Fiction

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My white knuckles gripped the pad of the steering wheel with ironclad intensity. Looking down at them I could hardly imagine they were my own hands. At the first spark of ignition all six cylinders of the engine roared, and once bearing down on the gas, all that I left behind was a streaking and fading plume of exhaust. With tears clouding my vision, the recent faceless words echoed deep from my soul over and over again, “Your parents and sister were involved in an accident. Amanda, you need to come to Memorial Hospital right away.”
My voice quivered in response as I was only able to choke out, “Are they going to be okay?” My question remained unanswered. The pause in response was short but intense, and then the words repeated, “Amanda, you need to come right away.”
Not even bothering to reply or hang up the phone, I let it dangle off the counter grabbing my purse and keys and running out the front door as I let it slam shut behind me. The drive seemed never ending as I dodged cars and eluded stoplights. A siren reverberated around me as the blue and red lights in the rearview mirror flashed through the flow of traffic behind me.
My foot remained solidly fixed on the pedal almost as if I had no control of it all. The needle on the speedometer inched its way forward. Tears continued to cascade down my cheeks. The lights and noise of the siren persisted. Beyond all that, my heart beat wildly, like an untamed runaway horse stampeding aimlessly until despairingly succumbing to its eventual defeat.
Is that what panic is? I had never felt it this way before, not to the point of being emotionally and physically exhausted in what seemed to happen in a matter of a few short moments. I gasped for breath as if I had just finished running a marathon. A few short moments. That’s what it had been. My friend Casey had called barely five minutes before. I thought she had forgotten to tell me something when I answered the phone again. Party details, or as it was better known as: a “kegger” and bonfire at Campbell’s Pit. With Mom and Dad gone for the weekend moving my sister, Abby, into her dorm I could relish in the freedom of my wild behavior. I had begun to get a reputation as being the “fun” one (synonymous with crazy and stupid) at the parties. I had compromised my virtuosity on more than one occasion, only hearing stories of my antics, but rarely remembering any of them. My memories were more of waking up with my head in the toilet and the residue of vomit on my tangled curls and the stale cheap beer on my breath. Fun. At least that’s what everyone else called it. Only it was at my expense. Fun. Parading around wearing my bra on the outside of my clothes. The laugh was always on me. Fun. Pretending to laugh when I felt like crying.
And now I really was crying but for a different reason.
The sirens and lights continued. Wiping the overflowing tears with my sleeve, I had no intention on stopping until I reached Memorial, not even for the badge toting uniformed officer behind me. The officer sped up and drove by my side. He looked straight at me as he passed me with the hypnotic lights still flashing and the headache-inducing siren blaring. His speed increased, and as it did I watched the needle of my speedometer weasel its way even more forward. As the patrol car cleared the path of oncoming traffic and intersecting lanes, I continued to follow. It turned left. I turned left. It went straight. I went straight. Passing the square blue sign with the big white “H” I knew I would be there soon. My pilot car slowed to a stop at the entrance to the hospital parking lot, and as it did the officer stretched out his arm and motioned for me to go around him. I complied.
I parked the car erratically and raced to the automatic double doors stopping abruptly, afraid to go any further. What would await me? How could I possibly prepare myself for what I was about to face? What was I about to face? Although deep down inside I knew the answer to that, I wished for another outcome. The police officer put his hand on my shoulder startling me, even though I knew he was now standing there. It was Officer Clark. He knew me. The emergency personnel scanner resounded from his belt. His presence was not comforting. It meant only one thing, the very thing I could not bear to face.
My weeping became vocal, turning to hysteria. Office Clark spoke for me as he met the nurse at the emergency entrance. She avoided making eye contact with me and whispered something in Officer Clark’s ear. His response was somber. There was no jovial chitchat or the playful banter he was so prone to. His seriousness and quietness told me more than words ever could. He gave me his handkerchief and guided me to a quiet room. There were no monitors or blinking lights, just three gurneys with three forms under plain white sheets.
I collapsed to the floor, my legs unable to hold me, and I wretched involuntarily. Officer Clark’s compassionate hand once again settled on my shoulder as he knelt down beside me. “I’m so sorry,” is all he could say. Our eyes met and then a tear fell from his cheek as he looked away from me. Another nurse came into the room to say the doctor would be right in. She spoke in a soft soothing voice as if the three were sleeping and not to be disturbed. “I know you’ll need some time alone. It may be best to leave the sheets pulled forward. It might be too traumatic for you to see them like this.”
