Wanderlost (9 page)

I wrinkle my nose. “If you say you're a Yankees fan, I'm going to have to end this call right now.”

“Oh, what, because the Indians are such a kick-ass alternative?”

I laugh. Watching baseball with my dad is our thing. We have this ritual before every game where we grill hot dogs (three each), pour big cups of orange Fanta, change into our
lucky shirts (which must be switched up after every loss, but can't be washed as long as the Indians are winning), and execute a complicated rally cry while my mother rolls her eyes.

“Maybe,” I say. “You have to admit, Santana hitting a home run every year on his birthday is a pretty impressive stat.”

Sam whistles. “Too bad his birthday only comes once a year. Still. Girl knows her sports stats. Color me intrigued.”

“Yeah, well, I try. At least where the Indians are concerned. It must get pretty lonely being a Yankees fan in Ohio.”

“Ah, but I never said I was a Yankees fan, did I? And who's to say I don't like being lonely?”

“Nobody likes being lonely,” I answer.

“Yeah, probably true.” There's a smile in Sam's voice as he says, “The good news is, you don't have to be lonely when I'm around.”

I snort-laugh. Weirdly enough, I actually don't feel lonely at all right now, even though I've never been more on my own in my entire life.

Sam gets quieter when he asks, “You're not, are you? Lonely, I mean. I know there's a big age difference between you and the passengers and it can be kind of a divide after a while, not talking to someone your own age for so long. If you start to go crazy, you know you can always call me.”

“Wow, you really
are
a full-service tour company,” I tease.

“I would like brownie points for passing on the very obvious dirty joke you just gave me the perfect opening for, and
just leave it at ‘We aim to please.' But seriously, I want those mad brownie points.”

“Noted.” I laugh again. I'm doing a lot of that. Sam and I talk about tour stuff for another ten minutes. I fill him in on the clog-and-cheese outing and he tells me he's faxing over a hotel change for Venice, because the one we booked is having trouble with their air conditioning.

“Hey, so, I've gotta sign off and do some more check-ins,” he says eventually, and I like that he sounds as though he'd rather keep talking.

“Should I be jealous?” I ask. “Do you flirt like this with all the tour guides?”

“Nah. Raj is up next and he's six foot six and three hundred pounds. Plus he thinks cricket and rugby are better sports than baseball and football. So not my type. Don't worry, I only have eyes—check, make that ears in this case—for the cute ones. You're safe, Dimples. Likeyoubye.”

“Likeyoubye.”

Braubach has cobblestone
streets and houses that look like they were the models for cuckoo clocks and I half expect a tiny bird to come popping out their top windows when it hits the hour. We spend the morning exploring all its nooks and crannies.

Dolores hangs back, as usual, while Mary and Emma buy matching woodsmen's felt hats (complete with red feathers), and she is as quiet as she always is during lunch, but at least she's there with us in body, if not in spirit.

Except after lunch, she decides even that is too much.

We've boarded the bus for a five-minute trip to where we can catch a little train that will take us up to the grounds of Marksburg Castle. Once we park, everyone shuffles out, but when I do a quick head count, I notice her missing. I climb back inside to find her rifling through her bag.

“Dolores? Did you lose something? The train should be here any minute.”

“I'm just looking for my yarn bag. I'm not feeling up for a long walk or any stairs this afternoon. I think I'd like to sit out the tour and just enjoy the fresh air and some knitting.”

Oh. Okay.

“Um, are you sure? I'm positive the castle guide will allow us to go as slowly as we'd like.”

“No, dear. You all go on. I'll be fine. I'd like to find a café and take some time to myself, please.”

Got it. I'm not exactly sure how a seasoned tour guide would handle this one. Is it my job to push her into joining us? Or am I supposed to respect her wishes and let her have whatever vacation she chooses? In the interest of preserving my evaluation form, I choose the path of least resistance and go with Option B.

“Okay, well, if you're sure. I know Bento will be hanging here with the bus if you need anything. Should we look for you in the closest café when we finish up?”

“I'll just meet you here at the bus in three hours.” She returns to sifting through her giant carry-on bag and I can tell I've been dismissed. With a sigh, I head back outside and follow the rest of the group onto the old-fashioned train. Every time I think I have a handle on things, I realize it's really more like two steps forward, one step back.

At least the castle is interesting, with all its medieval touches. The ladies (me included) love the great banquet hall the best, and Hank seems particularly impressed with the wine cellar. Mr. Fenton keeps the tour guide on his toes with
question after question (which makes me ridiculously glad he hasn't drilled me the same way! Does this mean he knows I could never keep up?) and Emma leaves the souvenir shop carrying a knight's metal breastplate decorated with a coat of arms. We're all laughing as our train makes its way back into the Old Town portion of Braubach.

Bento is waiting for us outside the bus, his face ashen.

