Page 62 of The Delivery

His eyes widen, and I see Mozey as a scared little boy. He swallows and whispers, “I brought up Brisa. They think they know where she is.”

“Really?” I ask incredulously. “Did she make it back here? That seems impossible.”

“According to them, she was adopted—well, stolen, by some rich-ass narcos in the North. They raised her to be a beauty queen like her adoptive mother. She’s famous. On TV, supposedly. We’ll have to look her up.”

“How could they know that? It’s got to be an urban legend.” I don’t want to be mean, but it seems even crueler to let him raise false hope.

“Spitting image of my mom. Somebody had a screenshot on their phone. I’d google her now but there’s hardly any internet connection.”

“And?” I ask, my heart pitter-pattering right into my stomach. I want this for Mozey. I want it for him so much.

“She looks like she could be my mom, Lana. It’s got to be her.”

“Oh, Mozey!” I say, tears sliding down my face. “That’s such good news, and at the same time, so scary and strange. How do you feel?”

“It get’s better,” Mozey says, coming around behind me and kneeling down close to my ear. He smiles a nervous smile at our hosts and raises his rum and Coke in a mock toast. He doesn’t take another drink.

“She’s dying of renal failure. It’s been all over the news. I’m surprised we haven’t seen it.”

A dying beauty queen sounds dramatic, and at the same time, really familiar.

“Oh my gosh. No, I did! Tommy and Rocco were following that story. I can’t believe your sister is famous. And a beauty queen. No, scratch that, I can totally see it. The height, the facial structure. You could all be models.”

Mozey runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. “I really want to get the hell out of here!”

“Here, here!” I second the motion. “Everyone has been very nice, but I feel like a fish out of water.”

“Do you think Dale would mind if we used the card one more time? I swear I’ll pay him back. I’ll even apologize for stealing his girlfriend.”

I raise an eyebrow at him in response.

“You were mine to steal back,” he says and gives me a wink. A wink that is so audacious and sexy that it momentarily blinds me with desire.

“How do we get out of here?”

“We’re driving out to the airport early tomorrow morning to pick up your parents.”

“What?”

“I mean that’s what we’ll tell them. What do you think about the hotel?”

“As long as you tell them! They’re going to think we’re rude for leaving. You’re the guest of honor,” I say, lifting up Rosario and cradling her head. “Where should I put her?”

“There’s a bed in the other room,” Mozey says, making his way back to the crowd to say goodbye.

I leave Rosario sleeping next to her brother and then dole out around forty kisses on the cheek before we’re allowed to leave the house. A few of the men walk us to the car. Mozey shakes their hands over and over again. The goodbye lasts so long at some point I feel like they’re starting to say hello all over again. I wonder if he feels bad that we don’t have anything to give them. Theoretically we’re just as poor as every one here. At least in this moment. I know that we have more mobility than they do. I am grateful for both my education and my American citizenship. I’m aware of my own privilege.

Arriving back at the Marriot feels like coming home. The amenities and service are now perversely luxurious and guilt inducing. The bed feels like heaven’s clouds and so do the pillows. I roll all over it sticking my face in, like a huskie in snow. I wish we could steal the mattress and box spring and drive them out to Mozey’s aunt and uncle.

Together we google photographs, YouTube interviews and clips from TV appearances. The amount of material on her is nothing short of amazing. Screw looking like his mother; Brisa looks exactly like him. You couldn’t convince me they had different fathers even with genetic testing. Her gestures, her height, her features, are all the same pieces to the puzzle that make up Mozey. They’ve got the same eyes, same nose, the exact same full lips and wide mouth, even their hair was cut from the same cloth, costars in the damn Pantene commercial. They should both be on television.

I feel an immediate affinity toward her but also some strange pangs of jealousy. I’m simultaneously sad for her physical situation and repulsed by her celebrity. Her life was easier than Mozey’s. It’s so sick that they snatched her, and it’s made even more complicated by the fact that she probably faired better because of their crime. Even her voice belongs to Mozey. I can’t help but cry.

I try to swallow down the tears and get a grip for him. If I’m feeling this onslaught of emotion, I can’t even imagine what it all must be doing to him. I grab his hand and pull it to my thigh.

“This must be so difficult,” I say, squeezing his arm.

He nods his head but keeps his eyes glued to the video of her walking town the runway, hanging onto her tiara and a huge bundle of roses.

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