Healing Love

by Jennifer Slattery

  Her mother nodded. “He never slumbers nor sleeps.” She smiled at Brooke and Aubrey. “Even now, at this very moment, God watches over you—sings over you, with love.”

  Brooke had pulled her knees to her chest and stared into the night sky, suddenly more interested in the edge of eternity than the flashing lights above her.

  Then came the finale, and everyone gathered their items to leave. Aunt Isidora, being the night owl that she was, had a sudden craving for something sweet.

  “What better way to end a patriotic celebration than enjoying good old American apple pie?”

  The girls sprang to their feet. Brooke clutched her hands beneath her chin and poked her bottom lip out. “Please. Please. Please!”

  Their dad yawned and stretched. “Sorry girls, but I’m beat.”

  Brooke slumped her shoulders and moaned. “It’s not fair. We never get to do anything!”

  Her mother frowned. “Oh, really? Then what have you been doing for the past three hours, young lady? ‘Thanks, Dad, for taking us to see fireworks after driving all day.’”

  Brooke huffed. “Thanks, Dad.” Then crossed her arms.

  Aunt Isidora grabbed the stuffed beach bag and twined her fingers with Brooke’s. “How about we take the girls for an overnighter. We’ll get them all sugared up, then drop them off tomorrow evening.”

  “I don’t know,” her mother said. “We planned on spending some time as a family tomorrow. They haven’t seen their dad all week.”

  “But we just spent the past three hours doing family time.” Brooke replaced her frown with her best puppy dog eyes. “We hardly ever get to go to Aunt Isidora and Uncle Lester’s. Besides, you and Daddy always talk about how you need to spend more time together. Think of this as a date night or something.”

  Her parents exchanged glances and her father shrugged.

  Brooke’s mother sighed. “Oh, all right. But I want you home by dinner.”

  Two hours later, while Brooke nursed a bloated stomach, the phone rang.

  Her parents had been in a front on collision with a drunk driver. All three dead on impact.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brooke gripped her armrests, her spine pressed against the seat back, as the plane made a jarring landing.

  Sitting beside her, Aubrey squeezed Brooke’s hand and bounced in her seat. “We’re here. Can you believe it?”

  She swallowed and forced a smile, which felt more like a grimace. As the engines died down and passengers stood, she stared at the back of the seat in front of her. She was here. In a third world country. Stuck for the next two weeks.

  Pastor T stood in the aisle, turned to face his crew. “Remember, no drinking the water until we get to our hotel. Unless it’s in a bottle.” He glanced at Brooke. “You okay? Because you look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “I’m fine.” She pulled her carry-on out from under the seat in front of her. “Just a little motion sick.” To put it mildly. She searched through her backpack and located her passport—for the fifth time since takeoff—then grabbed her phone. She started to turn it off airplane mode then stopped. No way she’d have service here. No way to call for help, should she or Aubrey need it.

  A thick band squeezed her heart as she stared through the window into the black night. News stories of tourists falsely imprisoned or kidnapped flashed through her mind.

  She faced Aubrey. “I want you to stay with me at all times. Now’s not the time to pull pranks or try to freak me out. We’ll stick with the group and do exactly what Pastor T says.” The youth pastor wasn’t even in his thirties. He was unmarried, no kids. Was he mature enough to lead this group? “No goofing around.”

  When Aubrey was younger, their mother kept her attached to one of those child-safety straps. It was the only way to keep her in one place. Brooke thought about Pastor T’s warnings against getting separated in the market. She needed a teenage-safety leash—anything to counter Aubrey’s five-second attention span. Coupled with her over-energetic, act-first-think-later personality, they’d be lucky to get the girl through customs.

  Brooke’s grip on Aubrey’s arm tightened.

  “Chillax already.” She jerked away and rolled her eyes. “You’re worse than Aunt Isidora.”

  Brooke rubbed her temples. Something told her this was going to be the longest two weeks of her life. With a heavy sigh, she slipped into the aisle and made room for Aubrey to step in front of her. She followed her out of the plane and into the terminal.

  The team gathered outside the gate and stared up at the signs attached to the ceiling.