In my zombie-like state, I just nodded unable to speak and still snubbing from the sobs I tried to stifle. The doctor entered the room and introduced himself. “There was nothing we could do,” he said sympathetically. “The EMTs tried to get some vitals but the impact of the collision caused fatal internal injuries and they were dead on arrival. I’m sorry.”
Everybody was sorry. How did that bring them back? Sorry. What good did it do to be sorry?
Officer Clark lingered in the corner of the barren room. “I’ll be in the hall,” he said, and with that, the doctor followed him out.
My tears fell freely. “Mom,” I cried. “You can’t leave me. I need you.” I walked to her and pulled the sheet back to reveal her face still covered with shards of glass and blood splatter. It looked as if the nurse had tried to wipe her clean but gave up. “Mom,” I whispered. “Don’t leave me.” I stroked her hair and traced her face with my trembling hand. I kissed her forehead and smelt the fragrance of her hair. The product she used was distinct, just like her signature perfume. I memorized every feature the way I would want to remember it. “I hope I can be just like you some day.”
“Dad,” I said. “What will I ever do without you? You’re my protector. I’ve never trusted anyone like I trust you. I need you.” Dad had the biggest strongest hands of anyone I had ever known. If I had to be blindfolded and hold the hands of a hundred strangers, I would still be able to find the hands of my father. I couldn’t say goodbye without touching his caring hands. Pulling the sheet back to reveal his weathered face, I kissed his nose, and pulling the sheet back even further I gasped as I saw the open wound and his crushed chest cavity. Turning my eyes away, my tears gushed and I reached for his hand stroking it and picking it up so that I could feel mine in his one last time. One last time. There would be no more. Ever again. I laid my head on his and continued to sob.
Abby, only one year younger than me, had her whole life in front of her: sports, academics, college, Christian youth involvement, and life. I pulled the sheet back. She looked like she was sleeping. I stroked her arm. It was cold and pale. The bracelet I had given to her for her birthday dangled from her wrist.
“Abby,” I said. “You’re everything I’m not. I never told you how much I admire you. I never said how proud it made me feel to say ‘that’s my sister.’ And now you can’t hear me say it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every mean thing I ever did to you growing up.”
I’m sorry. These words seemed meaningless now. Although they meant everything to me, they meant nothing to her. She was gone forever.


The moment I had walked into my family home full of happy memories: familiar smells lingered from the kitchen, recent mail sat on the counter, Dad’s police uniform hanging in the laundry room (he was planning retirement in a few years), Abby’s congratulatory cards still around from high school graduation, and Mom’s “to do” list posted on the refrigerator; grief overwhelmed me. Up until this moment in my life, I had it so easy. I had a loving home with all I could ever want. We were by no means rich, but we weren’t poor. I had never in my life experienced adversity, or trials. I suppose the hardest point in my life until then was the loss of my dog as a child: A car hit him when I was ten. And as a younger child, my grandparents moved out of state to a warmer climate.
Here I was in this big empty house now. It never seemed big to me before, but now that it was empty of my family, it seemed to swallow me up. I missed hearing Mom practice the hymns on the piano she would play for Sunday service. I always used to think they were corny and our little “hick” church was behind the times. But oh, how I would love to hear them played now. And Abby, man how she bugged me with her clothes all over our bathroom and the “path of destruction” that led to her room and into the hall. Now there was no one to pick up after. I’d give anything to see those clothes lying on the floor again and have to hear myself complain. And Dad, his empty uniform hanging in the laundry room made me cry just at the sight of it. Of course, there was the much-watched videocassette of “Sergeant York” lying next to the TV. It was my dad’s favorite movie and I can vividly remember him wiping away tears from his eyes each and every time he watched Alvin (a.k.a. Gary Cooper) go to the altar as the preacher and congregation sang “Give Me That Old-Time Religion.”
I had a lot of time to reflect on my life. Too much sometimes. My inward introspection was a bitter pill to swallow. It’s so ironic. Through high school I lived by Mom and Dad’s rules counting the days until my freedom when I could finally venture out on my own and “spread my wings,” as they say. I tried once while still at home before I could drive or date. It backfired. Boys were never really an issue with my parents. I had lots of boyfriends but never anything serious, never anything more than a goodnight kiss, and never anything lasting.
