The Delivery (19 page)

“When you paint like that, Lana, you have to let go. It’s out of your control so you just have to let happen whatever comes to pass. It was a brilliant move, writing the script in English. I think it will get more hits that way. I think you did great.”

“How the hell do you know your way around this city? Isn’t it the biggest in the world?” I ask as we step off the bus and start walking in another direction.

“I took some time looking at the map last night.”

“You are a genius,” I say candidly

Mozey throws his head back and laughs.

“You’re just saying that because you want to fuck me so bad.”

Chapter 28

B
ut interestingly enough, we don’t fuck. Maybe we’re too scared to ruin this happy groove we’ve moved into. Or maybe we’ve grown apart this whole time we’ve been separated and meeting up again has only confirmed that we’re not cut out for one another. My secret hope is that the expectation is just too high for either one of us to handle. What if sex is a disappointment? What if one of us sucks in the sack? I think we’re just both really tired.

So we eat a lot. We watch the local news and the social media to see the reaction to our piece—Mozey’s piece, really. If anything, I just fucked it up. I like sitting close to him, looking at the same phone. Smiling when he does, his arm brushing against mine. I like sleeping next to him, curled up to his back. Feeling safe and content like a sleepy lion in its den, protected from everything. I like moving around our hotel room with him, feeling domestic in this space. I like it when he pulls me to him to kiss me gently or to affectionately touch my face.

We eventually pack up our stuff not really knowing if Mozey will stay with his relatives or exactly where we’ll go. I only know that my credit card can no longer afford this room on the salary of my
no job
as Mozey likes to call it. And the cost of parking the car in the hotel lot has cost more than the junker is worth. It would pay more to trash it.

So we drive to his old neighborhood on the Northern outskirts of the city, not saying much between us because we’re both scared of what the outcome will be. Maybe this is the last day for us, time to separate and move on. The only thing I know for sure is that I can’t take him home with me. And I can’t really stay here. How would I work? What would I do? What the hell is Mozey going to do? I also know that he wants to go home and home isn’t Mexico. Maybe that will change when we find his family.

The scenery gets more and more dispiriting as we go. The economic depression increases exponentially as we move away from the city. There are children dressed in rags at the stop signs as we enter
La Neza
, Mozey’s old neighborhood. I can’t help but wonder if that’s what his life would have been like had his mom not been brave enough to move him away. But I’m not sure with what all he’s been through which one is worse. Poverty is one thing while trauma is another. They don’t have to go hand in hand, but from my line of work, it almost always seems to be the case.

We drive slowly through the streets, and up here, they’re unpaved. Mozey asks anyone willing to speak to him after his uncle, his mother’s only living brother. Children beg at the windows, and I pass them coins. I wish I’d brought some food or something more substantial. We’re directed this way and that but don’t come up with much. Mozey squeezes my thigh and looks over at me. He mouths, “You okay?”

Just like him to be worried about my well-being when it’s
his
future that’s so up in the air and he doesn’t even know where he’ll next rest his head. But maybe Mozey is better at uncertainties than I am and that’s why he can function just fine in our undefined relationship. Me, I just lose my mind and over-analyze every little part.

And guess what? We do find Mozey’s uncle. He lives in a two room, modest house with his family. By modest, I mean modest for the developing world—his lifestyle makes the modest one I grew up with look like a life fit for kings. It was the bodega owner by his house where we stopped for a soda, who knew exactly who we were talking about. It was luck really, because up here I don’t think there are addresses, houses seem to sprout out of the ground, one on top of the other. He poured our soda into baggies with straws, putting the thick glass bottles back into crates while he gave us real directions and accurate descriptions. I’d never had soda out of a plastic bag before. It makes it more bubbly and more fun to look at.

Mozey’s Uncle Francisco and his Aunt Sandra seem happy but unaffected as if long lost relatives make their way through their threshold at least once a week. Their kids love us though and hold onto our legs. I play the dutiful girlfriend but none of it’s really play. I’d do anything for Mozey, including search for him all over sin city in a country I’ve never really been to, drive halfway across said dangerous country where I don’t speak the language, engage in illegal activity that could really piss off the government and land me in jail, and hold his hand while he reunites with a family that he’s never really known and hasn’t seen in years.

