I’ll be honest with you, people: I’m desperate for some fries from Mickey-D’s. I might be willing to wash dishes for five days to get my greasy hands on some of those.
Doesn’t matter. I’m too sick to “volunteer.”
Today Snoopy Nurse seems to be on a mission. She’s standing at the foot of my bed, staring straight at me, her hands perched on her hips.
“Know what you need?” she asks. “Fresh air!”
I shake my head. I don’t have the energy to get up today.
She nods vigorously, her expression stern. “Up we go!”
Sometimes I wish this lady would ignore me like all the rest of them do. Most of those nurses sit around and pick at their fingernails all day, or they eat potato chips and drink sodas and maybe every few hours stick their heads in the room to see if I’ve kicked it yet.
“You like soccer?” She’s yanking on my arm, and it hurts like hell. Everything hurts. She drags my feet around to the side of the bed.
“C’mon, sugar. I’m gonna slide you right on into this wheelchair. You just relax.”
She tugs and yanks, and every place she touches me aches deep in my bones, but I get there.
“All you people like soccer!” She’s starting to wheel me toward the first of probably three hundred metal doors between the infirmary and the outside. My head already hurts. “I mean, you people from South America.”
Us people from South America? I’ve gotta be honest—I don’t even have the energy to answer that one.
We pass by the rooms where the not-sick prisoners sleep. They’re big open spaces with tons of beds stacked on top of each other. They’ve got toilets and showers in there, right out in the open for everybody to see everybody else doing their business. Snoopy Nurse told me that sixty men share one of those rooms. She said I’m lucky. I guess maybe she’s right. It would suck in here even worse if I had to take a dump in front of fifty-nine other guys every day. The only private rooms are in the infirmary and solitary confinement—and nobody’s lucky to end up there.
By the time we get to the place they call the “yards,” I have a brutal headache. If I were back in the ICU, I’d be telling TJ to circle the face with the squiggles for a mouth. I never did that, not even once. I always went with either the smile or the straight line.
Snoopy Nurse pushes open the door to outside and the sunlight hits my eyes. I squint and put my hand over them. It hurts. It’s like a thousand knives stabbing into my brain and then twisting back and forth. I’m telling you, people, we are getting close to a ten on the pain scale.
“Let’s go watch some of your com-padres play fút-bol!” She leans down to look at me. I can’t open my eyes, but I can tell she’s leaning over me because her shadow has blocked the sunlight, so I’m getting a moment’s break from the stabbing knives of light.
“See!” Snoopy Lady is way too cheerful for my pounding head to take in. “I’m learnin’ some Spanish, Ángel!”
And I thought TJ’s Spanish was bad.
She wheels me along the sidewalk. I know I’m outside, even though I can’t open my eyes. I smell the dirt. It smells good. Not like cleaning supplies. The infirmary always smells like bleach.
“Pásalo! Pásalo!” I hear the thud of the fútbol, a bunch of guys yelling and calling out.
I open my eyes to see twenty or so men all wearing blue jumpsuits. They’re running around on a deep-orange patch of dirt. There’s no grass, no goal. Poor dudes don’t even have cleats. They’re running around in their socks, stained orange from the strange-colored dirt. Big clouds of orange dust surround them, and every time one of them kicks the ball, another cloud puffs up. They don’t care, though. They’re gonna play no matter what. They’ve tossed those weird plastic slip-on shoes to the side. Most have, at least. Some of them took off their socks and put them on over the plastic shoes.
Smart.
A couple of these guys are good, I’m not gonna lie. When one dude steals the ball and dribbles all the way across the field, I can’t help letting out a yelp. I think I’m trying to say, “GOOOOOLLLL!” but it doesn’t come out that way. Even the stupid yelp makes me suck in a deep breath. I feel the air, gritty against my nose. It’s dusty out here and it makes me want to sneeze. I try to reach up and wipe my nose, but I can’t get my arm to do anything. I double over and sneeze again.
