For a second I was worried she couldn’t answer, but she took a deep breath and said, “You know when I was in the army I tried to join the Special Forces?”
“Of course. Everyone knows that. I read it in People magazine.”
I could almost feel her glare through the darkness. “Less sarcasm, more listening, Kowalski.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, glad to have irritated her. Anger made you warm.
“I thought I was some kind of badass. So I signed up. As part of the training they taught us mental techniques for how to endure physical strain. They did this thing where we had to stand holding our rifle above our heads for, I don’t know, forever. You ever try to hold something above your head for a long time?”
“No.”
“It’s fucking awful. The Stoics never tried to join the Special Forces, I’ll tell you that much. Anyway. One of the other tricks is to think of what you win if you endure. Something concrete. That’s why I dropped out. You were supposed to think about joining the Special Forces, that was what you won. But I realized, I didn’t actually want to be a Green Beret, I just wanted to have been a Green Beret. Not the same thing.” She sucked in a harsh breath. Her voice was growing increasingly slurred. “Sorry. Babbling. My point is. You keep thinking about your girlfriend. You get through this, you get her.”
I realized that Lisa was near the end of her considerable strength.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked, hoping to help her tap into a new reserve.
For some time she didn’t answer. I was about to repeat myself when she said, in an uncertain voice unlike any I’d heard before from her, “That’s the fucking question, isn’t it? I got no one waiting for me back home. Between you and me and the big guy, all I got right now is the rosary.”
“The rosary?”
“In my head. Except I can’t remember the fucking Apostle’s Creed.”
After a second I began to recite, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried… “
She spoke it along with me. We were both panting at first, barely audible, but our joined voices grew stronger.
“I figured you for atheist,” she said, when we were done.
“I am,” I admitted, oddly embarrassed. “But I grew up Catholic.”
“They say there are no atheists in a foxhole.”
“They are of course full of shit.”
She managed a croaking laugh at that.
We didn’t speak again until the sun rose. There were several more sets of rapids, but none as violent as the first. We grew numb, but somehow found the strength to keep kicking. And as the first light of dawn began to stain the earth, we came to rest in a shallow bend, not far from an obviously artificial stepping-stone bridge, from which a trail led onwards into the bush.
We staggered mindlessly up it, past swarming convoys of ants, until we reached two parallel trails of red mud spaced about four feet apart, with ragged grass growing between them like a Mohawk haircut. I was so dazed and detached from reality that it took me several seconds to realize it was a road, carved out by some kind of motorized vehicle. We had reached the network of roads that defines the remit of civilization.
From the top of the next hill we saw concrete walls, tin roofs, and electrical wires, and began to stumble towards them with no thought of safety or secrecy. We were beyond such abstractions. It was just animal survival. And if I had been alone, I probably wouldn’t have survived; I passed out halfway to the town.
The next few hours were hazy and disjointed in my memory, a kaleidoscope of images as I passed in and out of consciousness. Lisa and two darkskinned women splashing water on my face, urgent voices in a musical language I did not understand. Men carrying me in an improvised stretcher made of a big plastic sheet; I wanted to complain petulantly about the rough texture and crinkling noises, but wasn’t capable of speech. The terrifying sight of my own feet, like pulped meat from a slaughterhouse. Lying in the back of a pickup truck as it traversed the world’s worst and longest dirt road, while Lisa hovered over me, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket and sitting on the spare tire, holding my hand and telling me I was going to be all right, even when I turned my head and vomited weakly over her feet. And, finally, what looked like a whole battalion of soldiers waiting at the junction where that awful dirt road finally met pavement.
I screamed weakly when I saw them. In my delirium it took me long seconds to understand that they weren’t the enemy come to kill us.
Chapter 18
My next continuous set of memories began in a modern and spacious hospital room. My feet were swathed in bandages, my countless cuts had scabbed over, my bruises were yellowing, and an IV was plugged into my arm. I guessed from the machines’ Spanish signs and labels that I was still in Colombia. Lisa sat dozing in a chair in the corner, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Her face was mottled with livid scabs, but otherwise she seemed almost unaffected by our ordeal. A red sun was visible through the window, but I couldn’t tell if it was dawn or dusk.
“Hey,” I said weakly. “Lisa.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she sat up very straight. “You’re up!”
I had so many questions I didn’t know where to begin. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know. Morning.”
“You’ve been there all night?”
She shrugged as if it was no big deal. “We’re in Barranquilla. Big city on the coast. How you feeling?”
“Fine.” And it was true, I was weak but hale. Except – “How are my feet?” I dreaded and half-expected news of permanent damage.
“Oh, they’ll be fine.” Lisa seemed surprised by my concern. “Mostly just blisters and swelling, there was some infection but that’s gone now. They put some second skin stuff on you, said it was fine for you to walk. It’ll probably still hurt though.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Three days.”
“Whoa. Really?”
“You had an electrolyte balance problem. Like marathon runners who collapse. It was touch and go for a bit, but it turns out you’re tough as old nails.”
“Go me.”
“Indeed.”
“Where’s Sophie?”
“Back in the States. She wanted to come but they wouldn’t let her. Security. Totally unnecessary, you ask me, but the Colombians are embarrassed enough as is. You’re supposed to call her the moment you’re up.”
“When can I go home?”
“Soon as the doctors say. If you’re feeling fine then probably tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeated. “Tomorrow sounds good.”
“Want me to get you a phone?”
“Yes, please.”
Her tone had been cordially distant, law enforcement professional to civilian; but she hesitated on the way to the door, came over, took my hand, squeezed it, and said quietly, “Good to have you back.”
I smiled at her. “I’ve got you to thank for it.”
Her face clouded. “You’ve got me to thank for almost dying.”
When she returned and handed me a cell phone – one with a button marked SECURE, I noticed – Sophie was already on the line.
“Hey, you,” she said.
“Hey, you.”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
