The Story of You and Me (24 page)

“Sophie?” He asked.

“What, baby?” I asked. “You can tell me.”

“You give me shelter.” He reached for me, wrapped his arms around me, buried his face in my neck and his chest heaved.

I held him until he fell asleep. Then it was my turn to cry. I knew the real reason he couldn’t break me. But I didn’t know if I had the guts, if I had the courage to tell him:

 
I was already broken.

* * *

We parked and walked up a street in the middle of the ramshackle, non-touristy section of Rosarito. Alejandro held my hand.

“About last night,” I said. “Thank you for telling me. I know it must have been difficult.”

“I don’t tell it all that often. And for some reason I think that each time I share it, that it’ll get easier. But it doesn’t.”

I squeezed his hand. “I need to share some things with you.”
 

“Not now, okay. Let’s leave last night for what it was. It stirred up stuff. Can we talk about it in a couple of days? You cool with that?”

“Yeah.”
 

Not really and yet at the same time? Relieved.

There were no taco stands or T-shirt shops in this part of Rosarito. Just tiny, musty shops selling tobacco, food and groceries. Laundry hung on skinny fraying lines outside shabby apartments, as if waiting for the occasional sea breeze to venture away from the beach to dry it.

A one-story, cinder-block building stood out from the others surrounding it because of its fierce fence: it was ten feet tall, chain-link and encircled the property’s perimeter with barbed-wire coils on the top that curled in. A blood red metal door in the front of the building featured several small laminated photos of saints glued to its front. A hand-written sign read, “
Por favor llama a este número para hacer una cita
.”

I regarded Alex and raised one eyebrow.

“Please call this number to make an appointment.”

“Do we need to—”

“Already taken care of,” he said.

I peered through the fence at a long narrow back yard that was primarily concrete, broken up by skinny patches of yellowed grass. There was an ancient plastic jungle gym, a drooping basketball hoop and a dilapidated dollhouse in the corner of the property.
 

“We’re here,” Alejandro said.

“A world famous
curandero
practices out of this place?” I asked. “It looks a little—”

“Magical.” Alex looked at his watch. “It’s noon. They run a tight ship around here. Three, two, one…”

As if on cue, there was a loud creak as a metal security door swung open behind the fence. About twenty kids ranging in age from four to fifteen raced out into the yard hollering excitedly. A few girls made a break for the dollhouse. A group of boys and girls grabbed a soccer ball and started kicking it. The four and five year olds headed for the plastic jungle gym.
 

An older lean woman with a kind face followed them outside. She wore a wimple on her head, a knee-length gray skirt, sensible shoes and a T-shirt with John Lennon’s image that read, “Imagine.” “Children!” she said. “Back inside in one hour. Practice your English.”

“
Sí Hermana Lennon
!” a boy shouted.

All the kids were dressed in clean, simple clothes, most likely hand-me downs. The children appeared well cared for, nourished and happy. The exception being one girl who had to be around five years old. She stumbled dramatically out the door, plopped down on the back step and burst into tears, wailing at the top of what sounded like healthy lungs.
 

Sister Lennon sat down and wrapped her arm around the girl’s waist, hugging her gently. “
Está bien, Maria. Está bien
.” Maria’s cries diminished. The nun whispered into her tiny ear and she hiccupped.

“This place is an orphanage,” I said. “A pretty orphanage. One that looks clean with caring people. The world-famous
curandero
works out of an orphanage?”

“Yes.” Alex nodded and took my hand. Wove his fingers through mine. Brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. “Funny, yes?” he asked. “Lost souls seem to find each other. Oftentimes they want to help them.”

Funny, yes, I thought. Alejandro and I seemed to be lost souls and we were finding each other. “Tell me more.” I squeezed his hand.
 

“At age fourteen, the
curandero
, Padre Morales, was a drug dealer. He got arrested. Went to prison. Found his version of God. And soon thereafter realized he had a gift.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“He can see energy blockages. He prays to the saints. His prayers are powerful. Local legend has it they are heard. He gives herbs and performs the laying on of hands. He helps people heal,” Alex said.

