California Sunrise (8 page)

Alicia shook her head. “Thank you, but it’s best to do it without Luis. He’s ... well ... difficult. He doesn’t like to go to new places.”

“I see. I imagine you have a job as well.”

Alicia nodded.

“Yes. Well. Remember I want to help you succeed.” Dr. Susan placed her hand on her arm. “You seem to be an intelligent young lady. You could go far.”

Alicia didn’t know what to say. The earth that had seemed so solid a few weeks before was turning to sand beneath her feet. “Thank you.”

Pausing at the top of the stairs, she stared at the bay. Who was she becoming? A change that had begun when she signed up for a class on a whim had cracked through her life and, like the hull of a sailboat through the waves, propelled her to an unknown destination.

• • •

“Dr. Mendez, they said you would look at my son. I don’t have much money. I can give you this.” The mother, sun-aged beyond her years, held out a much-folded twenty-dollar bill.

Although it pained him to do so, Raúl took the money and put it in one of the pockets of his white coat. To do anything else would have been an insult. “
Sí. Gracias.
It is enough.” He’d add it to the jar in his office, already stuffed with coins and bedraggled folding money. Someday he’d figure out what to do with it.

“Let’s see what’s up with you.” He checked the child’s heart rate and lungs, the blank stare in the young child’s eyes twisting his heart. His eyes were sunken, his stomach distended, and yet his ribs were evident through his thin skin.

When Raúl pressed on the boy’s abdomen, the child let out a moan, giving a clue to the problem.

“Does this hurt?” Raúl pressed a different spot on the belly, using slightly less pressure.

The boy nodded.

“Does it itch when you poop?”

Again, the nod.

“I think he has a tapeworm,” Raúl said to the woman, smiling to ease the news. “Common for these kids to get because they run in the fields barefoot in the summer. Did you bring a stool sample?”

“Is it bad?”

Bad encompassed so many things. Hurtful to her son. Time-consuming. Expensive.

Raúl shook his head. “We’ll run some tests. It’ll take a few days. If it’s what I think, I’ll help you with treatment. You’ll have to keep him indoors for a while, though, even after he starts to feel better.”

While tapeworm in the country as a whole was rare, the cases occurred frequently enough with fieldworkers’ children for him to keep a supply of medicine on hand. Once his suspicions were confirmed, he’d provide some of it to the woman at no charge, like he had for many others before.

He’d never be a rich doctor.

The woman grabbed his hand. “
Gracias. Gracias.
”

“
De nada.
”

Raúl signed the bill with the code that he and his partner had agreed to use when providing free care for those who couldn’t afford it and didn’t have insurance. Illnesses were much easier to treat when caught early.

Back in his office, he went through the short stack of mail that his staff had left for him. The first few letters were thank-you notes from grateful patients. Some had enclosed a few dollars to help with payments. Others suggested he stop by their vegetable stands for a box of their good food as repayment.

The return address on the second to last envelope came from “Americans to Protect Our Children.” Even before he opened it, he had a hunch he wouldn’t like its contents.

Raúl looked at the signature. Joe Wilson. Had the man bothered to look at Raúl’s last name before he sent this piece of garbage?

The rest of letter continued in the same vein.

Raúl skimmed down to the end of the letter. It appeared Joe Wilson was soliciting money from doctors to set up a fund to develop and launch a new initiative with a very narrow target: limiting health care to American citizens.

It made him burn.

But what could he do about it?

He tapped the edge of the envelope on the desk, the click sound beating in time with his rising heart rate.

He had his family to think of.

Who was he fooling? They weren’t coming back. Maybe it was time for him to start living his life instead of trying to repair a childhood that was gone.

Wilson was only beginning—still fundraising.

What if Raúl put together his own organization, committed to battling whatever the Joe Wilsons of the world dreamed up? Someone needed to see to the care of the people who grew and harvested America’s food—and their children—whether or not they were legal citizens. Why not him?

Because he still held out hope, no matter how slim, that he could get his family back to the States. He had to keep his head below the radar to convince the government to help him.

He tossed the letter on the desk and opened the last envelope—the one with a Mexican postmark.

“
Sobrino
,” the letter began.

Raúl’s chest tightened. So many things beyond his control. The only hope he could offer his parents was a prayer on Sunday for his brother’s safety.

If his brother could risk his life for a better Mexico, maybe it was time for him to take a stand for justice and compassion.

No matter what the cost.

Alicia slipped into one of the back pews, said a quick prayer, and waited for the Mass to begin.

“Mind if I join you?” The spicy scent of Raúl’s aftershave tickled her nose as he sat next to her.

“Not at all.”

The look in his eyes was probably inappropriate for church. “You look very nice,” he said quietly.

Heat prickled her skin. “
Gracias
.”

The rustle of hymnals being slid from the backs of pews and the smell of incense seeping from censers became the background for the connection developing with the man at her side.

As the people behind her stood, the cool current of air brought her back to reality. She and Raúl stood and bowed their heads as the crucifix passed. Behind the priests, latecomers scurried into pews.

Graciela squeezed into the space to Raúl’s left. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she whispered. “I took a little too long getting ready. I hoped I’d see you here, Dr. Raúl.” She glanced at Alicia. “Oh, hi, Alicia.”

Next to her, Raúl stiffened.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the priest intoned.

Alicia quickly crossed herself, praying for the strength to be civil to her former friend and doing her best to concentrate on the Mass ritual. In spite of her resolve, she found it difficult to listen to the lessons, homily, and prayers.

“The peace of the Lord be always with you.”

“And with you,” the congregation responded.

