The Missionary

by Margaret Ferguson

  There came a knock on the door. Mary Beth’s head popped inside, and I smiled, motioning for her to come in. In her arms, she carried a square, wooden box.

  “How’s the patient?”

  “Still not walking.”

  She furrowed her eyebrows as she removed her colorful hijab. “Are you always the glass-half-empty guy?” When I didn’t respond, she looked around. “Where’s Abraham?”

  “He said he needed to help his mother with some things.”

  After placing a pillow where Abraham had the night before, she slid down the wall, landing on it. A moment later she set the wooden box in my lap.

  “What’s this?”

  “A gift,” she replied meekly.

  Slowly I turned it in my hands.

  “Go ahead. Open it.” She pulled the scarves from around her hair, releasing a mass of black curls.

  I unlatched it and grinned. My hands found a compartment on one side, and I slid it out. “Thank you.” My fingers traced the delicately carved pieces. “Do you play?”

  “No,” she replied, eyes averted. “My husband did.”

  “Henry?”

  Mary Beth looked up suddenly.

  “Denice told me.”

  Her eyes moved to her fingers that were nervously toying with a string of loose yarn in the lining of her sweater. “Yeah,” she smiled sadly. “Henry loved playing chess. I wanted to learn, but he’d always get so frustrated when he’d try to teach me. I just couldn’t seem to get it. He taught Abraham, though. Said he was pretty good, too,” she added, reaching over to show me more. “And see, there are checkers, and if you turn the board over, there’s backgammon.” Her eyes met mine. “Now you don’t have to be bored all day long.”

  I put the pieces back inside and closed it before turning to her. “Thank you. It was really kind of you. I promise I’ll return it before I leave.”

  Mary Beth smiled sweetly, her eyes still not meeting mine. “No. I want you to have it.”

  I found myself nodding as I exhaled. “Thank you.” My fingers lightly brushed the polished hand-cut wood. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

  Mary Beth drew in a deep breath, opened her mouth like she wanted to say something then changed her mind. She slapped her legs. “Okay, so today we’re going to start moving you around.” She stood up. “If you were in a hospital in the States, this would have been an outpatient treatment, and we would have already sent you home.” She looked around. “And since we apparently couldn’t do that, you got the next best thing.” Mary Beth held out her hands.

  I looked around, unsure what she meant. Then suddenly I glanced up at her. “Is this your home?”

  “Yeah, I would have swept before moving you in, but you didn’t give us much warning.”

  “You gave up your place for me?”

  “Had to. The Holiday Inn up the street was all booked up.” She walked to the small table, slid a large bag from across her shoulder and began taking things out of it.

  “You’ve done so much for me,” I said meekly. “And I haven’t exactly been the easiest patient.”

  As she turned, she gave me a sharp, playful glare. “No. You haven’t. But I forgive you.”

  “What’s all that?” I asked, straining to see what she had in her hands.

  When she turned around, she tossed me a tennis ball. I caught it mid-air and then rolled it in my fingers. “Nice. But I don’t think it will help my leg.”

  “Not yet. But it will help your shoulder. I want you to squeeze it as often as you can, as hard as you can. It’s not much, but it’s a start. I use it mostly to rehab hands and arms, but it’ll help your leg soon enough.”

  I squeezed it as she spoke. I could feel a tinge of pain with each gesture, but it wasn’t something I couldn’t handle. Then she tossed me a broad exercise band. I’d used these plenty before when rehabbing from other injuries and surgeries.

  “We’ll use that to strengthen your shoulder, too.” I put my arm in it like it was a sling as she walked to me, arms crossed. Shaking her head. “That’s not exactly what I meant.” She knelt beside me and uncovered my leg. Her hand gently slid under my thigh and raised it just slightly, placing a pillow beneath my knee. Carefully she took off the dressing and then pressed all around the wound, all the while nodding to herself.

  “How’s the view from down there?” I grinned, tongue-in-cheek.

