Alberto entered carrying bags of fruit in each hand. “Vamanas niñas!” He ushered everyone out, through the courtyard to the bus parked along the curb.
The children scampered in and soon their high-pitched, laughing voices filled the vehicle. Dinora took Fatima’s hand and tugged her forward. Then stepped aside and waited until everyone else got on.
Carmela sat in the front seat, her hair pinned in a loose bun. A few wisps fell around her face. She patted the cushion beside her. “On second thought, I suspect you’d rather be near the window, Fatima. In case you feel ill.” She pushed herself up with a grimace and maneuvered into the aisle.
Fatima slid into the seat, followed by her sister, then Carmela. The engine roared to life and one of the girls started to sing. While they drove through the streets of San Miguel, the others joined in, including Dinora. Her soft voice came in spurts as she blurted out the chorus, humming the rest.
They soon entered the Pan-American Highway, and stretches of trees, patches of farmland, and shanties replaced the concrete, box-like structures of San Miguel. Fatima’s chest tightened as they neared her old village. She craned her neck to look out the window, half-expecting to see her cousin. Or her mother.
Did she miss her? Dinora? Wonder where they were or if they were okay? Or had she grown quieter, more … dead to anything else?
It didn’t matter. Fatima and Dinora were here now. And well cared for. She would never go back.
A stalled car ahead of them blocked traffic. The bus slowed a few feet from the path leading toward Fatima’s old home. She gasped and pressed her nose to the glass, spread her hands flat on either side of her face. Irma and her mother stood on the roadside, watching for oncoming traffic.
When Irma turned, she glanced at Fatima, and her eyes widened. She nudged her mother, said something, and both stared back. Fatima made a hand sign known only between her and Irma, letting her know her she was okay, then waved. She continued to peer through the window, until she could no longer see her friends. Then she settled back into her seat with a smile.
You were right, Irma. I’m going to school now, just like you said I would.
Maybe God doesn’t hate me after all.
***
Light spilled from the hallway and into the living room. Uncle Lester’s snoring drifted down the hall. Living in a house of extroverts, Brooke cherished these rare, quiet moments. She placed her bowl of ice cream on the coffee table next to her laptop, logged onto Facebook, and settled onto the couch. Eighteen notifications, three messages, and two friend invites. Probably more teens who knew teens who knew someone Brooke knew. As if a large Facebook friends’ list signaled popularity.
She clicked on her notifications, and a flutter filled her stomach. Among the requests, a thumbprint image of Ubaldo popped up. Confirm or ignore. She clicked accept then stalked his wall. Most of his posts were in Spanish, minus a few shared between Americans.
She debated typing a “thanks for the friendship” on his wall, but surfed his photos instead. Then his news feed. She lingered on a few tags made by her fellow mission team members. Started to engage in a conversation on papusas.
She needed to forget about him. Move on. Maybe even start dating someone.
She closed her computer and grabbed her ice cream bowl. She sat for some time, the ice cream melting.
Footsteps shuffled across the carpet. Aunt Isadora plodded toward her dressed in a fluffy pink bathrobe.
She squeezed Brooke’s shoulder. “Hey, sweetie-girl. Couldn’t sleep?”
Brooke shrugged and offered up her untouched ice cream.
Aunt Isadora shook her head and patted her fleshy stomach. “Gonna try the diet thing again.” She sat beside her. “You all right? You were kind of quiet at dinner.”
“I’m fine.” She sighed and returned her bowl to the coffee table. “I think I’m suffering from some kind of reverse culture shock.” She told her aunt about the home show and the feelings it’d aroused. “All I could think about was the day I found Fatima curled up on the ground, dehydrated and malnourished.”
“It’s hard, I know. Especially after seeing extreme poverty firsthand.”
“I want to do something. I just don’t know what.”
“Oh, honey, I understand. That’s how I feel when those Compassion International commercials come on. And I pull out my checkbook, but every time I send a donation, I wish I could do more. Guess that’s where prayer comes in, huh?”
