Page 49 of Whispers on the Water

“Because my son is very sick. In fact, he needs a liver transplant. The jaundice turned out to be something more serious. A genetic disease called Alagille Syndrome. But unfortunately, my husband, me, and even his older sister—none of us are matches. So, we’re on a waiting list.”

Tears start to well in my eyes as I listen, my heart breaking. “I’m so sorry to hear that Mrs. Bennet,” I choke out, the words barely escaping.

Penny takes another deep breath, her voice trembling. “See, sorry doesn’t help me. In fact, there’s one person that doctors say might be a match that hasn’t been tested. Someone that I’ve missed for a very long time.” She burst into sobs. “But she won’t come home.”

A chill runs through me, my blood turning to ice. My nephew, a child I’ve never seen, is in the hospital, and Penny believes I could be his lifeline.

“I don’t know what to say…” My voice fades into a whisper, the weight of her words crushing me.

Penny sniffs, trying to regain composure. “I know you’ve had a shit life, Elaine, but I don’t know what else to do. I thought maybe we would get one through the transplant list, but it’s so long.” Her voice breaks again, her despair echoing in the repetition of “so long.”

A shudder replaces my breath. My nephew is dying. I can hear it in between her careful words. A boy that I’ve never met, whose name I can’t even remember because that’s the special kind of selfish asshole I am.

But I can make a difference. Maybe it will be too little too late, but I have to try. If only I’m willing to face the consequences. An old hymn pops into my mind. I don’t know where it came from or why it’s decided now is the time to lift my ban on religion, but I can’t stop repeating the words in my head. ‘It is well with my soul.’

And it is. No matter what the consequences are, I know I must try to help. Deep in my soul, repercussions be damned, it is well. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.” To my surprise, my voice sounds confident. Sure of the decision even.

“No Elaine, you can’t—”

“I can and I will. I love you, Pen. I need to do this.” The resolve is still there. I’ve already committed, and I won’t turn back now.

Penny’s sobs fill my ear, her gratitude pouring out between them. “Don’t thank me yet. We gotta make sure I’m a match first. Hopefully, they can do that from prison.” I laugh, though it’s tinged with seriousness. As soon as my feet hit the pavement on United States soil, I’m fairly certain I’ll be arrested.

“Just get here, and no more jokes about jail,” Penny says. The way she said it was so reminiscent of my older sister that I laugh again.

“I will Pen. See you soon.”

After I give her my new number, we end the call. I make my way back into the restaurant, wiping away tears as the enormity of our conversation sinks in.

It is well with my soul, but it’s not well with the FBI. Whether I’m arrested or not; I’m going home.

Chapter thirty-one

Sam

After my shift ends, mostly for the tips, I grab a bus ticket, explaining to Isabella that a family emergency has come up. The rest of the staff, showing their support, pitch in with their own tips, which touches me deeply. Though I’ve only worked with them for a few weeks, they all have treated me like a part of the team. For a moment, I wondered if I should have been more open to their friendship. But it’s too late to change anything now. Instead, I hug Isabella goodbye and rush off to the bus stop. One day, I’ll probably find myself regretting leaving so suddenly, but I can’t think about that now. For one thing, it’ll take me at least 45 hours to reach Mexico and another eight hours to get to San Diego from there.

While standing at the curb, waiting for the bus that will take me to the main station, I send a text to Tommy. It’s past midnight, so I don’t expect him to read it until tomorrow, but he deserves to know what I’m planning. The night air is warm around me, but after I stow my phone back into my pocket, a chill works through my body. It’s dark and lonely. The street is mostly devoid of people or cars, and each one that does pass makes me hold onto my purse a little tighter.

It’s one of those moments where I wish I could grab myself by the shoulders and scream, “What’re you doing?” But it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Though I’m about to travel alone through countless countries under a technically stolen passport, I know I need to go.

The bus arrives, pulling up to the curb and the door swooshing open. I stare at the driver, an older man with white hair, and try to move forward. But when you’ve been running for so long from something so serious, it turns out your body isn’t in a rush to switch directions.

“Senroita?” the driver asks, looking at me with concern. He probably thinks I’m drunk or lost. His simple words and empathetic smile are all I need. I give him a reassuring grin and step onto the bus.

The inside smells like an old diaper and smoke, but at least the windows are open. Settling into my seat, the bus feels mostly deserted, save for a few passengers in the back. It’s a long journey, but the first stretch is quick. The bus pulls up to the main station fifteen minutes later, and I head to the automatic ticket kiosk.

17,700 Nicaraguan Cordobas for a ticket back to face the music of my previous life. I’m still not quite used to the denomination, but I figure it’s about $500. I slide the bills in, mostly from the tips Isabella gave me. Thankfully, it was a busy night.

My ticket is printed out, a small white slip of paper that feels like a thousand pounds of complications in my palm. But I grip it tighter, my jaw clenching. I am going home.

The bus doesn’t leave until six am, so I have a few hours. There’s a row of plastic chairs, some of them stained with things I shouldn’t think too hard about, but I find a cleaner one near the back. As soon as I sit, I let out a long breath. I’m going home.

No matter how many times I think about it, I still don’t quite believe it. Instead of dwelling on what’s going to happen, I focus on the soft strains of acoustic guitar that are playing overhead in the bus station, allowing me to drift off as I close my eyes.

***

Hours later, I’m on the bus, trying my best to get comfortable. My neck aches from resting against the window where I had managed a long nap. I boarded the bus as soon as the doors were open this morning and found a seat where I could be left alone. Still, a bus isn’t comfortable, especially not one with tears in the seat and noisy children. Shifting around, I notice someone sitting across from me—a middle aged woman holding a baby. For a split second, I’m staring. Now, I know that baby’s are supposed to be cute. Natures way of keeping us caring for them. Even so, this kid is fucking adorable. When it’s wobbly head turns my way, fist in it’s mouth, eyes connect with mine, the damn thing smiles. A glorious, beautiful, ovary stimulating grin. “Morning,” the mother greets, offering me a smile of her own. Her English is perfect, and I return her hello.

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