  “This way.” The kid with the GQ hair started to walk away.

  Pastor T grabbed the back of his shirt. “No, baggage claim is this way.” He jerked his thumb toward a stream of people receding down the hall.

  Everyone followed in packs of threes and fours. Brooke fell near the back. In her usual fashion, Aubrey bounced from one group of friends to the next. When they neared a corner, a handful of youth paused to check out one of those coin scales while the rest of their team continued. A few moments later, everyone but Aubrey bolted ahead. She, on the other hand, studied the Spanish writing printed along the side of the machine.

  Brooke grabbed her elbow. “Quit goofing around.”

  “Lay off already.” Aubrey yanked free and chased after her friends, leaving Brooke to scurry along behind.

  At the baggage claim area, everyone mobbed the conveyor belt searching for luggage with strips of florescent green fabric tied to the handles. Within five minutes, thirty-eight suitcases—nineteen brought for personal use, the rest jam-packed with various supplies and donations—lay heaped in a pile.

  “Everyone grab two to take through customs.”

  Pastor T distributed the luggage then led them down the hall to a giant room filled with people winding their way through roped off lines. Brooke pulled her passport from her bag and clutched it in clammy hands. Aubrey fell into step beside her, pulled her wallet from her back pocket, and sifted through her cash.

  Brooke grabbed her wrist. “Put that away. Don’t you remember what Pastor T said about drawing attention to yourself?”

  Once again Aubrey rolled her eyes with a huff, but at least she returned her wallet to her pocket.

  By the time they made it to the custom’s lady, Brooke’s tense muscles felt ready to snap.

  “Why are you here?” The woman spoke in a heavy accent.

  “I … uh … a mission trip.”

  “How long will you stay?”

  Brooke’s mind went blank.

  Aubrey, who up until then had been playing a game on her phone, turned toward the counter. “Two weeks.”

  The woman studied each of them in turn while the rest of their party continued through the luggage checkpoints toward the exit. By the time she and Aubrey made it through customs, she was wound tighter than a mainspring and more than a little irritated that the rest of their crew hadn’t waited to see if they’d make it through.

  Dragging her suitcase behind her, Aubrey cast Brooke a sideways glance. “You’re freaking out again, aren’t you?” She stepped outside and plopped her suitcase next to the rest of the team’s luggage.

  “No.” Okay, so maybe she was. But it never hurt to evaluate the situation. “I’m just tired and ready to hit the hotel room.” Although something told her their room might be less than relaxing.

  People thronged the sidewalk, hugging, hauling suitcases into vehicles, loaded down with backpacks and knapsacks. Brooke gathered close to her group and watched as two rusted trucks—one gold, the other a pale green with a long sheet of wood for the flat bed—careened to the curb. Two men jumped out and grinned.

  Pastor T dropped his suitcases and met the short, stocky man with a hug. “Orfeo, good to see you my brother.” He turned to the taller man standing beside Orfeo and extended a hand. “I’m Tim Tillman, but most people call me Pastor T.”

  “Ubaldo.” His skin was the color of creamed coffee, his dark, thick
hair cropped short. Muscular—the man was handsome enough to cause all the teen girls to turn giggly.

  “Good to meet you.” The pastor indicated the rest of the team. “And this is my gang.”

  Ubaldo asked about their flight, but before Pastor T could answer, a few fat drops of rain splattered on their heads. Brooke looked up at the dark El Salvadoran sky, the stars shrouded by rain clouds, then to the pickups. There appeared to be two choices—shove everyone in the back and cram the suitcases in the cab, or, keep the passengers dry and drench their supplies.

  “You got enough room for all of us and our gear?” Pastor T asked.

  Ubaldo checked his watch. “A friend will arrive soon with a van, which I’ll drive the rest of the week. But we should get everything loaded while we wait.”

  Moving quickly, the team helped the two translators stack the suitcases, five high, in the back of the trucks.

  When they reached for Brooke’s, she shot forward, envisioning her baggage flying out of the truck once they hit the highway. “Can you place my suitcase on the bottom?”

