Healing Love

by Jennifer Slattery

  But had helping someone else hurt her sister? She cast a glance Eawinda’s way. The woman slouched and the slack skin around her eyes had a purplish tint. She inched forward, scraping her feet against the dry earth as if she hadn’t the energy to lift them.

  Fatima offered a slight smile. “We learned quickly today. Tomorrow we will work even faster.”

  The woman gave a slow nod.

  When she reached the front of the line, Fatima held out her hand then waited while the supervisor dropped two quarters into her palm. She clutched her coins and fought back tears. Aunt Almita would be angry at Fatima’s half a day’s wage. Call her lazy. Stupid. Maybe even strike her.

  She stepped aside and waited until her friend received her money then helped her into the truck. Her legs, weak from hours of squatting, threatened to buckle when the truck heaved forward. Eawinda swayed, and Fatima grabbed her arm, fearing the woman would faint. They stood like that, Fatima clutching the side of the pickup with one hand, supporting Eawinda with the other. By the time they pulled into her village, her muscles felt wobbly and her eyes burned.

  Her cousin continued on ahead, sweaty clothes clinging to his muscular frame. Hopefully he’d be too tired to bother her or her sister.

  Dinora met her a few paces from their house with a grin and a gleam in her eye.

  Fatima smiled. “What is it, my Dulce Din? You look as if you have a great secret.”

  She glanced around then drew close. “Irma’s mother stopped by this afternoon. She told me to come back once you came home. One of the brothers from her church brought tamales.”

  Fatima looked at the two quarters in her hand, picturing her uncle’s hardened face and her aunt’s hateful eyes. “Give me a minute to give this to Aunt Almita.” They walked to their house in silence, Fatima fearing her aunt’s anger, and Dinora, it seemed, sensing Fatima’s dread.

  “Fatima.” Their uncle’s voice boomed from the side of the yard. He sat on a stump in the shade, his sons and a few other men from the village with him.

  She sucked in a breath and hurried over.

  “How much did you make?”

  “Fifty cents.” Her hand trembled as she gave her uncle the coins.

  “What did you do all day, recline in the shade sipping water?” His scowl deepened. “Your cousins made more than double that.”

  “Men always make more, Uncle.”

  “Because they don’t waste time on old ladies. What? You thought I wouldn’t find out? You ungrateful rodent. You eat our food and sleep in our home with nothing to give in return.”

  Fatima swallowed and stared at the ground. Arguing would do no good. Besides, what would she tell him? She’d chosen to help a stranger instead of doing all she could for her family?

  Fatima had to do better, otherwise her uncle might decide she was more trouble than she was worth. Then who would take care of Dinora?

  Chapter Twelve

  Brooke stacked four thick books on her dresser then propped her laptop on top. She studied her sample article—a short community piece on a retired couple celebrating their seventy-fifth wedding anniversary. Nothing earth shattering, but something to practice with. She cleared her throat, smoothed her hair, then hit record.

  “Good morning, this is Brooke Endress, thank you for joining us. Ernest and Vivian Millings from Claremont, California … They … the … Aargh!” She hit the stop button then began again, this time making it to her third line. “The couple met at this park while in elementary school, stayed friends throughout middle and high school, but lost contact after graduation.”

  Her mind went blank. She stared at the computer screen. Raising her hand to her face, she paused moments before rubbing her make-up into a clowny mess, and kneaded her temples instead. Take four. Talk smooth, enunciate. Look at the camera, and don’t forget to smile. “Hello.” Click. Hello? What was this, an afternoon tea party? Again, again. “Good morning, this is Brooke Endress—”

  A knock rapped on her door and Naomi Hallister, her best friend, breezed in.

  “Hey.” She glanced at Brooke’s computer. “You redoing your audition tape?”

  “In my bedroom? No, I’m just practicing, but I plan to.” She plopped onto the bed, sending a few of the newspaper clippings scattered there fluttering to the ground. “My audition tape stinks. Like rotten eggs.”

