Healing Love

by Jennifer Slattery

  Caleb’s voice emanated from the hallway, and she turned to see him and Mr. Echo walking side by side.

  “We’ve got a great line-up for the remainder of the season, and now that Brooke’s back …” They paused at her desk and Caleb shot her a wink. “I expect to see a steady climb in ratings.”

  Mr. Echo nodded. His gaze swept the room. When he turned back to Caleb, he offered a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for the update.” He headed toward his office.

  She sprang to her feet, sending her chair shooting back. “Mr. Echo? Can I talk with you a moment?” She grabbed her proposal.

  He gave a slight frown. “Yes. Come in.”

  She reached Mr. Echo’s office half a step behind him.

  He held the door open for her then advanced to his desk. Motioned toward the chair in front of him before sitting himself. “What can I do for you?”

  This was a stupid idea. He’d never go for it. Would probably think her stupid for pitching it.

  He cleared his throat and grabbed his coffee.

  “I’ve got an idea for a show.” She pushed her papers in front of him then folded clammy hands in her lap.

  Mr. Echo pulled reading glasses from his front pocket and picked up the first sheet of paper. He rubbed his chin as he read, his graphite eyes sweeping from side to side.

  When he finished, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “An interesting concept.”

  She shifted. Squeezed her folded hands a bit tighter.

  “I like how you think.”

  But?

  “I planned to talk with you later this week. We’ve decided to add a reality flair to Home Haven—more back and forth banter between you and Caleb, perhaps some candid scenes. We’re still ironing out the details, but I think we’re heading in the right direction.

  “As you’re probably aware, our ratings spiked after your brief appearance. It seems our viewers like you.” He smiled. “I’ve scheduled a home show tour, Hollywood style, for next week to kick things off. Caleb will fill you in on the details. It’s going to be great—a tour of the most elaborate mansions in Southern California, back-to-back. And I hope, accompanied by great sound bites taken from the rather … eccentric homeowners. If all goes well …”

  They might offer her a co-host contract, something she’d coveted less than a month ago. But now she wanted to do more than gawk at flamboyant furniture.

  Which meant she needed to launch into the second part of her pitch. “That sounds very intriguing, sir. I appreciate the opportunity, and think it could provide the platform I need to make this program a success. I see this series as being similar to—”

  “Wouldn’t fly. There’s no market for it. Most viewers aren’t looking for intellectual stimulation. They want to escape into a fantasy world. To experience luxury, if not personally, then through shows like Home Haven. They want to catch a glimpse of the American dream in action.”

  Admit defeat or try another angle? “Perhaps this show can fulfill a similar role, but with a different slant. I’ve heard many people say their problems seem smaller when they spend a day with someone less fortunate.”

  “Too depressing and cost prohibitive.” Mr. Echo grabbed his coffee. “Anything else?”

  She held in a sigh. “No, sir. Thank you for your time.”

  “My door’s always open.” He handed back her proposal then spread his newspaper in front of him.

  Her idea, the result of hours of brainstorming, writing and rewriting, shot down in less than two minutes.

  Now what? Forget about El Salvador entirely? An image of Fatima, lying in bed, long black hair spread across her pillow, flashed through her mind. Followed by the memory of Ubaldo’s tender kiss.

  Forgetting wasn’t an option.

  ***

  Ubaldo pointed to the right. “Stop there, at the dirt road.”

  His driver, a man with thick gray hair and a caved mouth, nodded and veered his rusted Chevy to the shoulder.

  Ubaldo handed the guy two dollars. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Si. De nada.”

  He got out and looked down the road leading to his parents’ village. His stomach tightened with each step. Although he came in peace, there was no telling how his dad might respond. Or if he’d even talk to him. How would Ubaldo react if his father refused to listen or said something hateful? Hopefully the rest of his family wasn’t there. The last thing he wanted was an audience.

  He paused at the narrow trail leading to the stream, remembering the first day he saw Fatima. God knew what he was doing then and had brought his plans to completion. Ubaldo needed to trust Him to do the same now.

