Beneath Wandering Stars (31 page)

Once the guys are sufficiently dizzy, the
chicas
return them to their seats before making one more rotation around the fountain. Each girl resumes her original position before her male counterpart. The music stops and the synchronized dancers lean forward, pushing their partners into the basin of water behind them. Seth seems to fall in slow motion, his shocked face sinking below the big splash he makes. The crowd releases a collective gasp and everyone cracks up, but all I can do is sit there with my hand over my mouth until Seth resurfaces.

He's going to be livid. A few of the other dunked tourists definitely look pissed. Seth emerges, but instead of cursing, he's laughing like a lunatic. He gets on his hands in the push-up plank position, then wades around the shallow fountain, spraying water on anyone near the edge like this is the splash section at SeaWorld. Amidst the screaming and the laughter, the music picks back up and the dancing resumes. Seth has an extra wet splash in store for me. I take it like a champ because I kind of deserve it, but I never imagined these tiny dancers could be so bold.

A huge grin on his face, Seth climbs out of the fountain, wrapping me in a soaking wet bear hug. “Well, that was refreshing. I feel like a new man.”

“I had no idea it would end that way. I swear it,” I mutter into Seth's soaked chest.

“Six months downrange only to be defeated by a little girl.” Seth gives me that look again. The one that makes me shiver like
I
just climbed out of the dunk tank. “Let's get out of here. I think I've experienced enough Galician folk traditions for one night.”

Dripping water the entire way, Seth leads me back to the main square of the cathedral. He's limping a bit, so we take it slow. The square is shielded by a silence that's almost unnatural, and the moon bathes the basilica in an ethereal light. Seth seems to absorb the solemnness of its afterglow.

He sits down on the steps, pulling me onto his lap. “Have any candles left?”

I try to get up. “Gross, you're still soaked!”

That only makes Seth wrap his arms around me even tighter.

I laugh and shrug him off, so I can dig through my purse for one last tealight. “I don't get it. Lucas is alive. What are we lighting this candle for?”

“For us.”

Whatever Seth means by that, the way the hairs on my arm stand at attention tells me now is not the time to ask stupid questions. I hand him the lighter. He sets the glowing tealight down on the stone step.

The next thing I know, Seth is kissing me.

Mist, coffee, shoelaces, dirt, hostels, rain, vino, pain, light.

An entire
camino
in a single kiss.

For the record, I can honestly say that kissing a boy out in the open—beneath the holy glow of a cathedral and with all the wandering stars as witnesses—beats the back of a stuffy car any day. By the time we come up for air, all that's left of our candle is a puddle of wax and a thin trail of smoke reaching skyward.

“I don't understand.” I pace in front of Seth while he shoves freshly laundered clothes into his backpack. “Why are you doing this?”

What I really mean is, why are you doing this
to me
? But saying that out loud would only solidify my selfishness and I don't want to give Seth the satisfaction.

“I'm doing this because I
need
to.” Seth hands me the cardboard tube containing his
Compostela
certificate, sealed with the official stamp we received for finishing the
camino
. “Give this to Lucas, will you?”

He says it so nonchalantly, likes it's nothing, when it's everything. The simple gesture sums up everything I love about Seth, but right now I don't want to kiss him.

I want to kill him.

“Why don't you give Lucas the
Compostela
yourself?” I take the certificate anyway. “By visiting him in the hospital like the rest of us.”

Seth stops packing. When he looks up at me, I see the fear in his eyes. Not the terror of someone who fears for his safety, but the look of one who is haunted. The dread of someone who fears for his soul. And then I know the truth. Send this boy back to Afghanistan, and he'd be fine. But make him visit my brother—half the man he was, at least physically—and the survivor's guilt would have Seth running from the room.

“I told you. You may have accomplished what you needed to by walking the
camino
, but I'm just getting started.” Seth grabs my hands, interlacing his fingers through mine. “Something happened to me towards the end of the trek. I can't go home yet. I can't be in a place where everyone knows my name, but I feel anonymous. Not yet.”

