Beneath Wandering Stars (4 page)

Dad's head snaps up. “You mean the
Camino de Santiago
?”

I recognize the name, too. The Spanish city of Santiago is at the top of Dad's European travel bucket list. Apparently it's where his ancestors came from before they set sail for Mexico a long, long time ago, and I guess he feels the need to touch the soil. Or something.

“That's the one.” Seth's eyes bore into mine, the gleam of his gaze somewhere between mockery and anticipation. “There's one condition, though.”

Doesn't matter. No matter what Lucas's stipulation is—even if it's something ridiculous like making the journey in the nude or on the back of an albino camel—I'll figure out a way to do it.

I promise, Lucas.

I may not understand this whole pilgrimage thing, but I'm banking on the hope that wherever my brother resides in his unconscious state, he'll see that we're honoring his request and maybe, just maybe, come back. Come home.

“And what condition is that?” I ask, my eyes locked on Dad.

I don't need to see Seth's face because the hint of triumph is evident in his voice. And I honestly, unabashedly, hate him for it. I hate him for once again making me feel like the tagalong afterthought of an all-boy soldier club I can never fully be a part of, even if I followed family tradition and enlisted in the Army myself.

“In his letter, Lucas wrote that if he wasn't able to walk to Santiago with you two for any reason, then he wanted me to go in his place.”

Why are there so many stupid magazines in the ICU waiting area? Does anyone actually think celebrity gossip and “Ten Tips for Losing Winter Weight” is going to provide a drop of comfort?

I study the latest cover of
Outdoor Life
magazine, featuring a glossy photo of an isolated tent in a desert lit up by stars. There was nothing Lucas loved more than the sky. Starry skies, stormy skies, sunset skies—he was always looking out and staring up.

Speaking of staring, Seth is daring me to speak first. He's on the other side of the waiting room, slouched down in the orange chair with his legs splayed open like he's watching the big game on TV. Just gawking. He hasn't said a word since he told us about my brother's request. He's waiting to see how I react, so the best way to stick it to him is to not react at all.

“Is your copy of the
Iliad
highlighted?” I ask, sending a jagged crack down our icy wall of silence.

“‘Without a sign, his sword the brave man draws, and asks no omen, but his country's cause,'” Seth recites. “Makes for easy rereading. He chose all my favorite lines.”

What a showoff.

“So you think Lucas is the one who highlighted it?”

“Who else?” Seth gives me that look again. The one that makes me feel like I'm either the most naive person he's ever met, or I'm nuts. “Lucas said every soldier should keep the
Iliad
beneath his pillow at all times. I figured he was passing along his own copy.”

I doubt that was all Lucas was up to, but I'm not about to tell Seth I received a similar gift
in the mail a few short hours ago. Not yet. There's something about Seth's cool, casual attitude towards everything that I don't entirely trust.

My dad, who's retrieved my mother and little brother, pokes his head into waiting room. “Ready to go? I'll pull the car around. Matteo is exhausted.”

I fix my gaze on Seth. “Me too. Some people suck all the energy out of the room.”

He's not the only one who can play “let's see what gets a reaction.”

Seth almost smiles. Almost. “Sleep well, kiddo.”

How is it possible that even his good night
sounds like a dare?

“And then get yourself some decent hiking boots. We've got a long way to walk.”

• • •

Just to prove to Seth that I can, I do sleep well. And long. The smell of Mom's blueberry pancakes, served with the Michigan maple syrup her uncle taps and ships to us overseas, is what finally wakes me. My heavy eyes focus on the crumpled soccer uniform at the foot of my bed. It goes without saying that I will not be making my game this morning. So much for being team captain.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom says as I enter the kitchen. Her cheerful voice is fake, but well-meaning. She turns from the stove where her round cakes are sizzling and hands me a wooden spoon, covered in what looks like purple plaster. “Pancake batter?”

“Thanks.” I stick the entire spoon in my mouth. Mom's looking much better after a good night's sleep, so I dare to ask, “Heard anything from the hospital?”

