Beneath Wandering Stars (28 page)

But apparently someone recognizes me.

“Gabi! Hey Gabi, over here!”

Jens and Katja sprint towards us. They engulf me in an embrace that reeks of sweat and patchouli, but hippie B.O. is the last thing on my mind.

“What are you guys doing here?” I exclaim. “How did you make it so fast?”

The delight fades from Jens's face. “A few days after Burgos,
Mutti
called to let us know that her sister, our favorite aunt, got in a bad car accident.”

“We needed to get home, but we wanted to walk the last hundred kilometers first. For her.” Katja's voice drops like she's about to confess a mortal sin. “So we took a bus.”

“I'm so sorry about your aunt.” I know from experience that my response is inadequate, but really, what else do you say?

“We've told just about every person we met along the way, so now there are hundreds of pilgrims praying for her.” Jens smiles weakly. “We haven't given up hope yet.”

Is that what it takes? Hundreds of whispered hopes, a swirling mass of pleading voices about as easy to ignore as a tornado? Is that the best recipe for a miracle? I know it's what my
abuela
believes, what my dad believes, what Jens and Katja seem to believe, what the thousands of medieval pilgrims who walked this road before us believed.

The doubt on Seth's face tells me it isn't what he believes, and I'm still not sure if it's what I believe. But I do feel better knowing our silly blog led to total strangers passing the name
Lucas
across their lips, adding a kind word to the storm cloud of resistance. It also helps to know that in between this sacred spot and the Pyrenees mountains, there are dozens of candles dedicated to my brother; a brigade of little lights standing guard against the despairing darkness. No matter what happens, it means I walked to Santiago for something.

It means I had a reason all along.

• • •

Over the next hour there are more reunions with more pilgrims—including Bob from Australia (yet again), Harmony and her entourage, and the young Sudanese man with the smile of contagious joy. For lunch, we grab
doner kebabs
with Jean Paul and eat them on the steps across from the cathedral. As I take my first bite of garlicky goodness, I look up and see Rodrigo and Pilar crossing the square. They approach us slowly, tears filling their eyes like we're their own children. Rodrigo places a scallop shell on a red cord around Seth's neck, and Pilar drapes an identical one around mine.

“Our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary is this week, so we decided to walk the road where we first met,” Rodrigo explains, beaming at his wife like it all happened yesterday. “We hoped we might surprise you, too.”

“Your brother has been in our hearts the entire way,” Pilar adds, squeezing my hand.

“Thank you. So much.” That's all I can say without blubbering, but I hug Pilar tighter than I've hugged anyone in a long time. I can tell by the way she embraces me back that no other words are needed.

We finish our lunch while Rodrigo describes their walking adventure with his usual animation. And embellishments. The man could seriously make gardening in the backyard sound like a life-or-death rainforest expedition.

Finally, Pilar cuts him off. “Are you
peregrinos
ready to go inside?”

I take a deep breath as we approach the cathedral entrance. Seth stops at the doorway.

“Seriously, Seth? We walked all the way here and you're going to wait outside?” I can't believe he's going to be such a grump again. This is a pilgrim ritual
everyone
participates in, no matter their beliefs or lack thereof. “Loosen up. I doubt you're going to burst into flames just from crossing the threshold. Though I recommend staying clear of the holy water.”

“Go ahead and go in. I'll be right there.” Seth's flat tone means he doesn't pick up on my teasing. I follow his gaze over to the real reason he's stopped.

We've seen plenty of beggars throughout the trek, but there's something about this man that draws Seth in. The ancient, shriveled shell of a person has a patch over his right eye, and he holds a cardboard sign with words written in three languages:

Seth drops a few coins into the man's basket, but he doesn't look particularly happy while he does it. In fact, he kind of looks repulsed. Based on his family history, I can understand why. This small gesture makes me admire Seth more than I've ever admired him before. He's showing compassion, he's doing the right thing. In
spite
of what he feels, not because of it.

