Healing Love

by Jennifer Slattery

  She faced Dinora with what she hoped was a firm glare. “You wait here.”

  Her sister nodded and pulled her knees to her chest. Fatima glanced both ways then ran across the street. When she reached the van, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her face to the hot window. A layer of grime made it hard to see inside.

  She rubbed the glass with her fist until she’d cleared a circle. Peered inside. Amid the piles of clothing and backpacks lay bags of chips and soda cans. Most likely even more lay hidden beneath the clutter. Enough to feed her and Dinora for a week, maybe longer.

  She grabbed the door handle, burned her hand, and jerked back. Shielding her fingers with the edge of her shirt, she tried again. The door refused to budge. She tried to force it. Nothing, and her muscles trembled from the effort. Eyeing the van carefully, she walked the length of it, pausing to test each window, scanning the latch inside. Color moved through her peripheral vision, and she spun around, letting her hands fall to her side.

  Four women passed by wearing floral dresses. They balanced baskets overflowing with flowers and ferns on their heads. Fatima leaned down and pretended to pick at her big toe, watching Dinora from the corner of her eye.

  Once the ladies moved a good ways down the road, she returned to the van and her task of finding a way in. A large stone the size of her fist lay on the sidewalk. That’d be wrong. As bad as stealing. But ...

  She glanced around and picked it up, hoisting it above her head. When she caught a glimpse of her sister’s wide eyes, she lowered it again.

  Already she had robbed a family of food and water. Now she was about to damage something that belonged to someone else. And steal from them. And yet, she and Dinora were so hungry. And so very weak. They needed food.

  There had to be another way. She faced the van again. Squared her shoulders. Though chances were slim, a few doors remained untried. Perhaps if this God she kept hearing about was real, He’d help her and Dinora.

  ***

  Ubaldo fell into step beside Brooke. She carried Rosi in one arm and held hands with Aura, an eleven-year-old with long hair pulled in a loose ponytail. Aura lengthened her stride to match Brooke’s.

  He sipped some water then shoved his bottle in his back pocket. “So, what do you think of El Salvador?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Honest answer?”

  Fighting a frown, he nodded. She hated it here. And of course she would. She was used to air conditioning and fancy restaurants. Her glamorous television friends.

  She watched the children skip ahead of her. “When I first came, I started counting the days—hours, seconds—till I could return home. But now—”

  Aubrey ran up to her, slapping at her arm. “Did you bring the bug spray?”

  “Maybe. Let me check.” She let her backpack slide over her shoulder and searched inside. “Nope, sorry. I must have left it at the hotel.”

  “Oh, man.” Aubrey flopped forward and let out a very over-dramatic sigh.

  They turned at the sound of heavy breathing and clomping footsteps to find Nathan running toward them loaded down with a bulging backpack. His normally ruddy cheeks shone red beneath his carrot hair.

  Upon reaching Ubaldo, he handed over a set of car keys.

  “Thank you.” He tucked them in his pocket. “You locked it, right?”

  Nathan frowned and scratched his head. “I’m not sure. I mean, yeah, I think so … Maybe.”

  Ubaldo sighed. “That’s okay. I’ll check.”

  Aubrey spun around. “Wait. I’ll go with you. I think my bug spray may be in the van.”

  “Uh, uh.” Brooke said. “You stay with the group. I’ll go. I need to grab my sunscreen anyway.”

  A smile tugged at the thought of having some alone time with her, but he quickly suppressed it. He shouldn’t entertain such thoughts.

  Aubrey slammed her hands on her hips. “What, you think I’ll get lost between here and there?”

  “I think Ubaldo came to translate, not baby-sit.” She offered a playful smile and whacked her sister’s arm.

  Nor had he come to fall for such a beautiful woman—a woman that would soon be leaving, back to the United States and her Hollywood friends.

  “Ouch!” Aubrey attempted to pucker her smile into a scowl, resulting in a lopsided, lip-twitching grin. “Hey, if you want to play gopher, be my guest.” She jogged off toward the rest of her group.

