Stuck in Manistique

by Dennis Cuesta

  I sat up front with him and explained that we needed to detour to the orphanage.

  His eyes narrowed on me for a brief second, then he pushed hard on the accelerator. I looked back at the hotel, pock-marked and dreary. I missed it already.

  At the orphanage, Ratko translated for me. “I’m going to take Emela to her relatives in Croatia.”

  The women shook their heads. “Ne. Ne!”

  “Didn’t you arrange this with them?” Ratko asked me.

  I shook my head. “Just tell them that it’s what her mother would have wanted.”

  Ratko translated.

  They said no again and started rambling angrily and gesturing for us to leave.

  We started for the door. “How important is this to you?” Ratko asked me.

  “Very.”

  Ratko stopped, said something sternly. His tone obviously threatening. The women immediately fell silent and retreated a few shuffled steps. One of them said, “Samo Emela?”

  “Samo Emela,” Ratko replied.

  She left, went up the stairs, and came back down with the precious girl.

  I placed my hand on Ratko’s arm. “Thank you. Do I want to know what you said to them?”

  Ratko shook his head.

  “Why this girl?” he asked as we drove off. I was sitting in back now with Emela, holding her hand. He deserved to know.

  We arrived in Split without incident. Before we parted, Ratko told me to try a refugee camp in Markaska if I couldn’t find them in Split.

  “Thanks for getting us out,” I said to him. Then, very gravely, he thanked me for coming and invited me to return to “beautiful Sarajevo” in a decade or so.

  Marie was happy to hear that I was safely out of Sarajevo when I phoned her. I didn’t mention Emela, a serious violation of MSF rules. Marie told me the new doctors were arriving that day. I was both glad and scared for them.

  The little girl accompanied me without protest to the various camps in and around the city. She had sad, roving eyes, conscious of the misery and hopelessness all around. The camps were overcrowded, and more refugees came in each day, though the Croatian soldier at the border had told us that refugees were going to be turned back soon. With no luck finding Emela’s relatives in Split, we headed south for Markaska the next day.

  Markaska proved more organized. When I asked about Emela’s family, an aid worker pulled out a list. Very fortunately, her relatives were on the list. The large camp had endless rows of blue and white tents. Men gathered in small groups, smoking, a sort of pleading despair on their faces, and women worked around their temporary homes, washing clothes and tamping down dirt; kids played soccer between rows of tents. A refugee there who knew some English assisted me with locating the family and translating.

  Outside a low tent, I spoke to Emela’s relative, her mother’s cousin. I told him how Emela’s mother had died in the shell attack waiting for water. His head fell, and he shook it slowly, and then he mumbled something.

  “Emela means a lot to me.” I didn’t explain that I felt responsible for her mother’s death, only that I had found her in an orphanage near the edge of Sarajevo. “I’m glad to have found you.”

  He explained that he had four young children of his own. He shook his head again, his eyes avoiding Emela, who was playing with her cousins, running around in the dirt. There was a smile on her face.

  “Are you going back to Sarajevo?”

  I shook my head. “No, to the United States for a little while.”

  “You take her. Nothing good here.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Yes, to America.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not allowed to.”

  “Please.”

  I turned to Emela, still playing in the dirt. The camp was abysmal, but it wasn’t any worse than other refugee camps I had been in. She’d certainly be cared for here. I could have left and that would have been that. But my conscience was not at ease. Her mother’s desperate face kept appealing to me in my head. Would I leave my own child here? So I foolishly promised to get her to the United States.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When Emily woke up, disoriented, it was dark and quiet. She sorted slumber’s fiction from yesterday’s drama, certain only of the gloom that surrounded her. She sat up, realizing she had fallen asleep on top of the covers, and as she rubbed her face, it all came back quickly. She checked the time on her phone. It was 2:53. Thirsty, she clutched the glass on the nightstand, but it was empty. She headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  She saw the light filtering up from the basement, and for a second considered turning back. She stepped softly to the water dispenser in the refrigerator door, and as she filled her glass, she listened for any sounds of movement, wondering why Mark was up so late. She deliberately re-ran their last encounter. A combination of sorrow, shame, and anger depressed her. The two of them had something there between them, even if she couldn’t definitively pinpoint it. Ruined now, whatever it was, she concluded as the water brimmed. She carefully moved the glass to her lips and took a sip.

  As she started the climb back to her room, she considered sneaking out in the morning without ever seeing him again.

  The front door creaked open. Surprised, she jerked and nearly spilled her water. The moonlight barely entered the room through the front window, and she could make out only a silhouette—Mark’s silhouette.

  She briefly considered staying still against the wall of the dark stairs, but decided to speak instead. “What are you doing?”

  “Aaah!” Mark gasped. “I didn’t see you there,” he whispered.

  “Sorry,” she whispered back.

  He approached the stairs, a dark figure with an obscure face. “What are you doing?”

  “I asked you first.”

  He let out a burst of breath. “I went for a run.”

  “At two in the morning?” she asked sharply.

  “Yeah, I needed to relieve some energy. I stayed up reading Vivian’s story.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to fully digest—come downstairs for a minute.”