Right away he starts gushing Spanish and waving his arms around like a crazy person. I know
something
is wrong, but why, oh why, didn't I take Spanish when I had the chance?

“Bento, slow down! Where's Dolores?”

“Dolores.
Sí. Hospital
.”

“I think he's saying she's at the hospital,” Hank offers. “Can't help picking up some Mexican when you live in Texas.”

Oh good God. This is not the time to inform Hank there is no such language as Mexican or that his comments are unappreciated, not to mention offensive. Besides, obviously he's right about the translation.

My boss's mother is in the hospital!

Bento has us to the hospital in thirty minutes, though it feels longer. As we drive, I formulate the most basic of plans, which consists of “everyone stay right here on the bus until I have more information.” Luckily, my crew is on board with this, no pun intended.

The bus screeches to a stop in front of the emergency entrance and I'm already on the bottom step as Bento swings
the door open. In seconds I've found the information desk.

“Please, please, do you speak English?”

“Little,” the woman at the desk says haltingly, with a very heavy accent.

“I'm a tour guide and one of my guests has been taken here. I don't know what happened. My bus driver only speaks Spanish and I don't, so . . . Oh, never mind, it's not important. I need to find her.” I flop against the wooden counter.

“Name, please?”

“My name, or—oh, you mean her name. Dolores Shemkovich. S-H-E-M-K-O-V-I-C-H.”

I really hope I'm spelling that right. Why didn't I think to get emergency contact information from everyone the very first minute of the very first day? It's not like I'm dealing with spring chickens here. The best I have is a sheet of paper where I scribbled everyone's names as they introduced themselves so I could keep track of who was who.

But something as responsible as next of kin or lists of medications or allergies? Never even occurred to me. Elizabeth's first move would have been to collect this information. Though of course
she
would never have lost the binder to begin with, so she would already have the forms.

And me? I'm so incompetent people are already landing in the hospital on my watch. Oh God, what if she's dead and it's all my fault?!

The woman at the information desk stops her frantic tapping at her keyboard.

“Yes. She here. Broke this.” She bends her arm and pats her elbow. “Room two-three-five. Lift is there.”

She points to an elevator behind her and I yell my thanks before running for it.

When I push open the door, Dolores is propped on her bed, staring out the window. She does
not
look like a happy camper. Her arm is in a sling, securing it in position, and she has it resting on top of a pile of pillows so tall the “Princess and the Pea” girl would be jealous.

“Dolores?” I edge into the room and her head turns to examine me.

“I guess I should have gone to the castle after all,” she says in a flat voice.

I grimace. “What happened?”

“My ball of yarn dropped and rolled behind me. When I stood up to get it, I didn't realize the string had wound its way around my seat. My chair got stuck and I tripped over it. I tried to put my arm out to break my fall, but I landed on my elbow instead.” She winces and I can't tell if it's from discomfort or embarrassment.

“I'm so sorry. Did they give you anything for the pain?”

“They did. It feels alright at the moment. I'm just so darn mad at myself. I never wanted to come on this vacation to begin with. I let my daughter bully me into it and now look what's happened!” She tries to move her hands as she talks, but winces when she lifts her arm from the pillow. She drops it
back down with a sigh. “I don't know why she cares so much, but I got a whole guilt trip about how I'm finally old enough to go on one of her senior tours and instead I'm just wasting my days puttering around the house, knitting, and gardening. I
like
to putter. I don't see what's so wrong with that. Who needs to visit all of Europe when I'm perfectly comfortable in my own home?”

When she finishes her speech, her eyebrows crumple and she leans back against the pillow.

“I'm . . . I'm sorry you don't want to be here,” I say in a soft voice. If only she knew how much we have in common and how I was guilted into coming too. I guess the big difference is that I'm starting to see the appeal of Europe, and Dolores seems like she'd give anything to be back home.

Her eyes stay closed.

“Um, can I get you anything?” I ask.

“I'm fine. Though someone will need to call my daughter and I don't feel up to it. Would you please do so? I assume you know her?”

“I . . . uh . . . we only had a phone interview. But, um, I can call her. Sure.” It probably
does
fall under the realm of tour guide duties, even though I may need to raid the hospital pharmacy first for some antianxiety pills before telling my boss I've broken her mother (or at least let it happen on my watch).

“Maybe I should talk to the doctor first, so I can find out more about what they want to do from here,” I say.

Dolores doesn't open her eyes, just nods. I slip out of the
room and head for the nurses' station.

Fortunately, the doctor writes in English as well as he speaks it, so mere minutes later I'm clutching a written description of Dolores's injury and the treatment plan recommended by the hospital. I return to the bus and answer everyone's concerned questions before playing a subtle game of charades with Bento until he finally figures out that I'm looking for the number of the tour operator. He passes over his phone and I return to the quiet waiting room and dial with shaky fingers.

Sam answers. Of
course
he does
.
“At Your Age Adventures. This is Sam, may I help you?”

