The Delivery (22 page)

Chapter 31

L
ast night in the hotel we
didn’t
make love. We just held each other in the dark and whispered. I told him about how I’d seen the photos of those nine bodies hanging from an overpass in Laredo, that and heard stories of gruesome beheadings, missing girls and narcos paying for your wedding. So that after the ceremony, they could take your new wife, gang rape her, strangle her with her veil and then drown her in the hot tub.

Mozey accused me of being inflammatory and making up stories. I don’t have to make shit up. We had a girl at Pathways who described in horrific detail, her aunt and uncle’s deadly wedding reception in Ciudad Juárez.

It was during this same pillow talk full of fear and excitement that Mozey asked me to marry him. I thought he was joking, and what a bad joke it was, coming straight after my story.

“Ha. Funny, Mo. Are we pretending? Will it be a pretend wedding for the newspapers and magazines or the other kind of papers? The ones you need to get back into the States.” I rolled away from him and crossed my hands over my chest, more hurt than I’d ever been.

Mozey rolled me back and pulled me in close, surrounding me with his chest, curling his body protectively over me.

“Lana, you drive me fucking insane. I can’t imagine a sane life without you.”

He rolled off the bed a little too enthusiastically and hit the floor with a thump.

“Ouch!”

“Will we live here in the Marriot or you’ll just hang in deportation detention, while I chill upstate serving time for conspiracy and child molestation?”

“I thought maybe we could move to Detroit. Be closer to your family. The economy is picking up. Besides, that’s where I applied to art school.”

“You what?” I yelp, crawling across the haphazardly strewn covers to the edge of the bed. All I could see were his legs, his head and torso had disappeared underneath.

“What the hell? Oh, here it is!” Mozey says as he proudly produces a box. He was already on his knees, my head was dangling over the side of the bed above him.

“But we’ve never even had sex,” I whisper through the fog of disbelief.

“Aaaaand, we’re not supposed to. I mean,
yet
. Didn’t you ever go to church?”

“Yeah. Right.”

The ring was one of a kind, handcrafted by a skilled artisan. A simple band of brushed gold, encrusted with deep, red garnet. I knew immediately that he’d had a hand in designing it.

“We’re supposed to go be reunited with your sister who you haven’t seen in fifteen years. Get your kidney chopped out by some narcos whom she still may want to live with if and when she recovers. You’re the center of a media storm and both of our lives may be in danger. We’ve never had sex because we’re both too chicken shit to fuck up our friendship. And you show up with a ring?”

Mozey smiles warmly, nodding his head. There he goes being amused again with whatever I do or say. He takes my hand and holds it in his.

“Lana, I’m being totally sincere. I want to be with you.”

“I’m glad you think it’s funny because I’m really confused and scared. When the hell did you get that, anyway?” I glare at the ring like it has an ulterior motive.

“At the tianguis en el zócalo,” he says, continuing the smile.

“What?”

“Just kidding—I’ve had it for a while. Last night, when I went out to paint, I felt really fucked up. I was looking for the right spot and then I got to thinking that this past week should have felt like the worst in my life. But because I was with you, it felt like an adventure.”

“So you wanna put a ring on it because it’s all good times? News flash. I’m not always fun.”

“I know you’re not. You’re a pain in my ass. But I don’t want to ever do one single thing from here on out without you by my side. Because you make everything better, Lana. You make me want to enjoy life.”

“Is this a joke or a media ploy? Are you really proposing? There are easier ways to get a green card, Mo.”

Mozey pulls back like he’s appalled at my reaction.

“I fucking put my heart on my sleeve and you—what do you want me to do? Slit my wrists to prove I’m not joking. I want to be with you. I don’t want you to be my girlfriend. I want you forever.”

He stands up from the floor, pulls me to my knees on the bed and then into a hug. I breathe in the scent that’s so dear to me and at the same time pushes blood through my veins making my heart charge like a racehorse out of the starting gate.

“Here,” Mozey says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finds what he wants. An email exchange with my dad dated over a week ago.

