CHAPTER 16

I've never been to Mexico before, unless you count spring break in Cancun my senior year of high school.

It was a sponsored trip with multiple chaperones, and I got to go because of my grades and my standing as president of the debate club.

I don't really do sun because of my complexion so I holed up under a palapa, read a book a day while I took advantage of the drinking age and binged on fresh lime margaritas.

But the Mexico I've seen of late on the news and in magazines doesn't match up to my beach vacation.

All I hear now are reports of a drug war of epic proportions with beheadings and mutilations especially along the border.

I don't speak a lick of Spanish.

I can barely order a beer.

You'd think I would have gotten that together in all my years as a social worker.

But my mom only speaks Russian, and I never learned that either—so there you go —I'm a lingual deficient.

A tongue-tied, stubborn, single language speaker.

When I get back to the apartment, the first thing I do is borrow Dale's Rosetta Stone still wrapped in the packaging.

I'll learn the language on the way there, and by the time I get there I'll be fluent in Spanish.

Or maybe at least that way I'll be able to ask for the basics.

Then I borrow his old GPS.

It's really not stealing.

I got him a brand new one for Christmas, and the old one is just sitting around wasting space in the closet.

I leave Dale a note asking him to watch my plants and my fish.

I should tell someone where I'm going but I'm too scared to call home.

At least Lexi knows the best way to track me.

I grab my phone charger and my computer, then think twice about it and put back the computer.

I pack a suitcase with clothes, some sheets and a blanket.

I put in candles, a southern California road map and box of energy bars.

I'm hoping the phone will ring and someone will tell me I can't go.

I'd even take Dale calling to tell me he wants me back, I'm so afraid of the unknown.

This is the first time I've ever done something so risky.

I don't know exactly what it is I'm risking, but it feels daunting and huge.

I could find him, and he could tell me to get lost.

Or more likely, I'll go down there and get myself killed.

But somehow my body has a mind of its own, and it drags my stuff out the door and jumps into the car.

I blast music to distract myself as I fill up the gas tank.

Vintage Public Enemy to really get myself riled up.

Inside the gas station, I buy a hot dog that's probably been rotating under heat lamps since 1997.

I cover it in relish and gobble it down.

I don't even like hot dogs.

It's all proof that I'm losing my mind.

But I eat it like it's my last supper because who knows what the hell lies ahead.

California Interstate 15-S is clear, and I've heard about this drive from everyone else on the planet, including Dale, but I've never done it.

I put in the Rosetta Stone CD and listen to common Spanish phrases and some verb conjugation.

I've got five hours of driving to explain to myself why seeing Mozey for five minutes could end my relationship with Dale and set me off on such an impulsive mission.

I wonder how much of my attraction to Mozey is born out of some sort of warped fantasy about saving him.

But Mozey has done fine for himself since he left the program.

He might not have a great job or a lot of money, but he stayed out of jail and supported his family.

The crimes that got him deported weren't real crimes in my eyes.

I'm all for public and political art —especially if it's as poignant and practiced as Mozey's.

The sexual attraction is there, at least on my side it is.

Is this because it was forbidden, am I just a gross pervert? Or maybe all women are sexually attracted to him.

He's beautiful and muscular, and his artistic flair makes him seem like he could do wonders in bed.

My mind drifts to the moment in Detroit when we painted with him pressed to my back.

His hard cock, his warm body, his strong arm flung across my hip.

I blush thinking about his body and his scent.

I'm instantly turned on, and I squeeze my thighs together and try to concentrate on the road.

What if Mozey only wants me for the conquest? Because he struck out before? Sometimes it feels like ninety percent of men's desire is wrapped up in the chase.

Then after you consummate it, do the deed and all that, you've got ten percent left over for the rest of your relationship.

Ten percent is nothing, and then you have to start worrying about where the hell his other ninety is focused when it's no longer in your bed.

I take the Rosetta out of the player and toss it on the seat.

I can't stand the repetition; it'll make me go insane.

I put in a mixed CD Dale made me when we first met and push play.

A sentimental singer songwriter croons into my ear.

I can hear the breath in her singing voice and it makes me grit my teeth.

I eject the CD, roll down the window and toss it out into the street.

The majority of the radio stations coming through are now in Spanish.

The advertisements roll by so fast it makes me nauseous.

Is that how people are going to speak to me? Because I can tell you right now I won't understand shit.

I'm heading toward an infamously seedy, sin city to try to track down a man using a Western Union tracking code.

Sounds really promising, Lana.

This is another a great idea of yours.

I pull off the highway to pee at another gas station.

In the bathroom mirror, I pile my dark hair on top of my head and secure it with a clip.

I brush my teeth then choke on the water and spatter it all over the sink.

The one other pee-er in the bathroom looks at me like I'm mad.

I grab a paper towel to blow my nose and wipe my watering eyes.

I point at my throat and my voice catches as I tell her, "It was already half-way down when I remembered maybe we're not supposed to drink the water.

You know this close to the border."

She nods at me like I'm an ass, and she didn't understand a word of my explanation nor does she care.

I'm sure she thinks I'm a drug addict who does all of their personal grooming in highway gas station bathrooms.

Maybe I will.

Hey, lady stick around, I'm about to shave my pits.

"Never mind," I say, tossing my paper towel and making a basket.

"And the crowd goes wild," I say, putting my arms up in mock cheer.

She shakes her head at me and uses the hand dryer.

I shove my toothbrush back in its travel case and stick it in my back pocket.

At the convenience store, I buy six liters of bottled water, a pack of chewing gum and some pretzels.

"How much farther to Tijuana?" I ask the cashier, trying to sound casual like I drive there every weekend.

