by Mara White
“I know you’re not. You’re a pain in my ass. But I don’t want to ever do one single thing from here on out without you by my side. Because you make everything better, Lana. You make me want to enjoy life.”
“Is this a joke or a media ploy? Are you really proposing? There are easier ways to get a green card, Mo.”
Mozey pulls back like he’s appalled at my reaction.
“I fucking put my heart on my sleeve and you—what do you want me to do? Slit my wrists to prove I’m not joking. I want to be with you. I don’t want you to be my girlfriend. I want you forever.”
He stands up from the floor, pulls me to my knees on the bed and then into a hug. I breathe in the scent that’s so dear to me and at the same time pushes blood through my veins making my heart charge like a racehorse out of the starting gate.
“Here,” Mozey says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finds what he wants. An email exchange with my dad dated over a week ago.
With our blessings, my son. Of course! There has never been anyone other than you.
Doesn’t really come across so great in translation, Dad. Thanks, I think.
My eyes are raw with the weight of tears again as I imagine my dad, excitedly typing, probably with one finger like I’ve seen him do, all the while translating everything to Russian as my mom hangs on each word. Mozey has likely made them happier than they’ve ever been. They could care less that he’s unemployed, undereducated or illegal. He loves their daughter as much as they do, and it’s all they’ve ever wanted. For someone with a good heart to see past the spikes, to risk the bloody fingers for the pure enjoyment of the sweet, hidden fruit inside.
That was our engagement. I didn’t say yes or no, but I let him put the ring on my finger. I lift it up to look at it, and Mozey reaches over and grasps my hand. He smiles at me sweetly and winks, then leans over into my seat to whisper in my ear, “Thank you for saying yes. I know you hate it when I’m right.”
I look down at our hands and nod, sniffing away the tears.
“I didn’t say yes yet.”
“I know, but you will.”
My real fear is that they’ll chop him to bits before we can ever get a chance to make love, let alone tie the knot. But I see his smile, and I know he’s happy. He’s found his sister, and he’s now got the promise of a new family, and of course, my parents and brother couldn’t be happier to induct him into ours. It’s like Mozey is their long lost favorite child.
My confident voice screams, be happy too, this is what you want. My insecure voice tells me he popped the proposal with perfect timing because a foreign girlfriend would drum up too much international interest for them to want to disappear him altogether.
The flight from Mexico City to Dallas takes us a little under three hours. We were notified mid-flight that Brisa has already been transferred, so there’s no longer any reason to go to Ciudad Juárez. I’m relieved because I didn’t think we’d make it out of that city alive.
Laura’s got us in hot steamed towels and chocolate mints before the descent and all the men in black have already started checking their phones and their guns. They slip in earpieces and exchange knowing nods while I hang onto Mo’s arm like it’s my seat float cushion and we’re landing on open water.
It’s pandemonium at the airport. There is no gate we taxi into. It’s a presidential arrival with detachable stairs and the crowd roars the second Mozey ducks his head out the door. He’s the poor kid turned celebrity, handsome, English speaking—with an American girlfriend. Mozey is a media darling, the new heartthrob of the century. The rebel artist, the long-lost brother of a notorious beauty queen at death’s door who will surely die without his heroic generosity. What’s not to love? Just wait until they get all the dirty details on me, and the story will go viral.
We make our way down the stairs into the frenzy of onlookers. Mozey drags me along as reporters struggle to the rolled out carpet, trying to vie for his attention. They shout questions as the suited goons usher us toward a waiting car with tinted windows. I feel his body tense and slow when he sees the sedan. I know he must be thinking the exact same thing that I’m thinking. Behind those darkened windows that harken back to the day his life changed, may lie the very same people that tore Brisa from his mother’s arms and shattered their family. And in order to save his sister, Mozey must hide all of those painful feelings away.
I squeeze his hand to let him know that step by step I’m at his side. I hear his cry even when he’s not allowed to greet it. I share in his pain even when he has to keep it secret.
“Remember, Mo, that the connection to Brisa is more important than any revenge. We came here to save her,” I say softly to him as we reach the car, “not to punish them.”
“I know, but it kills me that they’re acting like heroes,” he says as he leans down and brushes his lips across my cheek.
Then Mozey stops and turns to the crowd. He raises our hands and points mine in the direction of the cameras.
“She said yes,” he says, gracing them all with a coy smile. He poses for the cameras like a pro, almost like he’s done this before.
We’re practically shoved into the back seat of the sedan. We slide to the middle of the long, leather seat, only to be bookended by two thugs who can barely squeeze in with us.
“Well, at least there’s photographic evidence that we landed,” I mumble under my breath.
“Yeah, they won’t kill us until after they televise the wedding,” Mozey says, a smile climbing it’s way to the surface.
There are no Miramontes in the car, only a driver.
“Do you think they understand us,” I mouth to Mo with barely a sound.
“No,” he says, shaking his head, a smile creeping in at the edge of his lips.
The car moves forward with enough momentum to throw us back against the seat cushions.