It dawns on me while I pick at the chicken and rice I’ve been generously served on a yellow plastic plate, that
I
am Mozey’s family and so is Alexei and my mom and my dad. I can’t believe I couldn’t see that before. I chew my white rice with canned peas and carrots dutifully as I watch Mozey struggle. My eyes fill with tears, and he seems to sense it and looks up at me.

“I love you,” I say aloud as I swallow my food past a gigantic lump in my throat.

“I luv ju,” a sweet little kid’s voice squeaks from under the table. I laugh as tears stream down my face to land on my plate.

“I’m your family, Mozey,” I say, holding his gaze. “I mean, if you want me to be,” I say, becoming more conscious of my surroundings and the weight of what I’ve just said.

Mozey stands and walks over to me careful and collected. He sets my plate on a table, takes my hands and pulls me up to standing. His arms wrap around my waist, and he pulls me in tightly. The hard wall of his chest is home enough for me.

Mosey grabs my face, his thumbs coming to rest on my cheeks. He looks into my eyes with his dark-chocolate smoldering ones.

“I want you to be,” he says, clearly speaking each word with intention. He holds me close and intimately, and I cry into his chest, neither one of us pretending.

We spend the night in one room while Francisco and his whole family sleeps in the other. The blankets are musty, the floor, hard and cold. We probably would have been more comfortable in the car. But it doesn’t matter at all where we are, what country or what city or under what blankets. I’m happy to be near him, I feel privileged to love him and to rest my head on his chest.

It strikes me that I belong to the most beautiful man in the world and he belongs to me. I kiss him back without any hesitation and without analyzing why we feel what we feel for each other. I try not to think about what the future will bring. I only contemplate how this love can help us to both cherish and heal one another.

In the morning we rise and are greeted by giggling children. Over breakfast of fried tamales and a warm, sweet corn porridge, Francisco tells us that more family will arrive. We wait nearly all day until my feet go numb with cold. Making the excuse to run to the grocery store, we drive in circles around the neighborhood to warm up.

“Do you think that they’re suffering?” I ask Mozey as I blow into my hands.

“Not more or less than anyone else here,” he replies to me somberly.

“Do you feel guilty for leaving? It wasn’t your choice to make.”

“I feel guilty for everything, Lana. Guilty for existing.”

I rub his shoulder and lean my head against him. He takes my hand and interlocks my fingers with his.

“Do you think if we found out about what happened to Brisa, you could let go of some of that guilt or would it make it worse?”

“I don’t know,” he says and massages his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“What are we going to do, Mo?” It’s not the right time to ask or add more weight to his load. But the uncertainty is killing me, and we can’t just not know where we’ll go tomorrow or from where we’ll get our next meal. He shakes his head at me and rubs his lips against the back of his palm as he gazes out the windshield onto the forgotten past he came from.

Two hours later we are eating another meal of chicken and tortillas, this time with cousins and another Uncle from Mozey’s father’s side who has brought his young, pregnant wife. Mo and I bought rum and Coke along with some cups and ice. The reunion has become a party and various neighbors are showing up. I warm up on the sweet, syrupy drink and cuddling with Mozey’s little cousin Rosario who refuses to leave me alone. It’s cold up here in La Neza and I see that most of the guests are wearing plastic sandals. Mexican boleros are playing softly in the background while I watch Mozey make his way around to everyone, trying desperately to connect and to communicate in Spanish.

The drinks keep flowing and people keep arriving until little Rosario is snoring in my arms. Truth be told, I’m not far behind her, and I rest her head on my shoulder and make my way to a chair in the corner.

The dull roar of the crowd seems to escalate a bit. I hear clinking glasses and “salud!” but there is also something more that I can’t quite put my finger on. If I end up here for any extended amount of time, I’ll have to learn the language. I’ve already had a lifetime of not being able to fully communicate with my family. I won’t make that mistake twice. How hard can it be to learn a second language?
At thirty.

What I was unable to translate has obviously gotten through to Mozey, his forehead is wrinkling and his brow is knit. He keeps glancing at me nervously like he wants me to join him, but I’ve got a slumbering Rosario all tucked into my lap. He eventually makes his way over, spouting politeness and niceties to excuse himself. He is after all, the reason for the party.

