Beneath Wandering Stars Page 24

  “Time to check out. You guys ready?”

  I nod. Dad drops off our room keys at the front desk while I walk Seth out to the road. It doesn’t take long to find the golden arrow guiding us back to the camino. I refuse to cry. It isn’t like Seth is going off to war again. He’s doing what he needs to do to get whole, to bring all the broken shards back together, even if the new stained-glass pattern ends up being a lot different from the one before. As long as a little light can shine through, Seth will be fine.

  “Tell Lucas I love him.” Seth squeezes my hand. I wonder if by not saying the actual words—which would make this a million times harder—he’s telling me something similar. “Tell him I’ll visit as soon as I can.”

  I focus my watering eyes on Seth’s muddy boots, on the ACE bandage wrapped around his ankle. My entire life has consisted of one goodbye after another. I’m used to it, but this one cuts something out of me—something I may never get back. You don’t take a journey like this without the person you walked it with taking a part of you, too.

  “It isn’t forever, Gabi. How can you not know that?” Seth lifts my chin. “Now go take care of my best friend. You might also let him know he has a competitor for the position and she’s ruthless.”

  “But when? When will you be back?”

  “I don’t know.” Seth smirks. “When will you be okay with surprises?”

  One last kiss and I turn away, before I break down and start begging him not to go. I reach the hotel entrance, then glance back over my shoulder. All I can see is that ridiculous G.I. Joe doll riding on top of Seth’s pack, until they both disappear over a rise in the road.

  “Buen camino!” My strained voice bounces down the stones. Seth returns the pilgrim farewell, and I can hear his throaty laughter in it. Then, he’s gone.

  Gone in one way, but like Lucas, still with us. Still here.

  • • •

  “One last candle, mija. You never know. God answered our prayers the first time.”

  I want to believe this is true. I want to hope that Lucas will stand up one day. I want to trust that there are real, physical things we can do to help those we love—prayers we can utter and walks we can take—so I follow Dad into the cathedral, when a month ago I would have whined about all European churches looking the same inside.

  The aisles are crowded with a whole new set of pilgrims. Dad seems to know exactly where he’s headed. We pass a large statue of St. James the Moor Slayer, waving a sword high above his head, but this isn’t where Sergeant Major Santiago stops.

  He enters an empty side chapel at the back of the cathedral and kneels before a Pietà sculpture of the Virgin Mary, cradling the broken body of her son. I reach into my pocket for my lighter. The hamsa pendant comes with it. I did a bit of Internet research and discovered that the symbol is found in all three main monotheistic traditions, named for women important to each faith—the hand of Miriam, sister of Moses, in Judaism; the hand of Mary, mother of Jesus, in Christianity; and the hand of Fatima, daughter of Muhammad, in Islam.

  As I gaze at this mother bent over the body of her dead child, I know each woman would react the same way. The way my mom reacted at Lucas’s bedside. The way Seth’s would react if his shame isn’t defeated and, God forbid, he took his own life like so many of the soldiers who haven’t found a way home. The way the mother of the Afghani teen no doubt reacted when she found her boy dead in the street. There’s only one response to such a tragedy, and that’s a woman’s gut-wrenching wails—the high price of the pendulum that is the human heart, which can swing from wrath to love in the space of a few short breaths.

  Dad lights his candle and says his prayer. “. . . blessed art thou among women . . . .”

  I set the hamsa pendant beside the tealight, an extra offering for all the mothers made childless by war. There are widows and there are orphans, but for parents who outlive their children, there isn’t even a name to designate the depth of the loss.

  Then I join my father in reciting words I could utter in my sleep, even though I haven’t said them in a long time. “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

  And because I don’t say the second part of Mom’s go-to prayer often enough, I remember that Lucas is alive and whisper, “Thank you.”

  • • •

  “You like him a lot, don’t you?”

  There is no way I’m having this conversation with my dad, especially not on the steps of the cathedral where I kissed Seth the night before. Boys aren’t something I discuss with my father. In fact, pretending they do not exist tends to be the wisest move.

