We Are Not from Here

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  The train clanks and comes back to life.

  “Hurry!” the guy yells. “It’s getting ready to leave.” He picks up the pace and I run to keep up, but Chico’s legs are like rubber. If we were to let go, he’d fall. We drag him.

  “I’m awake,” he says, his eyes half-closed.

  “Just a little more,” I tell him. The guy moves faster and we are running then, jostling Chico every which way as he cries and moans.

  The train hisses and shakes. People are emerging from every direction, running past us as the guy curses and tells his girl to leave us behind. But she won’t let go of Chico. People are yelling, climbing on to the train, urging one another to hurry. When we’re only a few yards away, it whistles and shakes and the wheels start to move.

  The guy curses and runs faster. Pequeña is running ahead, to one of the cars, its door slightly opened, barely visible in the darkness.

  “Here!” she yells, trying to slide the door open more. “Here!”

  The train is waking up, slowly moving.

  “Grab him!” the guy yells at her, and Pequeña holds Chico as the guy climbs on. Within seconds he’s pushed the door open farther and climbed on board. He reaches for Chico and pulls him on as we push him up and in.

  Then he pulls his girlfriend on board. Then Pequeña. And finally me.

  The train is rolling faster now, but more people see the open cargo door and jump inside with us. More and more, until the car is filled. Some try to climb down from the roof, but are forced to go back up by two guys at the opening who take it upon themselves not to let it get too crowded because we won’t be able to breathe with too many bodies in the car.

  I watch as a woman on the ground passes her child to someone in the car above before she can climb up. A hand reaches down to grab the baby, gripping him by his arm. The child dangles in midair, screaming, before he’s pulled up all the way.

  One wrong move. One jerk of the train. One arm too weakened to hold him, and the boy would fall to the tracks.

  A part of me, the part that lives inside my chest and is aching all the time, tells me to climb out. To find the woman and the baby and have them take my place in the car where it is safer.

  But my mind reminds me if I get out of this car, another body will fill it up before I can even get to that woman.

  My mind reminds me that the best way to survive this trip is to forget about that part of me deep inside my chest.

  The car is stuffy. It smells of sweat and body odor. The itching on my head that I’ve been feeling for days becomes more intense, and I scratch so hard I draw blood beneath my nails. Chico moans off and on, mutters that he’s awake. The guy who helped us gives us a dirty look as he holds his girlfriend.

  When I close my eyes, I see that child dangling.

  Dangling in midair like that, then falling.

  I jolt awake, search for him and his mother, before my eyes close again.

  Pequeña

  The odor of urine and feces and sweat fills the small boxcar. Even with the door open, the air is thick and stagnant. My stomach turns as the heat of our bodies makes the smell even more pungent. I hear some someone retching, then the sour smell of vomit.

  I want to close my eyes, sleep, but when I do, the faces of others on this train with me flash through my mind; I see their lives and what they’re running from. I see fruitless farms and families with nothing to eat. I see people held at knifepoint. I see money exchanging hands. I see blood and smell fear. I hear threats and feel intense desperation.

  So I keep my eyes open, focused on the door of the boxcar.

  When you watch the dark for hours, it’s not hard to focus on the noises you hear. Mostly you hear your own voice. Telling you all kinds of things. Like maybe you were meant to die. That maybe your fate is your fate and there is no way to escape your fate. That maybe your body is too tired, too weak.

  You hear the voice of giving in. Of giving up.

  But there’s another voice, too, that comes from the pit of your stomach.

  And it’s the voice that says, You deserve to live.

  Look what you will do, what you will put yourself through, just for a chance.

  You hold on to that voice, and you make it louder and louder, until it fills up your head. You listen to it as long as you can because you know how it goes silent as you ride, you know how it gets drowned by other voices and the sound of the train. And then you have to find it all over again.

  Over and over, you find that voice.

  Over and over, you lose it again.

