She flashes me another serene smile. “Jens is different. Special.”
I knew it. I could have sworn I felt a spark between us, but I also got the sense that maybe I wasn’t his type. “Special how?”
“Those monks I mentioned? Jens is thinking about becoming one.” Katja states this fact like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “That’s why we’re here. We’re walking the camino to find out if he has a vocation.”
I almost choke. “Come again?”
This is so not the explanation I expected.
To start, I didn’t think guys in this day and age even considered such a thing. And while Jens may be deep, he doesn’t seem especially devout. Although this does explain why he only let his flirtation go so far.
I release a defeated sigh. “Well, I can tell you one thing. Those dreads will have to go. If my grandmother was here, she’d grab scissors and do the honors herself.”
Katja laughs. “He hasn’t decided yet, but there’s been a monk or priest in our family for every generation going back a hundred years, so Jens is trying to figure out if the next one might be him.” A peaceful expression—the expression of someone who knows exactly who she is and what she stands for—settles on Katja’s face. She passes her hand over our candles, like she longs to feel the heat.
“So is your pilgrimage similar to how the Amish send their kids out to party for a year before they decide if they really want to be Amish?” I ask, hoping my question isn’t offensive.
“Kind of. We needed to get out on our own. See the world for what it is. Figure out who we are and who we’re meant to be. Learn to love people who are difficult to love, which tends to be the people closest to us. People like brothers.”
Her eyes shining with a hope I’ve witnessed in very few people, Katja leans back against a wall built hundreds of years before we were born. A wall that will likely be here hundreds of years after we’re both dead. “In the end, isn’t that why we’re all here?”
Chapter 14
“Café con leche,” I groan to the barista behind the counter. He responds to my demand for this last of the legal stimulants with a cocked eyebrow and a knowing smirk. I’m not hung over, but I didn’t get much sleep, which means I feel (and look) like Death.
Katja throws back her espresso. “What time are you hitting the road?”
“I need to take the first bus out or I’ll lose an entire day of walking,” I say, stirring three packets of raw sugar into my coffee. I can already tell it’s going to be a three-packet kind of day.
Pilgrim purists that they are, my friends will continue on foot, which means we won’t cross paths again until Germany. After we finish our coffees, we say our auf wiedersehens. Jens turns about six shades of pink when I wish him good luck figuring out if he has “the call,” before casually suggesting that he give me a ring if he ends up choosing girls over God.
Apparently Death-Warmed-Over Gabi is also Extra-Bold, No-Filter Gabi.
Speaking of higher authorities, when I board the bus, my father calls. I hesitate to answer. He hasn’t called me once, but I can’t imagine Dad would want to chat unless it was about something serious. That leaves two options: really good news or really bad news. I’d rather choose Door Number Three: not knowing either way. The other paths are too final.
As the phone vibrates in my hand, a lump forms in my throat. My eyes fix on the blur of the passing scenery, which is orange, dusty, and flat.
The dreaded meseta.
I answer on the final ring. “Hi, Dad. What’s up? Has Lucas improved?”
My chipper words pour out like a tidal wave of optimism I have yet to feel.
“Nada, Gabi. No changes.”
Dad’s frigid words harden into an uncomfortable silence. The acidic coffee sloshing around my empty stomach starts to eat it. That lump is now stuck, as though I inhaled a handful of the copper dirt lining the camino. It feels like every swallow for the rest of my life will be like forcing down a mouthful of saltine crackers without any water.
“Dad, I never meant to—”
“I don’t want to talk about that right now, Gabriela. You are not my main concern. Not when we have more important matters to discuss.”
“What happened?” My question comes out as a croak. If Dad isn’t calling to chew me out for disobeying direct orders yet again, that means a major decision is about to be made, and Mom is too torn up to dial the phone.
I didn’t want to know the outcome, but I already do. The words slam against me like a blow to the head: life support. “How much longer . . . .”