Oh damn, that hurts.
I sneeze again.
I’m trying to suck in air, trying to fill up my lungs, trying to ignore the way my chest feels like it’s collapsing in on me.
And then I’m coughing. My head is in my lap and my whole body is contracting in on itself. I’m about to cough up a lung. I’m hacking and wheezing and I can feel it: all those guys who were running around on the dirt stop to look at me.
Please God, do not let me be dying.
A couple of them jog over to see what’s going on. One of the guys kneels down and touches my shoulder.
“¿Qué te pasa, amigo? ¿Necesitas ayuda?”
He talks like a Mexican, his words jumping up and down.
“¿No hablas español? ¿Qué hablas, amigo? ¿Cómo te ayudo?”
He wants to help me. Do what? I don’t know. Not much he can do, unless he’s got an extra heart he wants to loan me. By now I probably could use a new pair of lungs, too.
He stands up and calls across the dirt field. “Oye! Pascual! Es indio! Ven! Rápido! Es indio!”
Finally I stop coughing long enough to see the Mexican calling somebody else over—a small guy with long black hair jogs toward me. He’s indio, like me, but I bet he doesn’t speak Mam. We’ve got lots of indios in Guatemala. Most of them don’t know how to speak my language.
“Ma b’a’na?”
Oh. He does speak Mam. He’s asking me if I’m okay, and I don’t know how to answer.
“Min b’I’n wune’,” I whisper. “I don’t know.”
I turn my head sideways. It’s still resting on my lap. Nurse Snoopy is running over to a guard, I guess maybe trying to get some extra help, or freaking out because her patient’s about to drop dead out here in the yards.
He keeps talking. “Ti tb’iya?”
“Ángel,” I whisper.
“B’a’natsun. A nbiye’ Pascual.”
“Ma.”
It’s so simple. Pascual is sitting down beside me, resting his hand on my back. And he’s asking me what my name is and telling me his own. That’s all. But hearing the words, seeing his face, so familiar. The broad cheeks, clear skin and the wide eyes the color of my own mother’s …
He keeps his hand on my back and murmurs, talking to me in Mam. I close my eyes and feel the words fill my mind, the familiar sounds. Tears run down my cheeks, warm and clean, pushing the dust from my face.
My lungs fill with air, and this stranger keeps talking, stringing together the syllables of my childhood. I’m crying, and he’s piecing me back together, taking me home.
“Go on now!” a male voice barks. “Get on outta here. Nobody said you could come over here, boy!”
I open my eyes to see a guard jerking Pascual to his feet.
“Kayixtiba, Ángel. Kayixtiba.” Pascual whispers good-bye, holding my gaze as the guard drags him back inside that terrible place.
“Don’t go bringin’ this boy out here again, Gladys,” the guard barks at Snoopy Nurse. “Ain’t nobody gonna die on my watch!”
Gladys kicks the brakes on my wheelchair. She pulls the handles, and my chair starts to roll back.
“His name is Ángel!” she says. “He is a man, not a boy.” She shoves the wheelchair forward a little too hard. “And I’d like for you to know, Officer Wills, that Ángel knows English. He understands every word you are saying.” She starts to push me toward the big metal doors. “So you watch what you say! You hear me, Officer Wills? You watch what you say about this young man!”
She shoves the door open and we are back inside. And I’m grinning like an idiot, because Snoopy Lady just went all badass on the mean guard.
> But I can’t keep my smile, because my head is throbbing again. I close my eyes and let her push me through the halls.
“We’re back, sugar,” Nurse Snoopy whispers. She helps me back into the bed and eases my back onto the hard mattress. “Want me to read that nice letter from your friend again?”
I nod, still not able to open my eyes. I listen as she rummages in the bag under my bed.
Yeah, this place sucks. Atsalu taq’wixil.
It completely and totally sucks. But whenever I want to give up on my stupid, messed-up heart, all I have to do is ask Nurse Snoopy to pull the letter out from under my bed. She unfolds it, and I trace all those birds with my finger and listen while she reads it to me, over and over.
