Dad may have nodded in reluctant agreement as he checked his watch, but it was like he heard a different clock ticking. The next few weeks with me and the twins weren’t just family vacations but his last epic adventures with sight. No wonder he wanted to squeeze in as much as he could. Mom must have guessed that, too, because she said, “Gregor, we’ve got seven days here to see everything.”
At that, Dad sidled away from Mom. She flinched at the slight. I felt so bad for her, I actually asked her to tell us what she had read about Cusco. We wove through the labyrinthine streets back to the hotel with Mom (still) talking about the first order of Catholics who built a monastery on top of the foundation of an Incan building, supposedly to show the superiority of Christianity. But then an earthquake in 1950 toppled the monastery. The only thing left standing was the Incan stonework underneath. As I walked in between my parents, I only wished that our family would be so lucky in the aftermath of Dad’s diagnosis.
Despite our being showered and wearing fresh clothes, Stesha divined that my parents and I had disregarded her suggestion to power-nap: “Well, you three better drown yourselves in water to rehydrate, then some coca de mate.” She gestured to the tea service in the middle of the lobby. “Coca tea. Really. Have some.”
Guilty as charged, I obediently hightailed it to the beverage table. There, Hank was filling his teacup from a large dispenser. He lifted his cup to me in a toast. “Say hello to liquid cocaine.”
“Cocaine?” Mom practically lunged for my cup until Stesha said, “Mollie, sheesh, the tea’s brewed from such an insignificant amount of leaves—”
“Which is why it’s been banned back in the States,” interrupted Hank with a large grin. “Down the hatch, right?”
Stesha continued despite Mom’s shocked expression. “And it’s absolutely harmless. Plus it helps with altitude sickness.”
“So when in Rome…” said an old woman who acted anything but elderly as she tipped back her head to catch the last drops in her teacup. She smacked her lips, then grinned impishly up at us from the well-worn couch. “Whatever it is, it’s kept me refreshed these last couple of days. I’m Grace. Grace Hiyashi.”
So this was Grace, the woman I was hired to accompany during the trek. I lowered my hand to shake hers, but Grace scooted to the edge of the sofa, placed her hands next to her hips, and hoisted herself up. My parents and I obviously weren’t the only ones to ignore Stesha’s advice. Grace didn’t exactly move like she’d exercised an hour a day the way Stesha had advised as preparation for the trek. Even with a few inches on Stesha, who barely scraped the five-foot mark, Grace was tiny as she stood before me.
“So I hope everyone took the packing list seriously. If you have any problems with your hiking boots, we’ll have just enough time to take care of them before we hit the trail tomorrow,” Stesha said, waving us to follow her out of the hotel, but not before she cast a worried glance at Helen’s and Hank’s boots, so new they couldn’t have seen much action beyond a store aisle. I recognized them as the top-of-the-line mountaineering boots that Dad had coveted but quickly reshelved when he saw that they cost more than a camera lens.
Once outside, Stesha added ominously, “The restored section of the Inca Trail may be just twenty-four miles long, but it’s quite uneven. Quite.”
Mom’s concerned gaze flicked to me before it planted on Dad. From her pre-trip reading of every published guidebook about Machu Picchu and her hours searching the Web for photos of the steep and rocky trail, we knew this trek would be rough. But it was entirely different to have it confirmed by someone who knew the trail well.
“Okay, so everyone ready for a tour of Cusco?” Stesha asked, but without waiting for our response, she began rattling off details about the Temple of the Sun, which had once been the most important building in the Incan empire, then repurposed by the Catholics. I was beginning to sense a theme with dominant cultures.
In front of me, Helen confessed to Hank, hand over what must have been her overworking heart: “Oh, gosh, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to make it on the trail if walking here is this tough.”
He said in a supportive undertone, “Don’t worry. If that old lady can do it, so can you.”
Grace’s expression didn’t betray whether she overheard him as she untied the shamrock-green raincoat from around her waist. She paused on the sidewalk, breathing hard, while she struggled into her coat.
“Here,” I said, holding it so she could slip her arms through the sleeves.