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Dad smiles his knowing smile. “What about Brent? Won’t he be jealous?”

  “Wait. You knew I was still with Brent?”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Gabriela. Your mother and I figured that’s why you weren’t adjusting to Kaiserslautern very well, when normally you’d have new friends in a week.”

  “Don’t worry. Brent and I are officially done.”

  “Good. That kid was a punk.” Dad pats me on the leg. “Seth, on the other hand . . . .”

  “I don’t want to talk about him, Dad!”

  “That’s good, too. He’s a loyal friend to your brother, but he’s got a lot to deal with right now and you’ve got your own way to find. Maybe one day you’ll meet somewhere in the middle. Until then, if you really want to spend the next year volunteering abroad, I can look into setting something up for you in Mexico. Your Tia Isabel would love to have you stay with her.”

  “You mean you’d actually allow it?” I stammer.

  I’m waiting for Dad to launch into one of his “when I was your age, I had three jobs and couldn’t dream of going to college” tirades, but instead he says, “Like I could stop you? Besides, it would do you good to learn more about your roots.”

  Dad breaks my gaze and clenches both fists. This tells me he’s about to get sentimental, which makes me want to run back into the church screaming sanctuary!

  “You’re my only daughter, Gabi. I may have been harder on you, but that’s only because raising a daughter in this world makes warfare seem easy. I never wanted to treat you like you were weaker than Lucas or less capable, so I’m sure I went overboard at times. The path I chose has given us many opportunities, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t left me with scars of my own.”

  I chew my fingernails and avoid his eyes. “I never wanted to be treated like a princess. I just wanted to make you proud.”

  “You have, mija. You always have.” Dad sighs. “One day you will stand by a good man, Gabriela. But first, I want you to stand on your own two feet.”

  Dad has given me a lot of lectures in his day and I’ve tuned out most of them, but these are words I will never, ever forget.

  He squeezes my knee. “Come on, mija. Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 25

  “ID cards, please.” The uniformed guard utters these words without a trace of a smile.

  Dad rolls down his window as I pass my ID card forward. I’ve been back in Germany for about three weeks, but after walking through a borderless world, these security stations still feel strange. Yet today, everything goes back to normal, even if it’s a brand new normal.

  Today, we bring Lucas home.

  As soon as we reach his hospital room, my eyes hone in on the person playing cards by his bedside. The broad shoulders and dark fuzz on the back of the guy’s head make my heart leap. The soldier gets up to leave, and I recognize him as one of Lucas’s battalion buddies.

  My brother looks great. He’s clean-shaven and dressed in regular clothes. He may never live the life we all expected him to, and that makes me sadder than I can describe, but I won’t show it. Despair is our worst enemy, so I’ll be strong for him, just like Seth told me to be.

  “Thought your long-lost love had returned from his vision quest, didn’t you, sis?” Smirking, Lucas leans back in his wheelchair for a stretch. “Yeah, your smitten status
is all over your face. Cut it out, okay? I know Russo way too well and the guy isn’t worthy of your time.”

  “Oh, but he’s worthy of yours?” Seth hasn’t contacted me once since Santiago, so I’m not getting my hopes up, but that doesn’t stop my cheeks from igniting. “Nice try, Lucas, but if there’s an imminent wedding to plan, it’s yours. Let me guess. Nurse Walker has already stopped by at least three times this morning?”

  Lucas’s face turns the same shade as mine. “Whatever.”

  It’s true. All the nurses adore him, even if Lucas thinks he has a better chance of walking again than of getting a girlfriend while he’s in a wheelchair. I disagree.

  Exhibit A: The napkin with a telephone number peeking out from under his Jell-O.

  My parents step out into the hallway to talk to Lucas’s doctor while one of the nurses—Nurse Walker, I presume—takes Matteo down to the cafeteria for an ice cream. I haven’t really been alone with Lucas since he woke up, so I’m not sure what to say. Usually we revert to sarcastic sibling bantering, but I can’t stifle the question I’ve been dancing around for weeks.