“I thought you were trying to get shipped back to Afghanistan as soon as possible.”

Seth nods. “Before last night, all I wanted was to go back and get revenge for what was taken from your brother. But now I see why Lucas wanted to do this walk. I
want
to suffer, to feel pain and confusion and remorse, because that means I can still feel something besides rage.”

“But where are you walking
to
?” I press. “Turning around and walking back the same way we came makes no sense.”

“I'm not opposed to going backwards in order to go forward,” Seth replies. “But there are a few old pilgrimage routes in England and Scotland, so maybe I'll hop on a ferry. Honestly, I don't really know where I'm going. I just need to keep walking.”

“But you're not even religious!”

“I killed a kid, Gabi,” Seth says softly. “I didn't want to, but I can't help thinking that if there
is
some sort of afterlife, that's one of the sins that counts.”

You're a kid yourself!
I want to scream. “What makes you think walking will change anything? How do you know it will bring you any peace when it hasn't so far?”

“Oh, it has. I feel much better walking than I do sitting still, but getting Zen isn't my goal. Peace may be a byproduct, but it's not the point.” Seth turns to the crisp blue sky outside the hotel room window. “If there's anything up there besides stars and empty space, it's something that must be sought after, not summoned. I'm not interested in inner harmony or belief systems that soothe. I'm interested in ones that mobilize.”

I have no ammo left, so it's time to play the girlfriend card (even though nothing is official) and start sulking. I cross my arms and take a step back. “What about your ankle?”

“It's getting better. Walking will hurt, but like I said, I'm okay with that.”

No matter his reasons, I don't like the idea of Seth trotting the globe to atone for his mistakes, beating himself up for doing his duty, for trying to
save
my brother's life.

“What about you, kiddo? What are your plans now that the
camino
is over?”

His relapse to that nickname brings a half-smile to my lips, but it doesn't stop me from socking him in the shoulder—another attempt to hide that my heart is breaking a few hours after it finally felt whole. “I'm not sure. I'll have to make up schoolwork over the summer in order to graduate, but all I really want is to hang out with Lucas for a while. Who knows, maybe when he's well enough, we'll go on a long walk, too. At least I already have experience pushing a wheelchair over vast distances.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Seth whispers. “Not yet.”

Tears burn my eyes. Not yet. Not yet. The answer to everything I want is
not yet
.

Seth sighs. “I've got to go, Gabi.”

And if I truly care about him, I'll let him. It may kill me, but I've been around the military long enough to know that if I don't let Seth heal in his own way, it may kill him instead.

“No matter what you do next year, you've got an incredible future ahead of you.” Seth kisses my forehead gently, though his grip on my shoulders is anything but. “Don't let me or any other chump hold you back.”

But what if I want to be held back? What if I want to stay here with him, free on the open road with nowhere to go and no one to answer to?

Seth reads my thoughts. “You know it would never last. Not like this.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There's a time for wandering, and a time for returning to your roots. A life severed from a mission is only liberating for so long. Pretty soon you're just another restless drifter with no ties and no loyalties; a slave on the lookout for the next high, the next escapade, never satisfied with the mundane tasks that are part of life's greatest adventure: love.

And now is the time for roots. My family tree needs me, one of its vital branches. If Seth is ever grafted onto us, it will have to be back in the real world, where soldiers harbor scars no one else can see, where miracles are harder to come by, and where people are a lot more lost.

I turn away and wipe my eyes. “You'll miss me, you know? Especially when you get thrown in a foreign jail or slide down a mountain and there's no one around to save your clumsy behind.”

“You're right. I will miss you.” Seth grabs my arm and pulls me in for a quick kiss. “But at least I'll have G.I. Lucas to keep me company.”

“He may not be enough. Promise me you'll get real help if you need it.”