With our blessings, my son. Of course! There has never been anyone other than you.

Doesn’t really come across so great in translation, Dad. Thanks
, I think.

My eyes are raw with the weight of tears again as I imagine my dad, excitedly typing, probably with one finger like I’ve seen him do, all the while translating everything to Russian as my mom hangs on each word. Mozey has likely made them happier than they’ve ever been. They could care less that he’s unemployed, undereducated or illegal. He loves their daughter as much as they do, and it’s all they’ve ever wanted. For someone with a good heart to see past the spikes, to risk the bloody fingers for the pure enjoyment of the sweet, hidden fruit inside.

That was our engagement. I didn’t say yes or no, but I let him put the ring on my finger. I lift it up to look at it, and Mozey reaches over and grasps my hand. He smiles at me sweetly and winks, then leans over into my seat to whisper in my ear, “Thank you for saying yes. I know you hate it when I’m right.”

I look down at our hands and nod, sniffing away the tears.

“I didn’t say yes yet.”

“I know, but you will.”

My real fear is that they’ll chop him to bits before we can ever get a chance to make love, let alone tie the knot. But I see his smile, and I know he’s happy. He’s found his sister, and he’s now got the promise of a new family, and of course, my parents and brother couldn’t be happier to induct him into ours. It’s like Mozey is their long lost favorite child.

My confident voice screams,
be happy too, this is what you want
. My insecure voice tells me he popped the proposal with perfect timing because a foreign girlfriend would drum up too much international interest for them to want to disappear him altogether.

The flight from Mexico City to Dallas takes us a little under three hours. We were notified mid-flight that Brisa has already been transferred, so there’s no longer any reason to go to Ciudad Juárez. I’m relieved because I didn’t think we’d make it out of that city alive.

Laura’s got us in hot steamed towels and chocolate mints before the descent and all the men in black have already started checking their phones and their guns. They slip in earpieces and exchange knowing nods while I hang onto Mo’s arm like it’s my seat float cushion and we’re landing on open water.

It’s pandemonium at the airport. There is no gate we taxi into. It’s a presidential arrival with detachable stairs and the crowd roars the second Mozey ducks his head out the door. He’s the poor kid turned celebrity, handsome, English speaking—with an American girlfriend. Mozey is a media darling, the new heartthrob of the century. The rebel artist, the long-lost brother of a notorious beauty queen at death’s door who will surely die without his heroic generosity. What’s not to love? Just wait until they get all the dirty details on me, and the story will go viral.

We make our way down the stairs into the frenzy of onlookers. Mozey drags me along as reporters struggle to the rolled out carpet, trying to vie for his attention. They shout questions as the suited goons usher us toward a waiting car with tinted windows. I feel his body tense and slow when he sees the sedan. I know he must be thinking the exact same thing that I’m thinking. Behind those darkened windows that harken back to the day his life changed, may lie the very same people that tore Brisa from his mother’s arms and shattered their family. And in order to save his sister, Mozey must hide all of those painful feelings away.

I squeeze his hand to let him know that step by step I’m at his side. I hear his cry even when he’s not allowed to greet it. I share in his pain even when he has to keep it secret.

“Remember, Mo, that the connection to Brisa is more important than any revenge. We came here to save her,” I say softly to him as we reach the car, “not to punish them.”

“I know, but it kills me that they’re acting like heroes,” he says as he leans down and brushes his lips across my cheek.

Then Mozey stops and turns to the crowd. He raises our hands and points mine in the direction of the cameras.

“She said yes,” he says, gracing them all with a coy smile. He poses for the cameras like a pro, almost like he’s done this before.

We’re practically shoved into the back seat of the sedan. We slide to the middle of the long, leather seat, only to be bookended by two thugs who can barely squeeze in with us.

“Well, at least there’s photographic evidence that we landed,” I mumble under my breath.

“Yeah, they won’t kill us until after they televise the wedding,” Mozey says, a smile climbing it’s way to the surface.

There are no Miramontes in the car, only a driver.