  He reached his childhood home to find it empty. Silence, except for the occasional buzz of a fly, enveloped him. He inhaled the warm mid-afternoon air. After pausing to pray, he continued through the yard toward the back. He stopped at the edge of the house, catching his parents in what appeared to be a tender moment.

  His mother sat on a stump, smiling. His father sat beside her, rubbing her hands. After massaging for a few moments, he placed her hands in her lap and grabbed a tube off the ground. She said something, Ubaldo couldn’t hear what, and his father laughed. He set the cream in his lap, smoothed her hair from her face, and kissed her. A long kiss that made Ubaldo blush. With a slight cough, he stepped forward.

  His father quickly stood, and the cream fell to the ground. His face hardened.

  “Mijo!” His mother smiled and pushed to her feet.

  “Buenos, Dias, Mama. Papa.”

  While she hobbled forward, Ubaldo’s dad grabbed a hoe and turned to leave.

  “Wait, Papa.”

  He stopped, then slowly turned.

  “I’d like to talk with you, if you have time.”

  He studied Ubaldo, lips firmly set. Then motioned toward three stumps a few feet away.

  “You talk.” His mother patted Ubaldo’s cheek. “I’ll make some tortillas. Are you thirsty?”

  “I’m fine, but thank you.” He followed his father then sat beside him.

  “What is this about?”

  Ubaldo exhaled, rubbed his forehead. “How are your crops? We’ve had a good rainy season.”

  His dad nodded.

  “Remember the first time you let me help you during harvest? How old was I? Six? Seven?”

  “So you came to talk about memories?”

  Ubaldo frowned. “No. Well, yes.” He examined his father’s wrinkled face, the result of years of hard labor beneath El Salvador’s unrelenting sun. “I watched you closely, wanting to do everything just like you. Trying to step where you stepped, eat what you ate—how you ate.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then I got older, and pride settled in.” He leaned forward and picked up a stone, which he rubbed between his fingers. “And I’m sorry.”

  “You, with your formal education and North American ideas of social justice, thought you were too good to farm. Too good for this village. For our family.” He glanced toward the side of the house where Ubaldo’s mother cooked tortillas on a wood-fueled grill. “And now you come back with your packages and fancy medicines to rescue us. To take care of your mother, because I don’t, right? That’s what you think.”

  “That’s not true.” Or was it? “I …” He understood now. Cloaked within Ubaldo’s desire for a better life laid condemnation, and a hidden shame. It wasn’t his education or ideas his father reacted to, but instead, the judgment he perceived. “I’m sorry.” He glanced down and noticed a swollen, purplish wound on his father’s forearm. Yellow puss oozed from its center, surrounded by red blotches. “What happened?”

  His father straightened and crossed his arms. “A minor accident.”

  “It’s infected, Padre. You need to get antibiotics before the bacteria spreads. I’ll bring you some tomorrow, although you might need to see a doctor.”

  His father stood. “Once again the son comes to save his ignorant father.”

  “Does everything have to be a
battle with you?”

  Footsteps shuffled through the dirt, stirring up dust. Ubaldo glanced up as his mother approached with a jug of water and a pile of tortillas.

  His father strode past her. “I have work to do.”

  The man was so stubborn. Had Ubaldo actually thought his apology would change anything?

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Ubaldo strolled down the street, fingering Brooke’s letter in his pocket. When he reached the orphanage, he paused outside the kitchen to read the note one more time. The words, so open and honest, so filled with truth, brought tears to his eyes. They revealed yet another layer to the woman’s tender heart. A heart he once thought cold and uncaring.

  He closed his eyes, recalling the day at the beach and the feel of her soft skin, the sweet scent of her damp hair.

  The door screeched open, and Alberto emerged carrying a jug of water and a bottle of motor oil. “Ubaldo returns.” He grinned. “You know, you’d save time and money by moving in here.”

  He forced a chuckle. “You’ve heard what they say about company that never leaves.”

