Beneath Wandering Stars (3 page)

Dad doesn't have to wink or give me a conspiratorial look—I understand his code. Whatever stale sludge this hospital cafeteria is serving, it won't be anything like the fresh coffee with frothed milk my grandmother made for me and Lucas when she lived with us during one of Dad's deployments. Mom wasn't aware of our
abuela
's covert coffee ritual and wondered how Lucas and I had so much energy after school. Now Dad likes to use the term
café con leche
as shorthand for “not in front of your mother.”

It's strange—the random memories that assault you in the midst of bone-crushing grief, the childhood secrets only you and your sibling shared. Too bad the aroma of
abuela
's coffee dissipates as that distinct hospital smell—rubbing alcohol mixed with latex gloves—attacks my nostrils from the other end of the fluorescent-lit hallway.

Trailing Dad, who always walks like he's on a mission, I turn a corner and collide with a nurse heading towards the operating room, a stack of empty IV bags piled high in her arms. The woman locks her jaw like a pit bull and keeps moving, as though she's walking through a flimsy screen door. The synthetic fabric of her saltwater taffy–pink pants swishes between her thick thighs. Soon that
swish
is the only sound I can hear as everything else turns to white noise.

“He isn't in any pain,” Dad says once we reach the cafeteria. His posture perfect, he sits utterly still, staring into his cup as doctors swirl around us in waves of seafoam-colored scrubs. He avoids my gaze, but that's nothing new. Ever since “the incident” back in San Antonio, Dad hasn't initiated a real
conversation that doesn't involve soccer technique.

Apparently that's what happens when you almost ruin your soldier father's career.

But now is not the time for daddy issues. “What do you mean, Lucas isn't in any pain?”

“I mean he hasn't been responsive since they airlifted him from the battlefield twenty-four hours ago.” My father takes a sip of coffee, his mouth twitching at the bitter aftertaste. “Gabi, your brother is in a coma.”

I clench my empty cup until the Styrofoam crumples. “No.”

That's all I can say.
No
. My brother—a guy who can't sit still for more than five minutes—is on his way to becoming a vegetable. Why does this news feel worse than the thought of him dead?

“The doctors are hopeful. They say these first few weeks are crucial. If he shows signs of response, anything at all, there's a chance he'll come out of it.”

“A few weeks? That's how long Lucas could be lying there before we know if he's still
in
there
?” My eyes burn as I picture Mom setting up camp in his hospital room, refusing to leave his bedside. And what happens if he doesn't wake up? Who gets to make the tortuous decision to play God and take him off life support? Not that God seems to be playing much of a role in this anyway. Otherwise a decent human being like my brother wouldn't be here when there are rapists and terrorists running around free.

Dad ignores my question and finishes his drink. “
Vamonos
. It's visiting hour.”

When we reach Lucas's room, someone else is already seated by my brother's bedside. The instant I see his combat boots and ice-blue eyes—eyes that always laugh at my expense—something snaps. Every emotion I've been straining to hold back washes over me in one massive torrent that no sandbag of self-control can stop. Seth Russo is the
last
person I want to see right now, so I march over to my brother's best friend, to the guy who convinced Lucas to turn down his soccer scholarship and suit up.

And I punch him in the face.

Well, I
try
to punch him in the face. But his hand—the one that's not in a sling—is larger and stronger and faster than mine. There isn't even a hint of surprise on Seth's face as he effortlessly catches my fist before it can slam into his cheek. After six months at war, I suppose his reflexes had better be top-notch.

“Gabriela Guadalupe Santiago!” my mother yells from the doorway. She only uses my full name when I've crossed the line. Most of the time, I can't help chuckling at the way she pronounces Spanish words with a Midwestern accent, but today I don't laugh.

“Nice to see you, too, kiddo,” Seth mutters, clenching my fist like it's a live grenade.

I despise this guy. For multiple reasons, but mainly because Lucas never would have joined the Army if he hadn't filled his head with glory stories and told him about some “buddy program” that would allow them to stay together their first tour if they signed the dotted line at the same time.

