Healing Love

by Jennifer Slattery

  His mother squeezed his hand. “Never forget, we are familia, and family members belong together.”

  Perhaps if his father felt the same way, Ubaldo’s muscles wouldn’t clench every time he came here. But that wasn’t his mother’s fault, nor could she do anything about it.

  She continued to watch him, and her eyes grew moist. But then she lifted her shoulders and inhaled. “So tell me, what have you brought?”

  He smiled and put his bag down. “Medicine for your hands, along with sandals for your feet and ...” He pulled out a bundle of fish, which he set in her lap. “Tilapia, your favorite, given to me by one of my students, and coconuts.”

  “You are such a sweet niño.”

  “Sit while I rub this lotion into your hands.” He held up a container of Aspercreme, purchased at the pharmacy the evening before. “And I brought you more Aleve. I assumed you’d be out.”

  “Gracias, mijo.” Her smile deepened the wrinkles fanning from her eyes.

  Her slackened skin was rough and dry, the knuckles swollen. Using circular motions, he massaged her hands until her fingers uncoiled.

  A memory surfaced of him as a little boy. He and his friends had been making a fort in the village jungle, hacking away at vines and branches then carting them to their “secret hideout.” Ubaldo had grabbed onto a thorn, the sharp barb slicing deep into his tender palm. Then, fighting tears, he’d hurried home, straight to his mother who always smelled of fresh cooked tortillas. She’d ushered him inside, pulled him close, then, while humming softly, set to tending to his wound.

  Perhaps she shared the same memory, for as he eased her feet in front of her, she began to hum.

  He worked the cream into her swollen knees.

  When finished, he gave her the medicine and wiped his hands on the front of his pants. “Now I will see about finding something to open those coconuts with.”

  He left and returned with a machete. Propping the coconut on its side, he whacked off the top.

  “Drink. This will help your stomach. Have you been well?”

  “I’m fine. An occasional upset stomach is nothing to worry about. When you were a child, you frequently complained of nausea, which always passed. Do you remember?”

  “Yes.” And amazingly, his “weak stomach” faded when he traded stream water for that brought by city pipes, but telling his mother the cause of her stomach ailments wouldn’t help. If only Ubaldo could move her and his sisters in with him.

  He checked his watch and stood. “I must hurry. I need to be at school in an hour.”

  “Will you come tonight for dinner?”

  He sighed. “Not this time, Mama.”

  He kissed her cheek then headed back toward the narrow trail winding through the village and toward the main road. Pausing to gaze at his childhood home one last time, he relived the day he left for university and the hateful words exchanged by he and his father.

  Behind him, branches snapped and he turned to find his father trudging up the hill, pulling a mule. Bulky bags draped the animal’s back and dirt-covered pails dangled from a rope looped around the mule’s belly.

  His father looked up and froze, a flash of surprise lighting his eyes before disappearing behind a scowl. He re-gripped the lead, angled his head to the ground, and resumed his climb, passing by without a second glance.

  Ubaldo’s teeth clenched as he watched him recede in the distance.

  Lifting his chin, he squared his shoulders and walked away, just as he had ten years ago.

  Thirty-five minutes later, elbows jammed into Ubaldo’s side when his bus jerked to a stop. He clutched his curriculum to his chest and pressed through the mass of bodies. His feet touched the ground moments before the bus lurched forward. A few paces down, children dressed in white-collar shirts and pleated skirts scampered from the back of a pickup, holding plates and spoons. Ubaldo paused to count them—six, one less than the day before.

  Carlos, a young boy from Ubaldo’s third-hour class, waved with a cheek-bunching smile. “Buenos dias, Señor Ubaldo Covas Callas!”

  “Good morning, Carlos. I hope that smile means you are prepared for your test.”

  The boy’s eyes widened and he dipped his head, confirming Ubaldo’s suspicions.

  “Good morning, señor.”

