“Relax. I can spot you,” Brent interjects. “Let me buy your plane ticket as an early birthday present. E-mail me the dates and I’ll book it right away.”
Why is he pushing this? His offer is super generous and that’s one thing Brent has always been, but five minutes ago he could barely grasp the concept of a pilgrimage. Now he’s volunteering his patronage.
“That’s sweet of you, but I can’t let you do that.” My family has lived paycheck to paycheck for most of my life, and it seems I’ve inherited my father’s self-made-man vanity.
“Yes, you can. You never let me pay for movies or concerts, which means I’ve got, hmmm, let’s see . . . .” Brent counts his fingers, his blithe smile an assurance he intends to win this one. “Yep, according to my calculations, I owe you fifty-four dates. Come on Gabi, it’s the least I can do. I doubt I’d be graduating, let alone getting into college, if you hadn’t kicked my butt into gear. Let me help you out for once.”
“This isn’t about me,” I realize out loud. And that’s the very thought that makes this act of treason plausible. My brief stint as a rebel in San Antonio didn’t last long, but I do think I could play a martyr. Lucas’s cause is worth imprisonment or exile—the two most likely sentences El Jefe will inflict once he discovers I’ve disobeyed a direct order.
So be it. When I picture my brother lying in his current prison, neither punishment sounds all that bad.
“Okay, Brent. Buy the ticket. I’m in.”
• • •
Nylon is noisy. There’s no escaping it. My backpack is huge and awkward and I feel like a drunken Santa Claus stumbling down a dark hallway with an overstuffed gift sack.
Dad left for Vilseck and Mom has spent most of her waking hours at the hospital, so making travel preparations wasn’t difficult. Seth had already decided to do the walk with or without me. I told him my dad changed his mind, and I’d meet him at the airport in time for our 7 A.M. flight.
Now the trick will be getting out of this house in the dark without my ginormous backpack taking out Mom’s favorite lamp in the process.
Why did I pack so much? I doubt Bilbo Baggins ever had to deal with this nonsense.
As I creep through the living room, a floorboard creaks beneath my extra weight. I freeze. The lamp I was worried about breaking switches on, the colors of its Tiffany shade blinding me like a watchtower spotlight. Mom is on our new Ikea Söderhamn sofa, her hand clutching the cord of the Victorian lamp. I’m struck by how these two styles don’t go together at all, but right now shaky interior design is the least of my worries.
“Were you going to leave a note at least?” Mom sits up like she’s been expecting me. Her face is hard. Gangster hard.
Yep, I am so busted.
I lower my eyes to the pristine hiking boots I’ll never get to use. “How did you find out?”
Mom yawns and wraps a crochet blanket around her shoulders. “You never do your laundry without me pestering you about it a dozen times first. Last night you did three loads.”
Laundry? Are you kidding me? After all my scheming, that stupid Snuggles bear was the one who sold me out?
“So that’s it. You tell Dad and none of us accomplish the one thing Lucas asked us to do.” I unclick the shoulder straps of my bag and let my Matteo-sized backpack fall to the floor. “All because Sergeant Paranoid doesn’t believe I can travel with a member of the opposite sex without getting pregnant in the process. Can’t you see how ridiculous this is? In seventeen years, I screwed up one time.”
Now my mom is wide awake. “Your father has a lot on his plate, Gabi. Lucas is plenty, but he’s also got six devastated families to serve, and the last thing he needs to worry about is his only daughter wandering around a foreign country.”
“Which is why he should just—”
“Let me finish, Gabriela.” Mom runs her hands through her hair, like she’s about to make an important announcement to important people and wants to look the part. This is a demeanor I’ve seen before, most often when Dad was deployed. It means my mother is about to ditch the passenger seat and take the steering wheel.
“As I was saying, your father has a lot on his mind, so I’m not sure he’s thinking clearly about this, about how important this journey must be to Lucas.” Mom takes a deep breath. “The last thing I want is to undermine your father. We make our decisions together as a team, despite how one-sided it may look on the outside. But I’ve also been married to the man for twenty years, and sometimes I suspect I know what he truly wants even more than he does.”
