargo had been piled on the cement floor. Her boxes were clearly marked with bright red crosses, but when she approached, a soldier stepped in front of her. He held his rifle at his waist and gestured for her to stand aside. He said something to her, but she couldn’t understand a word.

  “Medicine,” she said in English. “For doctors.”

  The soldier glared and his weapon came up. Heather thought she might pass out from sheer terror.

  “Can I help here?” A man stepped between them. He said something to the soldier in Swahili, and the man lowered his gun and stepped away from Heather and the boxes. Heather stood frozen in place. Her rescuer was in his thirties. He held out his hand. “Ed Wilson,” he said. “You must be Heather.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “Let’s get you outside and into the Jeep. I’ll send my driver, Barry, in to get the supplies.” He spoke to the guard, took Heather’s elbow, and walked her out of the building. A Jeep with a Sudanese driver waited at the roadside.

  As she folded herself into the back of the vehicle, Ed said, “Sorry I wasn’t here when the plane touched down. We left in plenty of time, but some farmer decided to herd his cows across the road and held us up for twenty minutes.”

  “It’s all right.” Heather found her voice. “I know all about those cows.”

  Barry was loading the boxes in the back. Ed said, “I’m really sorry about what happened to that Ian fellow. Did you know him?”

  A sharp pain sliced through her heart. “Yes,” she said. “I knew him well.”

  “Then I’m doubly sorry. Rescuing this baby— we’ve come to call her Alice—hasn’t been easy.”