  Emily’s distance melted. She couldn’t help it. It was as if they’d both just gone to Sarajevo and come back together. After considering it for a few seconds, she followed him.

  In the basement living room, Mark explained the letters he’d received from Vivian when he was a child. “The last one I ever got was from Sarajevo in 1992.” They were standing near the couch. Doctors on the Borderline was closed on the coffee table.

  “You never heard from her again?”

  Mark shook his head. “Nope.” He blinked rapidly several times. “I tried contacting her when my mom died a few years ago, but I wasn’t able to reach her.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I’m glad I got to read that. I never would’ve seen it if you hadn’t pointed it out. It would’ve been tossed away. Just another book to box up for an estate sale.”

  Emily smiled. “Well I’m glad you did.”

  “And the end was surreal,” he added excitedly. “It’s crazy that you’re part of that story.”

  “I know! I told you.”

  “I know, I know. It just didn’t hit me entirely until I read it. . . . I’m so sorry about your mother. I didn’t realize it while I read it, but when I finally did get it, it hit me hard.” His eyes glistened.

  “Thank you.”

  “You must think I’m a jerk.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Of course you do.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “I should have told you up front that Vivian had died.”

  “The truth is, you were right. I wouldn’t have stayed here. And if I hadn’t stayed here, I wouldn’t have read that book.”

  He sighed. “I shouldn’t have judged you. It was wrong of me.”

  He sounded sincere. “No, that was my fault,” she countered. “I let you in when I told you about that night at the hospital.” She shook her head. “I certainly didn’t
expect him to show up here.”

  “Neither did I,” he said with wide eyes.

  She let out an abbreviated laugh. “I obviously wouldn’t have told you his real name.”

  “But then I couldn’t have made fun of it.”

  Emily shook her head and plunked onto the couch. “You know, deep down, I’ve always felt responsible for Nicholas’s death. But I’ve always gotten past it by blaming others.”

  “You mean Dr. Butcher.”

  “Yes, and even Dr. Olsen.”

  “What ever happened to him?”

  Emily’s head drooped. “He quit. He moved back home with his parents.”

  “He quit being a doctor?”

  She nodded. “It’s a shame. But I’ve had thoughts—” She stopped.

  “Of what? Quitting?”

  She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  Mark sat down next to her. “You’re a good doctor, a great doctor. You helped two people today.”

  She stared off. “But none of that makes up for what happened that night.”

  “There’s nothing that can be done about that now.”

  “Maybe not.” She stood up. “It’s late—or early. Whichever. I’m going back to bed.”

  Mark yawned and stood up, too. He stepped toward her, put his arm around her and pulled her into an embrace. It felt strange and uncomfortable at first, and she stood there with dangling arms. But the way he held her, it lacked sensuality. It reminded her of her brother. When was the last time Kyle hugged me? . . . She shut her eyes and hugged him back.

  “I’m sorry for being an idiot this whole time,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  When they let each other go, he said, “I don’t give hugs to all the guests, you know.”

  Emily chuckled, then whisked a developing tear from her eye. “I bet Yvonne wouldn’t mind.”

  Mark laughed. “Don’t be so sure. She and Bear Foot . . ."

  “Yeah. How did that happen?”

  He shook his head. “Beats me. He’s head over heels, it seems. God knows why.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Upstairs, in Breakwater Lighthouse. Bear Foot’s driving her back to Green Bay tomorrow.”

  “Is he with her?”

  “What kind of hotel do you think this is?”

  Emily laughed.

  “It’s got nothing to do with me! Law of Michigan,” he announced.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Fawlty Towers. Never mind. By the way, do you know why Dr. Butcher keeps calling me Pastor? Does he think this is a church-run hostel or something?”

  Emily shook her head and shrugged. “You call him Butcher, he calls you Pastor.”

  “Weird . . . anyway, Bear Foot will be back in the morning to get Yvonne.”

  “So how’s Peter getting back?”

  “Driving.”

  “He can’t! At least not yet.”

  “How long?”

  “It depends.”

  Mark scratched his head. “Well this place is shutting down tomorrow. I’ve got a flight to catch. He’ll have to move to the Cozy Inn.”

  Emily nodded, said good night, and walked back up to her room. Slipping under the covers, she felt good and optimistic and calm, glad they had reconciled.

  Feelings for Mark? No, she didn’t think so, but she did wonder if he had any for her.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mark awoke awash in war, amongst the besieged, running from a sniper’s bullet, ducking exploding shells, carrying a little girl out of the Valley of Death. It took a minute for him to disentangle himself from the night, a night full of blurry, swirling dreams. The intertwining of it all—Emily and Vivian and Sarajevo— kept circling back as fantastically impossible. And at the brief point where dream and real life were yet unsorted, that improbable coincidence seemed to belong on the side of persistent dream.

  Mark got up off the couch and stopped the alarm on his phone. He had set it for six thirty and purposely placed it far away. Standing in the drab light of morning, he groggily thought about Emily, the massive coincidence that brought her to this house. Or was it fate? Either way, he had an extraordinary connection with her. And they’d soon be living near each other in Chicago. Again, fate or another unlikely coincidence?

