I say to Berti, “There’s the bridge! We’re almost to the highway. Come on!”
She looks up at me and keeps walking close by.
As we get closer, I see that there is no Ochoca Bridge any longer; the concrete pylons at the entry to the bridge are still here, but the bridge itself is gone. The Ochoca River, which has never been anything more than a slow, lazy, little creek, has become a roaring, muddy torrent.
I stare down at the water rushing by. My energy of a few seconds ago leaves just as fast as it arrived. What am I going to do? It’s almost dry up between the pylons—and that’s a good thing, because a moment later I’ve just plopped down onto my butt, too shocked to even stand.
I have to calm down.
My eyes fill with tears, but Berti, panting and wiggling next to me and wagging her tail, stares into my face and licks my cheeks and eyes.
I pet her as I take some slow deep breaths.
After staring at the muddy water for a little while, I realize that although it is going by fast, the river doesn’t look very deep.
It starts to rain again, a steady, cold drizzle. I stand up and make my way over to a place on the riverbank that isn’t too steep. Berti follows me. Once we are at the river’s edge, I look carefully at the spot. This place looks like it’s as good as any to try to get across.
“Get across?” I say to Berti. What am I thinking? If I fall, I’ll get sucked down and the river will take me away. How can I even think about trying to cross this thing?
“But if we don’t go, what happens to Juan?” I ask Berti, who stares back at me. “If I don’t go forward, I’ll have to go back. And if I stop now, just give up, what do I say to Mom? If I quit and Juan gets sicker … what if Juan … what if he doesn’t get well? How could I ever look at myself in the mirror again?”
Berti stares at me as though she understands every word I’m saying.
Again I realize that this place where I’m standing, just below where the bridge used to be, doesn’t look too deep.
Staring at the river, I suddenly see the bodies of a man, a cat, and a dog floating by. The man, thank God, is not Víctor or my dad. He is floating facedown but is wearing a red shirt with bright yellow numbers on the back—a Honduran National Soccer jersey, something Dad and Víctor would never wear. I watch his body floating past—it looks almost like a log, but his arms are stretched out and his hands are a brownish black. Were the dog and cat once friends in this man’s life? Family? Did they all die together? In only a few moments they are too far downstream for me to see them anymore.
I look down at Berti, who’s also been watching them float away.
I take a deep breath. “You ready, girl?” I ask, taking my first step into the current. Berti steps forward too but stops suddenly. I say, “Come on, Berti. We can do this,” but she is staring intently across the river.
Now I hear what she has already heard, a sudden loud sound. Seconds later, roaring and splashing into the river from the opposite bank, only a short distance downstream, is a camouflage-colored military truck marked United Nations Relief. Another truck just like it follows, and behind it is a third truck with big red crosses on its side and hood. All three trucks splash into the river and begin to power their way across.
For a few seconds I just stand here. The splash of the first vehicle sprays out. Suddenly I grasp what the red cross means: This is a medical truck! They can help Juan!
I run along the bank, waving my arms. The soldiers in the first truck don’t see me. I wave my arms harder and almost fall down as I begin to holler, “¡Mi hermano está enfermo!” I yell as loud as I can in Spanish, and the same thing in English, even louder: “My brother is sick!”
I stumble over the round river rocks, and I can barely hear my own voice over the trucks’ roaring engines. Berti runs ahead of me, silent and agile, flying over the stones. The two men in the first vehicle still don’t see me, but I look at the driver of the second truck and at a man and woman in the third one. They stare straight at Berti and me.
As they come out of the river, the second and third trucks stop abruptly and honk their horns to the lead truck. It stops too. Blue exhaust pours out from their tailpipes, and steam rises from around the engines.
I run up to the second vehicle and say in English, “My brother …” I’m breathing too hard to speak. “My brother sick …” I can’t seem to catch my breath. “My brother is very sick … very … he’s very sick … can you come to help me?”
