Outside the church Angel has no idea what to do next. She sinks to the ground and buries her face in her hands. ‘Where are you? Where are you, Papa?’ she moans as she gives in to her misery.
After a while she feels a gentle hand touching her head. Glancing up she sees a white robe through the blur of tears.
‘Father?’
The priest takes her by the hands and lifts her to her feet. Close up she can see that his white robe is grubby and one lens of his thick glasses is cracked clean across. As always, the priest radiates peace and calm.
‘Angel, I am so glad to see you safe. I hoped your mother was going to take you all to Samar?’
‘I … I stayed with Papa … we didn’t know the water would come … it swept him away … now I don’t know where he is …’ She is fighting to hold back the tears.
‘Where have you looked for him?’
‘I went back to the house and I waited. Then I came here, but I haven’t seen him. Have you seen him?’
Father Jose shakes his head. ‘What about your mother?’
‘I don’t know anything. I haven’t heard. Our mobile phone is gone. There’s no way to contact her …’ Angel can hear herself babbling.
‘You have experienced terrible things, child. You have felt awful fear. But you have been strong and resourceful. I’m proud of you.’
His words cheer her a little. He continues, ‘Juan is a strong man, stronger than most. And he is a good swimmer. He would fight hard to survive.’
‘Where can he be?’
‘Have you tried the airport? Many of the injured have been taken there.’
‘The airport!’ Suddenly she has purpose again. ‘How do I get there?’
Heavy trucks are rumbling back and forth, dropping supplies at the town hall and the church and returning to the airport. There is one outside the church now. The driver has just offloaded a crate of water bottles and Father Jose calls out to him.
‘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 smiles 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.