“I’m sorry you weren’t able to get to Machu Picchu for your wife,” I told Christopher, grasping his waist even tighter as the crowd around us shifted.
“Lisa herself would have said this was a sign that it wasn’t meant to be. Kylie’s not here. And I wasn’t with you two this morning.”
At these absolving words, I burst into tears. I had said as much to Quattro, but hearing it from someone else lifted a burden from me.
“Don’t cry,” he said, sounding so much like Quattro that I ached, literally ached for him.
I sniffled and cleared my throat. “Do you think you’ll try again?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe we’re supposed to wait and see.”
“You know what Stesha would say? That once you let go of your plan, you might find something better.”
“That’s wise.” Christopher looked at me closely. “You might want to remember that yourself.”
From a distance came the unmistakable sound of the second helicopter arriving, its blades slicing through the air. The crowd surged forward. I would have been trampled if it weren’t for Christopher holding me upright. The scene felt so familiar. I knew why. How many news reports had I watched with this exact setup? Frightened people, scarce resources, armed military. What would it take for one of the soldiers to open fire if the crowd’s panic tipped into pandemonium?
Even so, I wondered whether I was supposed to stay. Maybe my purpose on the trip hadn’t been fulfilled. But Christopher led me forward to keep in step with my parents. The weary official guarding the gateway scrutinized our faces, then glowered down at our passports. While he did, I murmured to my parents, “Maybe we should stay?”
Irritated, the man frowned, his skin pleating. He all but yelled, “If you’re staying, get out of the line.”
“We’re going,” Mom said firmly. “She is hurt. I am fifty-five, and my husband is going blind. We are leaving now.”
I blinked at Mom as if I had never seen her before. So did Dad as Mom glared at everyone in a full three-sixty, challenging anyone stupid enough to deny us. Now, this was a woman who could coauthor a Fifty by Fifty Manifesto that spanned every continent and all adventures from dogsledding to surfing. This was the mother who’d threatened to shave my head if I got married before thirty.
“Welcome back, Mom,” I told her.
She frowned, not understanding. “What?”
I just shook my head and nodded at the official, who was at last opening the gate. Everything moved in double time then. Christopher let go of me, and I would have toppled if it weren’t for the changing of the guard. Dad grabbed me, holding Mom with one hand, me tucked under his other arm.
Almost with a mind of their own, words flew out of my mouth as I glanced back at Christopher: “Ask Quattro about what really happened between him and his mom.”
I didn’t have a chance to check whether he heard my parting words, much less thank him properly for his help. In a wild rush, the crowd became a vengeful river, roiling and surging. Dad yanked me through the opening in the gate. In her haste, Mom dropped some cash. She didn’t notice. Everyone behind us was in such a panic to reach the descending helicopter that no one bothered to scoop up the fallen bills. I tripped. Dad righted me and tugged me along. I protested and scanned the crowd desperately for one last look for Quattro.
“Wait!” I cried.
Dad didn’t listen, just lunged ahead.
The deafening whir of the helicopter was upon us. A group of soldiers motioned to us to crouch down and creep forward as though we were ambushing the aircraft. Creep? I could only crawl. My ankle throbbed. I could feel it swelling but ignored the pain. Once we neared the helicopter, the soldiers helped my parents to pile in, only to scowl at me when I lost my balance. I blushed. Two of them manhandled me into the cabin.
I thought I spotted Quattro, standing apart from the crowd in his unmistakable orange fleece. Prisoner orange.
But the helicopter lifted, and the crowd blurred. And Machu Picchu was just a memory, left behind.
Part Three
At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough.
—Toni Morrison
Chapter Twenty-Six
Two days later, I was headed home, loaded down with a bleak novel Mom had pushed on me that I’d never read no matter how good for me it was supposed to be, a PowerBar I felt nauseous just thinking about, and a camera that wasn’t mine. On our drive back to the airport in Cusco, the last sight of the cathedral had made me want to grab a return flight on a rescue helicopter to Machu Picchu Pueblo, track Quattro down, and order him to stop blaming himself for accidents.