  Ubaldo turned and smiled at Señora Arroyo. The old woman with a plump frame and smiling eyes stood behind a makeshift table loaded with fried plantains, tortillas, and sugar-cane soda packaged in clear plastic bags. More tortillas sizzled on a griddle beside her, the rich aroma of toasted corn meal mingling with the dusty scent of burning coal.

  Ubaldo strolled over to greet her. The shadows beneath her eyes and her leathery skin reminded him of his mother. “Dios te bendiga, señora. How are you this morning?”

  “Very well, thank you, and God bless you, also.” She watched the children skip through the street ahead of them. “Those children love you very much, señor.”

  He laughed. “Then perhaps I need to increase their studies.”

  “Perhaps. But the real question is, when will you have children of your own?”

  “I’ll need a wife for that, señora, and I don’t expect to find one any time soon.”

  She offered a toothless smile. “In God’s timing. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m not looking to get married. But you know I’m always hungry for fresh-cooked tortillas.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out two quarters. If only he had more to give.

  She dropped the coin into a bag and handed over a tortilla, steam rising from its golden surface. “You will make a kind husband and good provider some day.”

  He was nowhere near ready to start a family. “The best tortillas in San Miguel. Thank you again.” He gave a parting wave and hurried toward the single-story brick school across the street.

  Approaching footsteps scuffed against the asphalt. “You’re a generous man.” Teresa Vargez-Ortega, a fellow teacher, fell into step beside him, bringing with her the faint scent of honeysuckle.

  “A man must eat.” He took a large bite for her benefit and motioned for her to enter the schoolyard before him.

  “As if the food offered during the morning meal time is not enough.” She winked. “But don’t worry; your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone how compassionate you are.” She grazed his arm with her hand.

  He stiffened. “Yes, well, he who sows sparingly also reaps sparingly.”

  “You and your Bible verses. I find it quite endearing.” She offered a coquettish smile, turned on her heel, and clicked away.

  He maneuvered around groups of children, stepped over a mound of backpacks, and continued into his classroom. Three rows back, Hernandez, a normally giggly twelve-year-old with a slightly pudged nose, slouched in his desk. He looked up and for a moment, his ebony eyes centered onto Ubaldo’s.

  He deposited his things and walked over. Squatted to eye-level. “Is everything all right?”

  “Today is my last day.” He sighed. “Mother says we cannot afford for me to come to school anymore. We don’t have the money to pay for a ride, and it’s too far to walk. Anyway, my papa wants me to go to work with him. He says I must learn to be a man, support a family, not add numbers.”

  Ubaldo scanned the desks aligned in the room. Countless students had come and gone over the years, and now poverty would rob yet another child of his chance for an education.

  He breathed deeply to keep the anger from his voice. “But you cannot quit.” Without an education the boy would have to work in the plantations, like so many others in San Miguel. Because plantation owners paid so little, laborers were forced to have their children, sometimes as young as eight and nine years old, work alongside them. “Maybe you can come every other day, or twice a week. Señor Resendez can work with you to see that you don’t fall behind.”

  “I need to help my family.” He traced his finger along a gouge in his desk.

  Ubaldo lifted the boy’s chin until he looked him in the eye. “Don’t
give up on school. You must promise me. We’ll figure something out.”

  The boy stared at him for a long moment then gave an almost indiscernible nod.

  “Good. Now study. You have a test later.”

  Ubaldo stood, grabbed a cup from his desk, and left.

  Teresa leaned against the doorway with a raised eyebrow. She followed him as he made his way across the courtyard. “You know you cannot help them all. Sometimes I wonder if we ever really help any, but at least we receive a steady paycheck. Focus on that.”

  “That is not enough.”

  Jaw tight, he quickened his step and disappeared into the bathroom. He placed his cup on the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror, thinking back to the hardened look in his father’s eye, the wilting look in his mother’s. Merging among their faces was the wide-eyed girl he met on the path near his parents’ house. But the image that seared his heart most was the memory of his sister Raquel and the day he went to school and she stayed home.