“Not yet.” She flips a slightly overdone cake. “
Scheize
. Pardon my French. Or German, rather.” Mom sighs and shakes her head. “I was going for a perfectly golden dozen.”

Despite this minor setback, Mom's optimism does not falter. She pours another round of batter onto the skillet before looking at me, a fierce fire in her eyes. “He's going to wake up, Gabriela. Believe me. Mothers can sense these things.”

I nod and take another lick of blueberry paste. I wish I had Mom's confidence—or knack for denial—but military life has left me a cynic as of late. Or maybe I'm just a realist. I don't want to burst her bubble, so I carry the plate of hot pancakes into the dining room.

Dad stands there in his PT running shorts with both hands on his hips, looking down on a table covered in paper instead of placemats. He's either planning a very detailed battle strategy for a ten-hour game of Axis & Allies, or he decided to get up early and print out every map he could find of the
Camino de Santiago
.

Seriously, am I the only person in this house holding it together without resorting to some sort of delusion or manic behavior? I peer into the living room where Matteo watches SpongeBob dubbed in German—which is as horrifying as it sounds, but part of his normal morning routine at least.

“You really intend to go through with this?” I clear a spot among the paper and set down the pancakes. When Seth first revealed Lucas's request, Dad had been hard to read, but he's never one to make whimsical, spur-of-the-moment decisions. “How long does the walk take?”

Dad points to a detailed map of the pilgrimage route, his finger trailing a thin red line that hugs the top of Spain before breaking into a dozen tributaries into the heart of Europe after the French border. “The most traditional route, the
Camino Francés
, starts here in the Pyrenees mountains. It takes five or six weeks to reach Santiago, depending on your pace.”

“Five or six
weeks
?” I was all for fulfilling Lucas's request at first, but now that I've slept, I'm thinking like a sane person. What if something life-altering happens while we're gone? “There's no way we can leave Lucas for that long.”

“I know,
mija
. I didn't plan on leaving your brother's bedside for a day, let alone a month.” Dad looks out the window, focusing his gaze on the red glass hummingbird feeder that hangs from our balcony. “But then last night I had a dream.”

Oh God, here we go.

“Lucas was a little boy, fast asleep inside a giant scallop shell—the symbol of the
Camino de Santiago
.” Dad's eyes glisten with liquid crazy, which is how my father tends to look whenever he's feeling enthusiastic about something. “It's a sign,
mija
.”

I don't want to hear another word about signs, omens, or secret messages hidden in Homeric epics. “How is walking across Spain supposed to help Lucas? Don't tell me you're actually hoping for a miracle.”

If he is, my father is way more superstitious than I ever imagined, and I have years of therapy to look forward to when his mission fails. “Lucas wants us to visit Santiago, but why do we need to walk all the way there? Can't we just take a plane or train like normal people? Then we'd be back at his bedside in no time.”

Dad shakes his head like my mere suggestion is sacrilege. “It's supposed to be a pilgrimage. In the Middle Ages, penitents walked this route barefoot.
Escucha mija,
let me tell you a little story about the
real
world . . . .”

Ladies and gentlemen, enter one of my father's “you narcissistic American youth with your constant selfies have no idea what it's like to suffer” diatribes.

“Do you know
why
I had to quit Mexico's national team after only one season?”

“Because when
abuelo
died, you had to support your mother and five siblings all by yourself,” I recite, knowing by heart the story of how Dad gave up soccer and enlisted in the U.S. Army as a path to American citizenship.

“That's right. And because I caught a rare infection that put me in the hospital and could have left me lame. Your
abuela
traveled all the way from our village in Oaxaca to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City to pray for my healing. So yes, I believe in the power of pilgrimages.”

Time to try another tactic. I want to do what Lucas asked, I really do. But I also want to make sure my father realizes what we would be giving up, even if I can't say the words
but
Lucas might die while we're gone
out loud because that might make them real.