“All right. I'm ready.”

We enter the cathedral. The Pórtico da Gloria is bathed in sunlight and shadows at the same time. A large statue of St. James, the apostle himself, looks down on us from an elaborately carved pillar known as the Tree of Jesse. I place my fingers in the pillar's five grooves as we walk by—five deep impressions formed by the millions of pilgrims who have passed through these same doors.

The glitz and gold inside the church is a little much for my taste, but the forest of stone trunks are like magnets pulling us down the central aisle with an irrefutable force. Hundreds of pilgrims have gathered for the Pilgrim's Mass, which is celebrated daily. Same time, same place. Some attend because they're truly pious, others because it's a cultural tradition associated with the pilgrimage, and still others because they're curious to see what all the fuss is about.

“Did we lose Rodrigo and Pilar?” I ask Seth, scanning the crowd.

“Yeah, but we better find seats anyway. It looks like the service is about to start.”

The Mass is predictable at first—stand, kneel, sit, and all that—but then a group of eight men in maroon robes gather around a large silver object up by the altar that looks like a giant teapot, tied to a pulley on a thick rope hanging down from the cathedral's dome. It makes me wonder what kind of circus tricks the latest Pope has added since I've been away.

Seth cocks his eyebrow and whispers, “And I thought Jews had weird rituals. Is this where the piñata originates?”

I stifle a laugh and poke him in the ribs. He grabs my elbow in the process, sliding his hand down my arm to lace his fingers with mine. It feels way more risqué, given the context, than it is. If my
abuela
ever saw me holding a boy's hand in church she'd have an absolute fit.

“That's a
botafumeiro.
The ritual dates back to the twelfth century,” the man beside me explains when he overhears Seth's comment. He looks Spanish or Greek or Italian. Something Mediterranean. “It's normally saved for the evening Pilgrim's Mass, but today is a special feast day. Hard to believe the Church is still using such a thing, eh?”

“Hey, someone's got to keep the Middle Ages alive,” I whisper back, smiling.

To be honest, I'm glad some things remain constant. Change is unavoidable, but it usually happens so fast that we don't even stop to consider if it's for the best. The view from our seats can't be much different from what pilgrims saw a thousand years ago, though thanks to the strong cologne worn by the gentleman beside me, it surely smells a million times better.

“What's that saying you Americans have?” the Mediterranean man asks. “If it isn't broke, do not proceed to fix it?”

I know he's making lighthearted small talk, but these words alter everything. What if things
are
broken, and they can't be fixed? Things like my brother?

A cloud passes by the window above my head, and the serenity of the space evaporates. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to chuck my hymnal at the choir's screeching cantor up front. How can all these people just sit here with placid looks on their faces, praying to a God who may or may not be listening, when millions of people are hurting and starving and dying beyond these doors every day?

And what do you plan on doing about it?

I don't know where this inner challenge comes from any more than I understand it. What am I
supposed
to do about it? This entire planet is groaning under the weight of pain. All I want is a sappy spiritual high like everyone else, where I get to cry and hug the stranger next to me before planting a big one on Seth like we're witnessing the New Year's Eve ball drop. This world is messed up beyond my repair, and it's not my job to fix it.

If not you, then who?

I have no answer to this question, but thankfully the giant teapot diverts my attention. The men in maroon robes grab hold of the eight handles splitting off from the thick rope, causing the
botafumeiro
to rise high above the pews. They pull the rope in a unified rhythm, making the silver receptacle swing back and forth down the center aisle. Before long, the thing reaches high speeds I never expected. Smoke pours from its crevices, and all I can breathe is church incense—a very specific scent that unleashes a torrent of memories. My entire childhood in a single inhalation.

