Beneath Wandering Stars (8 page)

Seth bites the inside of his cheek. “Funny you should think so highly of the people responsible for your brother's injuries. If you'd been there, Gabi, you would have—”

“Funny you should think so highly of people at all,” I interrupt. “We've been killing each other since the dawn of time. Over race, religion, whatever. Humans have never needed much of an excuse.
That's
what never changes.”

I survey the small mountain town, wishing the Basques had the entrepreneurial foresight to open a drive-through KFC. “Take me, for instance. I'm starving and if someone waved a juicy drumstick in front of my nose, I might just attempt murder to get it. That's how the world works. When it comes to survival, the ruthless will always win. Or have you never seen a single zombie apocalypse movie?”

Seth's glare turns to pity as he shakes his head. “For the record, kiddo, you have no idea what you're talking about.”

His retort is real and it stings, but I'm too worn out to give it much thought. We enter the
albergue
. A bored attendant waits to stamp our pilgrim passports before showing us to a large room with a vaulted ceiling and stone walls, lined with approximately fifty bunk beds, half of them already taken. Looks like we will not only be sleeping in a dank and drafty monastery, but there will be
no
privacy.

Not to mention the place smells like feet. Hundreds of pairs of filthy, stinking feet.

“Wow, this is one step below the Ritz.” I unbuckle my backpack and toss it onto a bare mattress with more stains on it than I care to count. “I call top bunk.”

The bunk beds are pushed together in pairs, so there are two twin beds on top and two on the bottom. Talk about awkward. Thankfully, no one has claimed the bed next to mine yet. I hope to whatever saint is responsible for such matters that it stays that way.

While we're getting settled in, two Spanish women in the next bunk cluster mention a special pilgrim's Mass about to take place in a nearby chapel. I don't think Seth can understand what they're saying, but he starts following them out the door.

“Don't tell me you're headed to confession?” I call after him. The thought that Seth may be more willing to pray for my brother's healing than I am is not only a shocker, it makes me feel a tad guilty.

Seth tenses up at the word
confession
like I've hit him upside the head with it.

“I'm the product of a lapsed Baptist and a secular Jew,” he replies, adding a silent
so
what do you think?
“I'm off to find a drink.”

Good riddance. If the prickly tension between us is an indication of how this trek is going to be, I doubt we make it to the next town before our fragile alliance is severed permanently.

Okay, shower time. I dig through my backpack for flip-flops and clean clothes, but everything I packed is tainted by that damp travel smell that never goes away once it settles in. Still, a hot, steamy shower is the
one thing that can salvage this letdown of a first day. I grab my toiletry bag and make my way to the bathroom, but the line is already a mile long. Naturally. So far this
camino
has been nothing but a rush through beautiful scenery and a lot of wasted time standing in queues. As the British would say.

“All yours.” A woman emerges from stall number three. She saunters out buck naked—I kid you not—strutting around like she owns the place. I try to keep my eyes to myself, but a quick scan of the locker room assures me Europeans have no issues hanging out in the buff with strangers in super confined spaces. Overweight and eighty years old? Not a problem.

Finally, it's my turn. Fully clothed, I hurry into the stall before the suspicious woman behind me—the one with the crafty look of a professional line cutter—makes a break for it.

“
Scheize!
” The lukewarm water that erupts from the showerhead stings my bleeding feet, turning the water around the drain a rusty brown. Gross. The stall already has a collection of hair from twenty different people, along with used razors and a disgusting Band-Aid some courteous individual left stuck to the wall. But the harsh spray feels good on my sore back, so I stand there, selfishly using up the remaining warm water. A new thought washes over me.

If you had been there, Gabi.

That's what Seth said when he mentioned the insurgents responsible for Lucas's injuries. It's a statement that suggests Seth
was
there, which means he lied to me at the hospital when he said he didn't know how Lucas got hurt. I
knew
it. The guilty puppy look in Seth's eyes proves he knows every detail and isn't willing to share. Fine. If he wants to turn this trek into a power struggle, he has no idea what he's up against. Seth may break my body, but I won't relent until he gives me answers. Until he tells me the truth about Lucas.