I refuse to die in this place.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
VIVI
BIRD JOURNAL
September 16, 9:16 A.M.
Resplendent quetzal (Pharomachrus mocinno)
Physical Description: astoundingly beautiful member of the quetzal genus. Iridescent green body; red belly; splendid, multicolored tail coverts.
Social Behavior: generally solitary; remain for long periods in one place, particularly in fruit trees.
Habitat: found in cloud forests throughout southern Mexico and Central America
Call: very-good, very-good.
This is, without a doubt, the most extraordinary bird I have ever seen!
WE HAVE FOUND the right home for Ángel.
How do I know? That papaya tree in the yard—the one I told Mom about to convince her to come here with us—it’s beautiful and fragrant, with enormous spiky leaves that reach out over the water’s edge like a parasol. Its trunk overflows with ripe yellow fruit.
And that tree just happens to be the favorite resting place of one of the world’s most glorious birds: a male resplendent quetzal.
And oh, how resplendent he is! His wings and crown feathers almost glow with iridescent green and blue and all the variations of colors between. His breast is a brilliant red, so bright that I almost feel the need to turn away. I don’t, though. I watch.
On sunny mornings, the lake reflects the same colors as the resplendent quetzal—iridescent greens and blues—sunlight shimmering on its still surface. It’s ringed with volcanos, bright green mountains with soft curves and flattened peaks. This place is an oasis, a refuge for those who have the luxury to travel the globe and then choose the perfect place to settle. I know that now. I know how incredibly fortunate we are.
To get here, I maneuvered a borrowed truck through crowded city streets tagged with graffiti. On the outskirts of the city, we passed entire towns built from scraps of corrugated metal, houses clinging to sloping hillsides, patched together with colored tarps. We moved through nearly deserted villages, where it seemed the population of stray dogs might have been greater than that of humans. We followed a brightly painted bus overflowing with people along the curving road to Sololá. And then the horizon opened in front of us, and the lake glowed blue in the distance. We maneuvered through the cobblestone streets of Panajachel, passing fruit stands and markets filled with colorful woven textiles. We passed quaint restaurants and loud T-shirt vendors calling out to us in English. We continued toward the lake, toward the great volcanoes, their peaks covered in wispy clouds.
We traveled rutted dirt roads. I gunned the engine and we climbed steep hills. I looked back and saw TJ gripping the edge of the truck, holding on tight, his face filled with wonder. And then we arrived at our home on the edge of the lake. I pulled onto the gravel parking pad and TJ hopped out of the truck. He rushed toward the lake, not looking back. He pulled off his shirt, tossed his flip-flops aside, and dove deep into the blue water.
Mom and I sat, silent.
We have traveled the world, but never have we seen such a place. It’s extraordinary, just like my resplendent quetzal.
And, just as I’ve always been, I am grateful for the Tesla my father gifted me. I am grateful because it gave us this. And this is beautiful.
Every morning TJ and I both get up at dawn. We go outside while Mom is still sleeping. He swims and I watch. I watch TJ glide through the still water, and I wonder how this all happened. I think about the first time we met—the one I can’t remember—and the second time, which made me desperate to avoid him. I think about how natural it feels that we are here together, and I imagine our future with such ease. I still have no idea what’s coming next, but I know it will include TJ.
I also watch that quetzal, perched on the edge of the papaya leaf in all of his colorful glory. That bird can sit so still for hours on end. So patient, so calm. When he finally takes flight, his wings powerfully unfurl red and yellow and black, and his long blue tail feathers curve gently into the wind.
As my quetzal flies away, he calls out in a loud, melodious voice: very-good, very-good. Very-good, very-good.
He goes off to find fruit or lizards, to fill his belly with good things.
I don’t worry when he leaves. I have learned, over these few short days, that he always comes back to me.