Dad pissed off because we're late for Mass
again
and Mom still insists on marching us up to the first row of pews. Grandma Guadalupe with one of those white doily things over her hair, shaking her head at the teenagers in tank tops, muttering to me that this is how good girls get in trouble. Lucas sporting a comb-over and a little suit, speed-walking towards his First Communion because he figured the other kids weren't enthusiastic enough about receiving the Body of Christ. I'll never forget how he tripped and did a ninja-style tumble down the aisle, pumping his fists to the sky in victory when he bounced back on both feet. He tore a huge hole in his brand new dress pants, but as soon as he reached the priest—who turned beet red from holding in his laughter—Lucas's cracker/grape juice training kicked into high gear and he executed his task like a perfect angel.

I am both smiling and blinking back tears as the incense floats my memories up to the dome where sunlight pours down on us. It's hard to explain, but here in this ancient sanctuary, in a country that is foreign but somehow familiar, I am with my family.

I am home.

Seth's fingers tighten around mine. I can tell by the softness in his eyes that he watched me react to the reel of home videos playing through my mind. Only his eyes are trying to tell me something else. I follow his nod in the direction of the pews across from us. They're packed with people, so it's difficult to tell which pilgrim friend he's trying to point out, especially through the haze of incense smoke. Once it dissipates, I see the person Seth wanted me to see. A person kneeling calmly in a pew, both of his hawk eyes on me.

It's my father.

“Dad?” Despite my best efforts to steady my voice, it trembles across the sanctuary. Mass has ended and we are trying to go in peace, but the rushing waves of humanity make it hard to move until the crowd clears.

Finally, I make it across the aisle, where my father gives me a firm hug before looking me over with glassy eyes. “Well done,
mija
. You made it.”

“But what are
you
doing here?” Because he shouldn't be here. Dad should be with Mom and Matteo. He should be with Lucas. Unless . . . .

I whirl around to Seth. “Did you text him our arrival date?”

Seth's silence tells me all I need to know.

“Come with me, Gabriela. Let's find a quiet place to talk.” Dad shakes Seth's hand. “You too, son.”

No, no, no.
I don't want to talk somewhere else. Why won't he spit it out? Why does this ominous moment feel like receiving Lucas's package in the mail all over again?

The streets outside erupt with excitement as more pilgrims pour into the city, reuniting with kindred spirits they never thought they'd see again. The noise lessens the power of the silence surrounding my father like an invisible force field. I prepare myself for the worst, which is probably what my pilgrimage
has been about all along. But now my time in this land of rainbows and unicorns is over.

It's time to face the facts: Lucas is dead.

My body suddenly weighs a ton. It's only when Seth grabs my arm and pulls me forward that I realize how far behind I've fallen. Dad marches down the cobblestones with his usual sense of purpose, but even after several hundred kilometers, I don't think I can make these final steps. Everything spins and I'm about to call out for Dad to stop, but he slips into an unassuming doorway. We follow him into a rustic restaurant where cured ham legs hang from the ceiling and wheels of stinky cheese line the display counters. My father grabs a table in a dark, private corner, and asks the waiter if the restaurant has Wi-Fi before ordering a carafe of the house wine.

“What's going on?” Quick like a Band-Aid. That's all I ask.

“One moment,
mija
.” Dad's face reveals about as much emotion as a slab of marble. I'm shocked when he pulls an iPad from his bag and drags his finger across it like a Millennial pro. My heart is pounding and the ripe smell of olive brine makes me nauseous. Beneath the table, Seth rests his clammy hand on my knee. It's shaking, which tells me he's as terrified as I am.

Whatever my dad has to tell us, he came all the way to Spain to do it.

I glance at the other pilgrims celebrating their journey's end. Anger erupts in my gut. Not here. This is not the place to learn about the end of my brother's short life.
No
place is right for that kind of news, but once Dad says the words hiding behind his taut lips, a moan like no other will escape me and every pair of eyes will be on us.

Why is he torturing me like this? Dad's pride and joy may be gone forever, but
I'm
still here. After an eternity, my father slides the tablet across the table. Thanks to the dim lighting and my whirling head, I have to blink a few times before the blurry image comes into focus.