  “Looking good. Though you definitely need a bath.”

  I felt my face get hot as my smile faded.

  “I’ll try and make that happen tomorrow.”

  I nodded with sudden embarrassment.

  “I’m down to betadine, hydrogen peroxide, and alcohol if I have to treat it. Missing our supply run hurt us, hurt us badly. I used the last of my triple antibiotic on you yesterday. And I’m almost out of penicillin. I could use that and a few other things that would help your wound close up quicker.”

  I reached around my bedding, pulled out my medical bag and tossed it to her. “Use whatever you need.” I watched as she unzipped it and dug through it, her eyes widening. “And you can keep the rest. It’s the least I can do for using up all of your supplies.”

  The surprise on her face was priceless. She pulled items out one at a time—scissors and thermometers, tourniquets, a variety of medications, surgical equipment. There was even a stethoscope. “Thank you,” she managed to say, eyes glistening. “I can’t believe you had all this.” Mary Beth shook her head. “You were holding onto it so tightly when we found you. I never imagined…”

  “Hey, it’s just stuff,” I said nonchalantly.

  I caught her discreetly wiping tears away, as she scoured through the bag. A moment later, she turned, holding a vial in her hand. “Do you know how hard it is for me to get this? What I can treat with this? How many people I can help with this one bottle?”

  I had no clue.

  I watched as she put everything back into the bag, drew a deep breath and then wiped her eyes again. As she walked to me and knelt by my side, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Her delicate hand pulled back my garment, making sure she didn’t pull it back too far. For a moment, our eyes were locked on one another’s, and she smiled sweetly, before breaking the stare.

  She sat beside my injured leg and began to slide my heel slowly toward my thigh. The muscle was so tight that it was hard to do. Not to mention painful. But she gently brought it as far as I could tolerate, then slid it back, repeating the action several times. She moved to the other leg to see what my range of motion was before turning back to my injured leg and repeating the exercise, sliding my foot a little further back each time. We did this for about thirty minutes until she glanced at me and saw the sweat on my brow.

  “Okay, that’s enough on that leg, for now,” she said. Then she moved to my other side and motioned for me to remove my tunic. When I looked at her perplexed, she raised her eyebrows. “You want to get better, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I said, slowly removing my shirt, once again giving myself a whiff of my stench. I couldn’t raise my left arm as high, so Mary Beth helped me take it the rest of the way off.

  She made an exaggerated face at the smell. “And we’ll send your clothes out for a good laundering while we’re at it.”

  “Who’ll do that?” I inquired.

  “I’ll pay one of the locals,” she offered.

  “I’d reimburse you, but I left my wallet in my bunk at the base. Didn’t think I’d need it.”

  “How convenient,” she said. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that excuse?”

  I chuckled as her warm hands slowly maneuvered my arm. Gently she moved me away from the wall so that she could rotate my shoulder forward and backward. “It was a running joke between Henry and me. Before we were married, he would always ask me out, and then he’d conveniently forget his wallet.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Was he that forgetful?”

  “I think it was more that he was frugal. I was the one with a job, trying to p
ut myself through nursing school when we met. He was a trust fund baby.”

  There was a long, painful pause that I felt compelled to interrupt. “Tell me more.”

  She stopped moving my arm for a moment, and then slowly started again.

  “I’m sorry. You don’t have to—.”

  “Henry was kind and generous,” she interrupted. I watched her face as she struggled with what to say next. When she looked at me, she smiled sweetly.

  “Except when it came to buying your dinner.”

  “Yeah, except then,” Mary Beth chuckled. “Henry was a crusader. He wanted to save the world—to feed the hungry, end polio, squash out poverty.”

  “Wow. No wonder you fell in love with him.”

  “Actually, at first, I thought he was arrogant and self-centered.”

  “Really,” I smiled wryly.

