Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  My niece and I had mended fences, after I proved to her that I was done with cartel life. She was so hungry for family, she believed me. The truth is, I fell out of favor with the cartel. I was old, lacked the understanding and technological proficiency to stay in the game—the curse of middle-management nearing retirement age.

  And here is my confession…

  I arranged for those cartel low-levels to take you. If I could lure you to Mexico, I would regain the Treiños’ favor and reimburse them for the ‘cargo’ we stole...they cannot even call them ‘children.’ But one does not make deals with the devil and win. Just as I encouraged the cartel to increase their presence in La Vereda, my niece, foolish in her grief, returned to see the grave of Daniel Rodriguez and fell right into the palm of those who hunted her. They took her not five days ago.

  I bought back my life, only to find my dear Marieta forfeited hers. Who is left to care for her boy? Not a selfish old drug mule whose clock is winding down.

  I cannot save Marieta Cabral Sanchez de Rodriguez. But I can save her son…

  The cartel now believes it was me who helped Marieta dispose of their ten kilos of cocaine. It’s already done.

  Contact the U.S. federal agents at the Naco Port of Entry in Arizona—I have tipped them off about the ransom deal, and they’ll take me seriously. With the Federales swarming your family home in Mexico and U.S. feds watching your interests in the States, you become a high risk target to the cartel, and not worth the effort.

  Also contact Anti-Trafficking International. You will know what to do when you speak to them.

  I leave this as my gift to my nephew…my life for your freedom. Javier Sanchez

  It turned out, the feds at Naco did know Javier, and they also suspected they would not hear from him again. Whatever role Camila Flores played—hero or villain (or somewhere in between)—would remain a mystery. She had also vanished after she’d pointed my toloache-drugged butt toward the village, and we had not seen or heard from her.

  I had a feeling she knew Javier was dead…

  The wind shifted, and now clouds of smoke from the burning brush piles drifted onto the hacienda’s patio, irritating our eyes and throats. But Mariángel pushed forward with valiance as she expressed shock over her brother’s long-concealed progeny.

  “I still cannot believe it,” she said, peering over her sunglasses in disbelief. “All this time, I had a niece growing up ten miles from here and Mamá never said a word to anybody. How could she?” Mariángel crossed herself.

  Sofia raised an eyebrow behind her coffee cup. Nobody who bore the name Cabral could possibly judge another for sweeping secrets under the rug.

  “Not only a niece, but now a grand-nephew! Next, I suppose I’ll find out I have a long-lost twin.”

  “Not even Samuel knew about the boy,” I reasoned. “Anti-trafficking is dangerous work, and I’m sure his parents wanted to shield him from the cartels as long as possible.”

  Again she crossed herself at the mention of the cartels. “Evil business, and right here in our beautiful Tamaulipas.”

  Sofia could no longer hold her tongue. “Perhaps if we had given Antonio’s girl the family she so desperately needed, that evil business would not have touched us, or her. Perhaps she would be alive.”

  I remembered the shy, fragile woman I’d met at Paddlers, so briefly. How had I missed her longing? Her underlying strength? Like a spoiled child who only saw what I didn’t have, I’d taken much for granted. Chiefly, my family. But I’d never walked a trial alone, had I? They were always beside me, imperfect, but shoulder to shoulder.

  Molly and her unwavering optimism.

  Danita with her tough love.

  Angel, my protective big brother.

  Santiago and his loyalty.

  Jaime and Luca, yin and yang.

  Hector. Gone though he was, his passion for life wasn’t.

  My parents. Not the best decision makers, but they loved me.

  Sofia and Alonso and their steady, unswerving faith.

  And my brave, compassionate Samuel, who saw the best in people, but never the best in himself.

  Life changed. People moved and married, lived and died, but love was constant. Whether we walked in Colorado or New York, or Alaska or Afghanistan or Mexico, we walked together.

  This was what Samuel had wanted for his sister, if only she’d allowed him to give it to her.

