When they rounded the corner, the market came into view. Dinora squeezed Fatima’s hand, a toothy smile bunching her cheeks. Her stomach rumbled.
Fatima laughed. “We better sell our tortillas and beads quickly before your stomach eats you up.”
Dinora licked her lips and stared at a small table lined with empanadas.
Still laughing, Fatima tugged her forward. “Come on, you, before our spot is taken.” Their “spot,” far from the curtained stalls of other sellers, was nothing but a section of curb near the end of the market. Even so, it promised at least some sales. Hopefully enough to buy a plantain and sweet drink to share between them.
Chapter Six
Brooke cut the engine and glanced at her sister in the passenger’s seat. “How’d I let you con me into this?”
Aubrey made a puppy-dog face and batted her eyes. “You love me?”
“Something like that. How long’s this meeting supposed to last, anyway?”
“Don’t know. Guess it depends on how many people show up, how many questions they have, and if Pastor T wants to turn this gig into a devo time.” Aubrey twisted toward the backseat and grabbed her tub of beads—enough to single-handedly stock Walmart. “Why, you got plans? A date with Mr. TV Hottie?” She snapped her fingers and bounced in her seat. “Oh, let’s do a double!”
“I’ve told you a thousand times, I barely know the man, nor am I interested.” In dating period. She had enough to focus on simply getting her career started. And figuring out a way to keep her and her sister out of El Salvador.
“For now maybe.”
“You are so mature. Might want to simmer those hopes down a bit, because it’s not happening. The last thing I want to do is get involved with a co-worker. Besides, I didn’t think you were seeing anyone.”
Aubrey shrugged. “An easy fix.”
“Is that right?”
“Uh-huh, ’cause I got it going on like that.” She made jazz hands.
“Okay Miss Diva, how about you get your snazzy little self out of this car and into the church before they send someone looking for us.” Brooke turned her phone on silent and slipped it into her purse.
Aubrey dashed out and bolted through the double doors. They smacked the outer brick wall then slammed shut with a bang. Brooke shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Asking one more time here, Lord, before my fate is sealed: Please show me the loophole.
Footsteps scuffed behind her and she turned to see Pastor T approaching with a box of books.
“Catching the excitement wave yet?” He flashed a lop-sided grin—one that made him look like a goofy teen.
“You’re not saying my sister’s near hysterics are contagious, are you?”
He laughed. “Don’t worry, the mania wears off after a while.” He heaved his box to his hip to open the door for her. “Glad you’re coming, though. It’ll change you, flip the way you see things.”
Was that what mission trips were for? An extreme reality experience to challenge Christians to step it up? Probably something Brooke could use, but surely there were easier and more economical ways for God to get people’s attention.
She followed him down the hall, past a row of classrooms she rarely visited, and into one lined with books. A pack of teens huddled around a cell phone, reaching and grabbing like the world would end if they didn’t see whatever played on the screen.
Pastor T dropped his books on the front table with a thump. “All right, let’s get started.”
Kids migrated to their seats.
Aubrey plopped beside Brooke. “I’m so excited. I can’t believe we’re actually going. This is going to be so great!”
“Yeah, great.” Looking for that escape route, God. Some way to undo the mess I’m about to step in without shattering my baby sister’s heart. But barring a hole suddenly emerging beneath her, she remained stuck.
“So, here’s the low-down.” Pastor T grabbed a dry-erase marker and strolled to a giant white board tacked to the wall. “Right now we’ve got nineteen team members signed up to go—Fifteen teens and four adults, which means if you’re old enough to remember when Michael Jackson hit the scene, I need you to chaperone a room.” He looked at each adult in turn, his gaze lingering on Brooke’s. “Exactly what you hoped I’d say, right?”
Her cheeks heated. “It’s fine.”
“Don’t worry about her.” Aubrey nudged her with her shoulder. “She’s just worried about the germs, mosquitoes, giant cockroaches—they’re about three inches, right Pastor T?” She laughed.