The soldier sitting in the passenger seat says in English, “You speak English?” He sounds surprised. He doesn’t sound American. His accent is strange to me.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m a student at the International School. I speak English very well.” I gasp for breath.
“Calm down. You’re doing fine,” the driver says. “You’ve got a brother who’s sick?”
“Yes!” I say, almost yelling. “My little brother Juan is very sick! Are you a doctor?”
“I’m not. Captain Albertson is the doc.” He nods toward the Red Cross truck behind him. “He’s in the next rig back. I’m not sure we can help you right now, though, son.”
Not help? How can this be? My mouth goes dry and I can’t think of a single word in English. If this captain is a doctor, surely he will help. He has to help!
“But my brother is very sick,” I blurt out. “There are many dead in my pueblo.... My brother will be dead if I don’t bring help.”
“Talk to the captain, lad,” says the soldier driving the truck.
I hurry back to the truck with the red crosses on it. A woman soldier is driving and a man soldier with gold bars on his shoulders sits next to her. He has a kind face, which is good because he is a huge man—he must be twice my height and three times my weight. He has red hair and blue eyes and freckles.
I force myself to speak. “Are you the captain doctor?”
“Yes,” he answers kindly, smiling at me. “You speak English, eh?” He doesn’t sound American either—his English sounds strange, like that of the soldiers in the other truck.
I ask, “Where are you here from?”
He smiles and says, “We’re with U.N. International Relief. Our squadron is multinational, but I’m from Edinburgh, Scotland.”
I say, “My brother is very sick. He needs help right away!”
“I’m sorry,” the doctor says, “but we’re under strict orders—”
“But my brother is just a baby …” I feel tears building up in the back of my throat and at the corners of my eyes. I fight them back. What would Víctor do? What would Dad say? Berti, maybe sensing my mood, rubs against my leg, wagging her tail.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor says again, and I can tell that he is truly sorry, “but we’re under strict orders to go to …” He turns to the lady soldier who is behind the steering wheel. “Where is it, Lieutenant?”
She says, “Las … Las Ruppa?” pronouncing it wrong.
“La Rupa?” I ask.
“Yes,” the doctor says. “La Rupa. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Yes, I know exactly where La Rupa is.”
THIRTEEN
Berti sits in the backseat of the truck, and I sit up front, telling them everything—about the rains, the power failure, the mudslide, the water, the food, the Arroyos and all the other dead, and my brother Juan. I try to speak slowly and clearly, and I struggle to remember all the right words in English.
“Jesus,” the doctor says, “you really been through it, haven’t ya?”
I nod.
He tells me about San Pedro Sula and the other parts of Honduras that he has seen: towns under water, thousands of people waiting on the roads to be rescued, and the horrible damage across the whole country. He tells me about the shelters overflowing with people, so many of them homeless, and about some children stuck on a rooftop for three days and nights after their parents were lost in the flood.
He says, “People in La Ceiba are fishing from their fro
nt porches, catching fish and crawdads from what used to be the streets.”
“La Ceiba!” I gasp.
“Yes. You have people there?”
I take a deep breath and explain, “My dad and my older brother, Víctor, and my sister haven’t come back from there yet.”
And now I start rambling, saying crazy-sounding stuff, one stupid thing after another: I talk about Víctor tearing down the barbecue, about Ruby and her modeling portfolio, about my dad and his truck, and about Berti being lost. I know I sound crazy, but I can’t seem to keep from babbling.
I force myself to slow down, saying, “Of course, maybe they are all right. Maybe they are staying with people somewhere. Maybe they are—” Suddenly I begin to sob. Ashamed, I turn my head away and stare out the window so that they won’t see me cry. From the corner of my eye I see Berti, standing and staring straight at me, worried and protective.
The doctor asks, “What kind of truck does your father drive?”
“A medium-sized one,” I say.
I keep staring out the window, but I hear the doctor’s soft smile in his voice. “No, José. I mean, what make, what model, what color is it?”
