territories. I should have been paying more attention in world history class. There was so much I didn’t know. We continued our journey into the past. Surrounding us were high limestone walls inscribed with the names of soldiers who’d died. The four branches of the service each had their own section.
“Would you care to hunt for Callahan?” Timothy asked. “Most people want to see if their ancestors are on the wall. The first time I visited, I checked for Flynn.” He was so cute when his smile widened into a boyish grin. “I’ll help.”
We ambled on in companionable silence, each of us combing the aisles for my possible relatives. On the third wall in the United States Navy region, we hit pay dirt. Petty Officer John T. Callahan had been born on Christmas day in 1923 and died January 10, 1945. He could have been my long lost cousin.
As I wandered, lost in thought, the enormity of what the carvings on those walls meant stirred my soul. Each name was a real person, with a mother and father; and perhaps a spouse or sweetheart left behind. Each death had necessitated a telegram that had shattered someone’s heart. “We regret to inform you …” These brave soldiers had given their lives for the freedom I enjoyed. I walked a little more softly on what now seemed sacred ground.
After our tour, we ventured back out into the punishing sunshine. I was assaulted by a blast of heat. Slick sweat trickled down my neck and soaked my sleeveless blouse. Feeling faint, I closed my eyes to find the earth tipping off-kilter. Taking a deep breath of the sticky air, I plopped down hard on a nearby bench and hung my head.
Timothy sank down next to me and touched the back of his hand to my sweaty forehead. “We need to get you out of this sun. Right now you bear a strong resemblance to a wilted sampaguita .” His lips pressed into a frown as he swept the hair out of my face.
“Excuse me? What’s a sampaguita ? Asian spinach salad with warm bacon dressing?” I slapped at a mosquito and fluttered my eyelashes at him.
His lips parted as laughter rumbled in his throat. I fought the urge to purr like a kitten when he laughed. He seemed more human. “No. It’s the national flower, part of the jasmine family. A very pretty, fragrant flower.” A warm flush crept up his neck as he glanced away.
No one had ever told me I resembled a flower before, much less a sweet-smelling blossom.
“Time to get you back to the seminary. You need a cold drink and a few hours rest at the apartment. After you’re feeling better, I thought we might go out to dinner tonight. We’re due to have a long talk, don’t you think?”
At last.
As we reached the car, his cell phone rang.
It was the hospital. Darling Pinky was going home within the hour.
8
I positioned the air conditioning vents toward my face and pinched my cheeks. The sharp sting helped to revive me.
We raced across town—or rather, we raced and crawled—finally arriving at Manila Makati Medical. I was sure Danilo had taken his driving lessons from Timothy.
We moved into the crowded waiting room, and I found a seat.
Timothy loped off to find out more information on Pinky. The sick, the poor, the dying, not to mention the sniffling, the crying, and the moaning surrounded me. I didn’t care for hospitals at the best of times—like when my sister, Lily, had delivered baby Ethan—but it was important to be here for Pinky’s sake. Maybe Timothy’s compassion was rubbing off on me.
Timothy returned, and we were off to the accounting department.
A harried employee informed us that in order to discharge a patient, full payment was expected.
Timothy reached for his checkbook. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but I overheard that Timothy had also paid a down payment when Pinky had first been admitted. I would imagine precious few people in the Philippines had medical insurance and definitely not anyone from the shantytown up the creek from the seminary. How
“Would you care to hunt for Callahan?” Timothy asked. “Most people want to see if their ancestors are on the wall. The first time I visited, I checked for Flynn.” He was so cute when his smile widened into a boyish grin. “I’ll help.”
We ambled on in companionable silence, each of us combing the aisles for my possible relatives. On the third wall in the United States Navy region, we hit pay dirt. Petty Officer John T. Callahan had been born on Christmas day in 1923 and died January 10, 1945. He could have been my long lost cousin.
As I wandered, lost in thought, the enormity of what the carvings on those walls meant stirred my soul. Each name was a real person, with a mother and father; and perhaps a spouse or sweetheart left behind. Each death had necessitated a telegram that had shattered someone’s heart. “We regret to inform you …” These brave soldiers had given their lives for the freedom I enjoyed. I walked a little more softly on what now seemed sacred ground.
After our tour, we ventured back out into the punishing sunshine. I was assaulted by a blast of heat. Slick sweat trickled down my neck and soaked my sleeveless blouse. Feeling faint, I closed my eyes to find the earth tipping off-kilter. Taking a deep breath of the sticky air, I plopped down hard on a nearby bench and hung my head.
Timothy sank down next to me and touched the back of his hand to my sweaty forehead. “We need to get you out of this sun. Right now you bear a strong resemblance to a wilted sampaguita .” His lips pressed into a frown as he swept the hair out of my face.
“Excuse me? What’s a sampaguita ? Asian spinach salad with warm bacon dressing?” I slapped at a mosquito and fluttered my eyelashes at him.
His lips parted as laughter rumbled in his throat. I fought the urge to purr like a kitten when he laughed. He seemed more human. “No. It’s the national flower, part of the jasmine family. A very pretty, fragrant flower.” A warm flush crept up his neck as he glanced away.
No one had ever told me I resembled a flower before, much less a sweet-smelling blossom.
“Time to get you back to the seminary. You need a cold drink and a few hours rest at the apartment. After you’re feeling better, I thought we might go out to dinner tonight. We’re due to have a long talk, don’t you think?”
At last.
As we reached the car, his cell phone rang.
It was the hospital. Darling Pinky was going home within the hour.
8
I positioned the air conditioning vents toward my face and pinched my cheeks. The sharp sting helped to revive me.
We raced across town—or rather, we raced and crawled—finally arriving at Manila Makati Medical. I was sure Danilo had taken his driving lessons from Timothy.
We moved into the crowded waiting room, and I found a seat.
Timothy loped off to find out more information on Pinky. The sick, the poor, the dying, not to mention the sniffling, the crying, and the moaning surrounded me. I didn’t care for hospitals at the best of times—like when my sister, Lily, had delivered baby Ethan—but it was important to be here for Pinky’s sake. Maybe Timothy’s compassion was rubbing off on me.
Timothy returned, and we were off to the accounting department.
A harried employee informed us that in order to discharge a patient, full payment was expected.
Timothy reached for his checkbook. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but I overheard that Timothy had also paid a down payment when Pinky had first been admitted. I would imagine precious few people in the Philippines had medical insurance and definitely not anyone from the shantytown up the creek from the seminary. How
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