We Are Not from Here

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  I am reaching for him, and this time, I grab hold of his arm. I pull it so tight, just before he falls. But it detaches from his body, like a prosthetic limb, and it becomes light in my hand as the rest of him, the weight of him, falls to the ground. And I hear him screaming as he is chewed up by the train, as I hold that disembodied arm in my hands.

  His screams wake me. But they are my screams. And the night fills with the sound of little kids crying. They call out for their parents, for their hermana or hermano, for their tías and abuelas.

  They cry out because their stomachs hurt.

  Nene calls out for his mamá, his papá.

  I squeeze his hand, tell him it will be okay. My chest cramps up at the sound of him whimpering like that.

  When he falls back to sleep, I pound on my chest, hard. Harder. Hoping I can finish breaking whatever is left inside.

  Pequeña

  I see Pulga’s face. And Chico’s. I see the faces of people on La Bestia who I thought I’d never see again, but here they are, in my dreams. In my nightmares. Floating in the dark when I open my eyes. The face of a woman I don’t know comes in and out of focus often.

  I have to remind myself it is Marta, the woman who saved my life.

  I am clean, but I only have memories of water. I am dressed, but I don’t know how. I am not hungry, but I don’t remember eating.

  “Estás bien?” Marta asks. She sets a cup of coffee in front of me and I nod. Marta seems like a nervous woman. I can’t believe she picked me up.

  “How long have I been here?” I ask her.

  She stares at me. “Just one night, m’ija. I picked you up yesterday morning.”

  “Why did you . . .”

  She raises her eyebrows, tilts her head. “Pues, because . . .” she says, shaking her head, “how could I not?” She stares at me like how could I doubt it was her only option.

  “A lot of people wouldn’t,” I tell her.

  She nods. “I know. But . . .” She shakes her head again. “The truth is, I have selfish reasons, I guess.” She flutters around her kitchen, big and full of light, grabbing cookies and setting them down in front of me. Then warming tortillas on the comal. Scrambling eggs in a pan.

  “I have a sister, she lives in Mexico. Her daughter, my niece, died trying to get to the States. This was years ago. It nearly destroyed my sister. She was her only daughter.”

  Marta gets lost in the memories for a moment. “I thought my sister was going to die of grief. But then she calls me. Tells me she’s in Mexico, working at a shelter near the train tracks. I tell her she’s crazy. She tells me she wants to care for people, the way she wishes someone would’ve cared for her daughter. She’s alone out there, but well . . . I think it’s her destiny.”

  An image of Soledad immediately fills my head.

  “Soledad . . .” I whisper.

  Marta stops what she’s doing, stares at me. “What did you say?”

  “Soledad.”

  “That’s her name!” Marta’s eyes go wide. “How did you know?”

  “We stayed at that shelter for a week. She shaved my head.” We look at each other, and even after that trip, seeing and hearing and bearing witness to the things I’ve seen, I’m amazed.

  Marta shakes her head, starts laughing. “Dios mío, yes, she shaves everyone’s head. It’s impossible, but . . .” She stares at me, her eyes shining.

  It is impossible—to travel so many miles, on the border of dreams and reality, of life and death, and come across the kindness, and love, and humanity of two sisters. It’s impossible.

  And yet.

  Marta puts the plate of food down in front of me, asks me questions about Soledad, and we laugh over the impossibility, the triumph of odds.

  I laugh.

  Impossible.

  And yet.

  I laugh.