  Naomi gathered the items from the floor and arranged them in a neat pile. “Quit being such a drama queen.”

  “You haven’t seen the footage from Thursday.”

  “Because you won’t let me, remember? It can’t be that bad, otherwise they would’ve cut it.”

  “Actually, they did. Most of it, anyway. I’ve got maybe a one-minute blurb. And not even a great blurb, at that.”

  “Yay!” Naomi gave Brooke a sideways hug. “That’s one minute of real footage you didn’t have last week. Everyone’s got to start somewhere.”

  “I’m not so sure. If I stay on this show—if the show itself stays on, which is by no means a given—I’m afraid my performance will get worse. A stage fright turns to terror deal.”

  “Relax. You’ve gotta quit “what-iffing” it, girl, before you work yourself into a migraine. You’ll get better. That’s what you do. You rise to the challenge. Always have.”

  Brooke stared at her hands. “Really? Because where I sit, I do a lot more falling than rising.”

  “You’re never going to be perfect. You’re going to make mistakes, but that doesn’t mean everything will fall apart. Honestly, it’s not up to you.”

  “I know.”

  “You know up here.” She tapped Brooke’s temple. “You just need that truth to settle in your heart.”

  “Enough sniffle-talk.” Brooke flashed a smile. “So tell me more about those crazy travel plans of yours. An internship in St. Thomas? How’d you land that?”

  “Lots of prayer, my friend. And a few friends in high places.” She winked. “What about you? Are you seriously going to El Salvador?”

  Brooke grabbed a stack of documents printed off the Internet. “Unless I can find some way to talk my sister into staying home, yeah. You wouldn’t happen to have any pepper spray I can borrow, would you?” She held up a picture of over a dozen shirtless men with numerous tattoos standing in front of a graffiti-covered wall. “Meet the Eighteenth Street Gang of El Salvador, and the Mara Salvatrucha.” She tossed another picture on the bed, then a third—this one of a man dressed in black, carrying a shotgun, standing beside a gas pump.

  “So you’ve been doing a bit of investigative research, huh? Trying to alleviate your fears by drudging up sensational news headlines?” Naomi picked up the image, glanced at it, then set it down. “You don’t think you’d find similar stories in America? Because in case you forgot, scandal and riots sell. Moms and pops raising their kids on a quiet street don’t make the headlines, you know. But I bet there are a lot of happy families in El Salvador.”

  “At least here I know the areas to avoid.”

  “Hola, mi hermana!” Aubrey popped her head through the door. She waved a book in the air. “Found this at the Friends of the Library bookstore. Thought you might want to polish up on your Spanish a bit.” She bounced into the room and tossed the book on the bed, sending more newspaper clippings fluttering to the floor.

  Brooke sighed and gathered the scattered items. “I took two years in college. Enough to get me through. Besides, we’re going to have a translator, right?”

  Aubrey wrinkled her brow. “Yeah, two for like twenty people. You’re going to want to talk to the kiddos yourself, you know.”

  Brooke closed her computer and slid it into its case. “Actually, I’m coming as chaperone only.”

  “That’s what you think.” Aubrey grinned. “Once God gets hold of your heart, you’ll be jumping in the mix, hugging on those orphans and sharing your testimony with the locals.”

  Brooke crossed her arms. “Hardly. I’d rather watch from the sidelines.”

  “Didn’t you get Pastor
T’s email?”

  She thought of the slew of unread messages in her inbox—most of them annoying forwards. “What email?”

  “The one where he told us to be prepared to share how we came to believe in Jesus.”

  Great. Homework.

  ***

  Ubaldo sat on a park bench beside Alberto while the orphan girls kicked a deflated soccer ball between them. A missionary team from Canada left the ball, along with a bag full of candy and empty promises to write every day. The dirty ball and shattered hopes were all that remained of their visit.

  Alberto leaned against the back of the bench. “Any luck finding a new apartment?”

  “No. Everything’s so expensive.”