“And what does he want?” I demand. “For me to live with the guilt of having failed Lucas for the rest of my life?”
“Cut the melodrama, Gabi. What your father wants is simple—for his children to reach adulthood safely, without having to experience the kind of struggles he had to. What he sometimes forgets is that this world will never be safe, and two of his children are practically adults already.” Mom gets up from the sofa, picks up my pack, and helps reposition it on my back. “I’ll talk to your father. Now you’d better get going, otherwise you’ll miss your flight.”
Salty tears line the back of my throat as I give my mom an unexpected hug goodbye. “Thank you. For being on my team.”
“I’m always on your team, Gabriela. You just have to give me the chance to play.”
I break Mom’s embrace and turn towards the door.
“Gabi, wait.”
My shoulders sink. She’s about to change her mind. Mom disappears down the hallway towards Dad’s office.
“Take this,” she says when she returns, holding out a plastic bag.
Now I’m really confused. “What is it?”
“Something your father wanted to do for Lucas while he walked the camino. Something your Grandma Guadalupe did for him when he got sick.” Mom hands me one hundred extra euros and the clear plastic bag filled with tiny tealight candles. “Now it’s up to you.”
I accept this parting gift, aware that I’m walking this route for Dad as much as I am for Lucas. Maybe if I do this one thing right, he’ll trust me again.
Maybe I’ll start trusting myself.
Chapter 6
Seven hundred and eighty kilometers. Five hundred miles. The distance between Cleveland and New York. That’s how far we’re walking. Well, almost that far. Mom will talk to my teachers, but two weeks of class plus spring break is probably the most I can miss and still manage to graduate, so we’ll have to take a short bus ride in the middle of the route to speed things up. Still, walking for this long is insanity. And I willingly agreed to take part in it.
Not to mention that I most certainly overpacked. This is the first detail I discern as I study the other tourists—oops, I mean pilgrims—on the train ride from Paris to the Spanish border. Let’s start with the young woman across the aisle, the one who hasn’t looked up from her magazine in almost two hours. Her stylish sporting gear makes me wonder if she’s a model for Eddie Bauer or The North Face. She’s got to be either Dutch or Norwegian. Tall and very Heidi-looking with white-blond hair worn in two long braids. Like the rest of these passengers, her equipment tells me Europeans take hiking very seriously. Their fancy trekking poles, super lightweight packs, and layers of waterproof material make it look like they’re about to tackle Everest.
My contribution to the world of camino fashion? A ratty pair of Adidas warm-up pants that should have been thrown out two seasons ago. Seth brought his camo-green rucksack, which holds a lot of junk, but stinks like canvas and makes us stick out like silly Americans who have no idea what the heck they’re doing.
Seth has uttered maybe three words the entire overnight train ride. He rests his head against the window, looking like he’s in desperate need of an energy drink. I decide it’s time for another round of “let’s see what gets a reaction,” so I dig through my daypack, hoping that what I’m about to reveal will remind Seth we’re doing this pilgrimage for Lucas, not as a ridiculously long penance that requires him to glower 24/
7.
I pull out the Barbie-sized G.I. Joe action figure—action figure, not doll, Lucas always insisted—that sat on my brother’s nightstand most of his childhood. Only I’ve made a few alterations. To start, I taped a small photograph of Lucas’s face over the G.I. Joe’s face. Then I stripped the soldier of his gun and wrapped his arm in a mini-rosary, just to give him a more pilgrim vibe.
“Get it?” I say. “It’s like that traveling gnome. You know, the one from the commercials?”
Seth just stares at the toy. Okay, so maybe it isn’t genius in the sense of being highly original, but I still think Lucas would find it hilarious.
“I figure we take pictures of G.I. Joe at all the major stops along the pilgrimage route, and then show Lucas the photos once he wakes up.”
For a second Seth seems upset, like this is some sort of sacrilege, but then he holds up his phone and grins. “I can post the pics online, if you want. Make our little soldier his own Facebook profile and everything.”