  But we could give it to her son…

  That night in La Vereda, as the last of the police had trickled away until morning, my husband and I studied the sleeping boy’s features and compared him to the photos on the mantel of the Rodriguez home. From his broad forehead to his snub nose, he looked like Daniel Rodriguez, save for the high cheekbones. That beautiful feature was pure Cabral.

  Señora Rodriguez sat beside the child and I watched as she cradled his small hand, slack with blissful sleep. The old woman kissed the crown of the boy’s head, inhaled deeply. Young Samuel sank deeper into the pillow and my heart wrenched.

  “He should stay with you,” I whispered. “We’re strangers, and he’s been through so much. How can we possibly take him away from everything he’s ever known?”

  “You are young. So is he.”

  “But he’s your grandson.”

  The old woman shook her head. “We’ve decided. My health is poor. How long could we give him? Five, ten years? And the violence here…we could not bear it. But…” The joints of her chair squeaked as she leaned forward. “That old hacienda which stands empty, the one in the foothills? It belongs to your family, does it not? Perhaps you need not go so far away, just yet…”

  A legal nightmare awaited us. Immigration petitions, visits to the U.S. embassy, court hearings, criminal investigations, identification and documentation… We didn’t even have proof that his mother was deceased. And this was just the procedural hurdles.

  “Surely they will allow you to return to Colorado with him,” said Tía Mariángel.

  “He’s traumatized,” I explained. “Everything and everyone he has ever known and loved is gone. How can we simply pack up and go back to Colorado? He’s already so lost…”

  Sofia squeezed my hand. “Mi corazón, we will stay with you as long as we can.”

  “And you may continue to use the hacienda for as long as you like.” Mariángel’s eyes sparked at my surprise. “What? My nephew has been after me for years to let him pay for the upkeep, like we are some poor, third-world relations. If he wants this old place restored so badly, let him do it himself. Then he’ll learn what a headache it is. Perfect for children, though.” She gave her wicker chair a fond pat, as if to soften the blow. “Though you may want to install the best security system money can buy. He can certainly afford it.”

  “Samuel—we—would like that.”

  Tía Mariángel nodded at the pages of scribblings Samuel had dropped in my lap. “Is he writing a new book?”

  “Not really. It’s how he lets me into his head.” I didn’t elaborate, because some things were too personal.

  “Should we be worried about him? I don’t know much about his…” she waved her hands around her head.

  Sofia shifted in her chair. We were all concerned.

  I rubbed tired eyes as I struggled over Samuel’s cramped handwriting, frustratingly lacking in punctuation and grammar. I wanted to tell her not to worry, that he was still on his meds, but his health history and his relatives’ icy treatment of him were still an open wound.

  Sofia could handle that battle.

  A whimper sounded from the monitor app Samuel and I had jimmied up between our phones. I watched the grainy camera footage of our nephew in the guest room. He was still asleep but crying.

  “All is well?” Sofia gently asked.

  My body sagged. He often cried large beads of tears as he dreamed of his mother. Then he would wake up in a strange place with no mother at all and cry some more. I was frantic to hug and coddle and shield, but I would only overwhelm him, so every move
was calculated. Samuel fared better, using ball games as an opportunity to pat his back, ruffle his hair, feed his little nephew the affection he craved but could not trust us with.

  Another moan on the monitor, then a sigh as young Samuel Rodriguez shifted. It wouldn’t be long before he woke. I set my husband’s notebook aside, ready to greet my inconsolable nephew who cried for a woman I wasn’t, a woman he would never again see on this earth, whose place I could never take. I would have slept on the floor next to his bed, stayed by his side every waking and sleeping hour if it helped. But when I was near, he watched me with caution, his little body rigid. How could I comfort him? How could I be enough?

  Sofia must have seen my desperation. She rose.

  “Walk with me, hija?”

  We meandered along the crumbling outer wall of the hacienda, stepped around prickly plants and suspicious-looking mud heaps. Sofia crossed her arms over the rusting gate, closed her eyes and absorbed the sun. Her brows pinched; she looked very much the way I felt inside.

  Then her face cleared. She seemed…peaceful.

  “I was recalling when Samuel, big Samuel,” she clarified with a smile, “first came to us. Oh Kaye, how good God is.”