  “Yup. Met in the University library. We had both reserved a study cubicle at the same time. A scheduling mix-up. But he insisted that he needed it more than I did because he was studying for some test. I explained that I was studying for an exam, too. I still don’t know to this day how he won that one.”

  “Your first fight.”

  She stopped moving my shoulder again. “Yeah, that was our first fight,” she narrowed her brow, remembering. “How about that. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before. I could have used that a thousand times on him.”

  “So, how did he get you to go out with him since he was such a jerk?”

  Carefully, she helped me slide my arm into a fresh shirt. “Henry had my name, from the library reservation list, looked me up, found my dorm and brought me a dozen roses and a box of expensive chocolates.” She sat staring upward, her whole face smiling as she remembered.

  “How did he do on his test?”

  “He nailed it. Ended up on the dean’s list.”

  “How about you?”

  Her face fell as she looked at me. “I barely passed. But it was my own fault,” she defended as she stood and walked back to the table and proceeded to collect her things. “I was so mad, I didn’t get any studying done.”

  “But then he won your heart.”

  Her smile grew. “Yeah. He did.” She continued to stuff her belongings back into the medical bag I’d just given her. As she turned, she moved to my side. Dropping everything at my feet, she knelt quickly, then leaned over and kissed me gently on my scruffy cheek. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything,” she beamed. “For this.” She held up the medical bag.

  “Thank you,” I said looking into her eyes. “For the games,” I added abruptly. I watched her walk away. “Mary Beth?”

  She turned, tilting her head as she wrapped the scarves around her face.

  “I’d love to teach you how to play chess.”

  Though I couldn’t see her lips smiling, I was sure I saw it in her eyes. Then she turned and once again, she was gone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I didn’t sleep much that night, from Abraham’s soft snoring, to the barking of the neighborhood dogs, to the things that kept playing through my mind. By now, the Army probably had told my family that I was missing and presumed dead. I’d been here over a week and had heard no helicopter or recovery aircraft. So, I was certain the wreckage of the helo was still smoldering at the base of the mountain, with the remains of my crew and little chance of recovery anytime soon. I’m tormented by what I remember. Haunted by what I don’t. I’ve seen so much in my years in the Army. Until now, I’ve never felt helpless.

  It’s the worst feeling in the world.

  Every day I held up hope that my unit would slam through the door and rescue me. Although it wouldn’t be a rescue since, technically, I was free to leave at any time. I was just unable to walk out of here on my own.

  Abraham snorted and rolled over. He was a good kid. He’d seen much in his fifteen years. More than any child should. My life was a cakewalk, next to his. I contemplated trying to get him and his family out of here—a thought that lasted all of two seconds. Afghanistan was his home. My taking him from it would be more to make me feel better than him. It’s called the hero complex. Rescue him. Make his life better. But who was I to do that? I knew deep down it was unreasonable. It wasn’t practical. He’d been so selfless in how he’d helped me. How could I ever repay that?

  The last of the candlelight flickered against the wall, triggering more memories, or were they just visions? So many snippets, from the fall, to my waking up here. Pieces that I couldn’t put together in the puzzle in my mind. The flame sputtered, sending shape-shifting shadows around me dancing on the wall. I tried to maneuver myself so that I was on my side—how I preferred to sleep. But Mary Beth kept me on my back, insisting that, for now, it was best.

  I decided to stop arguing with her. It wasn’t her fault I was here. She was merely trying to help. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was damned frustrating! I turned my head as the last of the flame died, but not before seeing myself, again, in a cave, the light from the fire pulling me toward it. I closed my eyes, trying to remember. And, when I opened them again, Amanda was beside me, her face close to mine; her breath warm and familiar on my cheek.

  “Everything will be okay.” Just a whisper.

  My hand tentatively moved to her face, caressing it. Rediscovering it. Then, she smiled and opened her eyes. However, something was different. I looked deeper into them. Searching.

  “Everything will be okay.”