TJ climbs onto the dock, shakes the water out of his hair, and wraps a frayed towel around his waist. He leans down to kiss me, his damp hand cool against my cheek.
His kiss, though. After all this time, it still sends heat through me.
I’m not afraid of that anymore either.
He pulls me to my feet and we head inside. The house is simple—bright ochre walls and tile floors. Rattan furniture covered in woven fabric. It’s nothing special, but it’s warm and homey. The sofa is a bit worn at the edges, and the bedspreads are thin and frayed. But it is our house for now, and it is ready—we’ve been here for five days, unloading medical supplies and scrubbing surfaces clean. We know Ángel doesn’t have long, but we’d rather he not get a nasty infection while he’s still with us.
Ángel’s room is on the ground floor, with large doors that swing open to the patio. We removed the furniture to make room for his hospital bed.
The view from Ángel’s room is incredible. He will be able to sit up and look out across the still lake, watch the sun rise and set each day. When he can no longer go outside, we will fling open a wall of windows to bring the outside in.
Yesterday we bought a stack of soft blankets that we can warm in the oven. TJ checked in at the clinic again, to be sure he would know how to contact the staff if we need them. It’s simple—nothing like the ICU. But they’re nice, and they’re willing to offer us support.
In truth, this isn’t technical work. TJ researched it extensively: “end-of-life care.” He says we are ready, and I believe him. All we need to do is keep Ángel comfortable and surround him with love.
As long as he makes it to us, we can do that.
Everyone was so generous before we left. Prashanti organized a supply drive at the hospital. My mom planned “Ángel’s Art Walk,” a night when all of the local gallery owners in St. Augustine donated their proceeds toward his care. We have everything: a hospital bed, a wheelchair, oxygen tanks, needles, IV bags, and enough medicine and supplies to last several months—whatever we don’t use, we’ll donate to the clinic here.
We are ready. All we need now is Ángel.
I stand at the kitchen window, looking out over the still, deep lake.
I feel TJ’s arms wrap around me. He presses his body to my back and rests his chin on my shoulder. His skin still feels cool from the lake, and he smells like the minerals that make the water so blue.
“He’s on his way,” TJ whispers in my ear. “I just got the call.”
I turn, throw my arms around his neck, and let out a yelp. “Finally!”
My mom comes into the kitchen.
“You’ll get the house ready?” I ask her.
“Yes, yes.” She nods and smiles. “I’ll take care of everything here. You two need to hit the road!”
Ángel was in detention for a month. They said two weeks, but I guess they lied. Before today he only called us once—we couldn’t call the
re. I sent letters, though, and lots of drawings. When he called, he sounded tired. I asked him how things were in that place, and he said he’d rather not talk about it, so we didn’t.
It must have been really bad, if that’s how he answered.
But he survived it, and he’s on his way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TJ
IT’S AN UNMARKED PLANE. White, with a bunch of numbers printed in black on the side. The rear wing is painted navy blue, with the profile of an eagle in white. I’ve never seen a plane like this.
Vivi and I sat in the truck bed at the edge of the tarmac for an hour, waiting, watching. We found a McDonald’s for Ángel, because we wanted to bring him French fries. They’re here in the truck with us, filling it up with the smell of grease and getting cold and nasty.
We weren’t the only ones waiting. A bunch of families stood clumped together, staring through the chain-link fence that lines the tarmac. We all kept looking up at the sky, searching for signs of an airplane.
Now, finally, the plane lands and taxis along the runway toward us. We get out of our borrowed truck and head toward the fence. Nobody talks, and the roar of the engine fills our ears.
The rear door opens, and airport workers roll a stairway toward the door. Tons of people come down the stairs and head across the tarmac toward us—mostly men, but a few women carrying little kids. A guy steps onto the tarmac and falls to his knees, kissing the ground. He jumps up and holds his hand to the skies. “Gracias a Dios!” he calls out. “Estoy libre!”
“What’s he saying?” I ask, nudging Vivi.
Flight Season Page 26
