August 12, 2003

Caitlin

FEDEX CLAIMED THAT ITS forty-eight-hour guarantee did not apply to Africa. My mother was livid. When I left for the pizza parlor at noon on August 12, she was on the phone screaming at them. And when I got back later at night, she was pleading with the consolidator whom she’d bought the ticket from.

“We already paid for it,” she said. “Can’t they reissue one at the airport?”

I couldn’t hear the response, but I knew it wasn’t good when my mother shouted, “Thank you for nothing!” and slammed down the phone.

My father arrived moments later.

“How is it going?” he asked.

“Horribly!” she said. Her voice was scratchy. “I’m at my wits’ end. I already called Villanova to say he might not get here in time.”

“What did they say?” I asked, alarmed that it had come to this.

“That they would hold his spot until January,” my mother said. “But Martin can’t wait that long. He needs to come now.”

“Let me make a few calls,” my dad said.

We ate dinner first, and then my father took over the phone, starting with the consolidator and then working the airlines and FedEx.

At one AM, he was still on the phone. It was seven AM in Vic Falls. My mom thought we should call Martin to tell him the news.

“What news?” I said, exasperated. “There is no news!”

“Tell him to go to the airport,” my father said. “He’s getting on that plane.”