“Did he help you?”

“He helped my mother after my accident. So that would be, yes.” Alex knocked on the red door and a small, wizened man answered it. His eyes lit up when he saw Alex.

“Alejandro! So good to see you. You’ve gotten so tall! You need to come visit us more often. How is your wonderful mother?”

“She’s great Padre, thank you!”

“And this must be Sophie.” He took my hand. “I am so pleased to meet you. We have some work to do, yes? Come with me.” He led me inside the building.
 

Alex stood in front. “Padre?” he asked. “Can I take the usual suspects surfing?”

“Good idea, Alejandro.” The Padre dug in his pants pockets, grabbed a key ring and tossed it to him.
 

Alex caught it in one hand.
 

“Have fun. And thank you,” Padre said.

Alex handed him the keys to his Jeep. “Meet up later?”
 

The Padre nodded.

Alex went to the side fence and hollered something in Spanish. A bunch of the older kids squealed in joy, disappeared back inside the house and came running out the entrance carrying three old surfboards. They strapped the boards on top of an ancient, beat-up VW van and piled in. He coaxed the engine to start on the third attempt, cranked the passenger window down and waved at me from the driver’s seat as they sputtered away. “You’re in good hands, Bonita.”

“He gives the older kids surf lessons whenever he comes down here. They adore him.” Padre led me inside the small building.

I did too.

* * *

I lay on my back on a skinny massage table on top of a comfy cotton sheet. We were in a small room with a fan located next to an open window with bars on it. The table was in front of a petite altar decorated with richly colored silks, satins and painted cotton fabrics draped across it. A prayer box, a few rosaries, tiny framed pictures of saints, Eastern Indian gurus, Jesus, the Virgin Mary and a bust of the Buddha were prominently displayed on the rustic shrine. Freshly cut flowers in a simple blue glass vase rested on one corner. Votive candles were lit, their flames flickering with the fan.

The Padre chanted in Spanish and dabbed scented oil on my forehead, then held his hands lightly on my head. He was barely touching me but his hands were hot. He repeated his prayers and the laying on of his hands on my neck, my upper back and my lower back. After about an hour, he went to the altar, said one more prayer, crossed himself, genuflected and picked a white and a red rose from the vase.
 

“You can sit up when you like,” he said. “How do you feel?”

I sat up a little light-headed but filled with energy. Like I’d taken five yoga classes in a row. “I feel amazing. Warm. Filled with energy.”

He handed me the red rose. “This is for your heart. For love and kindness. Caring and truth.”

“Thank you, Padre.”

He handed me the white rose. “This is for honor. For respect. To remember life changes but souls never die. I’ll say prayers for you, Sophie Marie Priebe. But God has already seen fit to answer your most essential requisite.”

* * *

The Padre parked the Jeep next to the sand by a small beach. Alex was in the water, helping a kid kneel on a surfboard. All around him the children were in various states of surfing. Some were on their stomachs on the boards, bobbing in the water. Others waded out into the ocean or dogpaddled next to their friends. There were three kids to every board. One young teenage girl squealed as she crouched on her board, caught a wave, paddled and pulled herself to standing.

And then there was Alejandro.
 

A look of sheer delight glowed on his face. And in that moment the rest of my heart cracked open and I knew. I absolutely knew I found healing. It didn’t take the form of acupuncture needles, or aura cleansing, or even Chinese foot massage. My healing was six-foot two-inches tall, had dark hair, hazel eyes and was the embodiment of kindness. My healing was Alejandro.
 

He smiled and waved at me. “Bonita! Isn’t this magical?”

“It’s the best, Alejandro.”

My phone buzzed in my purse. I picked it up and saw I’d gotten a text from Mom. “Don’t panic. Nana’s in the hospital. I think it’s under control. But call me.”

* * *

We sat in the Jeep in a long line of cars at the Mexican-American border when I finally scored spotty cell reception and was able to get through to my mom. Nana’s coughs had turned into bronchitis, which landed her in the hospital. The doctors ran a cardiac workup. She had atrial fibrillation: erratic or extra signals were going to her heart, making it beat faster or even tremble. This wasn’t the good kind of trembling, like falling in love.
 