Hmmm, I never actually thought about sharing the photos. While I’m on the camino I’m using Mom’s international prepaid phone, which is so old and bare-bones it doesn’t even have a camera. “I don’t know about that. Maybe. I’m just praying Lucas won’t be pissed that I took Army Ken out of his mint-condition collector’s box.”
Seth studies his phone’s screen, searching for a signal now that we’re pulling into the final train station. He lifts the device to his ear.
“Miss your battalion buddies already?”
“Uh, no. I highly doubt Sergeant Major Santiago considers himself part of my posse.”
“Wait, what?” Like a cat swatting at a bird, I strike the phone from Seth’s hand. It soars across the aisle, stopping to rest between Heidi’s perfectly petite feet.
Seth glares at me, then gets up to retrieve his phone. The North Face model gives him her best Claudia Schiffer smile and hands it over. They exchange a few words and a flirtatious laugh before Seth returns.
“What was that about, Gabi? This phone cost most of my tax return.”
“Sorry. I overreacted. But you cannot call my dad.”
“Uh, yeah, I can. He’ll want to know we arrived safely.”
“It’s not a good idea,” I insist. “He’s got a lot going on right now. We shouldn’t bother him unless we absolutely have to.”
Seth’s frigid eyes lock onto mine. He’s waiting for me to blink, willing me to crack. “You’re lying.” He sighs, like he knows he’s going to regret his next question. “Okay, Gabi. Why don’t you want me to call your dad?”
I cross my arms and lean back into my seat. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t think the Army trained lowly privates in interrogation tactics.”
“It’s a simple question, though I suspect you’ve already answered it.” A sneer lurks on Seth’s lips. “Your dad doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”
I don’t respond. Instead, I stare out the window at the walled town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, at the base of the Pyrenees mountains. The place is all cobblestone streets, red-tile roofs, and overflowing window boxes, but Seth’s swelling anger manages to suffocate the quaintness.
After muttering a series of colorful words that could only be strung together by a soldier, he gets up from his seat, ready to disembark the train. “I can’t believe this. Your dad is going to murder me. That’s what I get for trusting the word of a high-school kid.”
The train stops and Seth hurries down the aisle with the rest of the eager crowd, but I still need to get my backpack down from the overhead storage compartment. It’s so awkward and heavy that I nearly fall over trying to get the stupid thing back on.
“Thanks for the help,” I mutter at the back of Seth’s head.
And who says chivalry is dead?
At least figuring out where to go next is easy. All I have to do is follow the mob of pilgrims getting off of the train. Most wear these large white scallop shells (the one from Dad’s dream) around their necks or on their packs. Apparently it was worn in the Middle Ages and tells everyone you’re a pilgrim. Talk about the original statement piece.
I weave through the crowd and catch up to Seth. “Why are you freaking out? My mom knows I’m here and she’ll tell my dad soon enough. It’s not like the military is going to issue a Missing Person notice for me.”
“Not for you. But they’ll need one for me after your father buries me six feet under.” Seth’s pace doesn’t slow one bit. “I’m supposed to be looking out for you, not kidnapping you.”
“Looking out for me? What, like I need your protection?”
The fact that Seth sees himself as my chaperone is infuriating, but I’m momentarily distracted by the man crossing the street in front of us. He leans on a long shepherd’s crook and is trailed by a border collie who herds three brown cows right down the middle of the main street. It’s like we’ve walked onto the set of The Sound of Music, but Seth doesn’t even notice.
“You have no idea the position you’ve put me in,” he seethes. “Then again, why would you? This is all a big game to you.”
“No. It’s not. Chill out. My dad will come around.” At least I hope he will, though that can’t happen unless Mom breaks the news in her own diplomatic way. But if Seth turns me in, my father will be on the next plane to Barcelona, intent on dragging my sorry butt home.
I hold up the G.I. Joe and wave it in Seth’s face. “Don’t worry, the Sarge will be fine once he sees our photos and realizes what we’re doing for Lucas. Lucas, Seth. Forget about my dad. Think about Lucas.”
Seth does think. In total silence. For the next quarter of a mile.
