Beneath Wandering Stars Page 16

  To a family when it loses its Lucas.

  “You out here all on your own, sugar?”

  I’ve steadied my breathing by keeping my eyes fixed to the white line hugging the shoulder of the asphalt road, but this melodic voice calls me to attention. The distinct Texas drawl belongs to a woman sitting in a small shack that resembles the roadside fruit stands near my grandparents’ farm in Michigan.

  I almost walked by without noticing her, which is hard to believe since this woman is larger than life, like most things from her home state. She’s fit, busty, and her orange skin suggests she’s spent much of her life by pools or in tanning beds. The woman wears a bejeweled, cherry-red cowboy hat that’s so stereotypically Texas, it’s laughable. The hat clashes with the rest of her sporty hiker ensemble, making it clear she “ain’t from around here.”

  “It’s a joke,” the woman says when she sees me staring at the ridiculous boat on top of her head. “A few pilgrims I met back in Pamplona got a kick out of my accent, so they bought me this tacky cowboy hat.”

  I laugh. “I’ve never seen one like it outside of a Miss Rodeo America pageant.”

  “Which is ironic, since I hate rodeos almost as much as I hate beauty pageants. But at least the wide brim makes for good shade,” the woman chuckles. “You look about my daughter’s age. What are you, eighteen?”

  “Not quite.” Come to think of it, what is today’s date?

  “Why don’t you come in and take a load off. I won’t bite.”

  I join the woman on a rickety bench beneath the shack’s metal awning. Something stirs inside me. It’s a feeling most would call homesickness, but is it even possible to feel homesick for multiple places? “I take it you’re from the Lone Star State?”

  “Now what on earth makes you think that?” The woman gives me a smile as generous as the rest of her demeanor. “The name’s Nancy.”

  Nancy takes a gulp from her water bottle, then raises a hand to her mouth, struggling to hold the liquid in. “Wait a minute, that’s him! Hell, I was hoping to run into y’all!”

  I glance down the road, relieved to see she isn’t gesturing at Seth. Nancy isn’t pointing to a person at all; she’s pointing to G.I. Lucas, back in his privileged position at the top of my pack.

  I don’t get her enthusiasm. “Uh, are you an admirer of circa 1990 collector toys?”

  “Ha! No, though I think my son had that exact same doll.” Nancy drops her thick accent and imitates the tone of a snooty art collector. “Pardon me, I mean action figure.”

  “Yeah, my brother gets mad when I call it a doll, too.”

  “Lucas, right? I gotta say, I really admire what you’re doing for him, darling.”

  Now it’s my turn to almost choke. “How do you know my brother’s name?”

  Nancy whips out her hot-pink phone. “Girl, don’t you know? Your medieval pilgrimage has gone viral, twenty-first-century style.”

  She hands me the phone so I can see the blog page, one that’s received thousands of hits, according to the stats bar. Now, either I’m super dehydrated, or someone is playing a sick joke on me. As I read the blog’s title, I feel faint. And not from the altitude.

  In Honor of PV2 Lucas Santiago.

  The website documents G.I. Lucas’s entire journey. The silly doll is everywhere, living it up like an actual pilgrim. G.I. Lucas standing in front of a yellow arrow marking the camino. G.I. Lucas crossing a medieval footbridge on the back of a burro. G.I. Lucas with red Irache wine all over his face. G.I. Lucas next to the hotel Hemingway stayed in when he wrote about the running of the bulls.

  I read the short blurb describing my brother’s condition and my blood bubbles over. Talk about an invasion of privacy. The blog is simple, but I have to keep scrolling because there are so many comments. Hundreds of comments, all posted by people I do not know. All well-wishes from total strangers.

  Wake up soon, Lucas. Come on back home.

  Thank you for your sacrifice. I’m sorry it cost so much.

  We’re praying for you, Lucas. For you and your family.

  On and on the comments go, but I can’t read too far before they blur together. The boil inside me reduces to a simmer as I lift my watering eyes. “Who did this?”

  Nancy’s smile fades. “You’re tellin’ me you don’t know, hon?”

