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“I will.”
We say our goodbyes, and then Kelly and her children get into a cab and drive off.
I check my phone and realize it’s almost lunchtime. My stomach growls, and I remember I didn’t have much for breakfast. I find a restaurant with good reviews online, then take a cab there. The menu is in German, so the waiter has to explain to me in broken English what the meals are. I eventually settle on an oyster pasta.
After lunch, I decide I can’t keep wearing this outfit until Wednesday, so I go shopping. The prices in the stores make my stomach clench, but I have no choice. I buy one dress, a couple of shirts and pairs of pants, and some underwear. I also add a large duffel bag to my purchase; it’s way too expensive, but at least I’ll have something to put all these extra clothes in apart from my backpack.
I spend the rest of the day walking around Zurich and taking photos. The rain started to pick up again after lunch, so I open my umbrella and hold it over my head as I stroll the streets. I play one of the songs from the Crash Landing on You soundtrack on my phone. If I block out the noise of the busy street and focus on the soft tunes in my ears and the pitter-patter of the rain against my umbrella, I can pretend I am that jet-setter Kelly thinks I am. Here I am, in Switzerland, after a disastrous flight forced me to stay, unplanned, in a foreign country. The panic I felt earlier fades with each wet step against the concrete. The worry disappears with every earthy breath I take. The loneliness that hung over my head slips off. It dissolves slower than the other feelings, but all that matters is it does go away.
See, Maya? I think triumphantly to myself as I expertly avoid an old man approaching me. You can roll with the punches. Maybe this is the end of your bad luck.
My stomach gurgles, and I falter in my step. My hand flies to my midsection, and I wait for the churning to stop. It fades for only a second before another wave of pain bubbles in my gut. This one hurts, and I tighten my grip around the handle of my umbrella. I swallow thickly. I take in deep breaths through my nose, hoping it’ll soothe the growing discomfort.
It helps somewhat. It still feels like my stomach is flip-flopping, but I can tolerate it. Maybe I need to use the bathroom and then rest. I check the time on my phone, and it’s almost 8 p.m. It’s a reasonable time to end the day. I haven’t had dinner yet, but with the way my stomach is griping, I can’t fathom eating. I think back to the last thing I ate. Oyster pasta...
My stomach rolls for a second before it settles again. I grit my teeth. Damn it. It was definitely the oyster pasta.
I take a cab to the hostel, and during the ride over, my pain picks back up...but worse. Instead of the light ache, it’s a deep one. It crawls up my throat and thickens my tongue. I open the window despite the rain and try to suck in the cool air, but all it does is make me aware of the growing sheen of sweat on my forehead.
By the time the cab makes it to the hostel, I have to breathe deeply in through my mouth because it’s the only thing keeping my stomach calm. I hurry over to the pastel purple door of the building and get inside as fast as I can.
Thankfully there’s no line at the small front desk. The boy sitting behind the desk looks up from his computer screen when he hears the door open. “Hi,” he says when I stop in front of him. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to book a bed, please,” I say through clenched teeth.
He frowns at my strangled voice but starts typing on the computer. After a few seconds, he asks, “How long do you plan on staying?”
“Until Wednesday.”
“Then I have a bed available for you.” He writes something down on a pad and looks up at me. “How would you like to pay?”
Another ache spreads through my stomach, and I wrap my arm around my middle as I give him my credit card. “Visa, please.”
He takes the card and swipes it. “Sorry, it looks like your card’s been declined.”
“What?” I stammer. Declined? That can’t be possible; I haven’t spent anywhere near my limit this month, and I called to let them know I would be traveling abroad so they shouldn’t worry about any strange transactions. “Could you try it again?”
He does, but it’s still rejected. “Sorry, nothing.” He holds the card out to me. “Do you have another method of payment? Like Swiss francs?”
Of course I don’t. I didn’t plan on making a long pit stop in Switzerland, so I don’t have any of their money. I take the card back from him. “No,” I grumble, pocketing my useless card. “Thanks anyway.”
The man waves, though his eyebrows thin with concern. “If there’s anything else I can help with...”
I head for the front door. “No, I can handle this. Thanks.” I could have asked to use their bathroom, but I really, really don’t want to throw up, so I’d rather track down some medicine to settle my stomach. I pause at the door when another surge of nausea rises in my throat. I swallow, hard, before glancing over at the front-desk worker. “Actually, do you happen to know if there’s a pharmacy anywhere nearby?”
“Yeah,” he answers uneasily. “Once you walk out of here, go left, and keep going all the way down the street. Then turn left again. There’s a place on that corner.”
“Thank you,” I manage to get out, and I step outside. I don’t even bother to reach for my umbrella just in case me pressing on my stomach is what’s keeping me from hurling. I let the rain soak my skin and blur my vision as I walk as fast as I can down the street.
When I stumble into the pharmacy, I get a lot of weirded-out looks from the few patrons inside. I can understand why: I’m dripping wet, my hair is frazzled, and I’m sure my face is greener than an avocado. I keep my head down and beeline for the aisles.
I wipe the water out of my eyes as I go through each row, trying to find where anti-nausea medicine is. I blink hard a few times as I try to focus on the products in front of me. Frustratingly, the labels are in German, so I have no idea what I’m reading. The churning in my gut pulses through my body with every heartbeat. At this point, the nausea is so bad I feel like if someone even touches me—
“Maya?” I hear at the same time as a hand lightly touches my back.
I turn around, and my jaw drops. “Sarfaraz?” I rasp, my mouth filling with saliva.
The lines in Sarfaraz’s forehead deepen. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
