Healing Love

by Jennifer Slattery

  Oh, how she wanted to believe her but nothing ever turned out as she hoped. And adults were rarely kind, at least, not for long. Not unless they wanted something.

  Why was she here, and what did these people want from her? Because everyone wanted something. Nothing came free. Of that she was certain.

  ***

  Brooke stood on the sidewalk clutching her suitcase in one hand and her passport in the other. The rest of the team gathered along the curb as Ubaldo and Orfeo unloaded the last of the luggage from their vehicles. Two remaining Gatorade bottles and one last package of snack crackers weighted Brooke’s backpack. The items were no longer necessary now that Fatima and Dinora lived in the orphanage, and yet, she was reluctant to let them go.

  Fiddling with her zipper, she considered asking Ubaldo to give the treats to the girls, but without enough for everyone, opted against it. And yet, she couldn’t eat them.

  Ubaldo … She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of his lips on hers. Their first—and last—kiss.

  She walked toward him, rummaged through her backpack, and pulled out the food items. “You want these?”

  His eyes softened. “Sure. In case I see another child living on the streets.”

  “Thanks.”

  He hoisted a neon-pink, leopard-patterned suitcase out of the trunk. “Pastor T, is this yours?” He plopped the luggage on the sidewalk.

  The pastor chuckled. “Why you gotta emasculate me like that, huh?” He initiated a fist bump that ended in a man hug. “It’s been real, man. See you in January?”

  Ubaldo looked at Brooke. “You guys are coming back?”

  The pastor nodded. “Plan to bring another team this winter, for two weeks. I’d like to get a few other youth pastors involved.”

  Ubaldo continued to watch Brooke. Looking away, she studied a crack in the sidewalk, thinking of her audition tape lying on her dresser and all the potential what-ifs stacked within it.

  She wanted to come back, but after this, she was out of vacation time. Besides, returning would only delay her heartbreak. Force her to say goodbye a second time.

  “Vamanos muchachos!” Pastor T corralled everyone and led them toward the terminal.

  Brooke sighed, feeling as if weights filled her shoes.

  “Can you watch the van for a minute, Orfeo?” Ubaldo turned to Brooke. “I’ll walk you in.” The youth laughed and chattered ahead of them, flicking one another with their passports and taking a few last minute photos. “Do you plan to return?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on—”

  “Work.”

  “Right.”

  “Perhaps God will provide a way for you to come back.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Like as a reporter? If so, maybe Ubaldo could be her translator. Although both ideas were too far-fetched to dwell on. Then again, she once thought the same about the El Salvador trip, and here she was. And yet, what was the point? They lived in different countries. Things would never work out between them. So why did her heart keep hanging on?

  They lingered at the door, his deep brown eyes holding her gaze. The wind stirred, sweeping a few locks of hair into her face.

  He smoothed them away, his knuckles brushing against her skin. “I’ll miss you.”

  She swallowed. Nodded.

  She reached into her front pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Can you give this to Fatima?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess I better go.” An ache filled her throat.

  “Goodbye, Brooke.” He brushed a feather-light kiss on her mouth, the faint scent of cedar wafting from his hair. Then he pulled back.

  Her grip tightened on the handle of her suitcase as a sudden urge to drop everything and follow him to his van took hold.

  A whistle sounded behind her, and she spun around to see Pastor T standing in the hall. He didn’t appear pleased.

  She said one last goodbye then hurried to catch her team.

  Pastor T met her at the end of a very long security check in line. “What’s with you and Ubaldo?”

  “I …” Heat crept up her neck. “Nothing.”

  “I’m sure you realize how inappropriate your behavior is? This is a mission trip—one where you’re chaperoning youth. This isn’t a dating service.”

  She tensed and glanced about, feeling as if everyone around her was tuned in to this conversation. “I realize that.”

  “Good.”

  He was right, of course. She was behaving like a hormonal teenager on summer vacation.