“
Hola, chica
. Time's up!” booms a voice beyond my shower stall.

“Oh, come on,” I groan. A
minimum
of ten minutes is required for a proper shower. I still have conditioner in my hair, but when I step out of the stall—wrapped in a towel like a normal person—I'm greeted by a wall of irritated faces.

There's another
line for the mirrors in front of the sink, which is where I make a futile attempt to defrizz my hair with a tiny travel tube of gel designed for a hobbit, not a Latina. Yeah, this whole communal shower routine needs to be seriously streamlined.

Back outside, I find Seth sitting on top of a stone wall next to the
albergue
, drinking from a full-sized wine bottle in a brown paper bag. Classy. I reach into his open jar of anchovy-stuffed olives and pop one into my mouth. “You like to get the party started early.”

“You like to spend forever in the shower.” He takes another swig, a deep purple stain lingering on his lips. “Red wine is crazy cheap here. This bottle cost me a whole euro.”

Seth offers me a drink, but I decline. “No thanks. I'm so hungry that I'll get the spins from a single sip.”

“Then let's go find something to eat.”

Now he's talking. Once I've trapped him inside a restaurant, Seth won't be able to speed-walk away from my questions.

“Uh, what's wrong with you?” he asks after a few steps.

“What do you mean?”

“You're walking like a duck.”

“No. I'm not.”

“Yes. You are. You're waddling.”

“It's my stupid feet,” I groan. “They're covered in blisters. Those crappy boots I bought at the BX are worthless.”

Seth pats the wall. “Have a seat.”

I climb onto the stone ledge and let my flip-flops fall to the ground. My green polish is chipped, which makes it look like I have some sort of fungus, but the red blisters and cuts along my toes overshadow this cosmetic neglect. Seth kneels in front of me and opens up his daypack, removing a small first-aid kit.

“Boy Scouts always come prepared,” I tease, temporarily forgetting that just a few minutes ago, I declared war on this mortal enemy.

Seth smirks as he removes a needle, some alcohol swabs, and a few moleskin bandages, all with one hand. “Yeah, well, I hope the U.S. Army has provided me with survival skills a little more advanced than tying cool knots.”

Seth drains and cleans each blister, covering the wounds with moleskin. I hate my feet, aesthetically speaking, so it's strange having someone else touch them in their extra gross state. Fortunately, Seth's movements are as fast and methodical as any medical professional. He never looks up, but I swear I see a rosy flush spreading across his cheeks. His hands are a lot gentler than I'd thought they'd be. Only a few calluses. An itchy warmth travels up my legs, even though Seth's fingers never move past my ankles. The tingling is unexpected. And weird.

“All set. Hopefully the blisters heal soon, otherwise you'll be miserable for the rest of the journey.” Seth stands up and puts his supplies away. “Make sure you take your boots and socks off to air out any time we stop to rest.”

“Which, based on your pace today, will be never.” I jump down from the wall. “But thanks. My feet feel a million times better already.”

Seth smiles. Like
really
smiles. “My Scout leader would be proud.”

We head up the gravel path leading to the only restaurant in town. Seth's grin, a minor fissure in his defensive wall, makes me think this is an opportunity to gain the higher ground. “Why do you think Lucas asked us to do this pilgrimage? His letter made it sound like he wanted to revive an old family tradition, but there must be more to it than that.”

“There is,” Seth replies. “But I wasn't sure how your parents would handle it.”

I grab his arm. The injured one. Not too hard, but hard enough for him to know I mean business. “I can handle it, Seth. Whatever it is. Lucas always told me everything.”

“He didn't tell anyone about this. Not even me.” Seth breaks off a piece of tall grass growing alongside the footpath, where a chorus of crickets emerges. “Remember how I told you that Lucas became more withdrawn once our missions started? How he started isolating himself?”