  “How…how can you possibly say that?” I stammered. “Look what he took from Samuel. And now the same thing has happened to his nephew.”

  Her gaze was steady. “And because of what Samuel has lived through, he knows how to help his nephew.”

  I shook my head. “I just…how could he possibly allow such a horrible thing to happen all over again?”

  “You are asking why God would allow evil things to happen. That is a question millions have asked for thousands of years. This world is filled with so much evil, is it not?” Sofia tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “But there is also so much love. My hope is that one day the evil will be gone, and all that will be left is the love.”

  Feeling churned inside of me for my little nephew. Righteous anger and grief on his behalf threatened to choke me. I swallowed it back, but it was a losing battle.

  “I wonder,” she murmured, “would we know compassion if we did not know suffering?”

  I grabbed the metal gate, wanting to bend it in two but I wasn’t strong enough, would never be strong enough.

  “I am at a loss. I have known this little boy for so long, in my heart. I have…I have longed for him. Wanted him to be mine, but not like this! Never like this. It’s unfair, and…and cruel. And I can’t make it better.” I dug through my pocket for a tissue but came up empty. Sofia placed one in my hand, and I wiped my nose with the inelegance of a preschooler. Then she firmly took my arms.

  “I know, hija. Oh, how I know. When you raise a broken child, you are truly in the trenches.”

  We continued our walk. “At first he’ll fight you. He will not want your love, but he’ll need it. Anger, tears, pushing you away one day and clinging to your legs the next. He will make himself as unpalatable as possible so you’ll leave him, just as he expects. And when you are still there every day, unwavering in your love, he’ll begin to trust. It’s the way of children who have seen wickedness.”

  I thought of the haunted boy I’d known, years ago. He had been too young to see the bigger picture…he only knew his mother was gone and this stranger was trying to be his mom. Sofia was good at being a mom, but he didn’t want a good mom…he wanted his mom. On the outside, Sofia seemed patient, joyful. But she must have felt frustrated and inept for years. ‘In the trenches’ indeed.

  My phone crackled again, and a child’s voice echoed through a hacienda guest room, hastily converted for a toddler. “Mamá? Mamá…” He didn’t cry for me, but still, I would answer. His soft pleas quickly devolved into a wail and I hastened toward the house. Before I could escape, Sofia caught my hand.

  “Together, you are enough.”

  Just then, a voice came through the monitor. “Hola, hijito.”

  Together, we watched the screen as my husband, having returned from his run, crouched next to his nephew’s bed and laid a hand on the mattress near the boy’s forehead, leaving enough space to set the boy at ease. Controlled, soothing, though he’d spent the night in manic restlessness.

  “I miss your mama, too. But I am very glad you are safe, here with me.”

  Sofia patted my hand. “Raise Daniel and Marieta’s boy in Tamaulipas or America, or both—whatever is best for him. If you choose to stay, bring him to Colorado in the summer so he knows his family. His American abuelos.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut but tears escaped anyway.

  On the monitor, Samuel played with the boy’s small toes—the only part of him he dared hug at all, lest he frighten this boy, his son. Samuel disappeared from the screen, but soon we heard the unmistakable twangs of a Spanish guitar. It was the lullaby, the one about lemon balm and jasmine. The one Sofia sang to him as a child.

  My heart swelled and cracked. Not like this, never like this. Such a bittersweet thing, to know your child is only yours because he has suffered tremendous loss.

  “Whatever you do,” my mother-in-law said, “please. Remember my son. Where he has been. How far he has come. Always growing, always learning. It is possible, hija.”

  Finally, I understood Sofia’s and Alonso’s hearts. Though imperfect, they’d navigated the waters as best as they could. Samuel only became their son after trauma and mental illness and death left their ugly scars beneath his tiny ribcage. With their very last heartbeats, they would make sure Samuel was safe and loved. After all, this was parenthood. To cling tightly and then, slowly, gingerly, peel back your grip and release your child, whether three or thirty-three, into the unknown.

  I vowed to do the same for our boy.

  “I love you. You’re safe.” I touched the small figure on the screen of my phone.