  Why had she allowed her heart to get so entangled? And how could she steel it against the man who had captured her so completely?

  As each passenger inched forward, shucking shoes, belts, and wallets and plunking them into gray trays, the ache in her chest increased. For years, she’d stayed to herself, hardly dating, not caring to. And in two weeks, she’d fallen in love with an orphanage full of children and a man beyond her reach.

  Almost two hours later, with luggage checked and boarding passes in hand, everyone filed onto the plane and settled in for the ride home. Brooke sat in a window seat, and Aubrey slid in beside her. A family occupied the seats in front of them, a woman with a crying baby behind. Stale air circulated from the vents above.

  While the engines roared to life, Brooke pulled out her iPhone and plugged in her earphones. She plunked her backpack onto her lap then fished through the front pocket for her Spanish-English Dictionary and the letters written by the girls. After retrieving them, she tucked her belongings under the seat in front of her and turned her attention to the notes. Pink, red, and purple flowers and hearts decorated the papers. Each one began with the customary, “Para: Brooke” and “De:” followed by the child’s name.

  Lolita’s closing brought tears to her eyes. “I love you very much. Please do not forget me.”

  Brooke rubbed her face with both hands then carefully folded the treasured missive. She wouldn’t forget Lolita, or any of the other girls at the orphanage. God had permanently engraved them on her heart.

  She’d never forget Ubaldo, either.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Ubaldo perched on the edge of his couch, laptop open. He glanced through his window at the first hints of morning as it turned the charcoal sky to smoky blue. He had five minutes, maybe ten, before he needed to leave. After spending two weeks as a driver, going back to public transit wouldn’t be easy. Buying his own vehicle would save him so much time, but a new apartment came first.

  He turned his attention back to his computer and navigated to Facebook. Not knowing Brooke’s last name—why hadn’t he asked? He went to Pastor T’s wall. A quick search through the pastor’s friends didn’t help except to offer a springboard to other profiles.

  Using the American mission team’s “friends list,” Ubaldo found Brooke after a few clicks. His stomach gave an odd twinge, bringing him back to his high school days, when he sent the request. “Will you be my friend?” Laughing, he closed his laptop and gathered his things.

  By the time he reached the orphanage forty-five minutes later, the morning sun had crested over the horizon. He found Carmela in the kitchen, stirring a pot of hen and vegetable soup.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Buenos dias, Ubaldo. Como estas?”

  He kissed her cheek. “I’m good. And how is Fatima?”

  She set her spoon down and wiped her hands on a dishtowel tucked in her apron belt. “Very well.” Sweat glistened on her forehead. “She’ll join the others for breakfast today, and will move to the main sleeping quarters tonight.”

  “You don’t think she’ll try to leave?”

  “Not considering where she came from. Besides, her sister is here, and although Fatima often watches Alberto and I with a great deal of distrust, she must know Dinora’s well-cared for.” Voices clamored behind them, and soon children spilled in. “Speaking of.” A wide smile stretched her slackened skin, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes.

  Bringing up the rear, Albert
o nodded a greeting to Ubaldo and nudged Dinora and Fatima forward. The older of the two stared from one face to the other, her chestnut eyes wide. She inched forward until she stood next to her sister in front of the long plastic bench.

  “Sit.” Alberto motioned toward an empty spot on the bench. He touched the girls’ shoulders, and Fatima flinched. He dropped his hand. “Doesn’t the soup smell wonderful?”

  Her gaze darted about the room.

  Ubaldo came to her side. “Are you hungry?”

  She looked at him, unblinking.

  Lolita approached carrying two filled bowls, which she set on the table. Dinora licked her lips, and Fatima leaned forward.

  Ubaldo touched the child’s arm, and her back jerked straight as if burned or preparing to run. Holy Father, surround these girls with love. Help them feel safe.

  After a bit more prodding, she climbed onto the bench, hands clutched in her lap. Once all the bowls had been distributed and the older girls found their seats, Alberto clanked a spoon against a cup. Heads bowed, and eyes scrunched closed, a few children stealing an occasional peek.