  “But you’re not company, my friend. You’re family.”

  “I brought a letter for Fatima, from one of the Americans.”

  “Let me guess, an American with long black hair and blue eyes.”

  His cheeks warmed.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re vehemently opposed to marriage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never seen a man capture the hearts of so many women. Each Sunday, half the ladies at Faith’s Fortress clamor for your attention, baked goods in hand. Mothers and grandmothers send you dinner invitations, hoping their single daughters might catch your eye. And yet, you fall for an American whom you will likely never see again.”

  “I didn’t fall for her.”

  “Really? Show me that letter.” Alberto held out his hand, and Ubaldo relinquished the paper. “And how many times have you read it?”

  He shrugged, the heat in his face rising. “It’s a sweet note, and I find the broken Spanish endearing.”

  “Uh, huh. Endearing enough to write her back?”

  He snorted. “I’m a little old for a pen pal.” He glanced toward the opened doorway. “Where are Carmela and the girls?”

  “Reading stories in the living room.”

  He nodded and strolled inside. Continued through the kitchen and courtyard to the living quarters. He leaned against the doorframe. Carmela sat on the couch with a toddler on her lap and two girls nestled on either side of her. Others sat on the floor, the younger ones enveloped in the older girls’ arms. With their backs to the wall, Fatima and Dinora huddled in a far corner some distance from the others. The younger child watched Carmela, her face relaxed with a slight smile. Her sister studied the others gathered throughout the room.

  “Jesus drew crowds wherever He went. Everyone wanted to hear what this powerful, mysterious man of God might say. People followed Him, longing for healing, for bread, for wisdom. Mothers brought their children, seeking a blessing from the Healer. But upon seeing these children, the disciples were displeased. Surely Jesus had better things to do than waste time on children!” She looked from face to face. “Imagine what would happen in San Miguel if Mauricio Pérez Cerén walked our streets.”

  “Who’s he?” A six-year-old with long, curling lashes, asked.

  “The president,” Lolita answered.

  “What’s a prendisent?” A child with short straight hair and cleft pallet, asked.

  Ubaldo gave his best stern schoolmaster expression. “It sounds like you girls need to spend more time on your studies.”

  Carmela raised a brow. “Perhaps you should help us, Señor Ubaldo.” Her skin held a grayish tint, and bags, which had become a permanent feature, shadowed her chestnut eyes.

  Laughing, he shook his head. “I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job, Carmela. But I’m more than happy to help on occasion. In the afternoons.”

  Cheers erupted, and one of the girls lunged for him. She wrapped her arms around his leg and pressed her cheek against his knee. He picked her up. Swinging her legs to the side, he slid to the floor and centered her in his lap.

  “The disciples wanted to turn the children away,” Carmela continued, “but Jesus rebuked them. ‘Let the children come to Me,’ He said. ‘Don’t stop them! For the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’ Then He gathered them in His arms and blessed them.”

  As darkness fell, she read two more stories then dismissed the children to get ready for bed. Girls scampered to and fro, some heading to the bathrooms out back while others filed up the stairs. Dinora and Fatima stood, watching the others.

  Carmela walked over to them, and Ubaldo followed close behind. “It’s time to get ready for bed, girls.” She placed her hands on their shoulders. “First wash your faces and clean your mouths—there are wash cloths stacked by the sinks. I’ll show you to your new beds.”

  “Wait.” Ubaldo pulled the folded missive from his back pocket, suddenly wishing he had two, even if Brooke addressed the correspondence to both of them. “One of the Americans wrote you a letter.”

  Their eyes widened, and a slight smile tugged at Dinora’s mouth.

  “For us?” Fatima’s voice was soft, timid.

  “Yes.” He unfolded the paper. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

  ***

  Fatima nodded. Her throat burned as she fought tears.

  “My dearest Fatima and Dinora.”

  She rose on her toes to catch a glimpse of her name, scrolled in elegant letters.