  “You don’t need anything fancy.”

  “Don’t want to get robbed, either.”

  “Thought about renting with someone? I see ads for that all the time.”

  “With my luck, I’d end up with a crazy or a free-loader.”

  “You know you can always stay with Carmela and me. The girls would love it, and we could use the help.” He watched his wife hand out bags of water to a group of girls. “She’s not doing so well. I think the orphanage is becoming too much for her. She needs help. We both do. I fear she cannot keep doing this much longer. Especially with her health. Then what will become of our girls?”

  “Is she sick?”

  “I don’t know. She’s always so tired.”

  “Which I would expect, considering all it takes to run the orphanage.”

  “I fear it’s more than that. She loses her breath coming up the stairs, and often has to stop and rest. She complains of chest pains a lot. What if it’s her heart?”

  “Then you must take her to a doctor.”

  “We don’t have the money. But if she had help, then perhaps she could rest. If only we could go back to Spain with the rest of her family. Her sisters could care for her. But who would mind the children?”

  Ubaldo wished he had answers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In his classroom Monday morning, Ubaldo set his chalk down and turned toward his wiggly students. Jose elbowed Aribela and pointed to Ubaldo who stood with his arms crossed. Children fidgeted and chairs squeaked against the concrete floor as the room quieted.

  Ubaldo cleared his throat. “Let’s try this again.” He raised his chalk to the board then stopped. Clearly this wasn’t working. He closed his curriculum and studied the students. Despite the amazing dexterity they demonstrated when playing with capirucho’s, they struggled to write a legible sentence in English. Each day, the girls recited countless songs during patty-cake like hand games, yet forgot a simple paragraph rehearsed for nearly a month. Perhaps it wasn’t the learning itself, but the mode.

  He smiled. “How about we play a game?”

  The children’s eyes widened followed by giggles and bobbing heads.

  “I’ll divide you into two teams,” he said.

  “Boys versus girls!” They chanted.

  “Fine. Boys, come sit by Jose. Girls, you’re over here.” He pointed to the right, and children scurried around desks.

  He quieted them with his hands. “Okay, here is how we’ll play the game. Move the desks aside so that you have room to sit.” The children hurried to comply and shoved their desks into pell-mell clusters. “I’ll tell you to do something in Spanish. If you know how to say it in English, you must stand up and shout out, ‘I can …’ Whatever the action is. Then your entire team must perform the action and repeat the sentence in English.”

  The students stared at him with a wrinkled brow.

  “Okay, let me demonstrate. Carlos, will you be my helper?” He motioned the child forward.

  Carlos dashed to the front and faced the students with a wide grin.

  Ubaldo draped his arm across the boy’s shoulders. “You give me a command. Like, jump, march, stand on your toes, something like that.” He sat cross-legged on the floor. “You ready?”

  Carlos nodded. “March!”

  Ubaldo jumped up and shouted in English, “I can march!” He pumped his knees and arms.

  The children erupted in laughter.

  “You may return to your team, Carlos,” he said, then to the class, “Ready?” They nodded. “Jump!”

  Children sprang to their feet, shouting in broken English, “I can jump! I can jump!” bouncing like a herd of kangaroos.

  A flutter of movement flashed through his peripheral vision. A few of the students grew silent and eyed the door.

  Ubaldo turned to see the school principal watching them with a scowl. Everyone grew still while the man locked eyes with Ubaldo. Then he shook his head and walked away.

  Ubaldo glanced at his curriculum, knowing which mode of instruction the principal preferred. The bell rang, and the students quickly returned the class to its original state. Rummaging through backpacks and burlap bags, they pulled out dishes and silverware brought from home and dashed out.

  Ubaldo followed a few paces behind. He paused to glance in his friend Señor Resendez’s classroom. The teacher stood with his back to the doorway, flipping through a spiral book.

  He turned when Ubaldo entered. “Good morning.” He closed his curriculum book, dropped it on his desk, and pulled out his eating utensils. “I suppose we better get our lunch before classes start again. I’m not sure what they’re serving, but it smells good.”