“No worse than Texas or Louisiana.” A kid with GQ hair flicked a wad of paper at the girl sitting across from him.
“Hey, no horror stories.” Pastor T clicked the cap of his marker off and on. “At least until everyone pays their non-refundable deposit.”
“How much will this cost, anyway?” A girl with long, brown hair secured in two French braids made a face. “’Cause I’m like way broke. And I mean way.”
“We’re going to talk about that.” Pastor T drew a line across the dry-erase board and labeled it: Total cost. “It’ll cost about twenty-four hundred per person.”
“I hope that’s in pesos,” the girl said.
GQ rolled his eyes. “They use American money, stupid.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Focus, you guys.” Pastor T said. “We have a lot to cover. But I’m telling you right now, don’t let money stop you. God is able to do immeasurably more than we could ask or ever imagine.”
“See? Told you.” Aubrey jabbed Brooke with her elbow.
They spent the rest of the afternoon brainstorming and planning fundraising events.
Sitting in her car a short while later, waiting for her sister to hug everyone goodbye—yes, everyone—Brooke stared up at a beam of light radiating through a cluster of clouds. “You’re not gonna pull me out of this one, are You, God?”
But she would survive, with a steady dose of hand-sanitizer.
Aubrey slid into the car and flashed Brooke a wide smile. “This is going to be awesome. We haven’t gone on a trip together since … since …” Her smile evaporated, and her eyes misted.
A lump lodged in Brooke’s throat. She squeezed her sister’s hand. “Love you, Cookie.”
Lord, I don’t know what You’re doing here, but something tells me I’m going to have to trust You.
***
The sun dipped behind nearby buildings, creating long shadows across the ground and filling the sky with pinks and purples. Sitting beside Dinora, Fatima spread her coins in front of her. Eighty-five cents.
A woman with long, black hair and a brightly dyed skirt paused to offer Dinora a smile.
Fatima jumped to her feet and held out a string of beads.
The woman fingered the strand then held it against her neck. “How much?”
She noted the woman’s clothing, smooth skin, and sandaled feet. Signs of wealth. “One dollar?”
The woman wrinkled her nose then approached the next merchant.
“I’m hungry.” Dinora’s eyebrows furrowed. Her gaze drifted toward a man pushing a wheelbarrow full of melons down the street.
Fatima counted her change one more time. How much would Mama expect them to bring home? She handed Dinora a tortilla then took one for herself.
Her sister frowned and nibbled on the dry morsel.
Fatima stood. “You wait here.”
“I want to go with you.” Dinora stood. “Please?”
“Fine. Let me cover our things first.” She pulled their sheet over their tortillas and shoved the necklaces and beads back into her pouch. Grabbing their coins in one hand and her pouch in the other, she guided her sister through the crowd to the food area a few paces away. A handful of plastic tables stood in front of a raised plank of wood covered with baskets of fruit. Fatima turned toward a woman frying plantains in a pan of sizzling oil. The sweet aroma swept over her and caused her mouth to water.
They didn’t have much mo
ney, but enough for a plantain. Maybe two. She lengthened her stride and lifted her chin, hurried toward the smiling woman.
“How much?” Her stomach rumbled as she stared at a plate piled high with golden brown fruit.
Dinora wiggled beside her.
“A quarter each.”
Fatima opened her hand, palm up, revealing two shiny coins.
Her ears burned as the woman’s gaze swept over their dirt-stained clothing. “But today I have a special. Two for one.”
She bit back a squeal. “Then I will take four, please.”
With a smile, the woman took Fatima’s money then turned around and wrapped plantains with a sheet of paper towels. She handed the bundle to Fatima. “God bless you, my child.”
“Thank you.” Fatima took her purchase. She and her sister skipped-ran back to their sheet.
Giggling, Fatima spread the bundle before them, carefully peeling the paper towel from the steaming fruit. She blinked, then looked again. Tucked within the fruit lay her two coins. She looked back towards the smiling woman who’d sold her the plantains.