  “Holy Father, thank You for Your abundant provisions as we trust in You yet again for our daily bread. Your word says You know our needs before we ask, so we’re trusting You for those, as well.”

  While Alberto continued to pray, Ubaldo glanced at Dinora and Fatima. The younger child dipped her head and pressed folded hands to her nose. Fatima cast furtive glances at the others. She looked Ubaldo’s way. He winked, and she ducked her head.

  ***

  While she ate, Fatima watched the man with the broad shoulders and big smiles—the one called Ubaldo—from the corner of her eye. He seemed kind. And the other children clearly liked him. But her father had been loving once, too. And then he left. Not caring what would happen to her or Dinora. To their mother.

  Pushing the thoughts aside, she raised yet another spoonful to her mouth. Though her stomach felt full, she didn’t want to waste a single drop. She swallowed down another mouthful of liquid, warming her throat. This made her gag, and she clamped her jaw shut. With some effort, she swallowed it down, only to gag again, then again.

  Her face heated as others stared at her. Her muscles tightened, one hand clamped over her mouth while the other clenched into a tight fist, nails digging into her palm.

  “Are you all right?” Dinora studied her.

  She nodded and sucked in a breath of air, hoping to sooth her churning stomach. This set off another gag, and this time she couldn’t hold it down. The children shrieked as broth spewed out, splattering Dinora’s lap and chest and spraying the table. Another surge followed, doubling Fatima over and flooding her nose.

  Children scattered, all except Dinora, who sat, covered in vomit, watching her sister with teary eyes. Fatima swiped at her face with the bottom hem of her shirt, trembling.

  Strong arms slid under hers and lifted her to her feet, and soon the adults surrounded her.

  “Come, my love.” Carmella grabbed Fatima’s elbow. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” She looked to her husband.

  He nodded. “We’ll take care of this.” He lifted Fatima’s chin, ignoring the slime dripping from her mouth and nose. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you healthy.”

  With slumped shoulders, she studied the ground as Carmela led her to an outer wash area. Against one wall stood a metal sink big enough to bathe in. On the wall across from her, there was a concrete stall.

  Carmela stood her near a small spigot sticking out from the concrete wall about five, maybe six feet up, and began to peel off her clothes. She reached for a silver knob then stopped. “Have you ever taken a shower?”

  Fatima swallowed.

  “We’ll try another way.” Carmela grabbed some towels from a wooden shelf near the washing machine and brought them to the sink. She turned on the water, drenched the towels, then returned with them. She handed one over, water dripping onto the ground, and set the others aside. “You wash your face. I’ll get clean clothes for you.”

  She left, returning with a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt. “Let me help you.” She set the clothing on the ground, used the towels to clean the vomit from Fatima’s hands, hair, and face. Then she helped her into the jeans. The pant legs extended a few inches from Fatima’s bare feet.

  Carmela frowned and tugged at the waist band, at least two sizes too big. “I’ll be back.”

  She left once again. She returned with more clothes, still too big but manageable with the help of a few safety pins.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have anything your size right now. We may find something after the girls do the laundry.” She lifted Fatima’s chin and looked her in the eye. “We’ll get you well. Your body is not used to food, and today’s broth, with added chicken fat, was probably too rich. Give it time. We will plump you up soon enough.” She gave her a sideways hug, smelling of roasted chicken and strong soap.

  Fatima tensed beneath her embrace, her arms plastered to her sides.

  “You are safe here.” Carmella pulled away, holding Fatima by the shoulders. “I’ll bring you a tortilla later. And maybe some thinned broth.” She turned Fatima toward the door and guided her to the couch. “For now, you rest.”

  Fatima watched her go, a niggling of hope rising. Could the woman’s words be true? Would she and Dinora be safe? And fed? Or would these adults soon change their minds and decide she was too much trouble?