  “Lucas, can I ask you something?” I fidget with a teddy bear dressed in camouflage—a get-well gift from a visitor who, like the rest of us, has no idea what to give a wounded soldier. “Are you angry?”

  Because he should be, but Lucas hasn’t really shown it. And that means he’s buried his anger way down deep, which is much scarier than if he wore his wrath on his sleeve.

  Lucas goes quiet for a moment. “What, like am I angry at my CO for sending us on that patrol? Or at the government for keeping this war going? Or at God for giving humans the freedom to be complete morons?”

  “That pretty much covers it,” I reply.

  “Yeah. I’m angry. Any time I’m in here alone, which thankfully isn’t often, I just lie here simmering. But whenever you guys come to visit, I’m reminded that I have no right to be.”

  “Please. If anyone has a right to feel resentful, it’s you.”

  “Oh, I feel plenty resentful. But why do I have the right?” Lucas picks at the uneaten mashed potatoes on his lunch tray with a fork. “Take a good look at the history of humanity, Gabs. Suffering must make up a good ninety-five percent of it. What makes me so special that I should expect to be exempt? If war has taught me anything, it’s that we’ve been riding this wave of comfort and prosperity for so long that we’ve stopped seeing what life is like for the rest of the world.”

  “Then do you think there’s a reason this happened to you?”

  I regret the question as soon as I speak it.

  “Ha.” Lucas snickers and shakes his head. “What I wish I could say to people who utter that ‘everything happens for a reason’ crap. No. I don’t think this BS with my legs is part of some grand Master Plan. Maybe it’s the fire I have to pass through in order to become a halfway decent person, but no God worthy of the name would ordain something like this.”

  And by “this,” my brother means something much bigger than his own plight.

  “We’re the ones who can’t seem to get enough of war.” He stares down at his atrophied legs and shakes his head. “But I still don’t have the luxury of self-pity. At least, not for too long. Not when I’m one of the lucky ones. Supposedly.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Russo told you what happened, right? What went down in Afghanistan?”

  “How do you know that? Has he called? Do you know where he is?”

  “I didn’t know for certain. Until now.” Lucas chuckles. “Dang Gabi, you’re in trouble. Seth is a vault. If he shared everything with you . . . well, I better start shopping for my best man tux now.”

  “Oh, shut up.” I pinch Lucas’s arm. Then I remember what we’re talking about and my voice stiffens. “Seth told me how you got hurt, but he didn’t go into details. Or talk much about the aftermath.”

  Lucas stares into his lap, as if willing his leg muscles to twitch. Any trace of humor evaporates from his tone. “Granger, the soldier just in here playing cards, was one of the first to arrive on the scene, along with the medic who kept me from bleeding out. They found Seth standing over me, refusing to budge despite the mob moving towards us. A mob made up of the Afghani kid’s uncles and cousins.”

  Lucas’s voice falls from a cliff of regrets, like he’s already forgotten this kid is only dead because he put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. “Seth was on the verge of going berserk, but he wouldn’t leave me, even though he thought I was already dead.”

  “Did Granger tell you this?” Seth’s courage isn’t surprising, but the thought of him refusing to abandon my brother’s body pushes my heart to the edge. “Then what happened?”

  “The medic who saved my life was shot and killed while getting me into the helicopter. Her name was Kendra Richards. She was twenty years old and from Jackson, Mississippi. She joined the Army as a medic because she wanted to be a doctor one day. A surgeon.” Lucas lifts his eyes to mine, and his underlying fury evaporates. All that’s left is a rock-solid determination. “Richards is dead and I will not, I refuse, to dishonor her by sitting here feeling sorry for myself when she gave her life for me, and Seth practically gave his soul.”

  A tense silence stretches between us, until my brother cracks a bitter smile. “Well, maybe I’ll sit here, but that’s beside the point.”

  “Ready to go, honey?” Mom steps into the room, her face as enthusiastic as a pep rally.

  Ready or not, Lucas’s belongings are packed. Dad walks over and grabs the handles of his wheelchair. Matteo races in behind him, a stream of green mint chocolate-chip ice cream running down his arm. “I want to ride with Lucas!”