In my first and only year away at college, I found myself in places and in situations I had no business being in. Being close to Canada meant I could cross the border with friends and drink legally. I found out soon enough I couldn’t hold my own. I got sick immediately and knew my Mom and Dad must be praying. My blatant exploration on the wild side was short-lived, but I still neglected the fundamental truths I knew deep within my heart. Church-going became less frequent and prayer and Christian fellowship became non-existent while worldly indulgences became more routine only making me want more but never satisfying any of my needs. Being a few hundred miles away kept me a safe enough distance away from home to hide my life and new found freedom from Mom and Dad and Abby.

The funeral service was well attended, and I could tell my family was well loved. I felt loved, but nothing took away my sadness. Keeping a smile on my face was a pathetic façade. My red swollen and sullen eyes betrayed that fragile mask. After a brief reunion with my grandparents and distancing myself from well-wishers and withdrawing from friends, I made a decision on my own to quit school. I thought about getting a job close in or going to cosmetology school or culinary arts school. That would be right up my alley, but I just didn’t feel like being sociable just yet.
Insomnia would make its nightly ritual attacking me in my vulnerable state, so much so that I began relying on sleeping aids. I knew it wasn’t a healthy habit, yet it continued for weeks. Although I was able to stay in the family home, and in the course of time, as the estate lawyer assured me, everything would be settled in probate, but during that time I only wished for my life to end. Roboticly I’d walk the hall to my own room having to pass Mom and Dad and Abby’s empty rooms knowing they would never be filled by their presence again.
I had a lot of friends, was financially responsible, had an above average GPA, and was going to a decent school, which now I couldn’t afford tuition for. I didn’t care about that though; I would have easily given anything just to have my family back. There was a point that I wanted to hibernate and die. Depression enveloped me. My blanket and pillow became my best friend, and I would often succumb to sleep in the middle of the day, and on many days never even attempt to shed my pajamas.
Even though time had passed, my despondency remained. What was weeks felt like years. I had become reclusive and lonely, a prisoner of my internalized anguish. But after finally running out of needed grocery items, and with a little prodding from my Uncle Joe, I forced myself out of the house and drove to the grocery store. On the way there, the posters in the recruitment center window caught my eye. Strange how all my years of growing up I never noticed them before.
The very picture of me in khaki fatigues and camos would have thrilled my sister. The thought of enlisting in the military left as quickly as it came though. Me? In boot camp? Sure, I could pass the white glove test, no problem, but the structured discipline? No way. I couldn’t imagine somebody telling me when to get up, when to go to bed and everything in between. But the idea still intrigued me, and I could continue my education.
I really had nothing to lose. My life at the moment seemed to be going nowhere. So after giving it a little more thought, I concluded: the Peace Corps would give me a feel of some of the changes I would be sure to endure in my life as a service member. And I could see if I could live without a few luxuries (like pretty clothes and make-up).
After checking out the Peace Corps on the internet I found out it was a two-year program with a three-month training period. I decided it wasn’t for me. I had to test the waters slowly and safely before I dove into anything over my head. I began checking out other options. Through smaller lesser-known agencies, I could consider weeks instead of years in another land where English wasn’t spoken. I talked with the pastor and he was able to give me several connections. I could go to Africa, South America, Asia and just about any area in between needing humanitarian aid. I had taken one year of German in high school but that wouldn’t benefit me now, thrusting myself into a culture different from my own with a language barrier to boot. My everyday life without the simplest of luxuries would be a temporary thing of the past.
Once I decided to go and started the application process I found out I had to pay for all this. That was different from the Peace Corps where instead they pay you. I almost had to back out until my uncle learned of what I was planning. He sponsored me without blinking an eye, and it turns out my cousin (his daughter) who recently married needed a place to live until the sale of their newly constructed home was final. That meant I had sponsorship and a house sitter. My newlywed cousin could stay in the house and use the guest bedroom for as long as I was gone. I soon got my passport and itinerary. It was settled. I was going to South America to Colombia. I was ignorant enough not to be scared. But come to find out there is no truth in “what you don’t know won’t hurt you.”
I packed exactly what was on the list (and a little more, well, maybe more than a little.) Hey, this was new to me and I wanted to be prepared. There was a team of 12 of us including our translators, all from different areas or churches. We had strict instructions about our conduct and were given specific rules of what to do or not to do, and in the event we were separated from each other were given more instructions on where we should go. I was beginning to wonder what I had gotten myself into.
The entire team was pretty diverse, each of us with our own reasons for wanting to be there. I have since learned that sometimes there are wrong reasons for doing the right things. What motivates us to do good things can sometimes stem from selfish reasons, even if it is not our intention. I had no desire to really help anyone. That was just a fringe benefit while distracting myself from my own self-pity.
