Chapter Nineteen

At the end of our slog back to civilization, I was alarmed by the teeming crowds of bedraggled trekkers in Machu Picchu Pueblo. Every square inch in the town plaza had been turned into a homeless encampment and garbage dump. Whatever charm the square had was lost in the mess of tents, trash, and unwashed bodies. I stepped over a couple of discarded beer bottles on our way to the main street. A snaking line of frustrated people waited at an ATM, but after Christopher made an inquiry, we learned that all the cash had been withdrawn. What everyone was waiting for, I don’t know. Even worse, tourist after tourist confirmed that every single train had been canceled. A state of emergency had been declared. There was no way out.

Mom said, “Maybe we should find Stesha now?”

“Let’s try Ruben. Who’s got a phone?” Christopher asked, but Quattro didn’t own a cell phone, and all of us except Helen had lost ours in the mudslide. Luckily, she had programmed Ruben’s number, but there was no answer. Not from him or from Stesha, Grace, Hank, or our hotel.

“Maybe we should go straight to the hotel then? Make sure Hank got us our rooms?” Helen suggested, glancing around uneasily. Half the people near us looked drunk, messy drunk. “We may be here for a while.”

Christopher studied the throngs and started going all militia on us. “I think we should buy as much water and food as we can carry first. Grab anything packaged.”

Nobody argued with his logic. Most of our provisions had gone with the porters. So we fanned out in three groups, me teaming up with Quattro. Fifteen minutes was more than enough time. Five would have been fine. The stores had been mostly cleaned out, leaving us with few choices.

“Beef jerky?” Quattro asked me. Then with a vestige of his old self, he held up a package of Twinkies. “America at its finest.”

“Hey,” I said, “you know, if we can find maple syrup, we can make our own—”

“Do-it-yourself bacon maple bars?” he guessed. His eyes glittered as he laughed. “I knew you’d see the light.”

I did.

Who would have known that his wide, easy grin could have hurt in the best and worst way? As thrilled as I was to see its reemergence, I wanted it to mean more than an inside joke between friends. Get it together, Wilde Child. So I wrinkled my nose. “I still think bacon and doughnuts are two food groups that should never be combined.”

“See? I knew you secretly agreed.”

“About what?”

“Bacon is its own food group.”

As I sputtered, Quattro grabbed the bottles of water I was holding and brought them to the cashier.

Between all of us, we had managed to assemble a small stockpile of water, crackers, and peanuts. Christopher asked for directions to our hotel from a backpacker wearing a Union Jack T-shirt. The reaction we received was one I didn’t expect: total antagonism.

“Good luck with that,” the backpacker said, mouth puckering like he was preparing to spit at us.

What had we done to him? We must have looked confused because, disgusted, the backpacker said, “Your embassy airlifted some people out yesterday. But they would only take Americans.” With a last disdainful look, he turned his back on us, but not before one parting shot: “All the hotels have jacked up their prices.”

Worriedly, Mom asked Dad, “What if our rooms have been given away?” Her hand fluttered toward the plaza. “I mean, look at all these people.”

Dad had no solution, just more problems. He pointed out, “Just think about all the other groups who are still coming down from the trail.”

At last, after a few wrong turns and a helpful shopkeeper, we reached the modest hotel where we were supposed to spend the night, only to discover that it was overbooked and no one at the front desk remembered seeing Hank or Grace. But then again, everything was a blur to them, considering the fifty tourists who’d dropped in that morning alone in hopes of finding available rooms.

“But we have reservations,” Christopher protested firmly. The receptionist gave a helpless shrug, explaining that guests were refusing to vacate.

“Well, we can’t exactly boot people out,” Mom said, shaking her head. Still, she leaned forward as if she might hurdle over the reception desk and commandeer the computer. But the electricity had gone out. The computer was useless. “Are there any rooms in other hotels? What about the hostels?”

The receptionist shook her head regretfully. “Even the train seats are being used as beds. You can try Inkaterra.”

Mom glanced at Dad. “That’s the spendy one.”

If the hotel had been expensive before the floods, I hated to guess how much a room would cost now that beds were hot commodities. An anxious expression calcified on Mom’s face.

The sound of a chopper sent us scrambling outside, all of us craning our necks to spot where it would land. We followed the exodus of tourists to the makeshift helipad that some volunteers must have cleared earlier. People actually pushed and shoved each other to climb aboard until two soldiers disembarked, each gripping a machine gun. Did the Peruvian government really think automatic weapons were necessary?

Without thinking, I began photographing the scene, starting with the unlucky soldier who got the job of announcing that the first helicopter would evacuate only the elderly and infirm.

“This place looks like it’s going to blow,” said Quattro softly in my ear.

When had he moved to stand close to me like he’d appointed himself my personal bodyguard? Before I could spend more than a nanosecond processing that thought, Grace’s distinct objection—“I am not elderly!”—cut through the crowd’s mutterings. I scanned the area until I spotted her, then shot her with Hank, who was holding a visibly pale Stesha near the front of the line. Ruben was gesturing emphatically to one of the impassive soldiers, universal sign language for “She’s getting evacuated. Now.”

Grace hurried over, intercepting us as we walked toward them. “You made it!” she said, hugging me tightly. “I was so worried about you all.”

“What’d the doctor say?” Mom asked, bending her head down to Grace as they walked side by side back to Stesha.