  For miles and hours you play this game, until you watch the darkness fade and the sun come up and the sky somehow, like a miracle, ablaze again.

  I look at the guy and his girlfriend. She’s sleeping. He’s not.

  He’s watching the day rise outside, too. And his face is lit up in a way that, for a minute, I see his hopes and dreams. For a minute, I hear his voice, his thoughts, how he wants to get her there safe. How they will get married. How they will have children. He just has to get them there safely.

  He turns his gaze on me and I look away.

  The train screeches. Chico’s eyes flutter. I hold his head in my lap, trying to minimize the jostling he feels as the train trembles and screams.

  Trees and ramshackle buildings blur by past the opening. More people on the train wake up, and now in the daylight, I see there are even more of us than I realized. Maybe more than a hundred. And that’s not counting the small children swallowed up by the crowd, who I don’t see but can hear crying and asking for food. Someone close to the opening yells that we must be in Ixtepec, and after a while, he yells that we’re near the train yard. And industrial warehouses, ugly and solitary, come into view as we rumble in and come to a gasping, lurching stop.

  Everyone from the boxcar begins climbing off the train. As they walk into the sunlight, I see them covered in the remnants of the dust and powder of whatever this train car carries. They look ashen. They look like corpses.

  I look down at my clothes, my hands, and know I look just like them, too.

  Pulga and I lift Chico up as the guy helps his girl off the train.

  “Let’s follow them,” Pulga whispers to me, nodding toward the guy and girl. “That guy knows what he’s doing.”

  I nod and we hurry to the exit, helping Chico, who is awake but looks stunned and keeps holding his head and leaning on us.

  The sun is bright and blinding and Chico shields his eyes. People are stumbling across the field, looking around, and that’s when Pulga spots the couple.

  “No way, hermanos,” the guy says as soon as he notices us following them. “My girl may have a soft spot for you, but you can’t be following us. I’m not a pollero or any shit like that. And I don’t want to be responsible for the three of you.”

  I look at his girlfriend. She reminds me of Leticia years ago, pretty even in all this dirt and dust and heat. She looks at us like she would like to help, but this is as much as she can do.

  “Come on,” Pulga begs him. “We won’t bother you. I promise. We’ll stay out of your way. Please.”

  Chico drops suddenly, like his legs have given out, and he sits down in the dirt. “Chico,” I say, bending down next to him. “Get up, Chico. Come on.”

  “Shhh,” the guy says, putting his finger to his lips. “I don’t want to know his name. Or yours. Or yours,” he says to each of us in turn.

  “Please,” Pulga begs, looking between the guy and his girlfriend.

  The guy takes a deep breath. “I’m going to say this once, and that’s it. So listen to me, okay?” He puts his hand on Pulga’s shoulder. “Your brother can’t go on this way, right now.”

  “But we have to—” Pulga says. But I know the guy is right. Chico can’t go on like this.

  “I said, listen,” he says. “He needs to rest for a few days. He ca
nnot be running to catch this thing, or riding it, being thrown around for hours.”

  Chico’s skin is a grayish pale and even though he’s sitting there, listening to us, his eyes, when he opens them, have a kind of vacant look.

  “You’re okay, right, Chico?” Pulga says. “You can go on, right? Tell him you’re fine,” he says, gesturing to the guy.

  Chico nods. “Yeah, yeah . . . it’s just the sun, it’s so bright.” He holds on to his head. “My head is pounding.”

  “Pulga,” I say, realizing there is no way this guy is going to let us tag along with him any farther. Realizing that Chico needs help.

  “He can go on,” Pulga insists to the guy. He sounds like he used to when we were little and he was begging his mamá for something. “He’ll rest right here while we wait for the train to take off again.” Pulga gestures back to the train on the track. “We take it to . . . hold on . . .” He jerks his backpack around, rummaging for his notebook.

