“Ice cream sounds good after today. If you guys don’t mind being stuck in the car with me. I’m sweaty as hel .”
“You know this pendejo?” Ah, so her roadside companion speaks—if only to cal me an asshole.
One hand on her hip, Gabriel e answers him in Spanish, which I understand just wel enough to know I’d better steer her to the car before she gets bitch-slapped. “Thanks for stopping, man,” I tel him while taking Gabriel e by the arm and quickly directing her into the back seat.
An hour later, her car’s been towed and we’ve got the twins in the car. Since they’re nine, they’re way more impressed that they can make faces through the dark-tinted windows that other drivers can’t see than the fact that I’m a movie star. They’re also awed by the fact that I’ve got a guy to drive me around wherever I want to go; their sister better comprehends the way I miss my own wheels.
Gabriel e directs Luis to an ice cream shop in her old neighborhood and the boys go into raptures when I tel them to get whatever they want. I don’t think the words get whatever you want have ever been uttered to them before. It takes them a ful ten minutes of discussion to decide what to get, and since we’re the only customers, the woman behind the counter takes the break to watch entertainment news on a tiny television by the register. One of the commentators says my name and I feign inattentiveness as the clerk glances between me and my image on the tiny screen. Final y she stares at me, mouth slightly ajar and eyebrows elevated to the level of her pink visor, and I smile at her. When we leave, she’s grabbing up her cel and taking photos of our retreating backsides.
Luis raises an eyebrow when we exit, the boys with what looks like quart-sized cartons each, and Gabriel e and I each holding an overloaded cone. “Dinner is official y spoiled,” I tel her as one of her brothers cal s shotgun and the other squeezes between us in the back seat. “Your mother is going to kil me.”
Gabriel e smiles prettily. “No, she won’t. Mama likes you.”
“Oh?” I’m taken by surprise, even though Mrs. Diego thanked me for working on the house just a couple of days ago. I mean Jesus, I ran into her house with my car. “Must be my infamous charm and good looks.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “She says you’re a hard worker. That’s the only thing that ever impresses Mama.”
*** *** ***
Dori
I was in line for airport security at 7:00 a.m. for the flight to Miami, and from there, I caught my connection to Quito. I’ve made this trip twice before—each of the past two summers
—but having experience in LA-to-Quito travel doesn’t make the thirteen-hour trip feel any shorter. It’s almost midnight by the time I get settled into the women’s dormitory, and I’l probably be lucky to get five hours of sleep before it’s time to get up.
There’s always a lot to be done. Children in Quito are sent into the city in droves to beg or shine shoes to help support their families. My first year here, we refurbished a school and organized learning activities with children whose parents spared them from a few days of work. I asked one group of little boys whether they attended school during the regular school year. Al of them said no, but some had siblings who did. When I asked why some of their siblings were al owed to go and they weren’t, one replied, “My sister is smart, so she goes to school and we work.” It broke my heart. These kids were exceedingly bright, but they were al resigned to the impression that they weren’t.
In some ways, returning last year was even more depressing. We’d made an impact that first year I volunteered, and returning a year later to find nothing improved made me want to scream with frustration. I’d never ful y understood my parents and Deb when they talked about social progress in terms of two steps up, one step back—sometimes two. Deflated, I cal ed Deb in San Diego, where she was doing a summer research internship before her last year of med school.
“Dori, smal gains are stil gains. Sweeping changes occur over time. They’re hardly noticeable while they’re occurring. Think about the difference thirty, forty, or a hundred years have made in things like race relations, animal testing, or recognition of addiction as a disease.” Her rational words calmed me, but couldn’t stop the whine that seeped into my voice. “It’s not fair.” She chuckled softly. “I know, sweetie. But the world doesn’t operate on fairness. You know that as wel as I do.” Talking to Deb can be like having your hand held while you swal ow nasty-tasting medicine or get a shot. She can’t make the bad stuff go away, but she makes it easier to take. “If you want to make a difference eventual y, you just keep on.”
I heeded her advice then and over the past year, and here I am in Ecuador for a third time, more prepared for the conditions I’l find and ready to tackle them.
Using this time to overcome the reckless feelings I’ve developed for Reid is something else I have to do. I vow to return to LA in a more rational frame of mind, because over the past 48 hours I’ve done little but recal abstracts of him like a series of film clips: His disdain the morning I met him.
His sarcasm and charm, and the unsettling way they combined to make him impossible to ignore. The pride on his face when he finished the shelves. The surprise in his eyes when he blurted out the truth about his parents over dinner. The gentleness of his kiss.
Once I get through customs, I’m met by Ana Diaz, a missionary who resides here year-round, trying to reach and educate as many Ecuadorian kids as possible.
“Welcome back, Dori,” she says, hugging me.
By 1:00 a.m., I’m staring at the bottom of the bunk above By 1:00 a.m., I’m staring at the bottom of the bunk above me, restless and awake, surrounded by the soft, slumbering breaths of the women I’l meet tomorrow. I could blame my sleeplessness on the cold—the nighttime temps in Quito are around fifty degrees year-round—but I’m not dense enough to think a bit of a chil would keep me from sleeping after this exhausting day.
The truth is, I’m sufficiently warm, recal ing Reid’s fingers playing through my hair, holding my face and trailing down my bare arms, his mouth on mine. The sensations that warm me are the same delicious sensations responsible for my insomnia, but my mind refuses to meditate on something else, anything else. For tonight, I surrender, my hands restless under blankets softened and worn from use.