Beneath Wandering Stars (29 page)

Lucas's corpse.

I'm staring at my dead brother's face, and I want to puke and cry and scream before sliding to a crumpled heap on the floor. But then the corpse moves. I realize there's a lag due to a weak Internet signal.

Two hazel eyes, both blinking. One mouth partially open, still breathing. Everything is motionless, yet spiraling. How is this real? How can someone who left us be looking right at me? Be looking right
through
me, since my heart has fallen from my chest and melted into a puddle beneath our seats.

“Hey, guys. How's it going?”

That voice. I don't recognize it. It isn't just groggy. Its defeated tone is foreign. If not for the moving picture in the center of the screen, I wouldn't believe what I'm looking at.

“Lucas!”

Tears pour down my cheeks with no restraint as I lift my eyes to my father, who is smiling a smile I've never seen before. A smile fashioned just for this moment. I look at Seth. He's stunned speechless, like he's about to pass out.

“Hey, Gabs. Mom tells me you were PMSing so bad, you needed to take a
really long walk.” My brother's voice is low and gravelly, but his soft smirk assures me it's really him.

Lucas is awake. He's alive! That he's already giving me crap is an extra-good sign.

“How are you feeling, man?” Seth's voice cracks.

“Oh, you know. Kind of like I've been in a coma for a month.”

We both laugh—tense chuckles of relief and confusion and joy all at once. Lucas's face looks puffy on the screen and I can see a new sadness in his eyes that wasn't there before, but otherwise, he's the same guy. The same easy-to-love Lucas.

I hear my mother's voice in the background. “All right, sweetie. Time to say goodbye. You need your nap.” Honestly, I'd think she was talking to Matteo if Lucas didn't roll his eyes.

“I've been sleeping for several weeks, Ma. Don't you think that's enough?”

Now all of us are grinning, but as self-effacing as Lucas can be, the exhaustion on his face confirms that even our short conversation has been a strain.

“Better listen to Mom,” I say, trying to keep things light. “Otherwise they'll send you on a six-week walk of penance for failing to honor your father and mother.”

The remaining color drains from Lucas's lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad shaking his head, as if to say,
Don't go there, Gabi
. I have no idea what I just said, but it makes Lucas go mute for half a minute. He looks away.

“I won't be going anywhere, Gabs, but thanks. Both of you. I'm glad you guys got to see the
camino
, though I'm shocked you walked it without killing each other in the process. You must have fallen head over boots in love or something.”

Seth and I laugh nervously, as if the sheer thought is
sooo
ridiculous.

Lucas yawns. “Mom's right. This morphine is a trip. I better go.”

“Bye, man,” Seth says. “Rest up and we'll see you soon.”

“Love you, Lucas.”

The image flickers and he's gone. Seth and I keep staring at the little black screen, a miracle in its own right. We're elated, but apprehensive. I look up at Dad. His face confirms that even though it's beyond amazing that Lucas is awake, all is not well in the world.

Something is still wrong.

“He's alive. I can't believe it. He's awake,” Seth keeps repeating, like he's in shock and doesn't know what else to say.

The waiter sets a carafe on the table and Dad pours out three small servings. He raises his glass. “A toast to Lucas, and to you both.”

We clink our glasses. Dad drains his, then pours himself another. Okay, something is
really
wrong. My father has a drink maybe a few times a year. There's something else he hasn't told us yet.

“What is it?” I ask.

Dad sips his wine slowly, working up the right words. “I have no doubt that your brother's recovery is a miracle, but even miracles aren't always everything we want them to be.”

Seth and I wait as dread builds a wall around us, brick by brick until we can no longer move, until we can hardly breathe. It feels like the only way I'll be able to wake up from this nightmare is if I scream. So I do. “Why all the unnecessary suspense? What the hell is wrong with him? Tell us, already!”

“Control yourself, Gabriela.” Dad swirls his glass, then looks at me with renewed grief. “The doctors say your brother will never walk again.”

Never walk again.
Never. Again.

“How do they know for sure?” Seth croaks before he drains his drink.