Once in Colombia, I learned it was a tumultuous place and there were places you just didn’t go, especially as an American. The outskirts of the jungles were speckled with rebels, and the terrain and topography could be a danger in itself especially to a greenhorn foreigner like me. I stuck close to a lady named Sharon. She reminded me in some ways of my mother. She didn’t speak Spanish either so we both did our best to learn a few words, like bathroom, thank you, hello and good-bye. Neither of us could make our way through a conversation with the few meager words we knew.
There had been a terrible earthquake there in the 1980’s and my dad had been involved in the relief efforts for the resulting mudslides that completely demolished small towns. Even though that had been years before, there were still communities stricken in poverty. Our goal while we were there was to provide street children and orphans with food and water and basic shelter, so we distributed needed items as well as constructed cement blocks for walls . We didn’t know about the drug lords who controlled much of the area nearby, and the rebels, the Marxist militia group, The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC). They had an agenda of their own. To them an American hostage was a priceless gem.
On one of our many excursions during that first week there I wrote an entry in my journal:
I’ve been giving away my stash of chocolate candy bars to the street kids. (I had purchased several bags of Halloween candy for my own consumption and had hidden them away in my suitcase hoping they would survive the trip and that they wouldn’t melt.) I have no intention of going without my chocolate so I crammed as much as I could into my carry-on too. To me, that’s not a luxury; it’s a necessity! It’s entirely in its own food group, a nutritional must-have. I have to say I do miss Abby hounding me about my version of healthy eating. No matter how far away I find myself from home, I’m thinking of my family and wishing somehow they’d be there waiting for me when I come back home. Anyway, as I’ve been weaning myself away from my chocolate (knowing that my supply is dwindling rapidly) and have been sharing it with the kids, I’m finding that the language barrier doesn’t really matter. Chocolate has a distinct voice and language of its own. The wrappers have been licked clean leaving my little friends with their “muddy” fingers wanting more.
The heat is turning me into a whiny baby. Not only am I hot and tired, I’m sweaty too. After the first day of work, I decided to give up on my vanity. From then on I kept my hair pulled back in a ponytail and my makeup is now nonexistent. My reflection doesn’t look like me anymore. Abby would be loving this! I miss our mini wars. Here she was this competitive athlete and academic wiz, but no matter what our fights were about I always won. It’s funny. I know she hated it, but I always got the last word. Well, I guess it’s not so funny now. I still had the last word. She’s gone now.

Being accustomed to a cooler climate all my life left me ill prepared for the hot humid conditions I was in now. I don’t remember ever drinking so much water. The work was hard but I found I actually liked it. Once I broke one fingernail, I cut the rest of them to match and found it much easier to work with the concrete and bricks.
I wrote in my journal: One thing I’ve learned since being here is that you can live in poverty and still have pride. At the church service we attended yesterday in the middle of a slum I noticed that no one looked “poor”. Everyone took pride in their appearance and I would or could have easily assumed they were not poor or that they lived in a dilapidated shack or hodgepodge makeshift building made of remnants of another. As the saying goes: “It’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.” Well, it’s true…I wouldn’t want to live here, and as for being nice to visit? the people yes (a definite YES) Everyone should have the experience at least once in their lives.
It is now Monday evening and the day is over, and oh, what a day it was. We took a lunch break from work at 1:00 and resumed work after eating. Ramone (Raymond) helped us. Our “boss” was very complimentary and kind. I think as much as we helped (Trisha, Sharon, and myself) we slowed Ramone down. He showed us how to mix the stucco and what consistency it should be and how to apply it. There were many steps involved to do the job correctly. He didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak Spanish, but we were able to communicate somehow. It was a challenge, but there is a language of cooperation, hard work, and enthusiasm that we all understood.
One particular day half way through our stay, we decided to reward ourselves by taking a trip to the beautiful waterfalls near the jungle. There we could cool down and enjoy the refreshing water and view. We had loaded up the van with sandwiches and fresh fruit and prepared to eat our lunch in the shade even though having to walk a ways because of the primitive road. I usually stuck real close to Sharon and a translator but here in this secluded place my comfort zone expanded.