We reach a bridge crossing a river lined with stone houses that must be hundreds of years old. Other than church bells, chirping birds, and lots of pilgrim footsteps, the town is quiet. Whenever I exhale (which, given the altitude, is often), my breath turns to mist as it mixes with the steam rising from the river.
Seth’s expression isn’t one of contemplative awe. He doesn’t look angry anymore, just uncomfortable, like he knows he doesn’t belong here. Like he has no idea why he’s walking through a medieval village in southern France with a bunch of strangers on holiday when his best friend is in a hospital bed and the rest of his buddies are being shot at. Seth’s short haircut, solid build, and busted arm draw a few curious glances from the other walkers, but his stay-away body language makes it clear he isn’t taking questions.
Where are we going? Why is he torturing me like this? Are you going to call my dad or not? I want to shout. Instead, I try summoning patience, which is so not my virtue.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, okay?” We close in on the official headquarters of the Camino de Santiago, the place where we’re supposed to pick up these pilgrim passports that enable us to stay in the cheap municipal hostels.
Please stop, please stop, please stop.
“Did you hear me?” I repeat. “I said I’m sorry.”
If only Seth knew the rare and precious value of these words, coming from me.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “Let’s just get our credential.”
Hallelujah. My heart pumps liquid relief. I speed-walk towards the pilgrim office door before Seth can change his mind.
“Hold up,” he says from behind me. “I have one condition.”
Of course he does. I turn. Slowly. “And that is?”
“You have to be honest with me from here on out. You have to give me no-bullshit answers to all my questions, no matter what I ask.”
But that makes no sense. What could Seth possibly want to know about me?
“Fine.”
“I’m serious, Gabi. No more BS,” he repeats, arms crossed like he’s a bouncer standing in front of an exclusive nightclub.
“Got it.”
Seth nods. “Then let’s get going.”
“First, let’s make it official.” I set G.I. Lucas down on a stone ledge for his inaugural photo in front of the camino logo—a golden scallop shell against a brigh
t blue background.
Then we enter the credentialing office. Now, if the Middle Ages had its own version of the living hell that is the DMV, I’m pretty sure this was it. A lengthy procession of pilgrims wait to see one little old Frenchman armed with a rubber stamp. As we stand in line, multiple languages assault my ears from every direction.
Seth gives me a look that pretty much sums it up: What are we doing here?
Finally, I’m next. With a gnarled, shaking hand, the elderly man slams his stamp down on my pilgrim’s passport like he’s squashing a ridiculously large bug. He smiles and lifts his crinkly blue eyes to mine. “Buen camino, mon chéri.”
I take hold of the document and suddenly this is real. I don’t know why I’m here, or why Seth decided not to call my dad, or what my brother even wants us to accomplish, but I am now an official pilgrim on the Way of St. James.
• • •
Nobody—not even Rick Steves—told me we’d be scaling cliffs on Day One. Most photos of the camino that I found online were of these long, winding roads that stretched through wheat fields and rolling vineyards, the occasional steeple of an old church reaching up to kiss a clear blue sky. Nope, none of that here. For the first few kilometers the incline is gradual, but then the road turns steep and doesn’t quit. The scenery becomes breathtaking, literally, as we approach a series of switchbacks.
To make matters worse, Seth is still pissed. His brutal pacing proves it.
As we march single-file up the mountain, I suddenly understand why so many pilgrims regard this journey as a profound spiritual experience. After all, I’m already praying, “Hail Mary, full of grace, slow this guy’s pace before he kills me.” Yet there’s no way I can ask Seth for a break so soon. That would mean showing weakness, and that’s the worst thing I can do.
We reach the next summit, where a blue and white statue of the Madonna and Child overlooks the valley behind us. The shrine is draped with wilting flowers, empty wine bottles stuffed with handwritten notes, even a few pairs of worn-out hiking boots. I approach the statue and see a hiker in a neon yellow windbreaker drop to his knees. He lights a small candle, moving his lips in a silent prayer as he sets it on the altar. Seth waits in the shade nearby, watching this display of unabashed piety like he’s observing an endangered species in the wild.
Beneath Wandering Stars Page 5