“Maybe so.”
“Any news from that other network about the audition tape you sent?”
“You mean the lousy one Uncle Lester mailed for me?” She frowned. Waited until her desire to make a snarky comeback subsided. “No.”
“I doubt it was that bad. Course, I guess we’ll find out soon enough. When do you expect to hear something?”
“Not sure.” She picked at a hangnail. “Honestly, I sometimes wonder if I’m cut out for anchoring.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just … I expected things to get easier, to find my groove, or at least, my voice, but every time the camera shifts my way, my mouth goes dry and I choke on my words.”
“You haven’t been in front of the camera long, you know. Could be you’re still settling in. Always does take you time to adapt to new situations.”
“I guess. But what if God’s trying to redirect me? Only all I see is a bunch of fog.”
Aunt Isadora took Brooke’s hands. “Let me ask you this. How do you feel when you host a show?”
“Besides ready to vomit?”
“I mean, does it resonate with you? Feel like you’re doing what you’re meant to do? Because when you’re doing what God created you to do, although it won’t always be easy, it’ll feel right.”
“No. It’s more like I’ve wiggled inside someone else’s skin.”
“You know, you don’t have to stand in front of the camera to be part of the show. What if you did something else, maybe behind the scenes?” She patted Brooke’s knee. “Best you can do is pray on it. God will show you. In His time.” She stood and tightened the belt of her robe. “Could be He already has. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen catching up on my Bible study. Figured if I can’t sleep, might as well use my time wisely. Who knows? Maybe God woke me for a reason.”
Brooke smiled. “Perhaps to pray for me.”
“Oh, honey, I do that all the time.”
Aunt Isadora muddled to the kitchen. The door swished closed behind her. Brooke uncurled her feet from under her and moved to the coat closet. Various winter gear hung from the rod and shoes and umbrellas cluttered the floor. Boxes labeled with a black marker lined the top shelf.
She took one down marked “Endress” and carried it to the couch. Photo albums, videotapes, and childish mementoes lay inside. Her baby book, a pink album decorated with bows and hearts, rested on top.
She pulled out a video labeled, “My Super Star,” in her father’s handwriting. She dropped it in a VHS adapter then slipped it into the VCR. For once, she was grateful her aunt and uncle resisted modern technology.
She settled back onto the couch, picked up the remote, and hit play. Corny music and fake credits filled the screen. She laughed. So like her dad. As was the blooper intro where he leaned his face into the camera four times in quick succession. “This is Pat Endress and we’re here—Good evening, and welcome to the—Pat Endress here, with the glamorous, beautiful, spectacular Brooke Endress, performing her debut solo. Wait. Cut that.”
Static flashed, followed by her father’s face, once again pressed close to the camera. “And now, without further ado, please provide a warm welcome to the queen of storytime, Brooke Endress.” The camera swept across the room, capturing a mess of toys before focusing on a six-year-old Brooke.
Dressed in a floppy hat and one of her mother’s gowns, she sat in a miniature Winnie the Pooh recliner. She lifted her chin and talked to the camera. “Winnie the Pooh ate so much honey, his tummy got
really, really big. He got stuck in his door, and his legs poked out. All funny, like this.” She raised her arms. “Mr. Rabbit got very mad ’cause he was stuck inside, and he didn’t want to be stuck inside ’cause he wanted to play outside with Eeyore.” Her father snickered in the background, merging with laughter drifting from her mom, standing off camera.
A hand landed on her shoulder, and she glanced behind her to see Aunt Isadora holding a plate of cookies. “Figured I could diet tomorrow.” She crossed the living room and leaned against the back of the couch to watch the television. “You sure were a cutie. Still are.”
“Thanks.”
“You know, honey, you don’t have to become the memory to hold onto it. All’s your Daddy wanted was for you to be happy. And to love Jesus with everything you got.” She kissed Brooke’s cheek. “Now, you know what they say about beauty sleep, right? Because I suggest you try to catch some.”