  The guy stares at Pulga, then points to the tracks next to the ones we just came from. “You go on the next train on that track,” he says. “That one heads to Matias Romero. That’s the one you want to be on.” The guy sighs. “Just follow the others until you get to Lecheria, okay? Then you have to decide which route—man, forget it. I can’t be explaining all this to you three. You should’ve figured this stuff out.”

  “I did,” Pulga spits out, holding up his notebook. “I studied the maps, listened to stories.”

  The guy laughs. “Stop. This is exactly why I can’t be helping you. You know you’re not going to make it, right? Not this time around. Not even with your little notes. This trip takes more than one try. There’s shit you won’t know, mistakes you can’t avoid, until you’re actually doing it. Then you try again. Fuck, man, this is like my fourth time. I’ve almost died on these trips. I didn’t come all this way to help you. I have to focus on me and my girl. Do you understand? On getting us there. I can’t be looking out for no one else except me and her.” He looks at his girlfriend.

  Her eyes are full of tears.

  “Now look, you’re getting my girl all emotional.” He shakes his head, looks at us again. Then turns away from Pulga and to me. Sighs. “Look, down that way is a shelter. Most people don’t know about it or go there, because you have to backtrack; only those who can’t go on right away go.” He looks at us. “You guys need to stay put. Follow the tracks. But keep your eyes open for a small blue house, about a quarter of a mile from the tracks. You’ll get help there. Stay there for a few days. Catch the next train that leaves here. Got it? That’s it. That’s all I can do for you.”

  “Please, man. Please . . .” Pulga says.

  I stare at his pleading face and I swear I can feel the fear in his heart. Last night scared him. Maybe he’s afraid if we don’t keep going, we’ll die.

  Maybe he’s right.

  “Listen to me, hermano. Just trust me. It’s the best thing you can do. Get your little hermanito checked out, okay?”

  He turns his back on us and grabs his girlfriend by the hand, leading her to the other side of the other train on the other track.

  She looks back once, but the guy, he doesn’t look back at all.

  “I’m sorry,” Chico whispers as he squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

  Pulga shakes his head. “Forget it,” he says, but his voice is tight. Angry.

  Chico starts crying and I see how Pulga presses his lips tighter, like he’s fighting back saying something terrible.

  “Let’s go,” I say, reaching for Chico’s arm gently. “Let’s get you where you can rest and feel better, okay?” I lead him back down the track in the opposite direction as everyone else. Away from where we need to go.

  We are the only ones going backward. Pulga turns back every few steps, like he’s hoping the guy might have changed his mind. Shaking his head like we’re making some kind of terrible mistake.

  Finally, he gets on Chico’s other side and helps me hold him up as we walk. It’s scary to see how dead he already looks. His eyes look empty, and I think of how people say that those on the train turn to mummies on this trip.

  “You okay?” I ask him.

  He nods, then wobbles and holds his head tighter.

  “We’ll be there soon, Chiquito,” I say. But he suddenly doubles over and starts dry heaving. I rub his back as he keeps heaving, his body shaking.

  “Hey . . . hey, Chico. It’s okay. You’ll be okay,” Pulga says, rushing over to Chico.

  I try to keep panic from taking over. I tell myself he is just dehydrated. Or it’s just the brightness of the sun distorting things and making him feel sick.

  “You’ll be okay,” Pulga repeats as we help him up and head to the shelter.

  “Don’t worry, Chico,” I say, but the words run dry in my mouth.

  The shelter is not that far, but with Chico getting weaker with each passing second, it takes us forever to walk through the thick dry grass, the draining heat. And we spot it only because the guy told us about it. Its blue paint is faded to practically white and it’s not very visible sitting in the overgrown grass. More panic sets in as I wonder if anyone is even here.

  The place looks like it’s falling apart, but as we get closer, I see there are a few people sitting outside. And then there is a woman rushing outside to us as soon as she spots us.

  “What happened?” she says, looking Chico up and down.