“His condition is worsening. The doctors think Lucas may be slipping into a vegetative state.” My father’s voice cracks. I can practically hear the tears sliding down his face. “Once that happens, there’s only a slight chance he’ll come out of it. And if I have to deploy suddenly, I can’t leave your mother to deal with this alone.”
“What are you saying? You’d actually consider taking him off life support?” I don’t hide my disbelief. Dad has always made it clear that he’s firmly against anything that threatens the sanctity of life. “Can you even do that?”
“Allowing nature to take its course isn’t the same thing as assisted suicide, mija.” Dad sighs deeply into the phone. “We’re not at that point yet, but if nothing changes and the doctors tell us Lucas is gone, brain dead . . . no se. How can we ever know for certain what it is that makes a person truly alive?”
I can see this is a moral gray area, but why in the world is my father sharing his dilemma with me?
“Lucas isn’t gone yet. He’s still here; I know he is!” I’m blubbering now, displaying the ugly cry for all the world to see. Other passengers on the bus stare, but I couldn’t care less.
“Calm yourself, Gabi. We’re not making any decisions yet. But I thought you should know, seeing how you’re an adult who can handle the realities of life on her own.” Dad’s words drip with resignation and resentment, not with the unshakable faith I’m used to.
Why is he doing this? When I told Dad he should trust me more, I meant I should have a later curfew and be able to get my own car, not be involved in determining my brother’s end-of-life status.
Fine. If my father wants me to cast my vote, here it is: “I swear, Dad. If you take Lucas off life support before I get home, I will never forgive you.”
With that, I hang up the phone, but my hands won’t stop shaking for the next five minutes. My father never mentioned Seth, which means the jerk hasn’t tried calling my parents to let them know we got separated. That also means he’s still trying to find me, though Seth should be kilometers ahead of me by now.
The bus drops me off in Astorga, a decent-sized city with a lot of concrete. I stop for my second coffee and a mantecada (this spongy, orange cake thing that looks like a flattened muffin), but I can hardly choke it down thanks to my resident throat lump. Once the city sprawl is behind me, I pass through a landscape of undulating hillsides, manicured Merlot vines, and wildflower carpets the camino cuts in half.
None of it matters. I might as well be walking through the movie set of an apocalyptic wasteland, through a painting drained of all pigment. All I see is ugliness and death. Not a natural world that is perfectly ordered, but a natural world that is chaotic and cruel.
An army of ants devouring a baby bird fallen from its nest.
A hawk dive-bombing a field in search of unsuspecting prey.
A trail of litter that proves we humans are nothing but highly evolved parasites.
Then there are the allegations, the constant reminders that I’m as much of a beast as the rest. Accusations about how I used to tease Lucas for his stutter, not to mention the countless promises I made to him that I promptly broke. We were solid until I joined Lucas in high school. Somehow I ended up in the semi-popular crowd, whereas Lucas remained on the fringe like usual. He could have moved up the food chain if he actually cared, but he didn’t. What kills me is there were many times I did care.
Times
I chose them—people whose faces I can hardly picture now—over him.
What about the night before his deployment? Remember that?
The reproachful question stops me dead in my tracks. What the hell is that? I hear a rattling in the bushes to my left, but I’m pretty sure rattlesnakes aren’t native to Spain.
Do I remember the night before Lucas’s deployment? Of course I do. It’s easy to recall moments when you sucked at life on an epic scale. I’d been out with Brent and lost track of time, again, which meant I was an hour late for Lucas’s farewell dinner. He shrugged it off like it was no big deal because that’s how Lucas is—gracious, forgiving, generous—but for the next five miles, all I can think about is how I could have had one more hour with my brother.
Now I’d trade all my months with Brent for one more minute.
The road descends and my thoughts spiral down with it, until I’m in full on ranting and raving mode. “It isn’t fair!” I scream across the valley.
My cry bounces off the rock walls and slams back into me, as hot and oppressive as the afternoon sun beating down on my bare shoulders.
You’re right. Life isn’t fair. Get used to it.
“But why Lucas? He was perfect! What’s the point of trying to be good, of following rules, obeying orders? Things get screwed up regardless!”