  I shake my head, but of course I do know. There’s only one answer to my question, it just happens to be the answer that makes me want to crawl inside myself and collapse like an imploding star. “I am such a jerk.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” Nancy points to a link in the blog corner that reads: SUPPORT LUCAS HERE. “You should probably find a way to check that PayPal account, though. I’m sure lots of folks are showing their sympathy in more material ways.”

  With that, Nancy wishes me luck and continues up the mountain. I’m too shaky to walk. Soon the rain mist becomes a monsoon, and I glimpse a lone figure ascending the hill—a walker wearing nothing to protect him from the elements but a soaked ARMY T-shirt that gives him away at once.

  “Need a break?” The roadside hut provides some shelter, but by now the rain is blowing in sideways. “I’m willing to share this prime piece of real estate.”

  Beads of water drip down Seth’s face. He studies me with suspicion, as if he’s trying to figure out if I’ve set some kind of booby trap. It’s a legitimate concern, considering the intensity of my silent treatment. With an exhausted groan, he removes his pack and starts digging through it for his rain jacket. “What made you wait for me?”

  “Www.lucasonthecamino.com.”

  “Oh.” He flops down beside me. “That.”

  “What do you mean, oh that? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Well, first because you disappeared, and then because you wouldn’t answer your phone, and then because I was in jail, and finally because you refused to speak to me.”

  “Okay, I suppose that made things difficult,” I concede. “Sorry I split, I just . . . wait a minute. I still have a right to be pissed about Brent. What’d you say to make him kick me to the curb like a piece of frat house furniture?”

  “Why does it matter? You don’t seem too torn up about it.”

  On the surface, no. I’m probably more upset than even I realize, but now is not the time to enter a chasm of repressed emotions. Dad isn’t the only Santiago with a strong sense of pride. Brent was the one who cheated, but being played like a fiddle still feels like a major character flaw. Like something I should be embarrassed about because it says something about me.

  “I am torn up, but the situation with Lucas put things into perspective real quick.” My voice cracks, so I keep going before it splinters. “Then there’s Brent’s big confession. Who knows how long that’s been going on. Since the day I left, probably. Whatever, it’s for the best. It’s not like there’d be any less opportunity for him to cheat at a massive state school like UT.”

  “Which isn’t where you belong anyway,” Seth replies.

  “What do you mean by that?” I assume he’s slamming me, saying I’m not smart enough to do well there, or at any college for that matter.

  “Just what I said. You don’t belong at a school like that. It’s too big, too impersonal, too much of a playground for stunted adolescents.”

  I release a clip of a laugh. “You talk like you know me.”

  Seth holds his water bottle to his lips and smirks. “I do know you.”

  Okay, so based on his last insightful comment he actually might, but that just freaks me out. There’s nothing as disturbing as a person who can pinpoint personality traits you’ve failed to recognize yourself. It means there’s nowhere to hide. “Back to Brent. I want to know what you said to him. Word for word.”

  “I’ll show you the e-mail if you want, but all I really said was that I knew he was messing around on you. His social media updates made that clear. Nothing overt on his part, I could just tell. I told him I’d let you know if he didn’t have the guts to do it himself. And t
hen I’d hunt him down without mercy.”

  “How can you just tell something like that without any proof?”

  Seth shrugs. “You girls have your ways of communicating things only other girls can read, and so do us guys. It also helped that he kept posting nonstop about ‘Cali,’ as he liked to call it in his more asinine ‘I sooo wish I was the backup bassist to 311’ moments. That’s how I guessed he was leading you on about UT-Austin, so I contacted a few friends back in San Antonio and they confirmed that your beloved Brent is a bit of a sleazebag.”

  “Yeah, he can’t be the brightest bulb in the store if he actually thought he could get away with cheating,” I admit. “The Army takes ‘it’s a small world’ to a whole new level.”

  Seth cracks his knuckles. “You sure know how to pick ’em.”

  I feel sick, but also relieved that I escaped Brent’s lies before I gave the creep any more of me. “Look, I appreciate you looking out for me, but it’s still annoying that you took it upon yourself to mediate the termination of my two-year relationship.”