  Standing in the truck bed, Ubaldo’s face tensed and his mouth flattened. He turned his back to her and shoved her suitcase on top of the others then jumped out.

  Brooke stared at him with a slackened jaw. Of all the nerve. She turned to Pastor T. “Seriously, I don’t think all our stuff will fit.”

  Brakes screeched behind them and they turned around as a van swerved to the curb. A moment later, the driver emerged lugging tarps and bungee cords. Brooke stepped out of the way as the men draped this over the suitcases then stretched the bungee cords, very securely, over everything.

  The clouds unleashed their furry, and Ubaldo flashed Brooke a victorious smile. One that made her feel off kilter. Now she looked like an idiot. Lovely. She stifled an eye roll and let him lead her into the cab of the truck.

  They squished four in, arms pinned to their sides. Then they pulled away from the curb and into the dark of night, their headlights but a glimmer against the endless stretch of black before them. Brooke craned her neck to watch the lighted airport recede. She pressed her forehead to the window.

  What had Aubrey gotten her into?

  ***

  Ubaldo studied the honey-toned princess sitting in his cab. She was beautiful, and likely knew it. Probably had men clamoring for her attention, taking her out to fancy restaurants, buying her trinkets. And here she was, dressed like a beauty queen for a two-week mission trip. Oh, she’d come to work all right. Work at deepening her tan and buying low-cost jewelry in the market.

  He shook his head and turned his attention back to the road. It was none of his business why she came. His job was to play taxi and listen to them complain about all the injustices they faced in the states—like not getting a car on their sixteenth birthday or having too much geometry homework. Tough life. However did they survive?

  Okay, so maybe he needed an attitude check. He clicked on the radio and turned to a Christian station. Let the broadcaster’s voice override the “mission team’s” banter. He glanced at the clock on the dash. 10:45. Two more hours till they reached the hotel, then another forty-five minutes home, allowing him maybe five hours of sleep. That left no time to check on his mom in the morning.

  The kid sitting next to him leaned over to glance at the dash. “Yo, man, you’re almost on E.”

  “There will be a gas station soon.” His cell phone chimed over the steady swish-plunk of his windshield wipers. “Hello? Okay, I’ll pull over.” He cut to the side of the road, waited until headlights approached, then jumped out, locking the door behind him.

  Rain pelted his face and dripped from his hair as he ran toward Orfeo’s truck. The man got out to meet him and together they looked under the hood. Ubaldo leaned back and moved aside to avoid the rush of steam rising from the engine. He gave the vehicle a few moments to cool down then checked the motor oil—thicker than coffee grounds. Not the best way to start a two-week tour, but likely not the reason the engine overheated. Next he checked the transmission and power steering fluid and found both low.

  Fighting to keep the anger from his voice, he wiped his greasy hands on his jeans and turned to Orfeo. “Did you check your fluids before coming?”

  “Juan was late. I didn’t have time.”

  Great. Ubaldo looked at the three vehicles, jam-packed with North Americans sitting like giant targets on the side of a pitch-black road. “And we have time for this? It would’ve been better to let us wait for you at the well-lit airport, under the eye of armed security.”

  Headlights approached and Ubaldo spun around. He froze for half a second before hurrying back to his truck. Ubaldo unlocked the vehicle, jumped in, and clicked the locks. Three pairs of widened eyes turned to him. The lady near the window—the one he coined Princess, called Brooke by the others—wrapped an arm around a girl who looked to be her sister, and pulled her close. For a moment, her tender beauty captured him.

  The princess lifted her gaze. “Is everything all right?” Her voice sounded strained.

  He nodded. “Orfeo’s truck overheated is all.” He waited until the approaching vehicle sped past and its taillights faded in the distance before getting out once again. Ten minutes later, he returned, drenched, and cranked the engine. He checked the fuel gauge and suppressed a groan.

  He could imagine the questions floating through his passenger’s minds. Like, why hadn’t he filled up before picking them up? Because gas prices were incredibly high and they’d barely given him enough to cover the rental. They said they’d pay for expenses once they arrived and translator fees before they left. Perhaps they assumed he had money to spare.