“Sam. It's Elizabeth.”

“Dimples! My, but you're the impatient one. You know we have a phone date tonight, right? Or was there something I could help you with in the meantime? So far this morning I've located one missing bus in New Zealand, and our tour guide in Koh Phangan had twelve passengers come down with, well, let's just call them intestinal issues, minutes after their bus got hopelessly stuck in the mud. Guess who tracked down a tow truck driver plus a hefty supply of Imodium and toilet paper—which isn't readily available in Thailand, I might add—all from my desk here in Dayton?”

Ew. Even through my panic haze, I make a mental note to stock up on toilet paper at our next stop. But in my pause Sam realizes I'm not laughing along with him.

“What's wrong? Talk to me.” His voice is all concern now.

“I think . . . I think I need to talk to the owner.” My voice
wobbles on the last few words.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Hey, it's okay, Dimples. Whatever it is, it's all right. We're really used to tour crises around here. Okay?”

I nod, forgetting he can't see me. Maybe he's right. Maybe this isn't the big deal I think it is. Sure, Dolores is in the hospital, but as injuries go, it's not the
worst
thing ever. I relax a tiny bit and say, “Thanks, Sam. It's, um, it's Dolores. The owner's mother. She had a little accident and, um, she's in the hospital.”

“Oh my God!” Sam exclaims and all traces of humor and calm are gone from his voice. In fact, he sounds pretty panicked. “Is she . . . is she okay?”

“She will be. She broke her elbow.”

Sam is quiet for a beat. “Can you hold on a second, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth. Not Dimples.

My heartbeat speeds up. What happened to Reassuring Sam? “Sure,” I mumble.

I listen to a few bars of the Beatles singing “When I'm Sixty-Four” and then the line clicks.

“Hello, Elizabeth. This is Teresa Bellamy.” Okay, that name I remember from Elizabeth talking about her. She's the owner. Sam dumped me right to the owner without any warning. This must be worse than I thought.

“Um, hel—hi, Mrs. Bellamy. This is Au—er, Elizabeth Sadler. I'm leading the European Indulgences tour. The one your mom is on?”

“Yes, yes, I know. Sam told me she got injured. You should be in Braubach today. Is that where you are? What is the name of the hospital? How hurt is she? Can I speak with her?”

I swallow. This woman has my sister's future in her hands and I have to tell her how her mother injured herself while in my care. Not good.

“Yes, ma'am. We're in Braubach. Or near it, anyway. The hospital is called . . .” I look at the sign in the waiting room. Seriously? “. . . I don't know if I can pronounce it, but I can spell it. It's S-T-I-F-T-U-N-G-S-K-L-I-N-I-K-U-M. Next word: M-I-T-T-E-L-R-H-E-I-N.” Wow, German is just as bad as Dutch. I rush on. “Your mom has”—I glance down at my notes from the doctor—“she has an olecranon fracture of her elbow. The doctor said it's really common in elderly people who have a fall. She was using her arm to break the impact, but instead she broke—well, fractured—her elbow.”

Teresa Bellamy is quiet. I force myself to breathe.

“I've just come from her room and she's in really great spirits,” I add.

Teresa chokes on something. “You're a terrible liar. My mother is most definitely
not
in great spirits. She fought me tooth and nail about going on this trip and I have no doubt she's sitting in that hospital bed feeling sorry for herself right now. That is, when she's not cursing my name.”

Hmm. This woman knows her mom. My turn to stay quiet.

“How bad is it?” Teresa asks.

“Well, ma'am—”

“Teresa,” she interrupts.

“Teresa, right. Sorry. The doctor says it's a Type I fracture and they don't recommend surgery for this type of injury in the elderly. She'll use a sling to keep her arm straight for a day or so and they'll give her some physical therapy exercises she should do every morning. They want her to get another X-ray in ten days.”

Teresa blows into the phone and I can't tell if she's smoking or just really annoyed. When she speaks next, her tone is all business.

“Okay, here's what I want you to do. I'm going to give you a number to fax me the records so I can have someone on this side of the ocean look them over and give a second opinion. It can't hurt to have a doctor here double-check. Damn, but she'll never do any of those PT exercises on her own accord. I need to think about this for a second. Hold on.”

The music comes back and this time it's “Still Crazy After All These Years.” I wonder if they have a whole playlist of songs about aging to cater to their clientele.

“Elizabeth? You still with me?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh, quit it with the ma'am stuff. Just Teresa, please. I did some Googling and it looks like this is a fairly minor injury, more inconvenient than anything else. She's wanting to come home now, isn't she?”

“I . . . she didn't say.”

“Good. Do not let her speak those words out loud. It's
very
important to me that she continues on. She's been holed up in her house since my dad died and, truth be told, a lot longer than that even. This is my chance to show her the world and I'm not going to let a little fracture ruin my plans for her. She needs this; she just doesn't know it yet.”