“God bless you, my child.” Dinora giggled. “God blessed you and me with big, juicy plantains.”
She tensed. “No. God does not bless us, and the sooner you get that, the easier life will be.” Her heart pricked at the sorrow in her sister’s eyes, but letting her believe in fairy tales wouldn’t help either of them.
Chapter Seven
The IETV3 news van wound its way up the road cut into the side of a mountain. Sitting in the back, Brooke peered at the valley below and fought to calm her jittery stomach.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Beside her, Caleb flashed a smile. “Almost makes me want to move up here.”
“Not me.” Gary, one of the camera crew, angled his ball cap sideways and turned toward the window. “This boy needs to be where the action’s at, of the female variety, if you know what I mean.”
Caleb shook his head. “Is that all you think about, G-man?”
“Pretty much. I like to keep things simple.”
“Hate to break it to ya, Casanova, but leaving a bunch of angry women in your wake is anything but simple. Which reminds me, what were you thinking giving out my cell number?”
Gary threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, Sheila called, did she?”
“Not unless she goes by the alias of Robin.”
Gary frowned and stared into space as if sifting through a web of brain-clutter. “Oh, Robin. Right.” He whistled. “Hotter than a firecracker, crazier than Lady Gaga.”
“Not sure why you’d try to pawn her off on me, then. Sounds like your kind of lady.”
“Speaking of crazy,” Gary turned to Brooke. “Rumor has it, you’re using vacation time to hang in Central America.”
She squirmed as everyone looked her way. “I’m going with my sister and her youth group. That’s the plan, anyway. Although I’m open for an alternative.” One that’d keep both her and her sister in the states, where they belonged.
Gary shook his head. “That’s gonna be wild. Chilling with the 18th street gang, huh?”
She blinked. “The what?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of those guys. They run that country, girl. That’s why all those armed policemen guard every street corner, gas station, and convenient mart. Your church people didn’t tell you that? Probably thought it’d scare y’all off. Seriously, though, those dudes are worse than the Crips and Bloods combined on their worst day.”
An image of angry men dressed in red bandanas holding machine guns flashed through her mind. When she got home, she needed to do a Google search to see if any truth lay behind Gary’s words.
“Don’t listen to him.” Caleb leaned forward to study his reflection in the rearview mirror. “He’s one of these read the headlines, assume the rest kind of guys.” He settled back against his seat and started scrolling through his phone.
The van approached a wrought-iron gate attached to two stone pillars. Ivy climbed the trellis and draped from the intricate swirls crafted between the bars.
The show’s producer, a wiry man with freckled skin, swiveled to look at each of the crew in turn. “Which one of you has the security code?”
Oh, no. Was that Brooke’s responsibility? She chewed on her bottom lip and stared at her hands, trying to review the long list of duties rattled off when they first assigned her to shadow Caleb. For the umpteenth time this week, she considered how unqualified and ill-equipped she was for this job—despite her degree. No wonder Mr. Echo chose someone else to host the Morning with Friends show.
The camera crew exchanged glances, and the producer cursed under his breath.
A tendon in Caleb’s jaw twitched. “You’ve got to be kidding me! How many times do I have to tell you—?”
Gary snickered.
The producer swore again and returned his attention to his clipboard. “Not funny. A little more professionalism would be nice. Might even help you earn that promotion you keep whining about.”
Gary muttered something about brown-nosing Barbie and Ken dolls.
Caleb rubbed his forehead. “How did I get stuck with such a mature camera crew?” He leaned toward Brooke, his eyes softening. “See why I need you?”
She lowered her gaze, heat rushing to her cheeks. When she glanced up, Gary shot her a loaded smile as if privy to secret information.
The van jolted to a stop and he got out and punched in the security code.
The producer shifted to face everyone. “Let’s go over last minute details. Thomas and David, I want you both to get a few shots of this gate and the valley below. At the house, get plenty of footage of the property, inside and out. Zero in on any odd details. Definitely spend time in the master bedroom. I expect lots of close-ups. Caleb, you keep the guy talking and don’t forget to pull Brooke in with a funny question here or there.”