I explored the area but always within earshot of the others. I was careful to watch for snakes and bugs and other crawling creatures. I had no idea we were being watched, not until I heard screams and gunshots. In the instant that I turned to hear and see the commotion, I saw Sharon fall to her knees on the ground. I could hear her scream, “Run Amanda! Run!” What looked to be a soldier clubbed her on the side of her head with his gun, and she simultaneously slumped making no noise. All I heard was chaos and so I ran paying no mind to the snakes or bugs anymore. I sprinted swiping away all the brush that slapped at my face. Too afraid to look back I continued to run hoping to dodge bullets, until eventually I couldn’t breathe. Finally, after several minutes of running and panting heavily, I collapsed next to a tree and let the scene play through my mind once more.
What a coward I was! I left my new friends to a fate unknown. Wouldn’t it have been better to face it with them? My punishment would only be worse if these militiamen caught me now. I could remember a time not so long ago when I only wanted to die, that life seemed not worth living without my family. Here and now, I wanted to live. More than anything, I wanted to live. Maybe my life flashed before my eyes, or maybe I got a new revelation, but whatever it was I knew at that point I had to survive to right my wrongs. And there were many…
I had my fair share of rebellious moments. There were a few Mom and Dad never knew about, but there was one in particular that shamed me. When I was about 14 years old and in the ninth grade I lied and told my parents I was going to a certain friend’s house from church, but I went with a girl they disapproved of and from there we met up with some boys. It didn’t stop there. I had changed clothes at this girl’s house wearing an outfit that not only flattered my newly blossomed feminine figure but bared parts of it as well, and there was of course, the cherry red lipstick and matching fingernail polish. My friend and I looked like a “ladies of the night.” (On a side note, my friend had a baby nine months later and dropped out of school, and I‘ve often wondered what might have become of me if my plans hadn‘t been interrupted.)
This particular night was supposed to be a sleepover and I didn’t realize my parents’ plan included frequenting a downtown restaurant of our small community, so as I flirted with the attentive boys on the street corner a very familiar car turned the same corner. My parents stopped the car and without a word, my dad got out of the car and escorted me back opening the door for me just as he would my mom.
I had never felt so small or so ashamed. I lied and I was caught, and I had put myself in a compromising position ruining my parent’s plans for the night. The ride home was quiet. There was no yelling. In fact, our home was usually a place of laughter, except there was nothing to laugh about now. Once at home, I did get a lecture and a few privileges taken away. They didn’t yell. They didn’t have to; their disappointment showed in their countenance and that was the worst punishment imaginable. I wanted to crawl in a hole and never come out.

That was the first of many moments of visions of flashbacks that displayed before my mind’s eyes.
*****
I still struggled to regain my breath and then a hand reached from behind the tree and covered my mouth. I fought back kicking and screaming and biting. My assailant was stronger, never letting go with one hand over my mouth and the other hand locking both arms behind my back. Having to drag me, he led me to a nearby cave. I scrambled to free myself and in the process exhausted myself more. The adrenaline that had kept me alive in the moments before was now depleted and my senses were restored. My thoughts processed fear, fear like I had never known. I was in a land far from home with no ally by my side, only a lone gunman.
I knew it wouldn’t do me any good to scream now. Who would rescue me? His militia buddies? Surely not. I turned my head to look into his ebony eyes as he let go of my mouth. I tried not to show fear but I’m sure he saw it in my eyes. He began speaking in a whisper something in Spanish. Of course, I couldn’t understand. I said nothing. He laid his gun down at the opening of the cave as a gesture of peace, I suppose. He put his hands in the air as in a sign of a truce. Then, picking up his gun again and strapping it around his shoulder, he gave me some fruit that he pulled from his satchel and a bottle of water and signaled a hush sign with his fingers to his mouth and then gently commanded something in Spanish again. And then he left.
I sat in silence not knowing what to do. Was he coming back? Was he going to kill me? No, he had his chance. Why was I still alive? Why wasn’t I taken to the others? And where were the others? What was only moments seemed like forever. The events that just unfolded all happened so fast and now time seemed to stand still. My mind wandered some more. Again I questioned, “What do I do?” At that moment I knew what my mom or dad would be doing. Oh, how I wish I had their faith. I couldn’t find the words to pray though. I couldn’t even recall the scriptures of promise and hope so often quoted in my childhood home¾quoted often but never by me.
Growing up in church had become routine for me. I know now that was my own fault. Mom would take every opportunity to throw in a character-building lesson in with every story she told. Living in my house was almost like having church every Sunday. In between the lessons she was telling were the lessons she was living right in front of me. There were instances I can remember that affected me greatly, things I never told her but wished I had.