Yes, I’m talking to myself like a crazy person, but it brings relief like nothing on this pilgrimage has so far. Not last night’s binge session, not all the candles in all the pretty sanctuaries, not the array of nice people I’ve met with their “Kumbaya” outlooks on life.
A bend in the road leads to a pilgrim shrine made of stacked stones. Without a second thought, I smash it to pieces. Karate kick it, actually. With the foot I use for crossing soccer balls, which isn’t the smartest move, since my big toe starts bleeding through my sock.
This journey is starting to involve a lot more pain than it’s worth. How like life.
I pick up one of the toppled stones and carry it to a small grotto in the distance. The shallow cave is filled with colorful flowers planted in clay pots, along with a collection of random saint statues. I’m no good at softball, but I’m tempted to use the stone in my hand for pitching practice. Rage pumps through my arteries and Dad’s nickname rings truer than ever: I am a bull who sees nothing but a world painted red.
Do it. Do it! screams the sinister voice that keeps following me.
No, Gabriela, says another.
While the angel and devil on my shoulders battle it out, something inside me stays my trembling hand. I drop the rock and pull out a candle, muttering as I light the match, “See? I’m playing the game. It’s a really stupid game, but I’m doing it.”
And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Lucas with us. I will pray, do penance, and petition whatever deity requires it. Jehovah, Allah, Thor the frickin’ god of thunder—I don’t know or much care who I’m talking to anymore.
I just want my brother back.
Reluctantly, I set Lucas’s candle in front of some local saint I’ve never heard of. The guy probably doesn’t get as many intercession requests as the A-list of saints, so I’m sure he needs something useful to do. Well, now he has a task.
What do you say, Gabi?
This voice belongs to my mother. Another memory flashes across my mind. When I was eight, right before I made my First Communion, I was anxious about memorizing all the right prayers. I’ll never forget what my mom said as she secured the lace veil abuela sent from Mexico over my mass of unmanageable curls.
“Prayers are like good manners, Gabriela,” Mom announced in her classic Army wife style. “There are really only two you need to remember: please and thank you.”
“Please, please, please,” I pray now with everything I’ve got.
• • •
My next stop is Rabanal del Camino. From there the dirt road takes an even steeper turn skywards, and a hand-painted road sign tells me I’m about to climb to the highest point of the entire pilgrimage trail. Awesome. If I’d known that, I’d have stayed on the bus a few more hours.
Push through the pain, mija.
That’s Dad’s favorite mantra. It used to serve as the film score for our trio treks, not to mention the ten-mile jogs we’d take when Lucas and I trained hard for soccer. It’s legit advice, given the euphoria most athletes experience once they push past their breaking point. Too bad my limit should have shattered miles ago. Or kilometers. Whatever.
It smells like rain. Sure enough, it starts sprinkling as a massive cloud swallows up the road in front of me. I pull out my headlamp and put on my waterproof gear. There was only one poncho in stock at the BX and it was bright pink—my least favorite color—so I’m sure I look like a giant Easter egg.
The sky darkens. I can only see a few yards in front of me, and that’s with the headlamp. One wrong step and I’m sliding down a precipice. One wrong turn and I might wander into the forest and lose the path entirely. No one would find me for days. If ever.
Then my parents would have two children to mourn.
Aaaannd now I’m hyperventilating. That sad image is enough of a reason to stay alive.
I reach for the tiny rosary around G.I. Lucas’s neck. I don’t pray it, but it’s enough to feel the beads between my fingers as I steady my breathing. Soon I notice a trail of periwinkle flowers growing alongside the road. The five-pointed petals look like little stars, and this fills me with a strange reassurance. So long as I keep my eyes fixed to this purple path, I won’t end up in a proverbial ditch somewhere. I’ll be okay. I’ll make it.