“Do you think they understand us,” I mouth to Mo with barely a sound.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, a smile creeping in at the edge of his lips.

The car moves forward with enough momentum to throw us back against the seat cushions.

“Quit making fun, Mo. This is some serious shit. Even if they don’t intend to murder us, the surgery is dangerous.”

“It’ll be fine,” Mozey says and looks deeply into my eyes. “We’re going to lose my kidney and see that Brisa is okay. Then we can get out of here. I’ve got no intention to stay.”

The suit in the passengers seat is speaking into a walkie-talkie, relaying coordinates, probably already giving the command to get rid of me. I give up on the worrying and curl myself into his body.

“The Miramontes want to know if you would like to meet them at the hospital or if you would prefer first to lunch?” The one-in-charge says, twisted around, straining the threads of his clothes. In pretty great English. Mo and I eye each other, stunned.

“Seriously? Hospital,” Mozey says, his displeasure coming across in his voice. “I don’t think we need to waste any more time.”

We arrive at the hospital that’s already swarming with press. I knew this was news worthy in Mexico, but apparently it’s also relevant in Texas. The three guards shuffle out of the car using their big bodies as shields. We walk two feet and are greeted by more security officers. The Miramontes have spared no expense. They don’t want bad press. Or maybe they really do care about their
stolen
daughter. No reporters are allowed in the hospital until we get to her floor, where a controlled interview is taking place outside her room. There is professional lighting and a stationary camera attached to a dolly. What the fuck are they doing? Making a documentary?

Her father is good-looking, younger than I expected. A bit of graying at the temples, intelligent, dark eyes and an impeccable suit, red tie. Mrs. Miramontes I’ve already seen on TV, but she’s prettier up close. Her hair is styled in a bob with caramel highlights, her skirt is modest, and her mannerisms practiced and polished. Mozey stands frozen, hating them already. I manage something like an open face—a weak wave to let them know we’ve arrived. He breaks from the interview first and introduces himself in Spanish with a firm handshake. He grips Mo’s hand first and then mine. I can feel Mo’s shoulder harden to stone by my side.

There’s really no way to know if these two were in fact the ones who took her, or if they even ordered the abduction to begin with. They could just be the lucky couple that ended up with her. Bid the high price, were in the right place at the right time—yada, yada, yada. There are so many unknowns. It won’t change the fact, however, that Mozey hates them both and will take pleasure in making them feel uncomfortable.

Mr. Miramontes beckons the cameraman over after our brief introductions. I drop Mo’s hand and slink to a doorway, trying to hide my form inside and away from the limelight.

“Lana,” Mozey says, craning his neck around to see me. “Please, I can’t do this without you.”

He’s earnest, and I feel like a shithead. So much, that I even accept Mrs. Miramontes awkward hug that crushes me to her large breasts. She’s not that much older than me. I want to duck and cover, but instead, I’m forced to give a flash bulb smile for the next likely cover of
Hola
magazine. What a fucking horror show. We’re cavorting with the archenemy and pretending to enjoy it.

Then Mozey is pulled away from me to change into scrubs. A reunion he’s waited more than half of his life for is moments away. I think of my brother and how much he means to me. How being in it together—even when things got shitty—made life so much easier. Mozey’s been denied that all of these years. Even worse, he’s blamed himself for taking her milk and surviving. As if he had any choice as a six-year-old kid…

“Is she conscious?” I ask out of the blue. I know Mozey will recognize her; he’s spent so many years searching for her face. There’s no way she remembers him, but she’ll surely recognize herself reflected in him.

“She was sleeping, but now they will wake her,” Mrs. Miramontes says with tears dotting her eyes.

“I’ll be right here, Mo. Right outside.” I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes mine back hard enough to rub bone on bone. He’s scared. I’ve never seen him look anything less than confident.

Some things you can walk your partner through and suffer by their side, other things you can’t touch at all, no matter how much you want to. I know this helpless feeling intimately from social work. The frustration I felt whenever I was unable to intervene and fix things for a messed up kid. But it hurts that much more when you can’t ease the suffering of the person you’re in love with.