  Seth pats me on the knee in a brotherly fashion, only Lucas’s support taps never left me with goose bumps. “Pardon the Dr. Phil moment, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t the length of the relationship that matters. It’s the depth. And trust me, you’d never dive very far with a guy like that. He’s shallower than my cousin’s kiddie pool.”

  After all this, I don’t plan on trusting anyone for a long time. Still, I can’t help snickering at Seth’s relationship advice. For as long as he’s been friends with Lucas, he’s never mentioned a single steady girlfriend. Not one. “And you’re telling me you’ve had enough failed romances to know the different degrees of depth? Yeah, right, Romeo.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t.” Seth’s lips curl into a funny half-smile, but his eyes stay fixed on the rain river rushing down the mountainside. “Maybe I haven’t found a girl brave enough to wade into the deep end yet. Maybe I never will, now that the chlorine has been replaced by toxic sludge.”

  “Uh, this pool analogy is getting out of hand. I don’t follow.”

  Seth chuckles, but his fading smile tells me he’s laughing away something that requires stronger ammunition. “Think about it, Gabi. I’m a soldier who’s spent the past six months hanging out with a bunch of smelly dudes. No respectable girl will want to wade the depths of my perverted mind now.”

  No, that’s not it. He’s hiding something. Seth’s mind may be plenty randy, but lust isn’t the vice he’s trying to conceal. His secret has something to do with Lucas.

  “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself, Seth. What happened to Lucas was—”

  “A mistake.” Seth cuts me off, slipping back into shutdown mode. “Got that? What happened to Lucas never should have happened. Don’t let anyone try to smooth things over and tell you otherwise. If they do, I don’t care if it’s a room full of five-star generals and congressmen in expensive suits, they’re lying. And you can tell them Private Russo said so.”

  Chapter 17

  We hit the road as soon as there’s a break in the rain, but walking together feels awkward. The comfortable silence we established weeks ago is strained.

  “What made you start the blog?” I ask Seth.

  He shrugs. “I had our G.I. Lucas photos stored on my phone, so I figured I’d upload them and see if I could rake in some donations while I was at it.”

  He makes himself sound so mercenary, but I know that isn’t the case. A blog is so not Seth’s style.

  “Who knows how much physical therapy Lucas will need later on,” he adds. “That stuff can get expensive.”

  Yeah, so can funerals. I don’t say it out loud, but I can tell Seth is thinking it, too. The f-word hangs between us, putting a damper on a plenty-damp atmosphere. I don’t want to think about the sand trickling down the hourglass. I can only keep moving if I know I’m walking for a reason. At least the generous response to Seth’s blog gives me hope that what we’re doing matters. Maybe it even has the kind of meaning that a miracle requires.

  “So the website just blew up all on its own?” The fact that Seth exposed my brother to the world without my permission should make me furious, but deep down I know Lucas wouldn’t mind. “You must have a lot of Facebook friends.”

  Seth laughs. “I have, like, thirty Facebook friends.”

  That’s an understatement because I’ve seen his profile and he easily has a hundred, but I get what he means. Online as in life, Seth runs with a smaller, closer circle than most.

  “Nothing really happened until I shared the link with one of those goofy websites—you know, the kind that post things like ‘10 Funniest Cats of the Week’? Anyway, they ended up featuring it, and from there the whole thing spread like a kindergarten cold virus.”

  “So what you’re telling me is the best way to get people to care about our troops is to highlight their suffering alongside videos of Siamese sneak attacks?”

  This comes out whinier than I intended. I appreciate that so many strangers shared their condolences on Seth’s blog, but why does reality have to go viral and become a trend first? We’ve been at war for years. Guys like my brother are nothing new.

  “Speaking as a soldier, I don’t want anyone’s pity,” Seth replies. “I willingly signed up for this life, but yeah, it would be nice if more civilians noticed how much it costs. I haven’t even been back to the States yet, but talking to old friends makes me feel like I’ve been living on another planet. It’s like nothing ever changes. Like no one even realizes we’re at war. Back home, life goes on like normal and the main topic of conversation is which character from a favorite TV series got the axe, even though there are real people dying overseas every day.”

