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Angel

Page 7

by Zoe Daniel


  ‘Ronaldo!’

  The priest takes Angel by the hand and leads her over towards the truck.

  ‘Ronaldo is one of our parishioners. A good man, very trustworthy,’ he explains.

  They reach the truck and he shakes the driver’s hand. ‘This is Angel. She needs to get to the airport. Can you take her?’

  Ronaldo smiles down at her. ‘The cab is full already, I’m afraid. But if you don’t mind riding in the back, you are welcome to come with us.’

  ‘Thank you so much!’ she says to him. ‘And Father …’

  The priest is already on his way to his next task. ‘Come back here afterwards; I will try to organise a phone. You and your family are in my prayers.’

  Ronaldo helps Angel up onto the tray and she settles herself on a pile of empty sacks in the back corner.

  ‘It will be slow going,’ he warns her, ‘but make sure you hang on to something as it will be very bumpy.’

  The truck starts to pull away and Angel grabs tightly to the bars on the side. It feels good to be doing something and she nurses a glimmer of optimism. But as they slowly progress through the city, her spirits plummet again. It’s a rolling scene of endless destruction as the truck slowly nudges its way along. In parts there is so much debris that it’s piled up higher than a building. Broken timber and cement has been pushed aside, just enough for a single vehicle to pass through a kind of tunnel of rubble.

  They pass the convention centre that juts out into the bay. There’s damage to the façade and rubbish all around, but the building survived the onslaught and is now being used as an evacuation shelter for many hundreds of locals. Angel decides that if her father isn’t at the airport, she will search there next.

  When they reach the road to the airport she is stunned. The spit between the town and the terminal, once made up of a thriving collection of villages and roadside stalls, has borne the full brunt of the storm surge. It appears that the sea has washed straight over the top of the narrow strip of land, flattening everything in its path. Now and then she sees people perching high on the wreckage. They stare listlessly as she passes by.

  Although Angel has never been on an aeroplane, she has been to the airport several times over the years to pick up her uncle and cousins when they visit from Malaysia. As they approach she sees that the main building has lost its roof, which is now spread around the carpark in pieces. The terminal itself is covered in mud and sludge washed in from the sea, which now laps softly on the other side of the main runway.

  All around cargo planes and helicopters are landing and taking off. There are enormous pallets of rice bags sitting next to the terminal building, dozens of rows of army tents and a few big, noisy generators. Filipino military and soldiers from different countries are busy giving directions in strange languages and accents, loading and unloading planes and moving trolleys loaded with goods marked ‘Australian Aid’, ‘USAID’ or ‘Gift from the people of Thailand’, or Singapore or Japan.

  Then Angel sees all the displaced people. Hundreds of them squashed up against the main gate that leads onto the tarmac. Clearly there are entire families waiting to fly out; elderly, injured and small children, too. They seem to have been waiting a long time. Bodies are slumped in despair, babies cry feebly in the sticky heat. She can understand why they would want to get out of here. Many would be fleeing to relatives in the nearby city of Cebu or further to Manila. With their homes and livelihoods destroyed, there is no reason to stay.

  All at once there is a commotion as the engine of one of the cargo planes starts powering up to take off. A few dozen people who have been cleared to board set out across the tarmac carrying plastic bags and children. The crowd surges against the gate and a handful of people slip through. Angel watches as a man and a woman carrying a baby are forcibly pushed back through the gate by the row of soldiers on the tarmac. They drag the gate closed again and hold their positions, arms folded and faces impassive as the desperate people wail with grief and frustration. It’s horrible to see. She turns her head away as her truck slows to a stop. Four aid workers climb out of the cab and stride away.

  Ronaldo jumps out and helps her down from the tray.

  ‘I have to leave you, I’m afraid,’ he says kindly. ‘There’s treated water and food here if you’re willing to queue for it.’ He points at a long line of people holding jerry cans on the other side of the airport.

  ‘Do you know where the hospital tent is?’ she asks.