  “Two precious children created by God and dearly loved, please know how fondly I think of you. As you read this letter—whenever you read it—know I’m praying for you. God is with you. He lives among you, and He is mighty to save. He takes great delight in you and longs to comfort you with His love and calm all your fears.”

  Fatima dropped her gaze. How could God take delight in her? A stupid child not worth even the smallest tortilla or bowl of rice? Her mind shifted to the market, and the day she found two coins tucked within her plantains. “God bless you, my child.”

  God bless you …

  “Love always, Brooke.” Ubaldo folded the note and handed it to Fatima.

  She stared at it. If only those words were true.

  Could they be?

  Carmela nudged her arm. “And now it’s time for bed.”

  Fatima nodded and guided her sister toward the outdoor bathroom where a handful of girls gathered around the large metal sink, splashing water over their faces and scrubbing their teeth with wash clothes. When they finished, they tossed the cloths into a pile in the corner. Soon, they hastened out, leaving Fatima and Dinora alone.

  “Let’s get your face washed.” Fatima tucked her letter into her back pocket then guided her sister to the sink. She turned on the faucet. Trepid water gushed out. She grabbed two wash-clothes, one for each of them, and submerged them. “Rub these across your teeth, like this.” Fatima mimicked what the other girls had done.

  Dinora followed her example, moving from tooth to tooth. “I like living here. I like Carmela and Alberto.” She spoke over a mouthful of cloth. “Do you?”

  Fatima took out her rag and dropped her hand, angling her head. “I like spending time with you.” She tossed her rag on the heap. “We must hurry. I heard one of the girls say there is school tomorrow.”

  Dinora’s eyes brightened. “For us as well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Carmela poked her head into the doorway. “Are you girls all clean and ready for bed?”

  “Si.” Fatima guided Dinora out. They followed Carmela up the stairs to a large room lined with bunk beds. A pink curtain, partially open, hung over a doorway leading to a second room, also filled with beds. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling.

  “Dinora, you can sleep here.” Carmela grabbed Dinora by the hand and led her to a bottom bunk in the center of the room. After Dinora
climbed in, she turned to Fatima. “You aren’t afraid of heights, are you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Then you can sleep on the top bunk.” She gave her a squeeze and kissed her forehead. Fatima stiffened beneath her embrace and stared at the floor.

  When Carmela released her, Fatima moved to Dinora’s bedside. “Sleep well, my Dulce Din.”

  Dinora’s eyes glimmered in the pale light. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” She smoothed the hair from Dinora’s forehead then climbed up the bunk ladder and lay on top of the sheets. She pulled her letter from her pocket and clutched it while Carmela moved from bed to bed, kissing foreheads and speaking blessings.

  Then she blew a kiss, turned off the light, and left.

  Fatima waited until her footsteps had receded, then carefully unfolded her letter. Silver moonlight spilled through the window, lighting the foot of her bed. She rotated toward it and spread her paper flat on the sheets. “My dearest Fatima and Dinora.” Although she couldn’t read most of the writing, her memory filled in the blanks.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  She looked up to see a girl with long black hair pulled into pigtails watching her from the adjacent bunk.

  Fatima pressed her lips together, refolded the page, and stuffed it into her back pocket.

  “I heard Ubaldo say it was from one of the Americans.” A girl from across the room spoke through her nose. “You know they’re not coming back, right? They’ll probably forget all about us in a few weeks.”

  Fatima rolled on her side and stared out the window. Most likely the girl was right.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Brooke emerged from her room wearing a knee-length gown fitted at the waist and silver glitter pumps. Passing a hallway mirror, she checked her cascade of curls spilling from a heavily-sprayed updo. Every strand remained cemented in place. She strolled down the hall and into the living room, finding her family lounging in various locations. They glanced up when she entered.

  Uncle Lester gave a low whistle. “Might need to invest in a few deadbolts with you looking like that.” He stood and came toward her, Aunt Isadora following on his heels. “If your friend Caleb wasn’t smitten before, he sure will be now.”