  Ubaldo surveyed the handful of backpacks tucked beneath the desks. “When will you send another student my way?”

  Señor Resendez sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Some of these students are so far behind; I fear they will never catch up enough to return to their regular classes. How can they when they only come to school three to four months out of the year? Some of them not even that. Honestly, what’s the point?”

  “The point is to make things better. Not perfect, but better. Even if only for one student.” He glanced out into the school courtyard—an open area surrounded by a horseshoe of classes. Children lined in front of a wooden counter separating the inner courtyard from a small room crammed with food. From there, two women scooped rice and chicken onto plates shoved before them.

  The children jabbered amongst themselves while they waited. Some nibbled on potato chips, likely purchased from street vendors on their way to school. Others rose on tiptoes and craned their necks, anxiously awaiting their first meal—perhaps only meal—for the day.

  He turned his attention back to Señor Resendez. “I’ll share something my pastor told me a while ago. We cannot save the world. We cannot even save the children of San Miguel. Nor the children of our school, but we can impact the life of one.”

  And yet, though he repeated the cliché often, even to himself, that “one” never felt like enough. Not when so many families remained in poverty, so many children worked in the plantations.

  The rest of the day dragged on, and with each passing minute, the unrest Ubaldo felt while talking with Señor Resendez increased. Although he tried to focus on his lesson plans, his thoughts drifted to the young girl he saw on the path near his parent’s house—the one who said she didn’t have time for school.

  Lord, send someone to help her.

  A deep sadness flooded his heart—one so intense it frightened him. Soon images flashed through his mind—of children he’d seen scattered throughout the market, trying to sell sheets of stickers or gum. Of the orphans under Alberto’s care. Of the frightened girl with the hollowed eyes.

  Soon, he prayed not only for the girl, but for countless other children he longed to name, but couldn’t. And yet, God knew them intimately. Each one. Their Father saw each tear they shed, heard every desperate cry for help. The thought caused his chest to tighten, and he stumbled back, tripping over a raised crack in the floor. Pain shot up his arm as he broke his fall.

  Children stopped and turned in his direction, and two teachers hurried to his side. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, feeling as if he hovered between two worlds
.

  “Are you okay?” Señor Resendez helped him to his feet.

  He dusted off his pants and nodded. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”

  The reality of his reply stabbed at his heart. He was fine, well fed, with money in his pocket and a home to return to each night while countless children prayed for help.

  Impacting the life of one didn’t feel like enough.

  God, what do You want me to do? What can I do?

  ***

  Fatima sat on the ground in front of her hut, hugging her knees. Her cousin paced the dirt pathway, casting frequent glances towards the road. Already the mid-morning sun poked through the trees, and yet, the brick-maker’s truck hadn’t appeared.

  Her uncle muttered under his breath and kicked a metal tin. “Perhaps if you’d worked faster, harder, the truck would return.” He stomped down the path, likely in search of liquor.

  “Be useful and get more wood for our griddle.” Aunt Almita flicked Fatima’s arm. “Dinora, you, too.”

  Fatima jumped to her feet and dashed around the back of the house. Her sister hurried behind her. Neither spoke until they reached the thick grove of trees beside the trail. As soon as they moved out of sight, Dinora paused to walk across a fallen log. Soon, she turned to play, using leaves as people and twigs as animals.

  Fatima smiled and left her sister to her pretend fun. She enjoyed their brief peace away from home as well. Pausing near a stump, she watched ants and termites scurry in and out of the rotting wood. Then, she took a moment to search the forest floor for more Copinal seeds, which she could make into beads.

  An odd fluttering filled her gut as she turned toward the depths of the forest. She scanned the shadows around her and startled when an iguana darted through the leaf litter before bolting up a nearby tree. She laughed—jumping at her own shadows. It seemed she, not her sister, had the over-active imagination. And a deep knowing that the world wasn’t at all safe.