“Quit making fun, Mo. This is some serious shit. Even if they don’t intend to murder us, the surgery is dangerous.”
“It’ll be fine,” Mozey says and looks deeply into my eyes. “We’re going to lose my kidney and see that Brisa is okay. Then we can get out of here. I’ve got no intention to stay.”
The suit in the passengers seat is speaking into a walkie-talkie, relaying coordinates, probably already giving the command to get rid of me. I give up on the worrying and curl myself into his body.
“The Miramontes want to know if you would like to meet them at the hospital or if you would prefer first to lunch?” The one-in-charge says, twisted around, straining the threads of his clothes. In pretty great English. Mo and I eye each other, stunned.
“Seriously? Hospital,” Mozey says, his displeasure coming across in his voice. “I don’t think we need to waste any more time.”
We arrive at the hospital that’s already swarming with press. I knew this was news worthy in Mexico, but apparently it’s also relevant in Texas. The three guards shuffle out of the car using their big bodies as shields. We walk two feet and are greeted by more security officers. The Miramontes have spared no expense. They don’t want bad press. Or maybe they really do care about their stolen daughter. No reporters are allowed in the hospital until we get to her floor, where a controlled interview is taking place outside her room. There is professional lighting and a stationary camera attached to a dolly. What the fuck are they doing? Making a documentary?
Her father is good-looking, younger than I expected. A bit of graying at the temples, intelligent, dark eyes and an impeccable suit, red tie. Mrs. Miramontes I’ve already seen on TV, but she’s prettier up close. Her hair is styled in a bob with caramel highlights, her skirt is modest, and her mannerisms practiced and polished. Mozey stands frozen, hating them already. I manage something like an open face—a weak wave to let them know we’ve arrived. He breaks from the intervi
ew first and introduces himself in Spanish with a firm handshake. He grips Mo’s hand first and then mine. I can feel Mo’s shoulder harden to stone by my side.
There’s really no way to know if these two were in fact the ones who took her, or if they even ordered the abduction to begin with. They could just be the lucky couple that ended up with her. Bid the high price, were in the right place at the right time—yada, yada, yada. There are so many unknowns. It won’t change the fact, however, that Mozey hates them both and will take pleasure in making them feel uncomfortable.
Mr. Miramontes beckons the cameraman over after our brief introductions. I drop Mo’s hand and slink to a doorway, trying to hide my form inside and away from the limelight.
“Lana,” Mozey says, craning his neck around to see me. “Please, I can’t do this without you.”
He’s earnest, and I feel like a shithead. So much, that I even accept Mrs. Miramontes awkward hug that crushes me to her large breasts. She’s not that much older than me. I want to duck and cover, but instead, I’m forced to give a flash bulb smile for the next likely cover of Hola magazine. What a fucking horror show. We’re cavorting with the archenemy and pretending to enjoy it.
Then Mozey is pulled away from me to change into scrubs. A reunion he’s waited more than half of his life for is moments away. I think of my brother and how much he means to me. How being in it together—even when things got shitty—made life so much easier. Mozey’s been denied that all of these years. Even worse, he’s blamed himself for taking her milk and surviving. As if he had any choice as a six-year-old kid…
“Is she conscious?” I ask out of the blue. I know Mozey will recognize her; he’s spent so many years searching for her face. There’s no way she remembers him, but she’ll surely recognize herself reflected in him.
“She was sleeping, but now they will wake her,” Mrs. Miramontes says with tears dotting her eyes.
“I’ll be right here, Mo. Right outside.” I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes mine back hard enough to rub bone on bone. He’s scared. I’ve never seen him look anything less than confident.
Some things you can walk your partner through and suffer by their side, other things you can’t touch at all, no matter how much you want to. I know this helpless feeling intimately from social work. The frustration I felt whenever I was unable to intervene and fix things for a messed up kid. But it hurts that much more when you can’t ease the suffering of the person you’re in love with.
I sit down onto the sofa that’s in the closest waiting room. I take out my phone to text Lex and call my parents. Brisa is alive, and she may very well see the resemblance but that won’t change who she is. Brisa is a different person from the baby that was taken that day.
Chapter 32
Mozey
I tell them both politely outside the room that I want to go in alone. They protest and stall, but I stand firmly rooted. I won’t let these thieves take away from my reunion. I want to see Brisa without them. I want to spare her the tension. I want to spare her all of the ugliness that surrounds our relationship.
They finally agree when I swear I won’t budge. Mr. Miramontes, Alberto, call me Beto, tells me sharply, not to speak of our separation or the manner in which she left us. I already know they are the same damn couple. I have Brisa’s blood running through my veins, blood from our mother as well as from our father. Rage is on a simmer just under my skin. The only thing that saves him from an over-boil is my knowledge of how Brisa would have fared had she not been taken away. I hate to admit that she was better off without us. She did better with them.
The hospital room is private. It’s got more flower arrangements than a flower shop and enough balloons and cards to fill every surface. I pull down the surgical mask and move slowly toward her.
Her eyes are open, and she smiles shyly at me. She’s pale and too thin, and I feel ferociously protective of her.