  Chapter 24

  Ridge Walk

  Scenic terrain beyond the timberline, where climbers emerge from the forest to a breathtaking view.

  Three years later, some things never change...

  “Arrrrgh! Angel!”

  The yellow duckie jerks and bobs as we back it toward the frothing, roaring hydraulic.

  This is the year. We’re going to surf that wretched thing once and for all.

  “Paddle Kaye, paddle! No…yes…lean!”

  Frigid whitewater crashes against the sides of our kayak, spills into our laps, pools around our ankles. We sputter and throw our backs into propelling the kayak onto the wave. It stalls and rumbles in perfect harmony with the motion of the river. We rise as the river spins below us, surfing the wave…for two freaking seconds.

  Before I can scream out in triumph, the duckie dips and my world is upended as my feet fly over my head. We’re pearling. Again.

  Tuck…roll with the current like a beach ball, the water…oh crap, so frickin’ cold! ...sky…gray…sky…gray…same old, same old… And nothing but glorious, blue sky.

  A hand plunges into the ice water and grasps the back of my life vest, hauling me to the surface. Samuel, who waits for me on the other side of the rapid in the catamaran, drags me away and simultaneously grabs my abandoned paddle. My hero.

  “We al-m-most g-got it that t-time.” I’m hoisted into the cat, next to him. Behind me, Jaime helps Angel right the duckie.

  His well-shaped lips curl. “Almost had it, firecracker. Last try?”

  “Last try.” Angel and I both agree—we have too much to lose for one stupid hydraulic. It isn’t worth the brutal, tragic months we weathered after Hector drowned.

  My little guy needs me alive.

  Some things never change. Then again, everything changes…

  Bit by bit, our sad boy unfurled his tightly rolled leaves and basked in the sunlight. Not long after his fourth birthday, he told us he wanted a new name: Sam-Rod.

  “Are you sure about that nickname?” Samuel, dubious, asked.

  “We have the same ah-peh.. ah…”

  “Apellido.”

  He nodded. “See?” He pointed to h
is huge, navy-colored jersey with ‘Rodriguez’ emblazoned on the back, a gift from Dani.

  “But he’s a Yankee. And we’re Red Sox fans.”

  “I like the Yankees,” ‘Sam-Rod’ whispered.

  I actually heard Samuel’s heart break.

  “Well, it would make it easier to tell the two of you apart,” I teased. Sam-Rod giggled, one of those rare, golden moments, and hugged my knees.

  “Thanks, Tía Kaye,” he mouthed, and trailed his Valdez cousins up the hill, to the swing set we’d just installed in our backyard. I pressed a hand to my chest. For the price of a hug, I’d call the boy ‘Jedi Master Sam-Rod of the Cabralsan System’ if he wanted...

  Glacial water swirls around my fingers as I dangle them over the side of the catamaran. Samuel steers the raft toward the bank and we take out. “You okay?” he shouts over the rapids, searching my body for injuries. Next to him, Jaime cackles.

  “Hey, nice maneuver. They teach you girls how to fall out of kayaks down in Mexico, do they? So big strong alpha-males can rescue you?” Samuel has the indecency to laugh.

  I flip both of them the bird, my finger quivering with cold. Jaime passes me a flask of whiskey in apology.

  Before we journeyed to Glenwood Canyon, our small family—Samuel, Sam-Rod and me—made a pilgrimage to La Vereda, as we did every year.

  It was a rainy spring in Tamaulipas, and the slopes were a mess of mud and delicate green grass. My hand rested between Sam-Rod’s solemn little shoulder blades as he scattered orange blossoms across the mountainside, and I felt his noiseless shudders. The cave, where he had last seen his mother, rested up the hill. He still hadn’t spoken about the autumn he spent on the run from the cartel. One day he would. When we returned to Colorado, our little man crawled into bed between us, and together we listened to the snowmelt trickle down the mountainside and into the creek below, as if the world were nothing but dripping icicles. Finally, he drifted to sleep.

  So much love had been poured into our new home. The original foundation survived the Left Hand Canyon flood, and now the walls are solid, sturdier than ever.