She saw Chip for lunch two days before she left, as promised.
“You look terrific,” he complimented her, and she didn’t know if he meant her scars or her general appearance. She was wearing a pink sweater and coat with jeans. She’d had to buy clothes to wear in Africa because she didn’t have the right things with her, or even own some of them. She was leaving some things at Doug’s apartment that she couldn’t use in Angola. “You look more relaxed,” Chip said to her.
“At least the surgery is behind me. This should be the last one, unless any of the shrapnel moves around, but I’m hoping it won’t.” She knew it could create some life-threatening situations if it did, and block an artery or a vital organ, even her heart. But what was left hadn’t moved in a year, and hopefully never would. They were going to leave the pins in her ankle. There was no reason to take them out.
They talked about how his congressional campaign was going, his kids, and his divorce. He liked talking to her, even though she was young. She had seen a lot of life, more than most people, between her modeling career and surviving a terrorist attack and a year of surgery. She was wise beyond her years, more than his own kids who were nearly the same age. She could tell he was upset about his divorce. His wife had gotten greedy, and they were battling over their house, and his inheritance.
“Be careful in Angola,” he warned her, “and let me know how you are. I just found you, I don’t want to lose you.” He looked serious as he said it.
“You won’t.” She smiled at him. She was made of strong stuff and he knew it. His father had admired her for it too.
She left for the airport with a single suitcase, packed tightly with all the things Dick Dennis said she needed. Shorts, long jeans, heavy hiking boots despite the heat, every possible kind of insect repellent, sunscreen to protect her scars, and zinc oxide, pain medication if she needed it, antibiotics in case she got sick, long-sleeved shirts and a few T-shirts, a couple of simple peasant skirts. She didn’t bring anything fancy since she’d have no use for it. This was a rough and ready work trip in a small, primitive village on rough terrain. He said that even the nuns wore hiking boots with their habits. He had left a few days earlier, and would have time to settle in before she got there.
He had arranged for a room for her in the convent. The nurses lived there too. It all sounded like a great adventure. She rode to the airport in a cab, her passport in a small zippered pouch on her belt. She had enough money with her for emergencies, and for once she didn’t even think about her scars or how anyone would react to them. As far as she knew, she had recovered from Zaventem. She felt free and could hardly wait to discover Angola. The nightmare of the past year was finally behind her. She was a free woman, heading for her future, and all the surprises it had in store for her. She intended to reach out and grab them. She wasn’t the same woman she’d been a year before, and she could sense that she wouldn’t be the same after this trip either. Everything was new to her, and every day was a gift.
Chapter 15
Véronique flew to Luanda, the capital of Angola, on Emirates airlines with a stop in Dubai. The flight was long, and in Luanda, she took a short flight to Cuito Cuanavale. There were two flights a week from Luanda to Cuito Cuanavale, and the hospital was in a rural area nearly two hours away by car. The HALO Trust was still working on clearing mines for the area, and had made progress, but the surrounding area was not mine-free yet, with devastating effect on the local population, and some horrifying injuries as a result.
She was met at the airport by a young man with a wide ivory smile, whose name was Joachim. He spoke surprisingly good English, with a Portuguese accent. He walked with a limp, but was bright and friendly, and told her as they left the airport, “Dr. Dick saved my legs. I was twelve when my brother and I stepped on a mine. My brother was nine. He was killed. Dr. Dick saved my life,” he said proudly, as they drove through the countryside past Cuito Cuanavale. There were goats along the side of the road and chickens, children playing in the dirt, women in colorful clothes, panos, which were wraparound batik garments, some with bright colored cloths around their heads or balancing baskets. Joachim was driving a battered old red Ford truck and wearing a colorful shirt and jeans. He had brought some bottled water for her. She had been traveling for twenty-seven hours by then. She was hot and dusty when they arrived at a small compound, with a tiny church, a large wooden building built by the locals with a sign outside that read “Saint Matthew’s Hospital,” and another large building that looked like a school. There was a group of nuns walking up the front steps in immaculate white nursing habits in contrast to all the bright colors around them. There were masses of bougainvillea and other flowers she didn’t recognize, and the nuns were laughing, as they turned to see who the new arrival was, just as Dr. Dennis walked out of the hospital. He had been watching for her from the office he used on the main floor. There were clusters of locals sitting on the ground, with small children and old people who were there to support the children they had brought to the hospital for treatment. Some of them were cooking.