“I remember.”

“Well, I was worried about him, so I went through his e-reader to see what he was so absorbed in during R&R. Lucas had almost finished this history book about medieval knights during the Crusades who weren't allowed to reenter their villages until they confessed their sins to a priest and were absolved of the violence they'd taken part in. I guess these warriors felt a strong desire to purge themselves of war before returning to their communities.” Seth hesitates, like he's trying to connect the dots.

“So what you're telling me is these knights were sent to fight in a war sanctioned by the government and the church, but the people in power had the audacity to make them apologize for it when they got back? Wow. That's a whole new level of messed up.”

“See, that's what I thought at first too, but then I read what Lucas typed in the eBook's margin:
It's the only way home.
There's no other way home
.”

Now I get why Seth didn't tell my parents any of this. It's hard enough when your kid is wounded in action, but hailed as a hero. It's even worse when your kid considers
himself
a coward, or worse, a criminal who has no right to return to the people who love him most. “What do you think Lucas meant by that?”

“PTSD is the big buzzword, but the symptoms are pretty specific. Flashbacks, nightmares, extreme anxiety. All that. A lot of people throw the label around as if every returning soldier has it, but there are other types of trauma.”

“That makes sense.” My dad has mentioned this before too, though I'm ashamed to admit I didn't pay much attention to his meditations on life as a chaplain's assistant until they applied to my own brother. “What kinds of trauma?”

“Moral wounds. Regarding yourself as one type of person—G.I. Joe, the good guy—but feeling like you're forced to become someone else.” Seth lets out his breath in a slow, even exhale before stringing together more words than I've ever heard him speak in one sitting.

“Taking human life is heavy shit. There's no easy way to process it, regardless of our justifications or claims that it was necessary. Then afterwards we're supposed to return to the regularly scheduled program, as if nothing happened. Strangers at the airport buy you drinks and everyone treats you like a hero, but you don't feel like one, even if you love your country and believe in the mission. You feel like there's this giant stone hanging around your neck, but you don't know what to do with it because no one who cares about you would dare suggest you've done anything wrong. They all say you did what you had to do, what a soldier is
supposed
to do. There's no middle ground. Either antiwar protesters on the street call you a baby killer, or people turn you into some kind of idol. They don't acknowledge that the only reason you're back home at all is because other people are dead. And not all of them terrorists.”

Seth's tone has gone from frustrated to morose in a matter of seconds. I wonder who we're talking about here: my brother or him? Does Seth have something to feel guilty about, too?

“Do you think Lucas believed walking this pilgrimage route would alleviate his conscience somehow?” I ask. “Do you think that would even work?”

“That's the only way I can make sense of his sudden obsession with pilgrimages. A lot of people think ‘right' and ‘wrong' are just a matter of opinion, but if that's the case, I don't think soldiers—you know, like Lucas—would experience inner anguish over simply doing their jobs. We have a conscience and you can kill it eventually, but your brother isn't the type to numb himself.”

But is Seth?

He falls silent as we approach the café. I can feel him rebuilding his walls, layer by unspoken layer. Our conversation has hit a nerve. Something
is
eating away at Seth's scruples. Something that has to do with Lucas.

This is my chance. He's already opened up this much, so I might as well push in further. “Seth, how did my brother get hurt in the first place? I
know
you know.”

Nothing but a stony silence.

“For real. What happened to you guys over there?”

Seth opens the gate leading to a covered patio, his lips pressed into a thin line. The distance settling into his eyes is one I recognize, given that I saw it on my father's face every time he returned from a deployment. I can be relentless when I want to be, but I also know that if you press in on a door that's bolted shut, all you end up with is a bloody fist and a busted frame.

Seth sighs. “That, kiddo, I can't tell you. Not yet anyway.”

Then I can wait. Maybe I'm more patient than I thought.

“Try the
queso con miel
. Trust me, you'll never be the same.”