Page 61 of The Delivery

We drive slowly through the streets, and up here, they’re unpaved. Mozey asks anyone willing to speak to him after his uncle, his mother’s only living brother. Children beg at the windows, and I pass them coins. I wish I’d brought some food or something more substantial. We’re directed this way and that but don’t come up with much. Mozey squeezes my thigh and looks over at me. He mouths, “You okay?”

Just like him to be worried about my well-being when it’s his future that’s so up in the air and he doesn’t even know where he’ll next rest his head. But maybe Mozey is better at uncertainties than I am and that’s why he can function just fine in our undefined relationship. Me, I just lose my mind and over-analyze every little part.

And guess what? We do find Mozey’s uncle. He lives in a two room, modest house with his family. By modest, I mean modest for the developing world—his lifestyle makes the modest one I grew up with look like a life fit for kings. It was the bodega owner by his house where we stopped for a soda, who knew exactly who we were talking about. It was luck really, because up here I don’t think there are addresses, houses seem to sprout out of the ground, one on top of the other. He poured our soda into baggies with straws, putting the thick glass bottles back into crates while he gave us real directions and accurate descriptions. I’d never had soda out of a plastic bag before. It makes it more bubbly and more fun to look at.

Mozey’s Uncle Francisco and his Aunt Sandra seem happy but unaffected as if long lost relatives make their way through their threshold at least once a week. Their kids love us though and hold onto our legs. I play the dutiful girlfriend but none of it’s really play. I’d do anything for Mozey, including search for him all over sin city in a country I’ve never really been to, drive halfway across said dangerous country where I don’t speak the language, engage in illegal activity that could really piss off the government and land me in jail, and hold his hand while he reunites with a family that he’s never really known and hasn’t seen in years.

It dawns on me while I pick at the chicken and rice I’ve been generously served on a yellow plastic plate, that I am Mozey’s family and so is Alexei and my mom and my dad. I can’t believe I couldn’t see that before. I chew my white rice with canned peas and carrots dutifully as I watch Mozey struggle. My eyes fill with tears, and he seems to sense it and looks up at me.

“I love you,” I say aloud as I swallow my food past a gigantic lump in my throat.

“I luv ju,” a sweet little kid’s voice squeaks from under the table. I laugh as tears stream down my face to land on my plate.

“I’m your family, Mozey,” I say, holding his gaze. “I mean, if you want me to be,” I say, becoming more conscious of my surroundings and the weight of what I’ve just said.

Mozey stands and walks over to me careful and collected. He sets my plate on a table, takes my hands and pulls me up to standing. His arms wrap around my waist, and he pulls me in tightly. The hard wall of his chest is home enough for me.

Mosey grabs my face, his thumbs coming to rest on my cheeks. He looks into my eyes with his dark-chocolate smoldering ones.

“I want you to be,” he says, clearly speaking each word with intention. He holds me close and intimately, and I cry into his chest, neither one of us pretending.

We spend the night in one room while Francisco and his whole family sleeps in the other. The blankets are musty, the floor, hard and cold. We probably would have been more comfortable in the car. But it doesn’t matter at all where we are, what country or what city or under what blankets. I’m happy to be near him, I feel privileged to love him and to rest my head on his chest.

It strikes me that I belong to the most beautiful man in the world and he belongs to me. I kiss him back without any hesitation and without analyzing why we feel what we feel for each other. I try not to think about what the future will bring. I only contemplate how this love can help us to both cherish and heal one another.

In the morning we rise and are greeted by giggling children. Over breakfast of fried tamales and a warm, sweet corn porridge, Francisco tells us that more family will arrive. We wait nearly all day until my feet go numb with cold. Making the excuse to run to the grocery store, we drive in circles around the neighborhood to warm up.

“Do you think that they’re suffering?” I ask Mozey as I blow into my hands.

“Not more or less than anyone else here,” he replies to me somberly.

“Do you feel guilty for leaving? It wasn’t your choice to make.”

“I feel guilty for everything, Lana. Guilty for existing.”

I rub his shoulder and lean my head against him. He takes my hand and interlocks my fingers with his.

“Do you think if we found out about what happened to Brisa, you could let go of some of that guilt or would it make it worse?”

“I don’t know,” he says and massages his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“What are we going to do, Mo?” It’s not the right time to ask or add more weight to his load. But the uncertainty is killing me, and we can’t just not know where we’ll go tomorrow or from where we’ll get our next meal. He shakes his head at me and rubs his lips against the back of his palm as he gazes out the windshield onto the forgotten past he came from.

Two hours later we are eating another meal of chicken and tortillas, this time with cousins and another Uncle from Mozey’s father’s side who has brought his young, pregnant wife. Mo and I bought rum and Coke along with some cups and ice. The reunion has become a party and various neighbors are showing up. I warm up on the sweet, syrupy drink and cuddling with Mozey’s little cousin Rosario who refuses to leave me alone. It’s cold up here in La Neza and I see that most of the guests are wearing plastic sandals. Mexican boleros are playing softly in the background while I watch Mozey make his way around to everyone, trying desperately to connect and to communicate in Spanish.

The drinks keep flowing and people keep arriving until little Rosario is snoring in my arms. Truth be told, I’m not far behind her, and I rest her head on my shoulder and make my way to a chair in the corner.

The dull roar of the crowd seems to escalate a bit. I hear clinking glasses and “salud!” but there is also something more that I can’t quite put my finger on. If I end up here for any extended amount of time, I’ll have to learn the language. I’ve already had a lifetime of not being able to fully communicate with my family. I won’t make that mistake twice. How hard can it be to learn a second language? At thirty.

What I was unable to translate has obviously gotten through to Mozey, his forehead is wrinkling and his brow is knit. He keeps glancing at me nervously like he wants me to join him, but I’ve got a slumbering Rosario all tucked into my lap. He eventually makes his way over, spouting politeness and niceties to excuse himself. He is after all, the reason for the party.

He leans down and kisses my cheek brushing Rosario’s hair back from her temple.

“You okay?” he whispers like we’re in this together.

I nod my head at him, noting how serious he looks.

“Did something just happen? It feels like the air pressure changed in here? Is it because everyone is so drunk?”

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