A flurry of handshakes, hugs, kisses, and gossip waved through the congregation.

Graciela hung onto Raúl’s hand a few seconds too long.

When he turned to Alicia, he took both of her hands in hers. “Peace of the Lord.” His gaze was like the sun on her skin.

“And also with you.” She was having feelings no one should have in church.

“I’ll talk to you after Mass,” he mouthed.

Alicia’s nerves grew goose bumps on her skin as she waited for the remainder of the service to complete. She almost leapt out of her seat when the priest finally said, “The Mass is ended. Go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God.”

Indeed.

“The invitation is still open, Dr. Raúl.” The wheedling in Graciela’s voice raked like a nail on finished metal. “My family would love to meet the famous doctor.”

“I’m afraid my afternoon is already scheduled,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Graciela glared at Alicia but didn’t say anything.

Unsure whether she should turn and leave or wait for Graciela and Raúl to exit the pew, Alicia shifted from one foot to the other in the narrow space.

“There you are, Jimmy!” Graciela launched herself from the pew and slipped her arm into that of a young man in a soldier’s uniform. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh. Hi, Graciela.”

She didn’t look back as she led her captive from the church.

Raúl’s large grin signaled his relief.

“What are you doing today that kept you from Graciela’s clutches?” she asked as they made their way out of the pew.

“I’m taking you to brunch. If you’re free, that is.” A frown crossed his forehead.

This was her chance to get to know him better.

“Let me see if my grandmother can watch Luis, but I would love to have brunch with you.” Her voice was more confident about the decision than her nerves.

Raúl chatted with other parishioners, a half smile on his face, as she checked in at home. After she hung up, she nodded.

He shook hands with several of the men he’d been talking to. “I’ve got a hankering for the Cowboys Corner Cafe. Sound good to you?”

“Yes.”

“Let me drive. I’ll bring you back to your car.”

Being in close confines was a step she hadn’t anticipated, but it’s what most people did when they went on a date, wasn’t it?

The problem was, she’d never been on a real date.

“Okay.”

He opened the passenger door of his Jetta and waited for her to get in.

Old-fashioned, like many Latino men. Would he have the possessive macho traits many shared as well?

The narrow space between them shimmered with heat, but their conversation sputtered like a water-doused fire. She was relieved when they arrived at the nondescript, gray building.

A bright orange and black sign featured seven cowboys on horseback—a throwback to times when southern Santa Cruz County held more than concrete and strawberry and artichoke fields.

“I hear the food here is very, very good,” Raúl said as he escorted her into the interior.

The light touch of his hand on her back sent a thrill racing neck and neck with her heart’s pulse.

The furniture in the cafe was simple: plain, brown tables and black lacquer chairs with red cushions. A few faded black-and-white photos contrasted with bright Mexican crafts and handmade drawings by local schoolchildren.

“Coffee?” The waitress, a twenty-something woman with dark, glossy hair piled on her head and gold hoop earrings swinging from her ears, paused at their table.

“Absolutely,” Raúl said.

“Is this your first time here?” the waitress asked.

They nodded.

“Everything here is big portions, so keep that in mind. Our specialty is our homemade cinnamon buns. I’ll give you a few more moments to decide.”

Alicia studied the menu. In addition to the normal array of omelets, pancakes, and waffles, there were scrambles, burgers, and sandwiches. The Branding Iron, an omelet made with spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms, green onions, avocado, and cheese, caught her eye.

“I’m having the cordon bleu,” Raúl announced.

“Not very breakfast-y.” She grinned at him.

“Was there a rule I wasn’t aware of?” His smile warmed her heart.

Lots of them. Like don’t break my heart.

“Hmmm. I suppose since it’s brunch, you’re off the hook,” she said.

“Good.”

After they placed their orders, they stared at each other for a few seconds and then chuckled.

“How are you liking your sociology class?” he asked.

“It’s interesting, but I don’t think it’s going to be easy. The first assignment is to read the text and see how it relates to your own family.”

“And?”

“The first section talks a lot about a nuclear family—like lots of Anglos have. It doesn’t look anything like my family.”

“Mine either.” He sipped his coffee. “It’s an illusion that every Anglo family is perfect, just like it’s a stereotype that every Latino family is dysfunctional. That’s part of the point of sociology. What’s the truth? How does your family really differ from two parents with two-point-five children? More importantly, what’s the same?”

“You sound like my teacher.”

“Sorry. Old habits from medical school. Years of writing papers that compared and contrasted diseases. I think I had some sociology and psychology classes in there, too.” He tilted his head, as if trying to remember. “It’s lost in the blur of lack of sleep.”

“Hot plates.” The waitress slid steaming piles of food in front of them, including a huge cinnamon bun, oozing with syrup and nuts.

Conscious of the other person at the table, Alicia briefly folded her hands and sent a prayer of thankfulness for their meal heavenward. She glanced at Raúl.

He was smiling. “Some habits are good. In fact ...” He repeated her gesture with the earnestness of a young boy.

His effort soothed her angst. Maybe this dating thing would turn out okay.

She bit into the veggie-filled omelet. She savored the creamy concoction for several seconds.

Raúl’s eyes were closed, and a hint of a smile played around his lips.

“I enjoy my food,” he said after opening his eyes. “When you don’t have enough growing up, every bite becomes like manna from heaven.” He gestured to the chicken oozing with cheese on his plate. “And when it’s this good, I know what’s on the other side of the pearly gates.”

She laughed, amazed it came so easily. There was no pretense, putting on an act, or releasing tension, just the light expulsion of air, like the baby’s laugh creating James Barrie’s fairies in
Peter Pan
.