“There was a severe injury to his spine,” Dad explains. “The surgeon couldn't be certain of the lasting effects until Lucas came out of the coma, but he's been awake for several days now and hasn't regained any movement below the belt.”

“Maybe it'll just take time.” I'm crying all over again, but for very different reasons. Lucas unable to walk? The most active person I've ever known, incapable of moving one foot forward by himself? Everything hurts. It's an ache of utter helplessness. My brother is alive, but for a split second I almost wonder if his diagnosis is a fate worse than death.

It's only when Seth wraps his arm around my shoulder that I realize I'm trembling. His embrace—extra bold in front of my father—reminds me to breathe. It also reminds me of a truth as constant as cathedral stones and incense smoke. A truth that does not change no matter the circumstances.

Where there is love, life is worth it.

Lucas is still here and we all still love him, and that's what matters. We'll figure everything else out as we go, just like we figured out this pilgrimage.

Day by day, step by step.

“He'll be okay, Gabriela.” Dad reaches across the table for my hand. I grab his like my life depends on it. “Your brother is still with us and I truly believe you helped bring him back.”

I don't know if I'd go that far, but I'm glad my pilgrimage has given my father a reason to trust me again. “I'm so sorry, Dad.”

There's no need to explain what I'm apologizing for. My father's brutally honest expression tells me he knows. “You are forgiven,
mija
. You already were. I just didn't know how to show it.
Venga
, I think I do now.”

• • •

After dinner, Dad treats us to a fancy dessert at the Parador, a five-star historic hotel that was once a medieval pilgrim hospital. The hostess seats us at a small table with red velvet chairs, positioned below rounded arches made of pearly white stone. Little iron lanterns hang from the vaulted ceiling, like we're in an old wine cellar. Dad orders three
flans
and a glass of champagne for himself.

“What the heck—?”

My mouth is full of
flan
, but the tuxedo-wearing waiter hovering over me elicits this response. He's holding out a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill, complete with a fancy ice bucket. “Uh, I
suppose
that was a good year.”

My dad is beaming. Forget his career accomplishments or the fact that he came to the U.S. without a dime to his name. This parlor trick might be the greatest thing he's ever done. “I had it bubble-wrapped at the Kaiserslautern Shopette so I could bring it here for your birthday toast. I know how you like the expensive stuff.”

Huh. Apparently I'm eighteen. The day came and went and I honestly had no idea, which goes to show how time passes differently on the
camino
, where calendars are not necessary.

Seth laughs. “Did you seriously forget your own birthday?”

“I don't even know what month it is!”

We laugh so hard that Dad can hardly make his second toast of the evening. I take my first sip of the fine rosé vintage and nearly gag. “Wow, this stuff is like cough syrup.”

Seth grins. “I'm guessing your taste has matured recently.”

Boone's Farm was Brent's illicit drink of choice, so I suspect it has. Six months ago, I would have said a car was what I wanted most when I turned eighteen, but this entire day has been the best gift I could ever ask for. Lucas is alive, and my dad still has a sense of humor.

The chasm between us is officially breached.

• • •

I can't sleep. It's way too quiet.

Dad got each of us single rooms so we could finally have a night in our own space, but the silence makes my thoughts deafening. Every time I close my eyes, I picture Lucas at a dozen different ages. There is one common theme:
movement
. Lucas riding his bike at age five. Lucas jumping off the pool's high dive at age eight. Lucas competing in a karate tournament when he was twelve. Lucas racing down the soccer field at sixteen. Lucas running 10K races in preparation for basic training just a few months back.

It's as if someone broke into the hard drive of my brother's soul and deleted all the images, erased his former life completely. Nothing will be the same. He's starting a brand new journey and there are places he'll be going that none of us can go with him.

Bam, bam, bam!

At the sudden sound, I jump out of bed and run over to the window. Our hotel isn't far from a modern section of the city that has a lot of
pintxo
bars, but this isn't drunken revelry. This sounds like someone getting beaten with a tire iron. The shadows in the street below refuse to give up any faces, but the attacker's white T-shirt glows in the moonlight.