Brooke watched her leave. Her aunt’s words echoed in her heart and mind. You don’t have to become the memory to hold onto it.
Chapter Forty-three
The two-story building in front of Ubaldo leaned to one side and the roof sagged in the middle. He pulled the slip of paper his friend gave him from his pocket and checked the printed address one more time. Unfortunately, this was the place. He ascended the rickety steps leading to the second floor and stopped in front of unit 26A.
Duct tape secured a sheet of plastic over a shattered window and thick cracks ran through the concrete beneath him. As he knocked on the door, corroded by dry rot, he remembered a news article printed some time back of a collapsing building. Not the most comforting thought standing on the second floor.
The door screeched open and a man wearing a white tank top and dark jeans appeared. “You must be Ubaldo.”
“Si. Hola.” The stench of mildew mixed with cigarette smoke swept over him. He scanned the peeling linoleum floor for signs of moisture.
“I’m Rosario.” He motioned him in with a jerk of his head.
Water stains seeped from a circular blotch in the ceiling and snaked down the wall. At the end of the small entryway, which was nothing more than a rectangular patch of flooring, stood the living room separated from the kitchen by a Formica counter. Beer bottles, dirty dishes, and food scraps covered the area and flies buzzed around a dish-filled sink. Great. The guy liked to party. Could he not have cleaned up some before Ubaldo arrived?
“This place only has one room.” Rosario grabbed a pack of cigarettes off an overturned crate and pulled one out. “But I figured one of us could crash on the sofa.”
Ubaldo inspected the torn and stained futon propped against the far wall, noting what appeared to be a patch of mold. Okay, so this place would be temporary, and he’d invest in sheets. No big deal, right? Because as of yet, he hadn’t found anything better.
Rosario continued to give Ubaldo the “tour,” blowing out thick puffs of smoke that burned his eyes and throat. They moved from the living area to a bedroom barely big enough for a twin bed. Body odor wafted from the stained carpet and the mounds of clothes on the floor. When they returned to the living room, Rosario picked at some beans left on a plate.
Ubaldo scanned the kitchen. “How much?”
Rosario flicked his ashes into a beer bottle and missed. “Total rent’s $175. Figured we could split it.”
Ubaldo’s phone chimed. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“It’s Raquel. I’m calling from the hospital.”
His gut bottomed out. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”
“It’s dad. He’s very ill. The doctor said his infection turned secretic.”
“Septic?”
“Si, septic.”
“I’m on my way.” He shoved his cell into his back pocket. “I gotta go.”
“Whoa, hombre.” Rosario hurried after him. “You interested or what?”
“I’ll call you.”
He hurried down the stairs and toward the nearest bus stop. Ten stops and almost an hour later, he raced into the emergency unit, past a sparsely-filled lobby, to a receptionist sitting behind protective glass.
She peered at him through thick spectacles. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Señor Geraldo Covas.”
The woman typed on a keyboard, then relayed directions to his father’s room.
“Gracias.” He dashed through a door on the right and down the hall. His sister paced outside their father’s room.
Upon seeing Ubaldo, she sobbed and fell into his arms.
He held her, peering around her and through the glass. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” His father lay motionless with his eyes closed. An IV drip hung above his head. A nurse hovered nearby, making notations on a clipboard. Holding his father’s hand, his mother occupied a bedside chair.
Raquel pulled away. “The doctor’s giving him antibiotics. He says the tissue on father’s arm is dead. He wants to perform surgery, to remove the dead tissue.”
“Then that’s what we should do, if it’ll make Father better.”
Tears ran in rivulets down her face. “We can’t afford it. We barely scraped up enough to get him seen in the first place. Everyone we know pitched in, including Matteo’s family and all their friends.”
“God will provide.” He’d send an email out to everyone he knew. And to his pastor. To the North American pastors as well. At the very least, they could pray.
Her eyes narrowed. “And you would tell me to have faith? To pray for healing?”
“Yes.” They needed God’s help now more than ever.
“You and your ‘saving faith’. Tell me, will your Jesus save father?”