“What are you doing here?” I haven't seen Seth since we left Texas. We didn't get along then, and I don't appreciate his condescending use of the word
kiddo
now.

Seth's face is humbled only by scrapes and a severe burn across his forehead. Your typical soldier with a buzz cut, he'd blend into any formation line if not for the dark eyebrows framing his big, doleful eyes, which are clueless and forever in mourning.

At least now they have a reason to grieve.

Seth doesn't respond to my question. His bloodshot gaze drifts across Lucas's bed, like he can't even believe I could ask it. Encountering an enemy who's already defeated diffuses the bomb waiting to go off inside me, and the heat of Seth's palm absorbs my wrath. He has no interest in fighting back, so I have no interest in him. I let my fist fall and take a seat across the room, where Matteo crawls into my lap.

“Private Russo, I apologize for my daughter's disrespect and lack of maturity.”

Thanks for taking my side, Dad. Oh wait, I forgot. When it comes to supporting me or supporting a soldier—no matter how big of a Neanderthal he is—the Army will
always
win.

“We're glad you're here.” Dad nods at Seth's arm, cradled by the sling. “Is it broken?”

“Just a sprain, sir. Nothing major.” He sounds so guilty, like he can't accept that whatever happened to them downrange didn't even break his arm when it left my brother with a broken body and maybe a broken brain.

Good. I can't accept that either.

Mom's bloodshot eyes travel from the tan blanket draped across my brother's motionless body to the taupe walls behind Lucas's bandaged head. I know exactly what she's thinking.

This drab room needs some color.

It's the thought of a seasoned military wife who knows that even the most temporary landing pad should feel like a home. Only this time, she has her work cut out for her. Mom touches the plum swirls of Lucas's bruised hand, pulling back like she's grazed a hot stove.

Hold his hand! Squeeze it! He can't feel a thing,
I want to scream. But I don't. I just clench Matteo in a death grip, breathing in graham crackers and Elmer's glue, which is what Lucas smelled like as a kid. Maybe it's what we all smell like as little kids.

“Lucas,” Mom whispers, as though he can actually hear her. She looks up at the rest of us, a hint of crazy on her lips. “He's so dark. Why is he so dark? His name means
light
. Lucas means light!” As the panic in Mom's pitch increases, Matteo starts crying again.

“Come on,
cariño
. Let's go for a walk.” Dad lifts Matteo from my arms, gently grabs Mom's shoulders, and guides them both from the room.

Alone with Seth, I approach the bed and see that my mother is right. Everything about Lucas was goodness and light. He was the perfect son, the perfect brother, and, I'm sure, the perfect soldier. Yet a shadow hovers over his face, suffocating his light with a darkness that goes much deeper than bruising. Wherever my brother resides in this state suspended between life and death, he is far, far away from all of us. I wipe a renegade tear from the corner of my eye, my cheeks burning beneath Seth's concentrated gaze.

“What happened?” I ask, my eyes never leaving Lucas. And by that I mean:
Where were you? How could you let them do this?

“I don't know what happened. You'd have been proud of him though,” Seth says softly as my dad re-enters the room with a doctor.

I was proud of Lucas
before
he got himself blown up, but I'm too drained to get into another confrontation with this meathead G.I.

Dad and the doc are in a tense conversation of their own. “Months? I thought you said a few weeks.”

“Early signs of movement are the best reason to hope, but even if your son responds over the next few weeks, the coma could last for months.” The doctor places his hand on Dad's shoulder. “I don't say this to discourage you, but so that your family can prepare for a potentially long haul.”

The doctor leaves and Dad turns to me. “Your mother and brother are beat,
mija
. We all need to go home and rest. The nurses will call us if anything changes.”

I can tell by his tone that he doesn't think anything will. At least, not so soon.

Eyes closed, Dad kneels before Lucas's bed for a moment, then kisses my brother's cheek—something he hasn't done since Lucas was about eight. He herds us out of the room.