  Something was different. Something was—off. Searching… And then, all of a sudden, it was more than her eyes that I saw. When I looked down, she was naked in my arms. I held her tightly as her hands moved over my body, rubbing it, warming it. She kissed me—gently—warming my face and my hands in hers. Yet, when she pulled away, it wasn’t Amanda’s face that I saw. It wasn’t her eyes that I saw. They were Mary Beth’s. Her intense eyes penetrated my very soul; dark, mystical eyes staring back at me as her body warmed mine beneath the blankets that smelled of goat and sweat.

  I rubbed my face, trying to erase the vision. It wasn’t possible. I had been delusional. That’s what it was. Mary Beth said I had a fever. That must be it. And yet, it had felt real. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t friggin’ stop thinking about her. Those incredible eyes were not just distracting me, they were taunting me. Every time I closed mine, it was hers I saw. So, I finally stopped fighting it.

  And as I closed them once more, I walked to her and took her in my arms. I was no longer injured. I was no longer lost. My hand slowly pulled the scarf from her face and I looked at her as though for the first time. My fingers traced her cheeks as I pulled her close and we embraced—gently at first, then more intensely. I took my time undressing her. And as we lay naked by the firelight, our hands lingered, mine exploring every inch of her. We drank of one another’s lips, unable to get enough. Our passion consumed us, as we fulfilled one another’s need before drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When I was young, visiting our grandparent’s farm, just outside Tishomingo, Oklahoma, on the Chickasaw Nation, was always the highlight of our summer. First, because we’d each get to go alone. So, for one week, every summer, I didn’t have to share my grandparents with my four siblings. I didn’t have to compete for the chicken leg or the last piece of blackberry cobbler. I’d get the first bowl of homemade peach ice cream, and, could gather eggs without being ambushed by one of my sisters or my brother. Those were great memories. One summer, my grandparents tried having us all come at the same time. And though I wasn’t privy to the conversation when my mom picked us up, I did remember hearing my grandmother say, “never again.” We’d bickered and fought the whole time, and no one had any fun, especially my grandparents.

  After a homemade dinner, each night my grandmother would let me bathe in an old metal horse trough outside, on the rock porch under the hundred-year-old oak trees. And I loved it! Mostly, because it was like having my own personal s
wimming pool. I could play unhindered until I was pink and wrinkled and ready for bed. The alternative was the bucket. The bathtub in the old farmhouse leaked and the wood flooring had begun rotting years before I was even born. Therefore, anyone who chose to bathe indoors was subjected to our grandmother sponge washing us, using an old rag that felt like steel wool scraping our bodies; as we stood in an old pickle bucket that she kept in the tub.

  So, when Mary Beth carried in an old bucket and a washcloth, chills ran down my spine. Of course, had she offered to bathe me herself, I would have willingly suffered through the traumatic memories. Only, I knew that would never happen. We were two unmarried individuals in a Muslim land. The fact that we had been alone in the same building more than once was taboo enough. I’m sure that’s why Abraham, and the young boy who conveniently appeared whenever Abraham was gone, were there. It was a tradition that had spanned centuries and had worked, seemingly, for this culture. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to see a little more than a woman’s eyes, or at least have a conversation with her before I contemplate if I want to date her, much less spend the rest of my life with her.

  I guess I looked a little too perplexed, or maybe it was disappointment that she read in my expression, because she grinned mischievously.

  “We at least warmed it up for you.”

  “Do you have any instructions, because I’m really at a loss as to how this is supposed to work.”

  “Just don’t get any on my floor,” she teased.

  I gave her a frustrated glare. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Never doubted that for a moment.” She turned and took a bar of soap and a razor from a small shelf in her makeshift kitchen. “I don’t suggest you shave it all off, just in case we have any encounters with anyone outside the village. You’re a stranger, but you’ll be easier to explain if you look more like them.”

  “So,” I began. “If we do have any encounters, as you say, what are you going to tell them? Who will you say I am?”