built-in drawer space under both. The porthole was in a prime location over my bed, and you could open it and stick your head out. I gingerly got to my knees and looked out. I could see land, grim, stark, barren, colour â less, and, by the motion of the ship, I figured the portside; where I found myself, had to be the worst place to be.
There was a loud knock on my door and before I could answer it flew open to reveal Martha, dressed in full expedition regalia, including the khaki pants with fif â teen pockets, the Tilley hat and down vest, the regulation binocs and the fifteen pounds worth of camera and video equipment hanging off every corner of her body, and an apple in her mouth. But it was what she was carrying in her arms that was alarming. It looked like the entire con â tents of a pharmacy and a bookstore combined.
âCordi. Jesus girl, you look awful.â She dumped the contents of her arms onto the table under my porthole and then plopped down on the end of my bed, jerking me against the motion of the waves and causing a small revolt in my stomach.
âThanks for the vote of confidence.â
âAll you have to do is get your sea legs. Nothing to it.
Youâll be right as rain tomorrow, but Iâve got lots of anti stuff to get you through the worst.â
I was hoping the worst had already happened.
She got up and rummaged through her vials of pills throwing me Gravol caplets, time release, multiple strength tablets, suppositories, and drink crystals. She hauled out various coloured wristbands and stood guard while I chose a pair and put them on, their little plastic cups digging deep into my wrists like tight socks.
âThatâs the way itâs supposed to be,â said Martha as I protested and began to take them off.
âLeave âem on, Cordi, leave âem on. You wonât notice them in five minutes, I guarantee it.â
âYeah, right. Thatâs because my hands will be numb.â
She fished out a bunch of sugary looking globs. âIf you want to go natural instead of all these pills and stuff, hereâs the best sugared ginger in the world.â She threw me her little package. I sniffed at it suspiciously and the smell made me gag.
âGuess it wonât be natural,â said Martha as she scooped up most of the mess and stashed it in one of the drawers under my bed. âThe best medicine for you right now is to get moving, take your mind off your stomach. Come on up to the bridge. Iâve been told the captain wants to see you.â
Five minutes later we were weaving down the hall â way of my deck, four, and hauling ourselves up the nar â row staircase to the bridge. We made way for a woman coming down the stairs, who turned out to be in the writing course. Martha introduced her to me as LuEllen. She was one of those masculine types, short-cropped hair, no jewellery, and wearing baggy clothing that completely hid her figure. She was wearing a baseball cap thrust low over her forehead and a jacket with a hunched up scarf so that I could not see her face. But I was more interested in what she had in her arms, or rather arm â the sleeve of her right arm hung empty and useless. In the arm that was there nestled a little, white, long-, curly-haired dog, about the size of a cat. She could have hidden it in her clothing and I wouldnât have been the wiser, unless it yapped.
âHowâre you doing, LuEllen?â asked Martha, as she munched on her apple. But LuEllen obviously was not feeling very talkative. She just nodded at us and walked on by, but not before the dog made an unsuccessful lunge at Marthaâs apple.
âMoody,â said Martha, âbut sheâs had a few rotten curves in her life.â
I thought about the arm and wondered what the other curves were, besides a rude dog, when we reached the bridge through the back door.
âAre you sure weâre supposed to do this?â I asked