  Unfortunately, the gas station he’d planned to stop at was already closed, so he continued on. Hopefully Orfeo’s truck wouldn’t overheat again, causing him to idle away what little gas he had. By the time they found an open gas station, his truck sputtered, the gauge now below E.

  ***

  Brooke stared through her window to the dark parking lot, illuminated by a single streetlight. A man dressed in black clothing and holding a long rifle stood beside the pump. His thick, furrowed brow cast shadows over his wide face. Why was he armed? This couldn’t be good.

  Ubaldo jumped out and showed the man his wallet. The officer nodded and stepped back, staring from one vehicle to the next, hand readied on his weapon.

  Eddie, the G-Q kid, swiveled to face her. “Did you notice how he locks the doors every time he gets out?”

  She shivered, watching the other vehicles parked beside them, three sets of headlights calling attention to their crew. She touched her reception-less cell phone. The weight of being at the mercy of a man she didn’t know squeezed the air from her chest. From here on out, everything—from what time they got to the hotel to where they went every day—was beyond her control.

  They said it was when you got the end of yourself that you truly found God.

  “The end” being figurative, right, Lord?

  ***

  Fatima’s teeth chattered as the rain hammered her face, back, and neck, slicking her thin clothing to her skin. Hunger cramped her stomach, bringing with it a wave of nausea. Although her eyes burned for sleep, her thoughts raged. Huddled beneath her embrace, Dinora hugged her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms, and cried. Fatima rocked and hummed a tune Irma’s mother used to sing to her. Though she was unable to bring voice to the words, they played easily through her mind.

  In the dark of night, a light has dawned

  Amid the pain, His love presses on

  Even now, in your despair

  Your Creator is ever near

  Can you hear Him calling?

  Like the rain, His love is falling

  To His child, whom His hand formed

  He will carry you through the storm

  She stared through the thick cluster of trees above her. Searched for stars. All but a handful were swallowed by thick clouds.

  Chapter Eighteen

  B
rooke jolted awake to her cell phone alarm and a throbbing headache. The result of a less-than-restful night’s sleep. Her bed, a foldout mattress without a box spring, sank beneath her. Their window air-conditioning unit blasted their tiny room and raised goose bumps on her arms.

  She sat upright, clutched her thin blanket under her chin, and surveyed the room. A clump of dead bugs hung from a mass of spider webs coiled around the single light bulb dangling from the ceiling.

  She cringed and turned to the lump lying in her sister’s bed. “Wake up.”

  Aubrey moaned and rolled on her side.

  Brooke nudged her shoulder. “We’re leaving in less than an hour.”

  She mumbled something and pulled her pillow around her head.

  Brooke reached over her sister to jostle the next lump—Lydia. “Rise and shine. Come on, ladies. If you want a nice, cold shower this morning, I suggest you hustle.”

  Amanda and Melanie, the other teens assigned to Brooke’s room, sat up and rubbed their eyes.

  “What time is it?” Amanda fished under her pillow and pulled out a cell phone with a silver, glittery case.

  “6:30, which gives us forty-five minutes.” The length of time it normally took Aubrey alone to shower. Multiplying that by four? “I’ve got first dibs on the bathroom.”

  Amanda fell back onto the bed. Aubrey sat up and rubbed her face while her bedmate sifted through an overstuffed suitcase.

  Brooke stood, landing in a puddle of water. She winced. Grabbing her flip-flops, she scanned the tiled floor. She followed the liquid across the room and up the wall to the rusted air-conditioning unit.

  An electrical cord dripping with water led to the outlet. She started to walk towards it, but froze when a giant ant scurried in front of her. Tracking him, she cringed. A stream of ants trailed from a crack in the wall inches from her suitcase—with its packaged granola. A quick check showed the seal intact, indicating the ants were after something else.

  She grabbed her plastic bottle and tiptoed through the water, stepping over ants, and into a long, narrow bathroom. A fogged mirror hung above a cast iron sink. The toilet, standing maybe two feet from the wall, blocked the shower, which was hidden by a mold-covered curtain.