Caleb nodded and turned to her. “So, you ready to do this thing?”
She swallowed and wiped her clammy hands on the front of her skirt. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” Her first on-camera gig. Was this really happening? What if she blew it?
Caleb glanced over his copy, highlighted in yellow. “We’ll do a sweep of the house. I’ll ask about some of the odd furniture and lighting, trying to pull out a few of those quirky stories I heard about. It’s all in the questions. Remember that.” He tapped his temple. “Then we’ll head to the balcony that overlooks his formal garden for the wrap-up.”
The van eased around a corner and pulled into a cobblestone driveway surrounded by palms, birds of paradise, and miniature roses. A tennis court peaked through the foliage and a stucco half-wall bordered an outdoor sitting area. In the center of spiraling cobblestones rose a slate fireplace.
Caleb reached for the door. “This is it.” He jumped out. Shielding his eyes from the midday sun, he scanned the property.
Brooke fished her compact from her purse, powdered her nose, and hurried out. She stood beside Caleb, breathing deep to calm her jitters. While waiting for the crew to fit her for sound, she used the opportunity to gape at a shale fountain bubbling beneath two stone pillars. How much did a place like this cost? Five million? Ten? Way more than she’d make in this lifetime, unless …
She chuckled to herself, stopping her elaborate dreams in their tracks. Less than a month shadowing on a real show, and already she dreamed of becoming the next Katie Couric. Not gonna happen.
Of course, one didn’t reach the moon by planting their feet on the ground.
***
Fatima knelt between her aunt and sister and stuck her hand into the bucket of mud. It oozed warm and thick between her fingers. She packed it into a hole in the outer wall of their home then spread it smooth. Her mother worked on a jagged crack reaching from the floor to the glassless window. Aunt Almita added palm fronds to their roof.
Hoarse laughter rippled from inside where her uncle, cousins, and a few men from the village gathered. One voice rose above the rest, his
slurred words filled with curses and story-telling that made Fatima blush.
Dinora tugged on Fatima’s shirt. “Why doesn’t Uncle Alfonso ever help us, like Papa used to?”
Fatima started to answer, but her mother reached around and yanked Dinora’s arm. “Hold your tongue, you ungrateful child.” She looked at Almita who dragged palm fronds across the sunbaked ground, then returned to her work with more vigor than before.
Fatima sighed and added another glob of mud on top of a second crack formed after the rains. By mid-afternoon, her fingers scraped the bottom of her bucket.
Aunt Almita shuffled over, her skirt swishing about her plump legs, and dropped a pail in front of Fatima. “Get more water.” She grabbed another bucket lying in the dirt, tossed it Fatima’s way, and stomped back to a pile of branches gathered after the last storm.
Fatima took a pail in each hand. She was glad for a trip to the stream, where she could pause to splash her face and cool her toes.
Dinora sprang to her feet. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.” Her mother grabbed her and plunked her onto the ground. “You will stay and help fill these cracks.”
Dinora sighed. “I wish it didn’t rain so much. All we ever do is fill cracks, fix holes, patch roofs. Why can’t we have a metal roof like Señor and Señorita Gonzales have?” She spoke under her breath, but not softly enough.
Mama whirled around and whacked the back of her head. “I can see you do not appreciate Aunt Almita and Uncle Alfonso’s generosity. Maybe you’d like to return to the mud-pile that’s left of our old home?”
Dinora shook her head, tears spilling over her lashes in dirty streaks.
Fatima’s hands trembled in clenched fists at her sides.
One of these days …
What? She’d take her sister far from here? To where? To live on the streets, eating out of garbage cans? Or another village to work at another plantation—one which paid more for sex than planting?
With buckets in hand, she paused at the door of her house to glance inside. Her uncle sat along the far wall surrounded by a group of men from their village. They passed a jug of homemade liquor around, taking long gulps. Fatima’s cousin glanced up and his mouth curved into a crooked smile.
Healing Love Page 4