“Moisés,” she mouths. But what comes out is barely a whisper.
I take the chair at her side and pull her frail hand into mine. I lean forward and into her until my forehead touches the back of her hand.
“Brisa,” I say. But it comes out as a choked sob. Her brows shoot up in surprise but then her face is overcome with a grin. Of course. She doesn’t know that name. “Ana María,” I say. “We called you Brisa.” I want to cry and let it all out. But I won’t let myself break down in front of her. She deserves my control. This is about her survival not my grief from losing her the first time.
“Call me what you like. Thank you for coming,” she says, her face again brightening. She blossoms through her sickness with another infectious smile. She takes my hand and holds it in hers.
I can remember the smell of her skin. Holding her tiny body in my arms when it was shaking with hunger, holding her for hours until she was red and blotchy from crying. I remember kissing the crown of her head, whispering that mom was coming, that we’d both soon be fed. The great wash of relief when she’d exhaust herself and give in to sleep, her tiny head nuzzling into the crook of my arm. I remember being protective of her to the point of viciousness, even protecting her from our own mother when necessary.
More than anything else I remember how much it hurt when they took her, how my arms that used to ache from holding her could ache so much without her. How the weight of a sinking heart is impossible for a six-year-old to bear. How I had to drink her milk while she was being forced into the arms of another mother. Probably crying for the same milk while I consumed it. My mother’s milk, a poisonous and guilt-ridden, but necessary elixir.
“I’ve missed you everyday,” I say with tears pouring down my face. I haven’t cried this hard since the day she was taken away.
She wipes at my tears with the tips of her fingers. Her pointer finger dips and catches the bridge of my nose. She runs her fingertip up and down it, smiling through her own tears.
“Look, Moisés, we have the same nose.”
“And the same kidneys,” I say, trying to make a joke. But she looks at me gravely and takes a deep breath.
“You don’t have to do it.”
“Of course I do. You’re my sister.”
This prompts a hug. She sits up and moves toward me fast even though I can tell she’s weak. She throws her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight.
“I love you, Moisés. Thank you for saving me.”
I’m overwhelmed by the moment. This is Brisa, alive and breathing and all grown up into a real person. The child I held onto with everything I had, trying to protect her. If I can save her now, I can love her again. I’ve been missing a piece for the last fifteen years. Maybe by taking a part of myself and giving it to her, I’ll be able to finally feel like a complete person.
I watch her fall asleep like I did when we were young. Once sleep takes hold, she releases my hand. I stare at her hands in silence remembering how fierce her grip was when she was tiny. A nurse comes in and tells me they’re waiting. It’s already hard to leave her again.
The doctors put me through a battery of tests to see if I’m fit for surgery. When I’m finally cleared and the procedure is scheduled for morning, I make my way to the waiting room to find Lana. She’s curled in a ball, her knees pulled to her chest. A book lies beside her, and she appears to be sleeping. Love surges in me and makes my feet feel heavy. My love for Lana is a churning ocean, the undertow that drives me in deeper the more I try to resist it. I put my hand on her shoulder, and her head pops up, her eyes blinking open searching my face. She’s got two red blotches on her cheeks from where they met with her knees. She’s still wearing my ring. I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Everything okay?” she asks me.
“Yeah. Everything is perfect.”
Chapter 33
Lana
I wish we could call a taxi, but the Miramontes insist we take their car and s
ecurity. Luckily Mo talked them out of a slumber party, and we’ve gotten a room. It’s my last chance to have Mozey with a complete body. My last night with his kidney.
He tells me about Brisa and their immediate connection. How when he held her in his arms it was the first time they felt full since the last time he held her. I can relate only because I know that if I ever lost Alexei, I would lose an irreplaceable part of myself. Siblings provide an even keel in life, like balancing the tires on your car.
“Are you going to paint tonight?” I ask him as I curl into his shoulder. I’m guessing he’ll need an outlet for release.
“No, I want to stay and be close to you.”
“Will you try to get ahold of your mother?”
“No, but I’d like to call Alexei if that’s okay with you.”
I nod my head and smile. Everything will be okay. I promise myself it will. There couldn’t be a God so cruel that he’d sacrifice Mozey to save his sister, especially not after all they’ve been through. I thread my fingers through his and pull his hand to my chest.
“What would you paint if you went out tonight?”
“Your green eyes and Brisa’s hands. A bowl full of kidney beans with one fallen off to the side of the plate.”
He looks tired but he has a smile on his face.
Mo can’t eat or drink so I decide to fast along with him. It’s not like I’m going to order a steak and devour it in front of him. Although I’m hungry enough to eat the whole cow, maybe even the barn. My lunch consisted of beef jerky and Gatorade from the vending machine. But his was contrast fluid so I can’t complain. I’ll drink the champagne from the wet bar instead. The Miramontes aren’t cutting costs—that’s for sure. They’ve put us up in a swank hotel, with security not only outside our door and in the lobby, but also in SUVs out on the street—all of them armed. I pull back the curtain and watch down below as a police car pulls up, an officer gets out and speaks to one of the guards.