That reminds me. Hippie Harmony said some people believe the camino lies directly below the Milky Way, the “pathway to the gods” in multiple mythologies. She claimed the camino radiates a special energy due to the stars above it, which is why so many people are drawn to this path specifically. Now, Harmony also claimed she was an inhabitant of the lost city of Atlantis and a gazelle on the Serengeti in her former lives, but the trail of amethyst stars gives me a shred of hope that someone up there is watching out for me.
The dense fog dissipates, revealing another hiker in the distance. I should be relieved, but the heavy atmosphere surrounding this person fails to rise with the mist. At first the pilgrim looks like another Easter egg in a blue poncho, but as I get closer, I make out the distinct image of a woman on her knees. It’s hard to tell how old she is because I can’t see a single feature of her face, but her weeping sends a shiver through me.
This isn’t just a good cry with a pint of ice cream. These are loud, uncontrolled sobs—the kind people only indulge in when they think they’re alone.
The woman, her poncho flapping in the wind, bends over before what looks like a giant telephone pole sticking out of a mountain of stones. My plan is to pass by her quickly so she can mourn in peace, but then I notice that the rock pile is manmade.
This is the Cruz de Ferro, one of the most popular stops on the entire pilgrimage. Pilgrims leave their mark here in the form of a rock brought from wherever they started. That’s why Lucas gave Seth the crazy blue stone from Afghanistan. That’s where this journey truly began.
Seth told me lapis lazuli was a prized mineral during the Renaissance because artists used it to create a deep blue pigment that drew the eye to the most important person in the painting, most often the Virgin Mary.
If this pilgrimage is my masterpiece, then Lucas is the focal point.
I reach into my pocket, but a part of me doesn’t want to let go of the stone. I’ve grown accustomed to its weight, to its rough edges and smooth center, to the sapphire swirls that make it feel like a souvenir from outer space. It’s too beautiful to part with.
The sad woman sees me approaching, so she heads down the other side of the rock heap. Her weeping goes with her, leaving behind a harsh wind that harbors her pain and pierces my heart like a sword. I want to know what this woman left behind as her offering, so I climb to the top, to the very spot where she stood.
Photograph
s, handwritten notes, and torn pieces of clothing cover the thick pole, secured to the beam with tattered rope, fishing wire, and rusted staples (seriously, who carries a stapler on the camino?). The random mess makes it impossible to determine the source of the woman’s grief, given that her problems blend in with everyone else’s agony.
It makes me wonder if my family’s situation is all that unfair or even excessive. Maybe it’s just life. Normal. A painful part of the journey that must be pushed through.
I unclench my fist and drop the lapis lazuli onto the pile—a brilliant blue beacon in a world of granite. Thousands of stones sit beneath my feet and each one tells a different story. Each one proclaims the truth that there isn’t a person on earth who has escaped suffering and loss, the mandatory prerequisites of love.
I descend to the base of the rock pile, and my eyes climb back to the top. Lucas’s stone is still shining, and it’s the brightest of them all.
Chapter 15
The sun returns beyond the Cruz de Ferro, right when the road drops into a valley of snow-white broom and Spanish lavender. I don’t see any other pilgrims until I reach an old Roman bridge at the entrance to the town of Molinaseca, where a woman rests in the middle of the stone arch. She stares into the glass mirror below like she’s having a conversation with her own reflection, but lifts her chin when I approach. My eyes travel from her shiny black hair to her swollen belly.
Really now. Who walks the camino pregnant?
“What part of the pilgrimage was that for you?” the woman asks. She’s wearing a cornflower-blue skirt, not an ugly poncho, so I can’t tell if this is the same woman I saw weeping. Something tells me it is, but right now her face is the kind of calm made for playing poker. The woman’s accent and almond eyes make me think she’s Middle Eastern, but her ageless expression gives nothing else away.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” I slip off my pack to give my aching shoulders a break.
“A friend once told me there are three stages to every pilgrimage. The first battle is purely physical, because all you can think about is the pain. Then comes the meseta—a period when our bodies grow stronger, but the flat landscape grows boring and our spirits are assaulted by regrets we didn’t even know we had.”
Beneath Wandering Stars Page 14