  Laughing, Brooke turned around, and she and Ubaldo strolled back toward the van.

  Ubaldo cast her a sideways glance. “You joke, but I can tell you worry about her.”

  She shrugged. “A little.”

  “A little? You watch her like a … how do you say it? Hawk. What are you afraid of?”

  “I don’t know. I guess …” She pushed her bangs out of her face. “My parents died when we were young, and I kind of took on the parenting role after that. Maybe a bit too much.”

  An orphan. That was what he saw in her face, in her eyes, when she held the girls—compassion. No, deeper than that—empathy. “That’s why you are so good with the children.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you with them today, the way you looked at them. The others, they feel bad for them, that’s clear. And that’s good. Loving. But with you, it’s different. When you look at them, it’s as if you can feel their pain. I believe they see it, too. You have brought them great comfort, just like the Bible says—comfort others with the comfort you have received.”

  “I guess I’ve never thought about it like that.”

  Upon reaching the van, they rounded the front then froze. The side door stood open.

  “Oh, no!” Brooke lunged forward.

  Ubaldo grabbed her arm and pressed a finger to his mouth. The last thing he wanted was for her to startle a thief and get hurt. He motioned for her to hang back and then inched forward. Poked his head inside the vehicle. A pair of eyes stared back at him. He blinked. Was that—?

  The girl from the path. The one who’d dropped her pails. But what was she doing here, and in his van of all places?

  The child crouched before him, clutching a bundle of food to her chest.

  He reached for her. She flinched and made a weird hissing sound.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” He studied her hands, looking for a knife or anything that could be used as a weapon. She appeared unarmed.

  “What is it?” Brooke stepped forward, tripping on the edge of the curb. She cried out and fell backward. Ubaldo whirled around, and as he did, the girl hurled a mound of backpacks and other items on top of him. While he and Brooke untangled themselves from the mess, she jumped out, landing on the concrete with a thud.

  “Wait!” Ubaldo shoved a duffel bag out of his way and dashed across the street.

  The girl darted around a parked car and hunched behind the fender. Another girl perhaps three or four years younger huddled beside her.

  He stepped closer and reached out a hand. “I won’t hurt you. What’s your name?” The girl stared back at him.

  Brooke approached and stood beside him. “Who is she? Do you know her?”

  “I think so.” He knew so. Those large, frightened eyes had haunted his dreams night after night, often waking him with an urgency to pray. The same urgency he felt now. Lord, I believe You’re calling me to help this girl, but I don’t know how. If I step any closer, she’ll run away, and I may never see her again. He turned his head ever so slightly until he caught Brooke’s gaze. “Do you have any candy?”

  “Candy?”

  “Yes. See if you can find some.”

  She hurried to do as he asked, and he continued to pray. He didn’t know what this girl was so afraid of, but if she were like most of the children living on the streets of San Miguel, she’d learned early enough that danger was only one wrong move away.

  Brooke returned a moment later with a Gatorade and a package of Skittles. “Now what?”

  “I don’t know.” The girl seemed to relax slightly whene
ver Brooke approached, shrinking back when she left. Could she be afraid of men? Probably. Many predators lurked the city searching for prey, stealing what little innocence remained before forcing the girls to turn a profit. What about these girls crouched before him? Had they encountered the cruelties of perversion, or might there still be a chance to protect them from that? But what if these children wouldn’t let them?

  “Set the items on the curb, slowly,” he said.

  She nodded and inched forward, stretched the bright red package in front of her. The girl squatted, poised to bolt, gaze darting from Brooke to Ubaldo. The younger child—her sister?—clung to her arm.

  Brooke set the candy and drink down then stepped back until she stood beside Ubaldo. “Do you think they’re homeless?”

  “I don’t know.” He reached into his back pocket for his phone, only it wasn’t there. It must have tumbled out when he fell. “I think I dropped my cell near the van.”

