The plain gold band in Sarah’s palm glinted in the bright lights of the ship’s morgue. Her mother’s wedding ring, given to her by the chaplain. The search team, still scouring Tiger Island’s jungle and the surrounding sea for her father, had recovered her mother’s remains. She was now behind cold steel doors.
The chaplain hovered by Sarah’s shoulder. Probably anticipating a flood of grief. The doctor on her other side no doubt had a tranquilizer at the ready.
She studied the ring. Felt nothing. She wished the doctor had a medicine to help her feel something. What was wrong with her? When she at last turned away, her eyes dry as stone, the chaplain gave her a curious look but remained silent.
Peter was in the sick bay’s intensive care. Recovering well, the doctors said. He was, too. During her last visit to see him, Peter had asked about Surf Cat. Off chasing mice, Sarah said.
It was great being back with people who understood her. Yet there was a sense in which they didn’t understand at all, not the way Ruslan did.
Had he found his father yet? She was sure he had. She tried to envision their joyous reunion, but the scene kept slipping away from her.
The ship’s media officer appeared in the doorway. “It’s time to get ready,” he said to Sarah.
There’d been such intense international media interest in the Bedford Children’s Tsunami Drama (as headlined in one major newspaper) that it was decided—by whom, Sarah wasn’t sure—to have a single press conference. Sarah would read a prepared account of her story, which the ship’s media officer had helped her write. The press conference was going to be held on Meulaboh’s military base, which also served as international relief headquarters.
The ship’s captain had earlier ordered clothes for her and Peter from a big shopping mall in Medan, the closest city. Jeans and tops, and, as she had embarrassedly whispered to one of his aides, underwear as well. For the press conference, though, she wanted to wear a long-sleeved dress, or at least a skirt and blouse.
“No problem,” the ship’s media officer said, “if you don’t mind wearing secondhand.”
In a nook of the enormous ship were several crates of donated clothes that had not yet made it to shore. Sarah found a decorous long-sleeved dress in a blue flower print with an embroidered white collar. Not at all her style, but it fit.
“I’d like a scarf to cover my head,” she said.
“I don’t think there are any here,” the officer said. “These are all clothes, not accessories.”
“Can we get one somewhere?”
“You’re not going to a mosque, just a press conference.”
“It’s still their country. I’d like to wear one. A sign of respect.”
The media officer grumpily replied that he’d see what he could do.
Sarah arrived in the late afternoon at the military compound, wearing a plain blue scarf borrowed from one of the ship’s female crew. The media officer escorted her. When she descended from the helicopter and saw the array of satellite dishes outside the building she was to speak in, and the crowd of people within, her nerves nearly failed her. She’d always hated speaking in public. Now she was going to stand in front of the whole world.
Officials were standing by to receive her. An orange cat drowsed in the arms of one Indonesian officer, who stepped forward to Sarah with a smile. “Yours, I think?” he said.
“Surf Cat!” Sarah exclaimed with delight, taking the cat from the man’s arms to kiss its furry head. She turned to Officer Hertzig, whom she now knew to be a major. “This is Peter’s cat. He’ll be real happy to see him. Is it possible for Surf Cat to get a ride out to the boat?”
Major Hertzig winked. “The ship. Yeah, I think it’s possible. I’ll take care of it. Come here, kitty.”
The media officer murmured in her ear, “Sarah, people are waiting.”
She gathered up her nerves and shook hands with the local military commander and several other dignitaries. A plump man in a blue UN vest and a bandaged elbow gave her a reproachful look, murmuring, “You really should have come with us.” She recognized him as one of the two men from the red helicopter.
The military commander ushered her into the building. At the front was a long table covered in green baize. In the center of the table, in front of a metal folding chair, sprouted a miniature forest of microphones. The commander pulled out the chair for Sarah. The intense heat was as smothering as a blanket, but thankfully, the media officer aimed one of the floor fans on her. She was acutely aware of the battery of cameras trained on her, and the pack of journalists behind them, holding recorders and notebooks at the ready.
She read her speech. This was her story, but it felt as though she were reading about another girl.
As she read, she sensed something was not right. Aisyah. The mute girl. The story said nothing about them. To not mention them seemed wrong. She put down the sheets of paper. Looking directly at the cameras, she spoke of them, and of Ruslan, too, and the telling at last became her own story.
Yet a funny thing—the journalists didn’t seem to care about that. They wanted more of her. Just her and Peter. The media officer filtered their shouted questions, allowing Sarah to reply to individual ones.
Yes, her brother was doing fine, as she’d already said in her speech, and her relatives were at the moment flying out to Aceh.
No, her father hadn’t been found yet, but the marines were still looking and she was certain he would soon be. No, that wasn’t an irrational hope, her father was strong, a survivor, and next question please?
Yes, the remains of her mother had been retrieved from Tiger Island. Yes, yes, yes, she had buried her mother on the beach, hadn’t they listened to her speech?
How did she feel about burying her own mother? Well, God, she said, how do you think I felt? But she knew that her anger at the question was a clever sham.
Still the journalists weren’t sated. They wanted to devour her with their questions. Sarah glanced out the window, wishing to be outside and alone, and saw several refugee children peering through the louvered panes. A resilient curiosity was back in their eyes.
Another, more genuine anger rose in her. “Why are you all so interested in me?” she said. “We just happened to be passing by. This isn’t my tragedy, the Bedford family tragedy. This is an Aceh tragedy. See these kids out there? You should be telling the world their stories, not mine.”
She got up, refusing to answer any more questions.
From the back of the room came a familiar voice. “Sarah! Sarah!”
She paused, standing on her toes and squinting over the crowd. Ruslan pushed forward, leading a man by the hand. She recognized the man at once. Ruslan’s father, his smile full of dazed joy. “Thank you, Sarah,” he said. “Thank you, thank you.”
Sarah started to take his offered hand between both of hers in the polite local way, but then, on an impulse she couldn’t stop any more than she could stop the tears blurring her vision, she flung her arms around him as cameras whirred and clicked.