  He indicates a strange structure about a hundred metres from the airport, made up of what looks like a group of giant pop-up dome tents. ‘Australians,’ he says with a smile. ‘They brought the whole hospital in on one of their aircraft. Quite amazing. It’s full of medical supplies and it even has two operating theatres, although I’m not sure if they’re up and running yet.’

  Angel thanks him for the lift.

  ‘I’ll be heading back to the town hall in a few hours if you want a ride. The truck will be full but you can ride with me in the cab if you don’t mind being squashed in with some other passengers.’

  Angel wants to ask if there would be room for her father, too, but she stops herself. There’s only a slim chance that he is here and if he is in the hospital, there’s no telling how injured he might be. With a heavy heart, Angel strikes out towards the hospital across the churned-up landscape.

  Inside, she’s feeling a whirlwind of emotions. Is this it? Is this when she will finally be reunited with her father? What if he is badly injured? How will she cope with seeing him like that? Even worse, what if he isn’t here at all? Then I will have to try the convention centre and if he isn’t there, then …

  Her fingers creep up to the pearl necklace tucked beneath her shirt. She runs her thumb over the smooth surface and pictures her father, bursting with pride when he gave it to her only days before.

  As she draws closer she can see that the hospital is made up of a whole lot of long, domed structures, like caterpillars lying next to each other in a row. They’re not quite tents, not quite buildings. Something in between.

  As she expected, there is a growing queue of people outside the entrance: some have rough, homemade splints and crutches and bloody bandages. Others who are unable to walk are lying on crude pallets. A doctor is examining them, one by one, directing them this way or that.

  A woman with a blonde ponytail wearing a pale blue hospital uniform hurries past carrying what looks like a giant box of bandages.

  Angel darts forward. ‘Excuse me, can you please help me?’

  The woman looks at her kindly. ‘I’m sorry, sweetie, but you’ll have to join the line and wait your turn.’

  ‘I’m not sick. I’ve been treated already,’ insists Angel. ‘I’m looking for my father. They said he might be here. Please, I need to find him.’

  The woman stops and takes in Angel’s clean bandages and her young face full of desperate hope.

  ‘Come with me then,’ she says quickly. ‘Stay close and don’t touch anything.’

  Together they enter the first tent-like structure. It’s like a proper medical clinic with steel equipment, trolleys laden with supplies and staff moving around purposefully.

  Seated behind a small folding desk is a much younger woman, squinting over a messy pile of papers and a small laptop computer.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Leanne, but this young lady needs some help finding her dad. Can I leave her with you? Got to get these to post-op ASAP.’

  The young woman glances up from her work impatiently, but then she sees Angel and her expression softens.

  ‘Sure. I’ll take over.’

  ‘Thank you,’ stutters Angel to the retreating woman’s ponytail.

  ‘Good luck!’ she calls over her shoulder as she disappears back out the door.

  ‘I’m Leanne,’ says the young nurse. ‘And you are?’

  ‘My name is Angel.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Angel.’

  Even though her heart is thudding in her chest, Angel smi
les shyly. ‘My father is called Juan. I haven’t seen him since the storm.’

  ‘Do you have any other family?’ Leanne asks carefully.

  ‘My mother and brothers went to Samar. I can’t get in touch with them. Nothing is working.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Lots of work’s going into getting communications up again,’ Leanne sighs. ‘It’s a big problem.’

  ‘My father is a good swimmer. He’s a fisherman. He knows how to survive …’ Angel trails off weakly.

  ‘Okay then. Well, we have treated quite a few people already. Some are being moved to proper hospitals, but getting them there isn’t easy so we have a bit of a queue.’ She indicates her pile of papers. ‘The doctors are writing patient details down and I’m transferring it all to a spreadsheet, but as you can see, I’ve a long way to go.’

  ‘Oh please, can you have a look, please?’ Angel’s voice wobbles as the worry and tension starts to overwhelm her.