“Her fibrillation could go into blood clots or heart failure,” Mom said. “So, the doctors stopped her heart and re-started it.”

One of my hands flew to my chest. “I’ll get on a plane,” I said as we inched forward in line toward the checkpoint.
 

“No. The worst is over. They gave her antibiotics for her bronchitis, an inhaler and they’re keeping her at the hospital for one night. They’re going to discharge her tomorrow. The worst case scenario—the day after.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. She didn’t even want me to tell you. She wants you to finish summer school and whatever the secret project you’re working on, that she’s all furry fempt about,” Mom said.

“You mean ‘ver klempt’,” I said.

“I thought you were taking Genetics in summer school. Are you learning a foreign language too? You really do take after your grandmother, you know. More so than you do me. I love you, sweets. I miss you. We will weather this small storm, and we will see each other soon.”

I made Mom promise to call or text me with updates. Hung up and sent Dr. Kelsey an email, and a text asking him if there was still an opening for the Vision Quest that night. He replied immediately, saying he’d make one for me. To say that Alejandro wasn’t all that thrilled about this would be an understatement.
 

But I was going. I might have found my own healing, but I hadn’t tracked it down yet for my grandmother.

Chapter Twenty-two
 

I sat on my living room floor across from Alejandro. I’d borrowed a large hiker’s backpack from him. It lay on the ground between us as Napoleon played with its straps and cords: biting one, then getting distracted and pouncing on another. There was a pile of items on the rug next to the backpack.

“I don’t understand why taking a Vision Quest is going to help your Nana with atrial fibrillation?” He asked.

“Because, Alejandro. It isn’t just her heart problem. It’s because she’s had MS for thirty years. MS eats away at a person over time. It can take away your ability to function and move and walk. And once you’re in a wheelchair—the longer you’re in it the more susceptible you become to infections. The more complications develop with all your other organs. So, every single healer you drove me to? Was one more person that might be able to help Nana. Maybe I could find something to give her relief or buy her time. Maybe I’d find a miracle.”
 

“Oh,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk about earlier?”

“Yeah. That’s one of my secrets.”
Just not the biggest one. And I didn’t have it in me to tell him, yet.

“There was never a book, was there?” He asked.

“No, there was never a book,” I said. “I’m sorry. That was kind-of a lie. Because I really wanted, I really needed you to drive me. Help me.”

“It’s cool, Bonita.” He sighed. “I wish your grandmother wasn’t going through this.”

“Me too. Life isn’t for the faint of heart,” I said and picked up a printed piece of paper and read from it. “Recommended items to bring on your Kelsey Vision Quest. #1. Drinking water.”

Alejandro sighed. “Check,” he said. “Aren’t you glad I made you buy bottled water?”

“
You
bought the bottled water. I would have been happy with a container of tap.” I drew a line through the item. “Matches.”

“Check.” He held them up and shook them at me. “You know it’s fire season and it’s like a tinderbox up in the mountains. I don’t understand what you need the matches for.”

“It’s on the list.” I drew another line on the list. “A functioning, fully charged flashlight.” I grabbed a flashlight from the pile and flipped it on. A decent-sized beam shone from it. “It works.”

“I’ll put new batteries in it,” he said.
 

I shone it on his face. He blinked and squinted. “I asked you to hand it to me, not blind me.”

“You are my prisoner,” I said in my best eastern European accent. “Kiss me immediately, prisoner, or I will interrogate you. I will tickle your…” I glanced down at the list and spotted, “Mouthwash? Why is mouthwash on the list? Are we Vision Questing for oral hygiene? What do I need—”

He kissed me. His hands cradled the sides of my face, pulling me toward him as he kneeled on the floor, leaning over the pile of survival items. His tongue traced my upper lip. I sighed and closed my eyes. He bit gently on my lower lip and then slid his tongue inside my mouth. He was exploring. Inviting. Tempting. My breath caught.
 

But then he stopped kissing me. I blinked my eyes open. He’d retreated a few inches. “You’re a tease,” I said.