He leans down and kisses my cheek brushing Rosario’s hair back from her temple.

“You okay?” he whispers like we’re in this together.

I nod my head at him, noting how serious he looks.

“Did something just happen? It feels like the air pressure changed in here? Is it because everyone is so drunk?”

His eyes widen, and I see Mozey as a scared little boy. He swallows and whispers, “I brought up Brisa. They think they know where she is.”

“Really?” I ask incredulously. “Did she make it back here? That seems impossible.”

“According to them, she was adopted—well, stolen, by some rich-ass narcos in the North. They raised her to be a beauty queen like her adoptive mother. She’s famous. On TV, supposedly. We’ll have to look her up.”

“How could they know that? It’s got to be an urban legend.” I don’t want to be mean, but it seems even crueler to let him raise false hope.

“Spitting image of my mom. Somebody had a screenshot on their phone. I’d google her now but there’s hardly any internet connection.”

“And?” I ask, my heart pitter-pattering right into my stomach. I want this for Mozey. I want it for him so much.

“She looks like she could
be
my mom, Lana. It’s got to be her.”

“Oh, Mozey!” I say, tears sliding down my face. “That’s such good news, and at the same time, so scary and strange. How do you feel?”

“It get’s better,” Mozey says, coming around behind me and kneeling down close to my ear. He smiles a nervous smile at our hosts and raises his rum and Coke in a mock toast. He doesn’t take another drink.

“She’s dying of renal failure. It’s been all over the news. I’m surprised we haven’t seen it.”

A dying beauty queen sounds dramatic, and at the same time, really familiar.

“Oh my gosh. No, I did! Tommy and Rocco were following that story. I can’t believe your sister is famous. And a beauty queen. No, scratch that, I can totally see it. The height, the facial structure. You could all be models.”

Mozey runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. “I really want to get the hell out of here!”

“Here, here!” I second the motion. “Everyone has been very nice, but I feel like a fish out of water.”

“Do you think Dale would mind if we used the card one more time? I swear I’ll pay him back. I’ll even apologize for stealing his girlfriend.”

I raise an eyebrow at him in response.

“You were mine to steal back,” he says and gives me a wink. A wink that is so audacious and sexy that it momentarily blinds me with desire.

“How do we get out of here?”

“We’re driving out to the airport early tomorrow morning to pick up your parents.”

“What?”

“I mean that’s what we’ll tell them. What do you think about the hotel?”

“As long as
you
tell them! They’re going to think we’re rude for leaving. You’re the guest of honor,” I say, lifting up Rosario and cradling her head. “Where should I put her?”

“There’s a bed in the other room,” Mozey says, making his way back to the crowd to say goodbye.

I leave Rosario sleeping next to her brother and then dole out around forty kisses on the cheek before we’re allowed to leave the house. A few of the men walk us to the car. Mozey shakes their hands over and over again. The goodbye lasts so long at some point I feel like they’re starting to say hello all over again. I wonder if he feels bad that we don’t have anything to give them. Theoretically we’re just as poor as every one here. At least in this moment. I know that we have more mobility than they do. I am grateful for both my education and my American citizenship. I’m aware of my own privilege.

Arriving back at the Marriot feels like coming home. The amenities and service are now perversely luxurious and guilt inducing. The bed feels like heaven’s clouds and so do the pillows. I roll all over it sticking my face in, like a huskie in snow. I wish we could steal the mattress and box spring and drive them out to Mozey’s aunt and uncle.

Together we google photographs, YouTube interviews and clips from TV appearances. The amount of material on her is nothing short of amazing. Screw looking like his mother; Brisa looks exactly like him. You couldn’t convince me they had different fathers even with genetic testing. Her gestures, her height, her features, are all the same pieces to the puzzle that make up Mozey. They’ve got the same eyes, same nose, the exact same full lips and wide mouth, even their hair was cut from the same cloth, co-stars in the damn Pantene commercial. They should both be on television.

I feel an immediate affinity toward her but also some strange pangs of jealousy. I’m simultaneously sad for her physical situation and repulsed by her celebrity. Her life was easier than Mozey’s. It’s so sick that they snatched her, and it’s made even more complicated by the fact that she probably faired better because of their crime. Even her voice belongs to Mozey. I can’t help but cry.