“I promise.” Seth says the words like he's making a sacred vow.

There's a knock on the door, already opened a crack. My father pokes his head inside. “There you are, Gabi.”

Translation?
You should not be in a boy's hotel room alone, mija.

Seth and I part like we've learned the other person has the plague. I swear I see a smile beneath Dad's fabricated scowl.

“Time to check out. You guys ready?”

I nod. Dad drops off our room keys at the front desk while I walk Seth out to the road. It doesn't take long to find the golden arrow guiding us back to the
camino
. I refuse to cry. It isn't like Seth is going off to war again. He's doing what he needs to do to get whole, to bring all the broken shards back together, even if the new stained-glass pattern ends up being a lot different from the one before. As long as a little light can shine through, Seth will be fine.

“Tell Lucas I love him.” Seth squeezes my hand. I wonder if by not saying the actual words—which would make this a million times harder—he's telling me something similar. “Tell him I'll visit as soon as I can.”

I focus my watering eyes on Seth's muddy boots, on the ACE bandage wrapped around his ankle. My entire life has consisted of one goodbye after another. I'm used to it, but this one cuts something out of me—something I may never get back. You don't take a journey like this without the person you walked it with taking a part of you, too.

“It isn't forever, Gabi. How can you not know that?” Seth lifts my chin. “Now go take care of my best friend. You might also let him know he has a competitor for the position and she's ruthless.”

“But
when
? When will you be back?”

“I don't know.” Seth smirks. “When will you be okay with surprises?”

One last kiss and I turn away, before I break down and start begging him not to go. I reach the hotel entrance, then glance back over my shoulder. All I can see is that ridiculous G.I. Joe doll riding on top of Seth's pack, until they both disappear over a rise in the road.

“
Buen camino!
” My strained voice bounces down the stones. Seth returns the pilgrim farewell, and I can hear his throaty laughter in it. Then, he's gone.

Gone in one way, but like Lucas, still with us. Still here.

• • •

“One last candle,
mija
. You never know. God answered our prayers the first time.”

I want to believe this is true. I want to hope that Lucas will stand up one day. I want to trust that there are real, physical things we can do to help those we love—prayers we can utter and walks we can take—so I follow Dad into the cathedral, when a month ago I would have whined about all European churches looking the same inside.

The aisles are crowded with a whole new set of pilgrims. Dad seems to know exactly where he's headed. We pass a large statue of St. James the Moor Slayer, waving a sword high above his head, but this isn't where Sergeant Major Santiago stops.

He enters an empty side chapel at the back of the cathedral and kneels before a Pietà
sculpture of the Virgin Mary, cradling the broken body of her son. I reach into my pocket for my lighter. The
hamsa
pendant comes with it. I did a bit of Internet research and discovered that the symbol is found in all three main monotheistic traditions, named for women important to each faith—the hand of Miriam, sister of Moses, in Judaism; the hand of Mary, mother of Jesus, in Christianity; and the hand of Fatima, daughter of Muhammad, in Islam.

As I gaze at this mother bent over the body of her dead child, I know each woman would react the same way. The way my mom reacted at Lucas's bedside. The way Seth's would react if his shame isn't defeated and, God forbid, he took his own life like so many of the soldiers who haven't found a way home. The way the mother of the Afghani teen no doubt reacted when she found her boy dead in the street. There's only one response to such a tragedy, and that's a woman's gut-wrenching wails—the high price of the pendulum that is the human heart, which can swing from wrath to love in the space of a few short breaths.

Dad lights his candle and says his prayer. “. . . blessed art thou among women . . . .”

I set the
hamsa
pendant beside the tealight, an extra offering for all the mothers made childless by war. There are widows and there are orphans, but for parents who outlive their children, there isn't even a name to designate the depth of the loss.

Then I join my father in reciting words I could utter in my sleep, even though I haven't said them in a long time. “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death
.
”