  Wait, what home is he talking about? Texas? No, that’s right—because Seth’s parents are divorced, he’s basically lived a double life. An Army brat upbringing with his dad, but with consistent summer vacations in the small New England town where his mom lives.

  “I mean, I could have just killed someone, but when I call home all my mom can go on about is how so-and-so is dating/marrying/having a baby with so-and-so, and I can’t even force myself to pretend I care.” Seth sighs. “It’ll be weird . . . going home.”

  Has Seth killed anyone? Before I can ask, a low rumble in the distance warns of an approaching thunderstorm. We’re off the highway now, back on a forested dirt trail that’s become increasingly rocky and narrow. If the rain comes now, it’s going to get muddy.

  “Gabi, get back!” Seth grabs me by the pack, slamming me against the embankment that rises up on both sides of the road. I turn to see what he’s freaking out about.

  It’s a stampede.

  The “thunder” comes from six gigantic cows, racing down the steep path in a single file. That’s several tons of organic, grass-fed beef, just as deadly as the cows on steroids when there’s nowhere to hide. The earthen walls on either side of us create a kind of tunnel, and there isn’t enough time to scramble up the steep ridge.

  “There’s no way out!”

  “Get back against the wall.” Seth stretches his arm out across my chest, as if his bicep, impressive though it may be, can actually prevent me from being trampled to death. Blood races to my head; it’s like someone is beatboxing inside my brain. I pinch my eyes shut, press myself into the wall of soil, and wait for the bone-crunching body slam.

  A musty, barnyard smell blows past my cheeks. I hear the heifers’ labored breathing as they race by. Heavy hooves pound the ground inches from our feet. Seth squeezes my hand, but the searing pain of broken toes never arrives. I open my eyes. They’re gone.

  The cow scent lingers, but manure has never smelled so sweet. The earthy aroma reeks of life—the kind of life that only becomes precious when it’s this close to being snatched away.

  “Holy crap,” Seth exhales.

  “No kidding.” Right now cow dung really does feel sacred, just like everything else in the natural world that reminds us of mortality.

&nb
sp; “What the—? Look!”

  I follow Seth’s index finger. A large black donkey rounds the bend, the caboose to this wagon train of destruction. On his back sits the madman responsible for our near-death experience. The burro blows past us at top speed (for a donkey), and the rancher raises his hat in a friendly salute, as if his wild beasts did not almost kill us.

  “Buen camino, peregrinos!”

  Seth and I look at each other, mouths hanging open. Then we burst out laughing.

  My legs give way and I slide down the wall to the dirt floor, relishing the feel of mud between my fingers. “That was crazy! Not to mention close.”

  Before Seth responds, a loud crack! has me scrambling back to my feet. The weight of my pack shifts and I lose my balance, face planting right into a puddle.

  Seth helps me up. He’s laughing so hard he’s almost crying. “That time it really was thunder. Poor Gabi. You’re disgusting.” He wipes a smudge of dirt from my nose.

  My response to this semi-sweet gesture? Scooping up a handful of mud and slamming it down on Seth’s head. Top that, bucko.

  For a moment Seth looks pissed, but his eyes give him away. They’re smiling and as far as I know, he isn’t Irish. “That’s how you want to play, Santiago?”

  “Bring it on, Russo.”

  This is not a game. This is an all-out war. I may not have Seth’s training, but Lucas and I used to dress up in Dad’s old fatigues and played a more violent version of Capture the Flag that involved organic projectiles. In other words, I’m an expert at flinging mud balls.

  Bull’s-eye! I get a good hit in, but before I can strike again, Seth wraps his arms around my waist and tackles me to the ground. Shaking his head like a wet dog, he flings the lovely mud hat I made him back on my face.

  “Truce! You’re violating international law. Remember the Geneva Convention! The Geneva Convention!” I scream as Seth tickles me. I’m laughing so hard my insides hurt.