  “I left mine at the hotel.”

  “You stay here.” Hopefully the girls would also. “I’ll be back.”

  He turned around and hurried toward the van as a man on a motorcycle whizzed by blaring his horn.

  Ubaldo jumped back, missing getting hit by maybe three feet.

  “No!” Brooke’s voice rang out, and he turned to see the girls running down the street.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Fatima ran, dragging Dinora behind her. She squeezed the bottle of blue liquid between her arm and ribs and clutched the shiny red package in her other hand. They reached the end of the street and turned the corner. Then she let go of Dinora and stood, gasping.

  “Why are we running?” Tears streaked Dinora’s dirty face. “I want to go home! Why can’t we go home?” She rubbed her eyes with fisted hands.

  Fatima sighed. She knelt beside her and showed her the candy and drink. “Look what I have. Do you know what is inside?”

  She sniffled and shook her head.

  “Dulce. Little, round, dulce of all colors.” She set the candy in Dinora’s lap and worked to open the bottle. The rough plastic lid scraped against her palm, not budging. Gritting her teeth, she tried again then fell back on her rear with a moan. Not strong enough. She shoved the top of the bottle between her back teeth and clamped down. After a jaw-aching struggle, the lid turned, then again, until it was loose enough to unscrew with her hands.

  “Here, Dulce Din. Have a drink.”

  Dinora’s eyes widened, and a smile lit her dirt-smudged face. She downed half the bottle without pausing for breath before handing it back.

  “Thank you.” She peered down the street, thinking of the man she’d seen on the pathway. Then again in the building filled with children. The man who talked of God and offered to help. His eyes were soft. They focused on her face and didn’t sweep up and down her body like her cousin’s had. And if ever Fatima believed in angels—which she didn’t—they’d look much like the woman who held out the candy.

  Cars zipped through the intersection. Horns blaring, they wove around pedestrians pushing wooden carts and wheelbarrows filled with various food items. Once Dinora stopped crying and the two caught their breath, they moved to the shade of a nearby building and leaned against the brick. Fatima spread the candy in front of them, and they ate. The sweetness exploded on Fatima’s tongue.

  The candy cleared her dizziness some.

  Dinora inched closer and Fatima wrapped an arm around her. She rested her chin on Dinora’s head and watched the sky turn from blue to pink as the sun sank below the horizon.

  Dinora wiggled to look at Fatima. “Can we go back to that place with the children?”

  ***

  Ubaldo followed Orfeo’s truck up the winding mountain toward Ozatlan, a cluster of concrete and mud-brick houses surrounding a central park. As they neared, thunder rumbled.

  He eyed the Americans packed in the pickup bed ahead of him. “I think your friends may get a shower before the night is through.”

  Brooke nodded, peering at the sky. “Do you think it’ll hinder the crusades?”

  “We’ll sit beneath the covered area. Are you leading the VBS activities under the gazebo?”

  “I don’t know. Will it have light?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.” He veered to the curb and cut the engine. Everyone spilled out of his van and gathered on the sidewalk.

  A handful of Faith’s Fortress Church members shimmied up crisscrossed metal beams supporting a metal roof. When they reached the top, they draped strings of lights attached to extension cords across the rafters. In the center of the shelter, which stretched the length of a basketball court, other men waited on ladders, ready to twine the rest of the lighting.

  The pastor and his wife stood along a concrete half-wall, watching two church members set up their music equipment. They flanked the standing microphones with drum sets then lugged two chest-high speakers from the bed of a truck.

  Brooke followed Ubaldo to concrete seating cut into a grassy hill. “Wow, they go all out, don’t they?”

  He smiled as the band tested their equipment with enough volume to shred his eardrums. “That’s how we do it—El Salvadoran style.”

  He flinched when a soccer ball zipped past his ear and bounced off the concrete before landing behind a backpack.

  Aubrey jogged over with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.” She turned to Brooke. “Wanna play? Eddie’s trying to get a game going.”