  ‘I think we can do better than that.’ Leanne steps out from behind the desk. ‘I’m going to take you straight into recovery and we’ll see if we can find him. Do you think you can do that?’

  Angel nods quickly.

  ‘There are some very sick people in there. Are you okay with that?’

  ‘I’m okay with that,’ Angel replies firmly, though she’s not at all sure that she is.

  ‘Now tell me what your dad looks like. How old is he?’

  ‘He is forty-one years old.’

  ‘And what is his build? Is he short or tall? Large or small?’

  Angel tries to picture how other people would see her father.

  ‘He is maybe a head taller than me. And he is thin but very muscly. And oh!’ She suddenly remembers something that sets Juan apart. ‘He has a white streak in his hair. He’s had it since he was a teenager. He says it makes him look distinguished.’ She smiles at the memory and her throat aches from trying not to cry.

  Leanne raises her eyebrows. ‘Right!’ she snaps abruptly. ‘Follow me.’ They push through thick plastic doors and immediately Angel’s nostrils are filled with the sharp tang of disinfectant. The narrow space is lined either side with camp beds, every one of them occupied by a patient. Some of them are unconscious or sleeping and heavily bandaged. A few are hooked up to softly humming machines with blinking red lights. Apart from the occasional beeping it’s eerily quiet after the hustle and bustle outside.

  They begin to move down the centre. Angel glances sideways and sees a woman with thick curly hair fanned out on the pillow. One of her arms rests on the blanket beside her and the other is swathed in bandages but Angel can see the blood soaking through the white cloth.

  Leanne catches her eye.

  ‘There’s a chance we can save her arm,’ she says quietly. ‘We have two operating theatres that should be up and running in the next couple of days.’

  Angel bows her head and focuses on Leanne’s feet as the young nurse leads her on. They continue right down to the end and Leanne stops at the last bed on the left.

  ‘He came in this morning. One of our first patients. He has a badly broken arm and has had a terrible crack on the head so we’re keeping him here. Unfortunately, he hasn’t said anything yet.’

  Angel is almost too frightened to look. Reluctantly, she lifts her gaze to the face on the pillow. One side of the head is covered in bandage, but a thick black thatch of hair is still exposed showing the familiar white streak flaring up from the side part.

  ‘Papa,’ breathes Angel and she steps in closer.

  His eyes flicker open and rest on his daughter as the tears finally spill over and roll down her face.

  ‘You are here,’ he whispers.

  Eleven

  Angel hasn’t let go of Juan’s hand since she found him an hour ago. One of his arms is in plaster and he has suffered a bad concussion, but there is no permanent damage. They have both shed tears of relief, and now Angel begins to tell her father of her miraculous escape.

  ‘I saw her!’ exclaims Juan when Angel describes her rooftop rescue. ‘I caught a glimpse of Mrs Reyes and I pushed you up through the water with all my strength.’ ‘She held on to me, Papa, and she never let go. For hours and hours. She saved me.’

  ‘Thank God she was there,’ sighs Juan.

  ‘And look, Papa, I still have my pearl!’

  ‘You see? I stayed with you, like I said I would.’

  ‘What about you, Papa? What happened to you when the water filled the house?’

  As he recounts his story, Juan fixes his gaze on the ceiling of the tent, as if picturing the traumatic scene from days before.

  ‘I pushed you up but the sea snatched me back and I was sucked down. It was a whirlpool: spinning over and over, bouncing off the walls and the furniture. I have never felt so helpless. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to find the door or a window but I was thrown around so fast. And then I knew I had to get out the same way as you, through the roof, so I swam up and I managed to get a breath or two. But I couldn’t find the opening, just timber and iron. And I wished, oh how I wished that I hadn’t built my walls so strong and my roof so sturdy!’

  They both laugh weakly at that.