  “He fell pretty hard off the train,” I say.

  She scans his body as if making sure it’s complete. “Come on. He needs to sit down.” She moves me and Pulga out of the way, and grabs Chico with impressive strength and helps him the rest of the way into the shelter.

  Inside, she sits him down, gives us all water, tells Chico to drink it slowly. She asks him simple questions—his age, his name, where he is from, but he just stares back at her, fixated on her face.

  “He’s got a bad concussion,” she says finally. “You all will need to stay here, give him time to recover.”

  “How long?” Pulga asks immediately.

  She sighs. “Concussions can take weeks to get better. The stay here is limited to three days, but we’ll overlook that since we haven’t been crowded lately.” She looks around at the almost empty room.

  “We can’t wait even three days,” Pulga says to me. “We have to keep going.”

  “If you don’t wait, he’s going to shake that brain around more,” the woman says. “And you risk more swelling.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” I tell Pulga. “He can’t go on like this.”

  “I’m so tired,” Chico whispers.

  “I want you to sit here, talk to me for a while,” the woman tells Chico. “Then I’ll let you sleep. Okay, niño?”

  Chico nods.

  The woman looks at Pulga and me. Her face is shiny, and her cheeks are round and high. She smells like Ponds, and for a moment, I’m taken back to the bedroom I shared with Mami after Papi left. How she would rub that lotion on her face each night before bed and she’d stare into the mirror, looking at my image in bed reflected there.

  We’ll be okay, Mami would say to me those nights when he first left, when we were both scared and lonely. And then she’d crawl into bed, the smell of her filling my nose as we fell asleep.

  The woman looks at us and says, “You two, get something to eat. Over there in the kitchen. Bring him something, too. Wash your hands first.”

  I hear her talking to Chico, making sure he answers her. When she is satisfied, she leads him to a room so he can sleep. Pulga and I eat bread, drink glasses of Gatorade, but she warms up some beans and plops them on our plates, too.

  She watches us as we eat, as we scratch our heads.

  “Come here,” she tells us. She grabs a thin wooden stick from a drawer, and runs it through my hair, parting it and examining.
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  “I know,” I tell her before she says anything. I’ve suspected I have lice for days.

  She checks Pulga’s head, too, and then sighs. “It’s better if you shave your hair off. Then use some shampoo to kill what remains. I have some.” She smiles.

  She grabs some shears and points us to a chair in the living room, telling Pulga to sit first. She starts to sing softly as his hair falls down in small clumps. Sitting there with his eyes closed, he looks so little. When he’s done, she points to me.

  “Your turn,” she says. One of the people who was sitting outside comes in and laughs.

  He’s a short man, wearing only a pair of too-big shorts and a thin white T-shirt. “This is a record, Soledad. They’re hardly here more than fifteen minutes and already you’re shearing their hair off. Esta Soledad,” he says, shaking his head. “She’ll use those shears while you’re sleeping if she has to.” He laughs and she laughs, and the sound fills the room.

  “It’s just, I can’t bear the thought of you all having to go on like that.” Her laugher dies down. “You’re not animals, after all,” she says. “Come on, help me. Sweep this hair up,” she tells the man, and he nods, grabbing a broom and dustpan.

  “That’s your name?” I ask her. “Soledad?”

  She nods as she runs the shears through my hair. “Can you believe that?”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No!” she says immediately. “How could I ever like a name like Soledad? It’s so sad, to be named loneliness. When I was little, I hated it because it sounded like a name for a grown-up. And now I hate it because it sealed my fate.”

  I know she must mean she is lonely. But I don’t want to pry, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

  “Even here, I am alone,” she says, looking around the shelter. “This little shelter is falling apart, only the most desperate come here. Most times, migrants keep going because they feel strong enough to make it to the next one. But I like being here. I’m here for those who are the most desperate. Who need help the most. And people, generous people with giving hearts, help us stay open. Help us survive.”