  He turned to see a group of students—half North American and half El Salvadoran, the latter still in their school uniforms.

  Brooke shook her head. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”

  Aubrey shrugged, retrieved her ball, and dribbled across the concrete. The other kids trailed her and quickly split into teams. More students gathered on the outskirts. As Ubaldo watched, the lines distinguishing the North Americans from his people blurred.

  Brooke stood and draped her backpack over her shoulder. “I suppose I better find out where we’re setting up for VBS.” She surveyed the park. Another clap of thunder rumbled. “I sure hope this gazebo you mentioned will hold us, because I’m not looking to get drenched.”

  He followed her gaze toward inky storm clouds swallowing the sky. “Ah, the children will not mind. Would you like some help?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  She climbed up a small, grassy hill, and he felt an urge to follow her. To talk with her for but a few minutes more. To see her smile, and the shy way she tucked her hair behind her ears when nervous or uncertain.

  He shook the notion aside along with the unwelcome feelings she evoked and forced his attention onto the soccer game. The crusade would start soon enough and his thoughts would become distracted by amplified guitars and testimonies rather than the beautiful woman invading his heart.

  By the time dusk fell, the soccer game had ceased, chairs lined the concrete, and a sizable crowd had gathered. The music started and a mission team youth with short, blond hair that was longer in the front took the microphone. A few villagers poked their heads out of their houses. One man meandered over on his bicycle.

  After three English songs, the Faith’s Fortress Church band came forward and played the same songs in Spanish. The words flashed on portable screens bordering the stage. Surprisingly, a majority of North Americans tried to sing along. Shortly after, Ubaldo’s pastor motioned him forward as Ralph, one of the mission team chaperones, took the microphone.

  Ubaldo hurried to the front. He took an additional microphone and faced the crowd, ready to translate.

  “Hola, my name—uh—mi hombre es Ralph Knight, and I grew up in a non-Christian home.” Ralph talked slowly, with an occasional stutter. “My dad pretty much hated Christians—anything to do with religion, really. A neighbor introduced me to Jesus. At first, my dad tolerated my newfound faith, until I started getting serious.”

  He paused. “I guess he realized it was more than a passing phase. He to
ld me to give up the crutch and deal with life like a man. Said I had better things to do than waste time with a bunch of choir boys. That’s when things started to get tense, and one day, I blew up and punched him.”

  “It was pretty much over after that. My dad kicked me out, and I spent the next two years crashing with friends. I finally ended up in a Christian home my junior year, and thought I’d left my past behind me. I figured there was no need to talk to my dad, even told myself I’d forgiven him—I just didn’t want to see him.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Like that works. Then one day as I read my morning devotional, a verse really spoke to me. Actually two verses. I wrote them down.”

  He flipped his page over. “They were 2 Corinthians 5:18-19, which says,. ‘And all of this is a gift from God, who brought us back to Himself through Christ. And God has given us this task of reconciling people to Him. For God was in Christ, reconciling the world to Himself, no longer counting people’s sins against them. And He gave us this wonderful message of reconciliation.’”

  He scratched his jaw. “This verse says I’ve been given the ministry of reconciliation. I wondered, how could I join God’s big-picture ministry of reconciling man to the Father if I couldn’t make things right with my own dad?

  “So after twenty years of pretending like the man didn’t exist, I called him up. We scheduled a time to meet and I came with my hat in my hand. It wasn’t easy. Took a great deal of pride swallowing, but we patched things up. Less than two years later, he died of pancreatic cancer.” His voice cracked. “I stayed by his side the night he died, held his hand, and told him about the God I love. My dad accepted Christ that night, and died at peace, ready to meet his maker.”

  Ralph handed his microphone to the pastor and returned to his seat. Ubaldo translated for two more North Americans, but his mind remained on the story of the dying man who received Christ on his deathbed. He thought of his own father, and all the anger separating them. Over the years, so much had happened, so much had been said. Moving past the bitterness toward reconciliation seemed impossible.