There were times I’d get up late in the night to use the bathroom or get a drink of water and I’d see Mom still up reading her Bible. She tried her best to get me to read mine. The only way I ever opened it was if there was an incentive behind it. Sometimes when I was younger there would be some prize involved for memorization, but it was never enough to get me to read. I never gave it much thought or priority. Funny how things can change. Circumstances, good or bad, changing the course of your life, can make you or break you. Correction: the attitude towards those circumstances. I’m speaking from experience.
*****
I was too afraid to move, almost too afraid to breathe. The cave was dark inside even in the daylight. I couldn’t tell how deep it went or if there were other creatures sharing this shelter with me. I shivered in fright. I wasn’t cold but my teeth began to chatter from my nervousness. I had to clench my jaw to avoid doing it but then my shoulders began to shake. I felt like I was falling apart. I was all alone. I began to cry, but even then I didn’t reach out to God. Was it pride? I don’t really know. But in the back of my mind I thought of Abby and Mom and Dad. I couldn’t rely on their faith now.
I peeked my head out of the opening of the cave. I heard and saw nothing of my captor. In my attempt to escape, I had become disoriented. I wouldn’t know how to get back to the van, and even if I could, I might find the other gunmen waiting for me or the van might be gone altogether. Then again, there was the possibility I might run in the wrong direction and find myself deeper in the jungle. I had no supplies, just the fruit and water left by the gunman. My backpack was near where we rested for our picnic. All I had were the clothes I was wearing with an extra layer tied around my waist in case I needed long sleeves to keep the bugs off me.
I tried to calm myself and assess the situation. Anyway I looked at it, it seemed hopeless. Here I was a foreigner that no one knew was missing; no provisions; no food or water; an open cave for shelter with a probability of sharing it with unknown creatures¾possibly dangerous creatures at that. But more than all of that was the fact that I was alone. All by myself. I sat huddled there until it began to get dark. I looked for my clip-on watch, but that was with my backpack too. I was sure it had been several hours since our lunchtime outing. Now it would be several hours before daylight again. I was hungry and I was scared.
Finally I said a prayer. I don’t remember all of it but it was short and simple. Short, simple and sincere. I knew I couldn’t hide anything in my heart from God. Instead, I opened it up to him something like this: “Dear Lord, help me believe. Help me know that you really love me and that you’re with me right now. If I have to be here, please be here with me. Let my life start over right now and place in me the faith of my mother and father, what I’ve known to be true all my life but never allowed myself to fully embrace. Amen.” I think I even surprised myself. Looking back, I can’t believe I didn’t just say, “Lord, get me out of here now!”
As soon as I finished whispering those words, I heard footsteps. Too afraid to breathe I sucked in a gulp of air with no intention to exhale right away. The footsteps stopped at the opening of the cave. The same lone gunman stood bending over to enter the cave. This time he had a flashlight and a blanket as well as more water and fruit and flat bread. I was so hungry and thirsty. I didn’t eat the fruit or drink the water he had left with me before. I didn’t trust him. I think he saw the mistrust in my eyes. Logically assessing the situation how well could one trust a gunman whose fellow soldiers attacked with weapons and without provocation?
He sat down across from me. I stared at him defiantly as he handed me the bread and water. I didn’t accept it. He frowned with his eyebrows and motioned for me to eat. I shook my head. I think that’s a universal “no.” Anyway, I know I got my point across.
We each sat in silence wondering what the other was thinking, no doubt. After a few minutes, he took the bread and fruit he had offered me and took a bite himself. I was relieved. It wasn’t tainted. He then offered it to me again. This time I accepted. There was a look of delight on his face and I saw a most pleasant smile curve his lips. The bread and water weren’t the tasty lunch my group had planned earlier, but it filled my stomach. My enemy handed me a blanket and shined the light to a shallow spot in the cave where I could sleep, the cold hard ground would soon become my bed. He looked outside the cave opening and listened intently as if trying to follow a noise. It was just a bird nesting for the night. He motioned for me to eat more and I said, “No.” He repeated, “No?” I confirmed it with a shake of my head. Then he began speaking in Spanish. His voice was pleasant, smooth and velvety but I didn’t understand a word he said. I interrupted him, “I don’t understand you.” He stopped in mid-sentence, I think. It’s kind of hard to tell when you can’t understand anyway. He pointed to his chest and said, “Angelo.” My captor was introducing himself to me. He extended his hand in a most gentlemanly manner. I reciprocated the handshake and with my other hand pointed to my heart and said, “Amanda.” He repeated, “Amanda.” He smiled. Each act of kindness, be it ever so small, whittled away a little of the mistrust I held for him.

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