  “No, sweetie. It’s not a toy. We have to be careful with—”

  “It’s all right, Mom,” Lucas says as Matteo leaps onto his lap. “The kid could stab my thigh with a fork and I wouldn’t feel a thing. I promise.”

  “Lucas!” Mom shrieks in horror. She doesn’t get that his dark sense of humor is the only defense he has left.

  Dad pushes my brothers down the hall. A few soldiers in hospital gowns come out to say goodbye, dragging their IV stands behind them. Each soldier knows he’s fortunate, even if he doesn’t always feel it. The glances that pass between them are a silent tribute to all the men and women who will never leave this hospital or the battlefield. Another generation gone.

  Matteo, who can always be counted upon to lighten the mood, waves to every person we pass like he’s riding a float in a Fourth of July parade. Two nurses give Lucas pecks on the cheek, reinforcing my theory about all of them wanting his bod.

  This level of attention Lucas can handle, but I’m worried that when we get back to Kaiserslautern, it might be too much for him. I glimpse the crowd waiting outside our house long before we pull into the parking lot. At least fifty people are standing in front of our apartment building with welcome-home posters, colorful balloons, and mini American flags.

  I see neighbors, soldiers from Lucas’s unit, the little old German ladies who run the bakery across the street, my parents’ friends, my friends (if you count the perky blond up front, waving her poster like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader). Lucas smiles, shakes hands, and accepts hugs like a good sport, but he eyes our front door like it’s the entrance to a holy haven.

  As I help Matteo out of his car seat, Chloe runs over to me. “Hey, Gabi! Isn’t this a great turnout?”

  “It is, but how did so many people know Lucas was coming home?”

  “Um, I kind of told them.” Chloe stares at the electric purple toenails sticking out from her sandals. “I’ve been following your G.I. Lucas blog. It really inspired me, so I organized this committee at school and we put on a Wash It for Our Wounded Warriors carwash in front of the Exchange.” Chloe hands me a check with a substantial number of digits. “I know money can’t fix everything, but we hope this will help your family with the extra expenses.”

  This check, coupled with the donations from Seth’s web
site, will help a lot. A few days ago, I logged into the PayPal account and was shocked to see a $5,000.00 donation I never anticipated. The note accompanying it was even more incredible.

  Dear Gabi,

  It was nice meeting you on the camino. We heard about your brother and this website from another pilgrim, a real nice lady from Texas. It’s so easy for people like us to forget how much these wars cost those who wage them, so thanks for the reminder. We hope this gift will serve as a small indication of our gratitude.

  Dennis & Natalie from Eunate

  And that is how I know, without a doubt, that the camino can change us all.

  I’m not sure who makes up this collective “we” Chloe speaks on behalf of, but they’re making my heart burst. I throw my arms around this friend I never even knew I had. “Thank you, Chloe. You’re amazing.”

  “No, your brother is amazing. So are you for walking all that way.”

  I should tell her it wasn’t my idea, but I’m already scanning the crowd for the real camino mastermind. I sent Seth an e-mail with the date of Lucas’s homecoming, hoping he’d see the message and drop in. There are lots of soldiers milling around our apartment’s communal courtyard, but so far no Seth.

  Once we thank everyone for coming and get Lucas inside, Mom prepares a huge dinner. It’s a random assortment of my brother’s favorites, and it reflects our mishmashed family culture: blueberry pancakes, chicken tamales, and German potato salad. While my parents get everything ready, Lucas wheels himself over to the sliding glass door in the dining room, where he watches hummingbirds flit around the feeder hanging from the balcony.

  I walk over to him, shocked to see tears streaming down his crimson cheeks. These aren’t tears of sadness, they’re tears of frustration. Like when a wailing baby shakes with rage because he doesn’t have the ability to ask for what he wants.

  “I know people are being kind,” Lucas says, keeping his eyes glued to the red glass feeder. “But I hated every second of that. I hate feeling so damn helpless.”