“It is a white Volvo truck—a large van. It is four years old, 1994, perhaps a ’93.” It says Cruz Reparto on each side in bright-blue letters.”
“Very good, José,” the doctor says. He picks up the microphone attached to the radio on the dashboard. “This is MEDRUN eight-niner. Come in.”
The radio crackles. “Acknowledge, MEDRUN eight-niner—identify.”
“Captain Albertson, Unit eight-niner.”
“Acknowledge. State your purpose, sir.”
Captain-Doctor Albertson speaks clearly and directly with an official sound to his words. “We’re approximately three kilometers outside the village of La Rupa. Have encountered and enlisted support of English-speaking Honduran national to assist in translation. Over.”
“Copy that, sir. Over.”
“Need an all-alert priority search and seek, three Honduran nationals. Identities: Señor …” He pauses a second, letting his thumb slip off the button on the microphone, and turns to me. “What is your father’s full name?”
“Alberto Cruz,” I say.
The doctor clicks the button of the microphone again. “Señor Alberto Cruz and two teenaged children …”
As the doctor talks into his radio, he asks me for descriptions of what Dad and Víctor and Ruby were wearing, their height and weight, and all kinds of questions. I answer as best I can remember. The doctor passes all this information along.
The radio crackles again. “Copy all and roger that, sir. Good luck in La Rupa. It sounds pretty ugly out there.”
The doctor glances at me, looking a little embarrassed. “Affirmative. We’ll check back at eleven hundred hours and provide update on mission status. Signing off.”
“Signing off, sir.”
The radio goes silent. I say, “Thank you, doctor. Thank you so much.”
“It’s the least we can do for our new translator,” he says, his voice kind and gentle. “You will help us, right?”
“Absolutamente,” I answer. “Sorry. I mean, absolutely, yes, of course!”
We arrive at the southern entrance to La Rupa. The three trucks slowly inch forward. Seeing the damage, I am stunned all over again. I’ll never get used to this new La Rupa.
We move past the Rodríguezes’ little shack. The people standing and sitting there watch us in silence. No one looks surprised to see me in the truck with these soldiers. No one looks happy or scared or anything, really—just numb. Some of the people begin to walk cautiously toward us.
Silently I say a prayer for Dad and Víctor and Ruby. “Please, God, let my family be okay … please let them come home to us …”
As I look at what’s left of La Rupa, I have a sick feeling. I say another prayer, this one soft but out loud. “Please, God, let Juan be okay … please, God … please, God, don’t let us be too late.”
Before the truck even comes to a full stop, Berti bounds out. But instead of running to the house, she stands still, looking at me and waiting for me to come to her.
FOURTEEN
Lieutenant Sally parks the truck where the mud makes it impossible to drive any farther. How long until the doctor can see Juan? I try to mentally will us to hurry up the muddy street to our house.
As we get out of the truck, Dr. Albertson asks, “Where is your brother?”
“That is our home,” I answer, pointing up the street. “Juan is there with my mother and many more people.”
“Let’s go!” Dr. Albertson says.
As we walk, Dr. Albertson calls to his nurse, Lieutenant Sally. They talk quietly together as we hurry up the muddy road. They wear boots with thick treads, so they are able to pass through the mud more quickly than I can. I struggle to keep up. Berti stays by my side. The doctor and nurse pause at the door to my house, waiting for me and Berti to catch up.
I step past them and walk into the living room. Everybody looks up at me and at the Anglo doctor and the nurse.
I say in Spanish, “This is Captain Dr. Albertson and Lieutenant Nurse Sally. They’ve come to help us. They don’t speak Spanish, but I’ll help.”
I look around for my mother and Juan, but they’re not here.
“Where’s Juan?” I try to ask, but the words stick in my throat.
Mom, carrying Juan on her hip, steps into the room from her bedroom. Juan looks pale and tired, but he’s awake and quiet; he stares straight at us. In his right hand he carries C-3PO. I smile at Juan, but his eyes look glassy. He doesn’t smile back, but he says in a weak voice, “Berti, you came home!”