  Chapter Three

  Ubaldo’s stop approached, and he pressed his way toward the front of the bus. A moment later, the vehicle squealed to a halt, and he jumped out as an attendant pulled a woman in. The engine moaned, and the bus accelerated.

  Across the street, the early morning sun poked over the top of San Miguel’s Le Casa de Niñas. The kitchen door hung open, and lively music, mixed with the sound of chattering voices, poured into the street.

  He poked his head inside. “Hola, hola, hola, my friends!”

  Children spun around, eyes bright, grins wide.

  “Señor Ubaldo!” They sprang from their benches and flew toward him. Buried in hugs, he stumbled backward until his shoulders scraped against the warm brick wall. Laughter bubbled from his core.

  He peeled a curly-haired toddler off his leg and plunked her in front of a steaming bowl of chicken and rice. “Eat, Angelita, so you can grow big and strong like the other girls.” He tickled her ribs then ruffled another child’s hair.

  “What a pleasant surprise.” Carmela, the orphanage madre, emerged from behind a long counter, wiping her hands on a towel. She greeted Ubaldo with a kiss on each cheek. “What brings you here so early in the morning? Perhaps you’re trading your public classroom for ours?”

  Cheers erupted from the girls.

  Ubaldo frowned. “You shouldn’t tease in front of the children. You’ll get their hopes up.”

  “I told you months ago, you belong here, with us, speaking hope and truth into these children’s lives.”

  “And I told you I like to eat.”

  “As do I.” She grabbed an empty bowl and filled it with steaming arroz con pollo. “God provides. Always. Sit and enjoy. I know you love my cooking.”

  “That I do. But I didn’t come for breakfast. Where’s Alberto?”

  “In the office. He’ll be very pleased to see you this morning.”

  Ubaldo paused to hug a few more girls who were doing more talking than eating, then dashed down the hall. He continued to the office tucked to the right of the sanctuary.

  Alberto rose when Ubaldo entered. “It wasn’t easier to return my call? Or did you come to sample some home-cooked food?”

  Ubaldo laughed. “You and Carmela know me all too well.”

  “Perhaps it’s time you found a wife. Then you could have all the chicken, rice, and tamales you desire. Speaking of … Sister Galena’s been asking about you.”

  “She asks about every bachelor who attends Faith’s Fortress.” He pulled a thick textbook and spiral-bound notebook from his carrying case and dropped it onto the desk. “As to why I’m here, I assumed you called to discuss the new teaching methods I told you about.”

  “Ah, I’d forgotten about that.” Alberto flipped through Ubaldo’s notes. “Yes, I would like to learn more about this.” He studied Ubaldo. “But no, that’s not why I called. What’s your schedule like during the month of June?”

  Ubaldo retrieved his pocket calendar. “Besides my work responsibilities?”

  “Can you get time off? Perhaps for two weeks?”

  “I’d have to pay for a sub. Why? Although I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “The North Americans are coming.”

  Ubaldo rolled his eyes. “Great, more gringos with a Savior complex.”

  “They come to help. You know that.”

  “Do they? Or do they come to stroke their egos? The save-the-world crew with the deep pockets and annual mission trips, making promises they’ll never keep.”

  Alberto sighed. “Yes, they do make and break a lot of promises, and yet, they also offer much needed aid.”

  “But is it worth the tears they leave behind when your girls face yet more goodbyes?”

  Alberto plopped in the chair and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Besides, God will provide. Isn’t that what you and Carmela always say?”

  “What if God chooses to provide through the North Americans? And don’t forget, they’re your brothers and sisters in Christ.”

  He frowned. He hadn’t come to argue with his friend.

  “Does that mean you won’t translate for them when they come?”

  “At the risk of sounding hypocritical, I could use the extra income, and they certainly do pay well.” With a few more hundred dollars, he’d have enough to buy a reliable car. Nothing fancy, but something that’d allow him to visit his mother whenever he wanted. Maybe even get her to a doctor.

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  “It means I’ll get back to you.”