He sighed and looked away. Verses swam through his head, reminding him of God’s power and protection, but what if God chose not to heal him? The question soured his stomach. Oh, Lord, have mercy!
He threw open the door and hurried to his mother’s side. Kneeling beside her, he took her hand in his. “We must pray.”
***
The rich aroma of roast beef met Brooke when she entered the kitchen. Her aunt stood at the stove amid a cloud of steam. Aubrey sat at the breakfast bar staring at her laptop, and Uncle Lester occupied his usual chair chugging a glass of iced tea.
Aunt Isadora tossed Brooke a smile. “How was work? Better I hope?”
She plopped in a chair and yawned. “Minus the fact I operated on less than six hours sleep?”
Uncle Lester eyed her. “Why? What were you doing all night?”
“Working herself into a tizzy.” Aunt Isadora wiped her hands on a towel and moved to the refrigerator.
He slid his glass aside. “So what’s with—”
“Oh, no.” Aubrey leaned toward her computer screen. “Brooke, check your phone.”
“Why? What major catastrophe hit now? Is Chateau Chic having a fifty-percent off sale?”
“No, stupid. Pastor T just sent an email asking us to pray for Ubaldo and his father.”
Brooke bolted to her feet and dashed across the kitchen. “What happened?” She leaned forward and read over Aubrey’s shoulder.
Aubrey shoved her back. “Get off me.” She swiveled to face her screen. “Ubaldo’s father is really sick. They might need to amputate.”
Brooke gasped. “That’s terrible.”
“Only problem, they don’t have the money to pay for the surgery.”
She slumped onto the barstool beside her sister. “How much does it cost? I’ve got ...” Not much. “A couple thousand.” She looked to her uncle. “What about you guys? You’ve got money in savings, right?”
“Not really. Done spent that on a new roof last fall.”
She rubbed her temples. “There has to be something we can do.”
“It’s sad, but unfortunately, things like this happen all the time. I just read an article in Mission Minded about the large number of children in Central America who die from curable illnesses each year.”
“But Ubaldo
isn’t some random person.” Brooke’s hands clenched. She paused to rein her emotions in and lowered her voice. “He’s part of our team, and a brother in Christ.”
“Exactly.” Aubrey drummed her fingers on the breakfast bar. “So we’ll find a way to help. I know. Remember when I sold those bracelets last year to help raise money for cancer research?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll do it again.”
Brooke rolled her eyes. “We’re talking a lot of money here. You know how many bracelets that would take?”
“I’ll get the youth group to help me, and we’ll ask for donations.”
“Even so.”
“Unless you’ve got something better.” Aubrey started clicking on her keyboard. “We’ll do what we can and God will take care of the rest.”
“I guess it’s worth a shot. Every dollar counts, right?”
“Exactamundo!”
Within an hour, Aubrey had gathered forty kids, secured $650 worth of donations, and saturated her social media sites with desperate pleas.
Brooke wrapped an arm around her waist and gave a squeeze. “You know, you may pull this off after all.”
Aubrey grinned. “Easy-breezy—if the whole body pitches in, anyway.”
“While you build a major fundraising campaign via the Internet, I’ll stop by the church to give Pastor T a head’s up.”
Aubrey flashed an okay sign. “And ask him to put a blurb in the bulletin. With a thousand members, if each person gave ten dollars, we’d have this thing knocked out in no time.”
Fifteen minutes later, Brooke sat in Pastor T’s office and presented Aubrey’s plan, expecting resistance.
He leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. “See, this is exactly why I love mission trips. They spark a fire in our youth and stir them into action.”
“So you actually think this could work?”
“I’m willing to give it a go.” He flipped through a calendar on his wall. “They can use the fellowship hall this Wednesday to make the jewelry. We’ll sell it in the lobby between services on Sunday.”
“Awesome. Thanks.” She paused. “Any way the missions committee might spot us an advance? I’m worried the girls might not sell the jewelry in time.”
Healing Love Page 24