Berti wags her tail.
“Pneumonia,” Dr. Albertson says to me.
I translate for Mom, who looks very worried.
Dr. Albertson sees Mom’s reaction and quickly adds, “He’s going to be just fine. I’ve given him enough antibiotics to cure a whole village. In situations like this, where there is so much dampness and dirt, bronchitis and pneumonia are quite common. But your little brother is strong, and we got to him early. He needs bed rest and fluids, but he’ll be okay.”
My eyes sting again. Thanks, God, I say to myself.
Nurse Sally says to me, “You did well, José. I’m so glad you found us and helped us get here. Good work.” Her kind words make me feel good, but embarrassed too.
I mutter, “I’m just glad you were coming here.” Dr. Albertson smiles at us. Watching him work with Juan, I notice again how large the doctor’s hands are as he gently takes Juan’s tiny arm and lifts it up.
Dr. Albertson says to me, “It’s lucky we met you. The translator for our team, Sergeant Pérez, is on leave. His wife is having a baby. He’ll be catching up with us next week, but in the meantime we weren’t sure how we were going to manage. You’ve helped us as much as we’ve helped you.”
This man saved Juan. He can do no wrong in my eyes.
Now the doctor asks me to translate his words to my mother.
“Mrs. Cruz, you have good boys here,” he says, smiling. I’m a little embarrassed to translate this. The doctor sees my hesitation. “Tell her exactly what I said, José.”
I follow his orders, and my mother smiles and nods. He says, “Mrs. Cruz, you’ve done a wonderful job helping your neighbors. Now I need to ask you to do even more.”
Dr. Albertson pauses to allow for my translation to catch up. Mom nods as I talk. When I’ve finished speaking, he adds, “Your home looks like the only secure structure in La Rupa. We need to set up an emergency clinic here just for today. Is that all right with you?”
As I finish my translation, Mom nods and says “Sí, claro.”
I translate her words: “Yes, of course.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Dr. Albertson says. “I know that you have family out and unaccounted for. We’ve put out a search for them, and I’ll keep you posted of any developments.”
Mom listens to my translation and just n
ods and says, “Gracias.” There is no change in her expression.
Watching them talk, I’m surprised all over again by how strong and brave my mother is. Mom is just over five feet in height, yet she looks up directly at this tall soldier as he speaks. She doesn’t speak English, but she listens carefully to him and watches his expressions, and then listens just as carefully to my translations of his words. She doesn’t show how worried she really must be.
The doctor and Nurse Sally begin to move people from one side of the room to another, and Nurse Sally calls out to the other soldiers to hurry and bring up the medical supplies.
“You’re first,” she says to me.
“Why? I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”
“Oh, really?” she asks. “These wounds are normal for you?” I look at the spots she points to on my arms and ankles—cuts, scratches, and ugly red splotches on my skin. I honestly hadn’t even noticed them until this moment.
Nurse Sally raises her voice, speaking loudly enough so that Dr. Albertson will hear her. “The doctor will tell you these splotches are impetigo. And it’s important to clean up the cuts and abrasions, especially with so much infection possible.” Her voice goes even higher. “Doctors love to think that they’re the only ones who know such things.”
Dr. Albertson chuckles at her words. He stands at the new pharmacy in the corner of our living room and says over his shoulder, “And nurses, especially when they are outranked, love to think that they know as much as their superiors.”
Nurse Sally laughs too.
Sitting in a chair, Nurse Sally begins to dab my cuts and scratches with medicine. It stings. “Ouch!”
Berti suddenly gets up and hurries over, walking in between us, kind of nudging Nurse Sally away from me.
Nurse Sally looks at Berti and says, “It’s okay, doggy. I’m not going to hurt your master.”
I say to Berti, “It’s okay, girl.”
Berti stares up at me but doesn’t move.
Ángela and María are standing near the hallway to the back of the house. I call to María.
Hurricane Page 6