Metal. Dog tags. Seth.

Seth beating someone's brains in.

Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles.

I try singing a scream of my own, but no sound comes out. My room is at the back of the hotel. By the time I race to the end of the hallway, down the stairs, and out through the lobby, it'll be too late. The guy lying on the ground out there could be dead. I'm not certain the assailant is Seth, but my heart tells me it is.

It also tells me I can't sit by and let him commit murder.

I open the window and rattle the fire escape. It doesn't seem super stable, but my room is only on the second floor, so the fall wouldn't be life-threatening. Seth's enraged grunts grow louder. The metal hits against something hard, something like bone.

I'll risk it. After throwing on shorts, I climb out the window and shimmy down the fire escape, forgetting to breathe until my flip-flops touch the damp sidewalk.

The prey of Seth's dormant war trauma—or whatever you want to call this darkness unleashed inside him—is bent over in the dark alleyway. Seth lifts a metal pipe over his head and slams it down. Again. And again. And again.

My birthday
flan
makes its way back up my throat. I open my mouth to hurl it all over the sidewalk, but instead, I scream.

“Seth! Stop!”

He whirls around to face me, sweat pouring down his face. The arm clutching the pipe falls limp at his side. His weapon clatters to the ground. “Gabi. I, I . . . .”

I inch closer, bracing myself for the hideous spectacle of some poor sap who said the wrong thing and is now a bloody pulp. At the sight of Seth's victim, I nearly collapse.

The wheelchair.

Seth has taken the wheelchair out back and given it such an alley ass-whooping, it's hard to tell what the twisted pile of scrap metal is anymore. The storm cloud lifts from Seth's face. He breaks my gaze. “I . . . I had to let it out somehow.”

“Well,” I sigh. “We all know that wheelchair had it coming.”

Seth doesn't respond. The reason he chose this scapegoat is obvious. I walk over and grab his arm, leading him away from the crime scene. We sit down on the curb below the fire escape, our knees touching. I don't say anything. I don't have to remind him or even ask.

Remember what you promised to tell me once we reached Santiago?

The words pour out all on their own.

“In Afghanistan, our unit was assigned to a region known to have a large number of Taliban sympathizers. Lucas and I were on patrol in the village one afternoon. Nothing unusual about it, I just had this sense
that something was different. Off.” Seth licks his lips, like he's back in that harsh landscape. “There was this kid in the village who hung around the soldiers a lot, asking for gum or candy. Young kid, not much older than Matteo. Your brother, the big softie, took to him. He'd given the kid a soccer ball the day before. I told him it was a stupid thing to do, that he shouldn't be getting attached.” Seth shakes his head. “But you know Lucas.”

Yes, I do know Lucas. So well that I can almost see what's coming.

“Later when we're on patrol, we see that same kid squatting in the dirt, crying his eyes out, holding his flat soccer ball. Lucas goes over to see if he's okay and notices that the ball has been punctured. On purpose. He lets his guard down for
one
second
, but that was all it took. The kid's older brother, a kid himself—fifteen, maybe sixteen—steps out from an abandoned building across the street holding an AK-47. He points it right at Lucas.”

Seth gulps in a few breaths, giving me just enough time to wrap my mind around this impossible situation. “I raise my weapon and order the older kid to drop his, but he keeps screaming words I don't understand. Screaming like he's scared, like he doesn't
want
to be doing what he's doing, but someone's
making
him do it. Lucas doesn't even reach for his gun. He just stands there with his arms stretched out, talking to the kid, telling him not to shoot, trying to mediate like he thinks he's goddamn Gandhi. It's a stalemate. The kid pointing his gun at Lucas. Me pointing my gun at the kid. And Lucas standing there in the middle of it all, trying to keep the peace in a place that doesn't know what the word means. I inch closer to him, keeping the enemy in my scopes until my heart is racing so fast, I'm afraid it will give out before I can reach Lucas. The kid starts to lower his weapon. At least I think that's what he's doing. I exhale and loosen my grip on the trigger.”