“Right.” A huge balloon of self-doubt popped inside me. “You’re right!”
“Good. So between Grace and me, we can reach out to the relief agencies. I have friends at the Red Cross. And Grace has contacts at World Vision.” Stesha reopened her notebook and scribbled a nearly indecipherable sentence. “Who knows? They may want to add this to their own efforts.” Even as she wrote, Stesha’s lips curled into a smile. “And just where did this brilliant inspiration for a video come from, Ms. Shana Wilde?”
The impossibility of this truth made me rumble with a deep belly laugh. “Out of one guy’s doubt.”
“Well, I’ve always found that one person’s dead end is another person’s on-ramp.”
“On-ramp,” I repeated, staring down at the camera I was holding, already poised to shoot whatever I wanted, “I would have that tattooed on the inside of my arm, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bowing to my heated protests that I didn’t need a babysitter, Mom had reluctantly arranged for Stesha to simply drop me off at home. Soon after we cleared customs at the Sea-Tac Airport, Stesha launched herself at a grizzled man in a plaid shirt and worn-out jeans, waiting for her at the top of the escalator with a steaming traveler’s mug that smelled of coconut and tea.
“How did you know this was just what I needed?” she squealed at George, her former husband and current boyfriend.
The answer was in George’s tender expression, which softened the ridgelines of his craggy face: Because I know you.
Suddenly, I felt a pang of loneliness because no one had been counting the minutes, anxious for my return. No one had been waiting for me with my favorite hot drink in his hand. No one had carved out time to drive to the airport, eager to bring me home. That feeling was slightly muted when Stesha’s phone rang and she handed it to me. My parents with their lifeline of love. As much as I assured them that I had reached Seattle in one piece, I was lying. How could I be whole when a big huge part of me was lost in the mountains of Peru? Where Quattro was and how he was doing was a mystery. Even if he had a cell, I wasn’t convinced he’d pick up if I called.
I had barely hugged Stesha and George good-bye at the front door to our cottage when I caught the scent of freshly baked biscuits. Without needing to turn the porch light on, I knew Mrs. Harris was near. She trudged up the steps with a large wicker basket on her arm.
“You’re alive!” Mrs. Harris cried as though we were across the yard from each other instead of separated by a few feet. “Oh, my! I was so worried about you when you didn’t come home on time. And just look at you! Skin and bones. Don’t those Peruvians know how to cook?” She thrust a hot biscuit at me. “Here. Eat. You’re two-dimensional.”
“Mrs. Harris! You didn’t need to do this,” I protested, but I bit hungrily into sweet, buttery paradise. I groaned. “This is life changing.”
Only then did Mrs. Harris notice my crutches, which launched another series of questions and exclamations, punctuated by an “I knew that trip was going to be dangerous!” Finally, she waved me into my own home. I was slightly annoyed when she followed me in until her lips quivered and she wailed, “I just missed you and your parents so much! And Auggie!”
“Mrs. Harris…”
“Then I heard about the mudslides. But after that first report on the news, there wasn’t any information. My goodness, I was so worried! You have no idea!”
Here it was, another nudge to create a video of the wreckage. I almost raised my eyes heavenward and cried out, Girls! Okay, okay, I’m paying attention! I’ll start the video tomorrow.
With an oomph, Mrs. Harris set the heavy basket down on the kitchen table and mopped the sweat from her forehead, looking exhausted. I could imagine why: She handled stress the same way Ginny did. They both baked. We’re not talking about slinging a dozen chocolate chip cookies into the oven. No, that’s amateur hour. We’re talking about marathon baking by the batches, multiple batches.
I asked, “Mrs. Harris, what did you do?”
With a small self-conscious smile, she lifted the pink-checkered kitchen towel draped over the basket to reveal a treasure trove of bite-size brownies, biscuits, and an assortment of containers. The last of my annoyance melted away at the sight of all this food. Every last stir and spoonful was for me.
“Blame it on that Anderson Cooper,” Mrs. Harris continued, shoving another biscuit at me before unloading the basket. “When even he didn’t say so much as a peep—not a single peep, I tell you—on CNN about the mudslides, I just about turned into a Keebler elf.”
“You think?”
We both laughed. Now that the basket had been emptied, Mrs. Harris looked around uncertainly, lost without a purpose, and I thought guiltily about how rarely we had invited her over for a meal.