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Brooke dabbed her lips with gloss, pinned up a loose strand of hair, then grabbed the stack of documents lying on her dresser. She shoved them into her briefcase and scanned the room to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Her gaze landed on an empty space where the package with her audition DVD once sat. Odd. Maybe Aunt Isidora moved it? But why? More likely her sister was playing a practical joke.

  After one last glance in the mirror, Brooke followed the scent of bacon down the hall and into the kitchen. Aunt Isidora stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. Uncle Lester sat at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper.

  He looked up when Brooke entered. “Morning, sunshine.”

  “Morning.”

  She looked at her sister, who sat across from them devouring a bowl of Fruity Whirls. “What are you doing up so early?”

  Aubrey shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

  Aunt Isidora turned, flashing a smile. “Perhaps I ought to thank that youth pastor of yours.” She shot Brooke a wink then returned to her cooking. “You up for breakfast, sweetie?”

  “Sorry, but I’m running late.” Brooke crossed the room to give her aunt a good morning hug. “As usual.”

  Aunt Isidora chuckled. “Which means you’ll only get to work twenty minutes early, right?”

  She smiled. “Something like that. I’m hoping to catch my boss before our morning meeting.”

  Uncle Lester let his newspaper drop. “Another promotion?”

  “Nope. Just an idea. And a very unlikely one at that.” She fished through the cupboard for a granola bar. “Which reminds me, anyone know what happened to the package on my dresser?”

  Uncle Lester pushed up from the table. “I took care of it for you.”

  “What do you mean you took care of it?”

  “Mailed it a few days after you left for El Salvador.”

  Her stomach dropped. “You what?” Her voice came out high pitched. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  His face sobered. “I … uh …” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “But it wasn’t ready.”

  “Then why’d you have it packaged?”

  Because she was waiting. To build her courage, or toss it completely and start over. But that was her decision to make. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Feeling ill.

  “I’m sure it’s fine. Like I told you when you were in high school—You don’t always have to get one hundred percent on everything.”

  “I need to go.” Before she said something she’d regre
t.

  ***

  Despite her early arrival, IETV3 buzzed with activity. Phones rang and keyboards clattered as writers, researchers, and fact-checkers scrambled to make deadlines. Mr. Echo’s office remained dark, the door closed.

  Most likely, he’d stroll in fifteen minutes later with a cup of coffee in hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm. Which gave her just enough time to review her proposal. Not that newbies—and a home-show host at that—had clout when it came to future programming. But miracles and big breaks were known to happen. When someone came up with a stellar idea.

  Which hers wasn’t.

  “Hey, Brooke. Welcome back.” Rustin, a newsroom gopher who had asked her out at least half a dozen times, walked by pushing a cart laden with packages.

  He lingered near her cubicle. “How was your stint in Central America?”

  She flipped her typed proposal over and rested folded hands on top of it. “It was good. Thanks for asking. Quite an eye-opener.”

  “I bet.” He hovered a moment longer.

  She made a show of checking her watch. “Wow, I better get busy. Got some catching up to do.”

  “Right.” He nodded but continued to loiter so Brooke pulled a memo—one she’d already read—from a file and plunked it on her desk. She started flipping through her notes. Eventually his cart wheels started to squeak once again.

  She set everything aside to focus on her proposal once again.

  Title: Extreme Houses—International

  Logline: Home Haven meets Among the Natives. An unlikely pair of white-collar, germophobe reporters accustomed to air-conditioning, fine dining, and paved highways traipse through Central America in search of the unexpected and extreme.

  Not exactly a million dollar pitch, but hours of brainstorming and rewriting hadn’t produced anything better.

  Okay, God, Your word says all things are possible with You, and we’re to walk by faith, not by sight. Not that God had given her clear direction. In fact, the only thing He’d given her this far was a deep burden for the children of El Salvador. So either God was moving her toward something, or the week in El Salvador shocked her emotions into overdrive.