“Wait, Sergeant Major.” Seth follows us into the waiting area. “There's something Lucas wanted me to tell you. To tell both of you, I think.” His eyes meet mine, searching for an ounce of openness.

This soldier may be on my bad side, but if he's here in this hospital, he's been to hell and back, too. I suppose the least I can do is make an effort to be a little less hostile.

I sigh. “What's that, Russo?”

“I wasn't going to share this so soon, but seeing how long the doctors think the coma could last, I don't see any point in waiting. Hell, maybe it will even help.” Seth reaches into his pocket and pulls out a paperback. The instant I see the cover, my heart scrambles up my throat.

The
Iliad
. By Homer. Ancient Greek Homer.

“Where did you get that?” I demand.

Seth stares at me like I'm nuts to be getting so worked up over a book. “Lucas left it on my cot the night before he . . . .”

Trailing off, the private opens the book and pulls out a folded piece of notebook paper. Seth doesn't need to tell us what it is, because Dad and I already know. Lots of soldiers write a “last letter” before they head off to war and give it to a close buddy to bring home, in case they don't make it. The fact that Lucas
has
made it home, just not completely intact, causes a blend of rage and revulsion to bubble up inside me.

The letter has a similar effect on Dad, who crosses himself like Seth is about to read the words of an ancient curse. “Put that away. My son isn't dead yet.”

“I know, sir, but I think Lucas would want me to read it. Especially given the circumstances.” When my father's rigid eyes fail to soften, Seth continues, “At least let me explain what he wanted you two to do for him.”

After a tense thirty seconds, Dad nods and I sigh. Then we both listen.

“Lucas told me that when you guys were stationed in Alaska, you started taking hiking trips every year,” Seth begins. “Just the three of you.”

This is true, and those trips were glue. Not only did they give us rare time with Dad, they were how I learned that Lucas would always walk my pace and have my back, even when our father was out of sight, leading the charge up ahead. Thanks to a string of back-to-back deployments, it's been years since we went on one of our trio treks.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I snap, wondering if I'll ever walk a trail or climb a mountain with Lucas again.

“Let me backtrack. In Afghanistan, most guys spent their R&R time playing video games or surfing the Internet, but not Lucas. Never Lucas.” Seth actually has the nerve to grin. “The guy read so many books that the rest of our battalion called him the Philosopher.”

A bittersweet smile starts to curl my lips, but I bite it down. “That's why Mom sent Lucas an e-reader for his birthday. Less cargo to lug around the mountains.”

“He definitely made use of it.” Seth swallows hard. “Anyway, after we experienced our first firefight over there, Lucas started withdrawing from the rest of us. A lot of the time he wouldn't even talk to me. He started making lists of all these places he wanted to see when he came to visit you guys in Europe. Places like Rome, northern England, some remote island in Scotland, the Holocaust memorial at Dachau. He called these sacred places. Holy ground.”

I don't see how these random dots connect, but time has become a marked-down commodity on clearance. “Get to the point, Russo. What does this have to do with Lucas's letter?”

Sending a scowl in my direction, Seth holds up the crinkled document. “Lucas wants you to revive your old tradition by taking another trek. He wants you to do a pilgrimage. He claims people have made journeys like this on behalf of absent soldiers, the sick, and the recently deceased for thousands of years.”

“That makes no sense. Lucas isn't exactly devout.” I wince, realizing this admission must feel like a dagger in my dad's pious little heart. “I mean, why would he want us to do something so . . . strange?”

“I don't think his request has much to do with religion, though a lot of guys start asking questions when they're staring death in the face on a regular basis.” Seth points to the only window in the dismal waiting room. “Most people walking around out there, they don't even realize they're mortal. That this could all be over in an instant.”

Dad keeps his eyes glued to the sheen of the linoleum floor, bobbing his head like they're in on some sacred soldier truth. Seth falls silent, but keeps staring out the window, like he's waiting for someone to return. Right when the ticking wall clock is about to make me lose my mind, he releases a deep exhale. “Lucas wanted you to walk a very specific route, mainly because it's your namesake.”