  ‘Finally the whole roof came off in one piece and I was dragged out with it. I was so confused, so frightened, being pulled along at such a speed. No control. A car floated past me. A CAR! Then a wooden pallet floated by and I threw myself onto it with the last bit of my strength. Like a big clumsy raft it smashed into things and bounced around in the black swirling water. I clung on for my life.’

  Juan pauses for a moment and winces at the awful memory of it.

  ‘I called out for you, my Angel. I screamed your name. I thought the storm had taken you. And then the pallet smashed into a building, exploding into pieces and I was thrown onto the rooftop where I passed out. And that’s where I woke up.’

  He lies there, eyes closed, taking deep, calming breaths.

  ‘Shall I leave you to sleep, Papa?’ Angel enquires timidly. Juan grips her hand tighter. ‘No, no, not yet. I have to tell you the rest. You must hear this! When I came to, I was on the top of a two-storey building. My head was throbbing and sticky with blood. My arm was terribly painful. I realised that I was on top of a bakery – you know the one beside the jeans shop? More than a kilometre from home. That’s how far the water had swept me! When I stood up I was dizzy and I nearly passed out again from the pain, but I had to get home. I had to find you. So I climbed down through the building and started walking.’

  ‘How did you do it, Papa?’ marvels Angel. ‘How did you manage?’

  ‘I really don’t know. It was all a blur. I cradled my bad arm with my good arm and put one foot in front of the other until I reached the shore. And that’s where I found it.’

  ‘Found what?’

  ‘My bangka! It was still there; upside down, but it looked like it wasn’t badly damaged.’

  ‘I saw it too,’ marvels Angel. ‘I couldn’t believe it had survived.’

  Juan is getting agitated and a sense of urgency is creeping into his raspy voice. ‘Here’s the thing, though. If the boat is still seaworthy – and I think that it is – then we can take it across to Samar and find your mother and brothers. They must be frantic. We need to let them know that we are both alright.’

  Angel does not have the heart to tell him that Samar suffered severe storm damage as well and there are no guarantees that they have survived.

  ‘First you need rest,’ Angel says evenly. ‘You need to regain your strength.’

  Juan is starting to drift off to sleep. ‘We have to find a new engine and motor across to Samar. Soon we will all be together again …’

  Angel holds his hand for a few minutes more, then stands and stretches her stiff limbs. Leanne is watching her from further down the room where she is tending a patient. She beckons her over.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve found each other. Happy endings are thin on the ground at the moment.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’
says Angel.

  ‘Thank the good Samaritan who found him. He came across your father slumped against a boat. He must have passed out from the pain and blood loss and he’d been lying there for some time. This young man looked after him overnight and then somehow managed to get him to the town hall, where they treated him as best they could and brought him here this morning.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Angel in awe. ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘The medic who brought him in just told me the story. No name. Situations like this can bring out the very best in people.’

  ‘And the very worst,’ says Angel softly, thinking of the looters who broke in to Issy’s house. ‘How soon can Papa be released?’

  Leanne touches Angel lightly on the arm. ‘Your father has a very bad concussion. He will be alright, I think, but he won’t be going anywhere for a couple of days.’

  Angel nods silently. The joy of being reunited with Juan evaporates as she is jarred back to the reality of their situation.

  ‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’ asks Leanne. ‘Somewhere safe where you can wait until your father is well enough to look after you?’

  Angel nods again. She can’t trust herself to speak in case she bursts into tears again. What is she going to do now? How is she going to get to Samar on her own?

  Leanne’s voice is full of concern. ‘If not, I know they are setting up safe centres at the town hall for children who haven’t got …’ she hesitates ‘… for children who can’t find their families yet.’

  She may be at a loss about what to do next, but Angel knows that she can’t spend the next few days waiting around for her father to regain his health. If Juan can’t do it, then somehow she must find her mother and brothers herself.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ she assures Leanne. ‘I am staying with my friend’s family at Barangay 18. They have plenty of food and water. I’ll be safe there.’ She deliberately exaggerates the last bit to avoid more questions.

 

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