“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said.
“I’ve got this,” I told her.
Still, she accompanied me to a ladies’ room inside the terminal, where I washed my wounds and tossed my ripped clothing into the trash, an unceremonious conclusion to my last four months in South Sudan.
Within the hour, Lieutenant Triebel and I were streaking toward Entebbe, Uganda. There, we boarded another flight, this one bound for the U.S. Air Force base in Ramstein, Germany.
I slept hard on the plane and had violent dreams that I couldn’t remember whenever I was awoken to eat. I had no appetite for food. Instead, I looked out at the clouds and formed the thought, Lord? Was this Your plan?
Even if I had been delusional when I’d last “spoken” with God, I wanted to feel His presence again. But all I heard was my own anxious chatter visiting every front: past, present, and unknowable future. Where am I going? What will happen next?
Lieutenant Triebel had shaken out her hair and was putting on a sleep mask when I touched her arm.
“Brigid. You okay?”
I asked, “What will happen to Zuberi?”
She said, “I don’t know. Maybe he’ll fall out of a helicopter. Or maybe that just wouldn’t be bad enough for that bastard.”
Twelve hours after we left Uganda, we landed at Ramstein. Lieutenant Triebel accompanied me to the base hospital, where I was kept overnight for observation. In the morning, the doctor said, “Surprisingly, you’re good to go.”
Triebel and I were driven to a square, stucco-faced house within rows of identical houses close to the base. I was given a key to the upstairs apartment, and Triebel had the apartment below.
“Right now, my job is all about you,” she said, turning the key in the lock. “Whatever you need, I’ll do my best to make it happen. Tomorrow, you need to brief some government men on whatever you know about Zuberi. After that, just do what makes you happy. Here’s a tablet and a phone, Brigid. Call someone you love.”
Chapter 46
I CALLED Tori, my dear school friend, living with her husband in Rome.
As soon as I heard her sweet voice, I broke down.
I burbled into the mouthpiece about the crucifix she had given me, how the chain had stopped the blade at my neck. She got the gist of what had gone down and comforted me. Her husband, Marty, got on the phone after that and said, “You should get a medal. Or a town named after you. Brigidsville.”
Finally, I laughed.
Then Marty said, “Zachary is in New York. You want his number? Or should I give him yours?”
I called and got Zach’s outgoing voice mail.
“I’m on assignment in New York. Leave a message, and I’ll call back.”
I spoke into my phone: “Yank. It’s Red. I’m in Ramstein, Germany, calling to say hello.”
I was both disappointed and relieved that Zach hadn’t answered, but he called back at three in the morning his time.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I was kicked out of Africa for my own good,” I told him.
“I’ll come to Ramstein,” he said.
“Funny, Zach, but, seriously, that makes no sense.”
Zach said, “You keep fending me off, Brigid. Why? You know you want to see me. I’ve grown a beard.”
I told him that I was the guest of the U.S. Air Force at present, and I sketched in some of what had gone down in Magwi. After answering a couple of questions, I changed the subject by asking Zach to tell me about his New York assignment.
“I’m tailing the Yankees. It’s that time of year.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Keep my phone number handy,” he said. “I return calls at night. Brigid. Please take care.”
After we hung up, I went to the beautiful, white-tiled bathroom, turned on the shower, and got inside. I sat in the corner of the tub, soaking my wounds while doing my rounds of Magwi Clinic in my mind. I said good-bye to all the patients and volunteers and especially to Obit. I hugged Sabeena, and then I sobbed for a long time under the hot water.
When I got out of the shower, I felt, at the very least, clean. The apartment had a stocked fridge, a television, a bookcase, an excellent shower, and a soft bed. I wanted for nothing.
I went to my knees at the side of my bed. I folded my hands and closed my eyes.
Dear God, if You can hear me, I humbly thank You for saving my life. Please protect Sabeena, Albert, Dr. Susan, and everyone at Magwi Clinic. And put Your arms around Kwame, who was so brave. I hope he found Carrot and took him home. Amen.
Chapter 47
I WAS still dazed by all that had happened when, the next morning, I was taken to Ramstein for a series of debriefings. I told various officials from several American agencies all that I knew about Zuberi. And I was briefed in return.
Fantastic news.
Sabeena, Albert, and Dr. Susan had all been evacuated from Magwi. I was given a box of my things from my room at the clinic. My hands shook as I opened the box and found my well-traveled leather hobo bag with my actual credentials inside, along with my nubby sweater. Under the sweater, wrapped in my jeans, was my journal, with a note just inside the cover.
Mission accomplished. Best regards, J. Gurney, Captain, U.S. Army
I was overjoyed for the news of my friends’ safety. And I was ecstatic to have my journal back in my hands. This euphoria lasted until I was back inside my temporary apartment.
Then my new reality set in.
After the few meetings at the base, I had nothing but time to myself. I was invited out, but going from the takedown in Magwi to restaurants with strangers was just a bridge too far.
I copied my old journal onto my new tablet, added new entries, and wrote for long hours at a time, and I drank. Quite a bit.
I was safe and I was comfortable and it was a luxury to drink as much as it took to dull the pain in my heart. But after drinking and moping for far longer than was good for me, something finally snapped. I was sick of myself. Really. What a joke to indulge myself in self-pity. Me. This thought led to the next.
I had had purpose in Africa.
Whether I’d returned to Africa because of the voice of God or my own need to do something worthwhile, I had gone. I had helped people. My life had had meaning. I’d stood up to Zuberi and helped to bring him down.
Who was I now?
That night, I was drinking my dinner and watching TV.
Most of it was stupid, but while watching the news, I learned about MERS, an infectious disease that, after killing thousands in Saudi Arabia, had spread to Europe.
MERS was a freaking stealthy virus. No one knew how it spread-was it airborne? food borne? It was entirely inconsistent. One person could be struck with severe pneumonia, and another would be asymptomatic until just before death.
The World Health Organization had issued a report on MERS saying that this disease had a mortality rate of almost 40 percent, that there was no known effective cure, and that there were reasonable concerns that MERS would become a pandemic.
A pandemic?
I ran downstairs and banged on Karen Triebel’s door.
She had cream on her face. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. She tied the sash of her robe.
“Brigid?”
“You know about MERS, Karen? I’m actually an expert on infectious diseases,” I told her. “Please hook me up with a hospital or, better yet, a clinic.”
“Let me see what I can do,” she said.
Chapter 48
BECAUSE OF my new military connection, an apartment was waiting for me when I arrived in Berlin. It was a wonderfully crazy little place, with bright colors and patterns, big windows, and a spun-glass chandelier over the dining table. The bedroom was huge, with a bed so large, it could have slept four, and, best of all, it had a balcony off the living room with a fifth-floor view of the park.