Grace shook her head. “No doctor. She’s worse, but she’s refusing to leave.”

Overhearing Grace, Stesha cracked her eyes open and said, “I’m the captain, and I’m not leaving until you’re all safe.” That spot of defiance sapped her energy. Stesha sagged into Hank’s arms.

“Come on, Stesha. You might have a concussion,” said Quattro, glancing at me with a slight nod to tag-team with him.

So I added, “Reb’s going to kill me if your chin gets infected. You’ve got to have that taken care of.”

“It’s just a little cut,” Stesha protested feebly, but she didn’t even bother opening her eyes this time. Yet with some kind of finely tuned internal radar for trouble, they opened just as a soldier approached her with Ruben trailing close behind.

“Traitor,” she said softly to him.

“You have to go,” I told her.

“I know.” Still trying to take care of us, Stesha dug a last PowerBar from her pocket and pushed it on Ruben. “But I’m not leaving Cusco until you’re all there.” Even as she was led to the helicopter, we could hear her calling back to us, “I’m not leaving Cusco.”

“Where’s Grace?” Ruben asked, glancing around increasingly worried. There was no sign of her.

“Figures,” said Dad, rubbing his temples.

What possible reason could compel Grace to remain in an overcrowded town with no promise of a bed, hot meal, or shower? I knew what would make me stay. My gaze shifted over to the remainder of our ragtag group, lingering on Quattro.

“At thirty-five people per helicopter,” said Dad, now eyeing the growing crowd, “this evacuation is going to take an eternity.”

“But you’re lucky. You’re going blind,” said Hank, who then ducked his head, embarrassed. “I mean, you and your family can be evacuated now.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Dad answered, and he straightened himself to his full height. I was so glad to hear him say those words aloud, and wondered if he was listening to himself.

Twenty minutes later, my eyes filled with tears as the helicopter door slammed shut and the rotor whirred loud. Our group was fragmenting. None of us had been able to say a proper good-bye to Stesha. I hadn’t even hugged her. Everything had happened so fast once she was trundled off with a soldier. The lump in my throat grew larger as the helicopter rose. Selfishly, I didn’t want to see Stesha go. My eyes caught on Quattro, who nodded in understanding at me.

As soon as we left the perimeter of the helipad, Grace magically reappeared, smiling innocently. I could feel Dad fuming, but any scene I was afraid he might cause was trumped by a more urgent problem.

“We don’t have a room at our hotel,” Helen told Hank, concern creasing her forehead.

“We’ll figure it out,” Hank said confidently, and with a homing instinct for the only five-star hotel in the town, he steered us to Inkaterra.

The boutique inn could be reached only by crossing a private wood bridge. On the other side, we found ourselves in a lush oasis that couldn’t have been farther from the fear, filth, and garbage back in town. Elegant, understated casitas dripped with vibrant bougainvillea. The fountain in the central courtyard burbled sweetly, nothing like the bellow of the river. A discreet wood sign pointed to the spa, gift shop, and restaurants.

I could hear my parents murmuring as we approached the reception building, worrying about the cost of the rooms. Having to admit to everyone—including Quattro—that we couldn’t afford this place was going to be sheer awkwardness.

Hank strode in as though he’d stayed in places this luxurious hundreds of times before. Of course, he had. The woman at the front desk had her hair pulled into a sleek updo, not a strand out of place, as if this sanctuary made her immune to the disaster beyond the bridge. After Hank inquired about a room, she informed us that there was, in fact, one ultradeluxe casita available, complete with its own plunge pool and private garden.

And then she named the price.

I’m not sure who gasped louder, me or Mom. I could have dressed myself for two years, maybe three, with the cost of a single night here; we’d never be able to afford this.

Dad cleared his throat. “We’ll find other accommodations in town and meet up with you all later.”

“Come on. It’s what? Nineteen hundred square feet? We can all fit in,” said Hank, plunking down his platinum card. When the receptionist mumbled something about an extra fee per guest, Hank waved her off. “No problem.”

“We can pay—” started Christopher.

“This is on me,” Hank said with finality, glancing at Helen. The way he still sought her approval was sad, especially when she just nodded once in agreement. His gushing fangirl was gone. Maybe it wasn’t confidence that made him come off all brash and bold but insecurity. Who was I to talk? Hadn’t I been all I-know-boys to Reb and Ginny when, really, I had been dumped by Dom?

Grace said, “Well, this is so kind of you, Hank, Helen. I know we all appreciate it.”

At last, a real smile spread across Hank’s face. “It’s the least I could do,” he said, no longer fighting to be heard or first or right.

If anyone had told me that a hotel casita could be larger than our home, I’d never have believed them. But here I was, standing in one. Handwoven rugs brightened the terra-cotta tile floor. A couch and two chairs were arranged before a fireplace in a snug sitting area. Another rich tapestry that Mom immediately inspected hung on a wall. If anyone thought I was weird for taking a picture of the king-size bed with blankets made from alpaca, they didn’t mention it. I think we were all overwhelmed. One moment we were escaping tents collapsed in a mudslide, and the next we had stepped into a man-made paradise.

I geared myself up for Dad to jump into his usual bedbug-hunting mode, but he just lowered himself into one of the dining room chairs as though he’d given up. It was futile to fight anymore.