Deep down I feel like a badass just for saying it, and I couldn't really be more excited.

My first adventure was moving to Los Angeles.

This feels like a second.

"Bout an hour out now, give at least twenty at the border, I'd say."

"Cool.

Thanks," I say, chomping down on my tongue.

I've never really driven across an actual border before unless you count Canada.

But growing up in Michigan that isn't so impressive.

My dad used to drive to Canada to buy cigarettes in bulk and resell them out of our car trunk at the Owl's club Russian meet-up.

The border is just like in the movies and buzzing with action.

The signs alone give me chills, and I wonder if I'll be flagged to pull over.

I'm only three cars out from the tollbooth when a border officer with a K-9 patrol begins to sniff my tires.

I don't have anything illegal, just bottled water and granola bars.

A little farther on there's a plaque in both English and Spanish that reads "Boundary of the United States of America."

I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs.

I'm crossing multiple boundaries right now, and it's as scary as it is thrilling.

I take my phone out and take a picture for Lex.

Even if I don't find him, I'm still glad that I did this.

It's empowering to step out of the monotony and commit to gigantic and terrifying choices.

If I still feel this gravitational pull toward him three years later, it must mean something, right? I'd be stupid to pass it up and let it walk out of my life.

The questions at the border consist of: US Citizen? Are you traveling alone? Business or pleasure? When will you return? How much cash are you carrying? That's it.

I'm waived through.

What if I never come back? The Mexican side is about a hundred million megawatts brighter than San Diego.

There are people selling every single object under the sun, from oranges and water to blankets and underwear and packets of chewing gum.

The sides of the road are set up with stores, offering every trinket and souvenir in a blizzard of color.

There are food stands and small loncherias taking up every little space.

The air smells of crackling roast pig, fried onions and plenty of car exhaust.

I buy a bag of oranges from a toothless old man in a poncho while I'm stopped at a light.

I've got an urge to take his picture, but I stop myself thinking I don't want to be the worst kind of tourist.

I'm not making a documentary.

I'm finally living my own life.

I turn on the GPS and type in the address for Western Union, and about twenty-five addresses' come up.

My only link in the world to Mozey—the reason why I'm here.

The man who makes my whole system hum, now divided by twenty-five possible Western Union pick-up stations.

It only takes me ten minutes to find the first one, and I park on the street and lock the car.

The neighborhood seems quiet with a few small restaurants and bodegas dotting the otherwise residential street.

The air is hot and dry and everything is covered in a layer of gritty dust.

I stretch and turn in a circle taking in everything around me.

The cinderblock and cement houses come right up to the street.

Many are painted bright colors, lots of pastels, like a roughed up candy land.

In some cases you can easily see into someone's living room and watch their TV.

The vibe is sleepy in the late afternoon haze, and I wonder if it's nighttime when everyone really misbehaves.

I walk by a portly woman in a flowered housedress sweeping the sidewalk.

She's kicking up orange dust with her broom that appears to be crafted out of dried hay tethered to a long stick.

I peek right into her kitchen as I pass by and spy her son or grandson relaxing in a hammock watching a telenovela on a super-sized flat screen.

The broom and the television come from two different worlds.

I wonder if the people who live here originally came this way to cross, then ended up staying for whatever reason.

Living on the border must be like living at the airport.

As I pull open the door to Western Union, I'm hit with cold airconditioned heaven.

I remember that most of the Southwestern US used to actually be Mexico and that the inhabitants of Tijuana could have been here for centuries.

The sweet girl behind the plexi-glass does her best to explain to me that Mozey's transfer could be picked up at one of their five hundred thousand, million, trillion locations.

I chide myself for being so dumb.

I feel a tiny bit better when she hands me a list of their two hundred Tijuana locations.

She punches in the tracking code as my heart flip-flops in my chest like a fish out of water who just realized how fucked he is.

It hasn't been picked up yet and the transfer went active yesterday.

It's very likely it will be picked up today, so it's just a matter of waiting.

After it's been collected she can tell which outpost the money was claimed from even though she's not really supposed to.

She'll make an exception because I do have the tracking number.

I rub my face, nod my head and thank her for her time.

I turn to go but then look down at the list and head back to her window.

"If you were me, which one's would you check.

There's just so many here—I… I don't know."

Her face brightens, and she looks at me with some form of endearment and pity.

"Did you meet on vacations?" she asks.

Oh God.

She thinks I'm one of those.

"No.

I'm his social worker.

He's a family friend.

My friend.

He's my brother's best friend.

That's who sent the wire."

I'm rambling.

My justifications sound hollow, and I feel like her face is wearing a mask of pleasantry but she knows I'm in love with somebody I shouldn't be in love with.

"I'm not married," I bark like a crazed fool out of nowhere.

"It's fine.

Let me show you the most trafficked locations in Tijuana.

I think if this one came up first on the device you're using it would be good to watch here.

Chances are, it will come up on his device too."

"God, you're good.

It's okay if I lurk? I'll do it in my car—or is there someplace where I can get coffee?" My head is pounding with the scope of this task and all the driving and the pretzels and the gas station blue slushie.

"Right across the street.

There is a place called, Miramar.

You can get —" she glances down at her watch "—you can get comida corrida if they're still serving.

The coffee is good and the place is quiet, especially this time of day."

I lean down toward the cut out in the Plexiglas, trying to make better eye contact.

"Thanks.

You've been such a big help.

How late are you open?"

"No problem.

Until nine.

My name is Remedios, but you can call me Reme," she says as she smiles at me genuinely.

"Good.

Cause I couldn't have said the other one.

Thanks, Reme.

I'll be back before you close."