So I choose an easy scapegoat instead: the public education system. “Have you forgotten that I'm graduating in two months? How can I miss that much school? How can we leave Mom to deal with this alone?”

“Your mother is tougher than you think, and
I'll talk to your teachers. Besides, spring break is next week, so that takes care of the first nine days.” Dad folds up his research material. A vulnerable expression I've never witnessed consumes his face. It's the face of a helpless man. A man with no backup strategy and no other options.

“I hate to leave him, and when I really think about it, I'm not sure I'll be able to. But I hate sitting here doing nothing even more. This is the
one
thing we can do for him,
mija
. Don't you see? A miracle is all we have left to hope for.”

Maybe so, but I'll hedge my bets and put my faith in modern medicine. Still, if Dad wants to get me excused from school, he can go for it. The teachers are the only ones who will notice I'm gone anyway. That reminds me—I need to call Brent. Based on his last text, he's wondering why I went MIA.

In spite of everything, the hint of desperation pleases me, I'm not gonna lie.

Dad pulls his credit card out of his wallet. “Your mom and I have a meeting with Lucas's doctors this afternoon. Why don't you take Matteo and go look for a backpack and boots at the Base Exchange.”

“The selection will be limited, but I'll check.” Taking Dad's credit card almost feels like taking an olive branch—a small sign he's starting to trust me again.

That or he has no other choice.

Mom brings out the rest of the pancakes and calls my little brother to the table. We eat beneath an oppressive silence. Each of us, even Matteo, glances at the one empty chair. Lucas's absence is as thick as maple syrup. It sticks to everything.

A golden glob falls from my fork, landing on the oak table. Most of the furniture we bought for this apartment is that cheap Scandinavian stuff that looks like it was designed for a space station, but the one exception is our dining room table, which we shipped from the States. It's nothing special, but it's been with us everywhere. I could tell a story about every dent, every scratch, every finger-painting episode gone wrong. When we were little, Lucas and I staked permanent claims to our seats by carving our initials into the wood. Mom was upset, but even she had to admit that it cut down on our dinner time squabbling over who sat where.

I run my fingers across the
L.S.
gash
,
tracing serrated lines etched by a much younger hand. Lucas hasn't sat at our table for all the months he's been deployed, but this feels different.

This absence doesn't feel so temporary.

“I should have known this was a bad idea.” Mom throws her fork down and scoots her chair across the hard floor, slicing the room in half. Into
before
and
after
. “It will never be the same. Never.”

A moment later we hear her muffled sobs in the kitchen as she throws Lucas-sized portions into the garbage disposal and starts washing the dishes.

Matteo drowns his last bite in syrup and gives me a look that's way too perceptive for a kid who just turned five. Then again, Matteo has already seen more of this world than most kids three times his age.

“Mommy forgot,” he whispers, eyes wary. “Blueberry pancakes are Lucas's favorite.”

• • •

“We'll pick you up in a few hours,” Dad says from the rolled-down window of his beat-up bimmer. I help Matteo out of the old BMW and onto the sidewalk that leads to the main gate of Ramstein Air Force base. Army kids like to joke—okay,
whine
—that Air Force kids get all the best facilities on their bases, but at least we live close enough to benefit, too. No other installation abroad can boast the largest shopping facility in Europe, complete with a Macaroni Grill and a movie theater with stadium-style seats. God bless America.

“Why don't you grab dinner on your way out,” Mom adds. “Your pick.”

“Robin Hood! Robin Hood!” Matteo shrieks at the mere mention of the Exchange food court. He's not cheering for an outlawed archer in green tights, but for a sandwich shop that serves subs with names like Maid Marian and Little John—a chain I'm pretty sure only exists on military installations.

I take Matteo's hand and approach a gate guard wearing navy blue camouflage, a bulletproof vest, and a blue beret. His partner is busy searching beneath a car with foreign plates, using a mirror on the end of a long pole to look for bombs. Just another day in the life.