  ***

  From across the room, Brooke stared at Mr. Echo’s closed door, her stomach queasy. Almost half the newsroom staff was fighting for camera time. What made her think her boss would give her any? But she had to ask. Otherwise she’d be fact checking until dementia took her out.

  She’d meant to talk to him the day before, but he’d had back-to-back meetings. When his schedule had finally appeared to lighten, he’d looked way too crabby to approach.

  How bad did she want this?

  Bad enough to go after it, even if she made a complete fool of herself.

  Her cell phone chimed an incoming email. She checked her inbox, and her already churning stomach went into near convulsions.

  It was from Pastor T telling prospective mission-team members their deposits were due Sunday.

  If only Aubrey would sit this one out, but the more Brooke suggested it, the more adamant her sister—and Uncle Lester—became.

  Aubrey was certain she’d be missing out on the biggest opportunity ever, not to mention the fact that “Absolutely everyone else is going!”—a declaration that was always followed by an abundance of exclamation marks. And Uncle Lester refused to budge—she could only go if Brooke went with her.

  Did he not think that through? Why send one niece potentially spiraling to her death when two could go?

  But at least they’d go together. Wasn’t that what Brooke had promised, back when they’d lost their parents? That they’d stick together no matter what?

  She took a drink of water. The din of clicking keyboards, trilling telephones, and constant prattle accelerated her pulse. She stood and wiped her clammy hands on the sides of her skirt. For you are Christ’s masterpiece. For you are Christ’s masterpiece. For you are Christ’s masterpiece.

  The mantra failed to still her heart. By the time she made it to Mr. Echo’s office, the slight discomfort in her gut had turned to all-out nausea.

  She thought back on an interview she’d conducted in grad school—one that left her red-faced and searching for a rock to crawl under. And that had been for a small, no-name newspaper. What made her think she could actually sit in front of a live camera without choking on her words? And yet, she’d never rise to the top hiding behind her cubicle.

  Before she could put her phone away, it trilled a text. She glanced at the screen. Her sister.

  Aubrey: Please, please, please, please. I’ll do anything. Your laundry. Clean our bathroom. Make you
breakfast in bed.

  Another text quickly followed.

  Aubrey: If mom and dad were here, you know they’d let me go.

  Was she right? Probably. And yet, Brooke had already lost her parents. She couldn’t handle losing Aubrey too. She couldn’t.

  So go with her.

  She tensed as an image of the two of them, stranded in a remote jungle village, filled her mind. Which was irrational, right? People traveled overseas all the time. But …

  Another text: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Are you mad?

  No. Hurt. Confused. Sad, not just about having lost their parents, but all the other things Aubrey had and would miss out on since—Mom doing her hair for prom, helping her pick out her wedding dress. Dad walking her down the aisle.

  Getting to go on her first mission trip.

  She counted to two then sent a reply: I’m not mad. I’m coming with you.

  Aubrey: What? Yay!!!!

  Brooke’s grip tightened on her phone. Had she really just said that? She knew better than to make promises she couldn’t keep. She could lose her shot at a much coveted anchor position. But what else could she do? Her aunt and uncle were set, her sister was dangerously flighty and immature, and Brooke absolutely needed to keep her safe.

  She told herself again how irrational her concerns were. Thousands of students participated in short term missions each year, and they all returned home unharmed. Well, except for that college kid from Missouri who broke his ribs… Then there were all those who were held hostage, acquired some sort of incurable disease, or were killed in a plane crash.

  Who monitored El Salvadoran planes, anyway? For all she knew, they were poorly built puddle jumpers manned by overworked, overtired pilots.

  She swallowed. Refocused.

  No. Major career opportunity or not, she needed to go.

  Of course, her sister could change her mind and decide to stay home. Unlikely, maybe, but possible. Or something catastrophic could happen, forcing Pastor T to cancel the trip …

  Could her thoughts become any less Christ-like? With a heavy sigh, Brooke turned her phone to vibrate and tucked it into her pocket. She rapped on Mr. Echo’s door.