  He stretched before heading up the stairs, breakfast to be made. He was a little eager, which he would have admitted to no one. Breakfast was his meal specialty. He had inherited a scrumptious French toast recipe from an ex-girlfriend who was obsessed with it, and he could make eggs ten different ways, a skill he’d learned from his mother.

  Before embarking on breakfast for five—or six if Bear Foot joined (”See you tomorrow morning,” he had said)—Mark entered the dining room expecting to find George reading his book under a flashlight. But he wasn’t there, and a rush of worry struck him. He dashed to the front door. Locked. George was still sleeping, he thought, and he was glad the old man was getting some rest.

  Back in the kitchen, Mark opened the oven, which he had left ajar for two nights with slices of bread spread over the racks inside. Antithetical to the original purpose of pain perdu, he knew. He poked the bread, satisfied with its staleness. He gathered the ingredients: cognac, orange juice, a lemon, vanilla extract, eggs, butter, milk, nutmeg, cinnamon, sugar, and salt.

  After a quick shower and shave, Mark returned upstairs and repeated the routine: checking for George, checking that the door was still locked. Good, no chasing the streets for the old man.

  He removed the bread from the oven and set the temperature to four hundred. He lined a cookie sheet with foil, laid strips of bacon on it, and set it in the oven. He placed a pan on the stove and started cooking the sausages. As he quietly whisked the eggs and added the other items, he heard faint steps creak from the second floor. He hoped it was George or Emily. He didn’t want to see to Yvonne this early—or alone. And certainly not Peter.

  A few minutes later, the footsteps upstairs quieted. The muffled noise of a shower began. Then a knock sounded on the front door. Dr. Butcher eagerly coming for Emily, he wondered. But it wasn’t even eight o’clock.

  As he approached the door, he made out Bear Foot through the window and opened the door wide. “Good morning,” he said softly. “There are still people sleeping.”

  Bear Foot nodded and stepped gingerly into the house. He removed his shoes and followed Mark into the kitchen. “You’re still planning on driving Yvonne back to Green Bay?” Mark asked.

  Bear Foot nodded. “Yep. Washed my truck and cleaned the inside and everything.”

  Mark nodded deliberately. “You seem, I don’t know, struck by—”

  “How did you know? Is my face still pale? I barely slept last night.”

  Mark shook his head. “No, you look fine. I only thought that after watching you with her last night.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Yvonne. Who else?”

  “Oh, I thought you meant struck by another vision. Because I was.”

  “Another one? Did Vivian not like where we set her on the lake?” Mark chuckled.

  “No, no it wasn’t her,” he answered seriously. “It was a man. Just a voice, strangely familiar though.”

  “A man? What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Stay in Manistique.’ He said it twice.”

  “Just a voice?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not much of a vision,” Mark said, amused.

  “I was lying in bed in the dark,” he replied gravely.

  “And you’re still planning on taking Yvonne to Green Bay . . ."

  Bear Foot sighed. “Yes.”

  Mark played along. “You think it’s wise, given your vision?”

  “It might not have been meant for me. I might only be a messenger.”

  “Messenger?”

  “It’s meant for someone else.”

  “Who?”

  He shook his head, his eyebrows knitted. His voice
drifted lower, “I don’t know.” Then he snapped his thick fingers. “It sounded like that old guy.”

  “What old guy?”

  “The one who won’t eat pie out of the tin.”

  “George?”

  “Yeah, George. It sounded a lot like him, only different.”

  Mark grabbed a slice of bread and dunked it in the egg mixture. “He’s upstairs. You can ask him about it when he comes down.”

  “French toast?”

  “Yes. Would you like some?”

  Bear Foot nodded eagerly. “Yes!”

  Mark turned the gas stove on and set it to medium low. He got out a pan and cut a piece of butter, sliding it into the pan.

  “Go have a seat in the dining room, and I’ll bring it out in a few minutes. Care for some orange juice or coffee?”

  Bear Foot nodded. “Coffee, yes.” He grabbed a mug and set it under the machine.

  “You know how to use that?”

  Bear Foot nodded. He grabbed a pod out of the drawer and swiftly set it. “Vivian bought this machine only a month ago. She showed me how it works. It’s fancy.”

  Mark nodded. The machine poured out Bear Foot’s coffee. He took a sip before heading to the dining room.

  The floor above creaked again. Mark didn’t care if Yvonne came down now that Bear Foot was there, but he thought it was probably George.

  Several minutes later, Emily emerged.

  “This looks good,” Bear Foot said as Mark served him the toast. “Thank you.”

  “Bacon will be out in a couple minutes,” he said. “Good morning,” he added to Emily. She was dressed. Her hair was wet, flat, combed down.

  “Good morning.” She smiled.

  “French toast, or would you like eggs?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Right, of course,” Mark said and retreated into the kitchen. He was hit with a twinge of nervousness. There was an intimacy between them, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

  Mark returned with Emily’s coffee. “What are your plans for today?”

  She took a sip. “I need to get my car this morning and then deal with my little problem at the Cozy Inn.”

  He resisted a smile, heartened that she’d referred to Dr. Butcher as a “problem.”