  * * *

  ~~~

  Marta and I talk into the evening. She makes me atole to eat, and some tea to drink, and then another tea that she soaks rags in and puts on my chapped and scratched skin. The tea will help me heal, she says.

  We sit on the couch, and she keeps me company, as if she knows I’m afraid of going to sleep, of facing the darkness that sleep and night bring.

  “So, por qué te viniste?” she asks me.

  “The same reason everyone comes,” I tell her.

  “Did you make the trip by yourself?”

  I shake my head. And I stare out her window, at the thick dark. I think of Pulga and Chico. And all the people still out there, now, tonight. My eyes fill with tears, spill over before I can stop them.

  “I came with two others.” I tell her about Chico. And Pulga. I tell her I know where Chico is, where he will be forever. But I don’t know what happened to Pulga after the Border Patrol picked him up.

  “If he has family here, you have to get in touch with them! So they can try to get him out of there. The centers . . .” She shakes her head. “Están muy malas, m’ija.”

  “I would have to call home to find out. I would have to speak to my mother and I haven’t . . . spoken to her since we left.”

  Marta’s eyes go wide. She gets up quickly, suddenly filled with urgency, searching for her cell phone. “Dios, m’ija. Your gente don’t know you’re alive? Call them. Call them now.”

  She hands me her phone, and I stare at it, paralyzed.

  I’m not ready to hear Mami. I’m not ready to know if she will or won’t answer the phone. If she’s okay, or if Rey took his rage out on her. Things I didn’t let myself think about when I ran, but now, now they are the things that fill my head.

  Marta asks me for the number, her fingers tapping each digit as I utter them slowly, one by one, putting it on speaker so we both hear the first long, beeping ring. Then another. And another.

  My chest fills with a strange heavy pain, and Marta looks at me with worry as I try to catch my breath. Each beeping ring places another brick on my lungs.

  “¿Bueno?”

  My hand shakes as I reach for the phone.

  “¿Bueno?”

  There is a long silence before my voice works, before I’m able to say anything. She sounds so far away. Like a dream, like a sketch, or a memory.

  “Mami?”

  “Pequeña?” Now her voice is frantic. It is the sound of someone clambering up wooden walls, splinters piercing the skin under bleeding fingernails. It is the sound of someone escaping danger below, to a bright light above. It is the sound of excruciating pain and relief. It is the sound of grief and happiness.

  “Hija . . . hija . . . hija . . .” Mami cries.

  “Estoy bien, Mami,” I tell her, through sobs. Through emotions that feel sharper than La Bestia’s steel wheels, that slice through my body and heart and voice box so all that comes out are broken words and tears.

  Marta speaks into the phone, explaining to Mami who she is and where I am and how I got here.

  Mami asks if Pulga and Chico are with me and I look at Marta, afraid of that phone, afraid of making things more real. Afraid of Mami’s voice.

  I bury my face in my hands as Marta speaks the words I can’t. When I hear Mami cry for Chico, I put my hands over my ears and shut my eyes tight.

  I keep my eyes on the ground, on the flowers on Marta’s rug. And I hear Soledad’s voice telling me I’m a flower.

  Marta gently pulls my hands away from my ears and tells me Mami wants to speak to me again.

  “Pequeña? Hija? Háblame, hija,” Mami says, over and over, begging me to speak. She sounds as if she thinks I might have died in the time she spoke to Marta.

  “I’m here,” I tell her.

  “I’m going to call your tía, hija. To let her know Pulga is alive. I’m going to call you right back, hija, okay? I have Marta’s number. I . . . Don’t worry, hija.”

  “Okay
, Mami.”

  “I’ll call you right back. In a few moments. Te quiero, hija. Te quiero tanto.”

  “Yo te quiero también, Mami,” I tell her.

  And then there is silence. Only Marta and me and this couch and Mami’s phantom voice in my ear and words that linger in the air.

  “It will be okay,” Marta tells me. “We’ll find your cousin and get him out and he’ll be okay, you’ll see.”

  I nod, even though I don’t know if it’s true.

  “And you can stay here as long as you need to,” she says, resting her hand on mine. She looks in my eyes, and I don’t know what she sees there, but she suddenly says to me, “I’ll help you. I know you have seen so much bad. But there is good in the world, Pequeña.”

  “Flor,” I whisper. Her brow furrows in confusion. “My name is Flor,” I tell her. “Not Pequeña. I don’t want to be called Pequeña ever again.”

  She nods. “Flor.”

  And I feel a small bit of relief in my chest, like a long-held breath finally being released. And I see inside my chest, dark and empty, but I see a glow come from a small space within that grows brighter and brighter. It’s a flower bud and I watch as it opens up, as luminous petals unfurl. More and more petals, growing larger, taking up more space, filling my whole chest.

  With life.

  With hope.

  Pulga

  I keep count of the days by the meals they give us. Oats and tepid water for breakfast. Soups from packets for lunch. Sandwiches with a slice of cheese for dinner. Sometimes a piece of old fruit. But then I lose track of the meals that repeat every day until I don’t know how long I’ve been here.

  Some of the boys try to steal food from others. I give Nene some of my food.

  “Do you know how long you’ve been here?” I ask him one day. I know he’s been here longer than I have, but he shakes his head as his scalp begins to crawl with a familiar itch.

  We stay in our filthy clothes, we sleep on filthy floors, we breathe rotting air.

  But we are the ones rotting. We are like forgotten overripe fruit, left to soften and mold and leak. Left to crust over and turn to nothing. If they could, I think they would just throw us out in plastic bags.

  At night, the sound of the whimpering and crying, the clanking of doors, the screaming from nightmares, fills the air. But my ears are muted, like I’ve turned the volume down low. And all I really hear, all I concentrate on, is the thud, thud, thud of my fist hitting my chest. Beating my own heart to death. Stop, I tell it, stop already.

  I will my brain not to think, and finally it no longer does. I don’t think. There’s something like a switch that has been hit inside me, and I move and do whatever I’m told.

  “Come here,” a guard tells me one day. And I do. He leads me past the room where days ago they asked me questions I barely remember answering. And he delivers me to a back room where days ago a woman with a kind face said she was my lawyer and explained that she found me because of Pequeña. Pequeña, who somehow survived—who contacted Mamá, who contacted my tía in the States, who contacted her.

  “Here,” the guard says, handing me some soap. Handing me a set of clean clothes. “Clean yourself up; they’re letting you out today.”

  I look at him, but his face is serious as he points to a door that leads to a room with two shower stalls.

  I take the soap and clean clothes and do what I’m told.

  The water hits my bare skin, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen my body. My feet don’t look like my own. My legs are so skinny and bruised I can’t believe they’re mine. A part of me wonders whether I’m still made of flesh and bone, or whether parts of my body would detach if I pulled hard enough

  When I look down at my chest, I see the deep black, blue, purple skin over my heart, across my chest. I press on it, soft and tender to the touch, and I know it must be the rot of my heart spreading beneath, coming through my flesh.

  I close my eyes, block it all out.

  I lather slowly, the soap turning brown in my hands as I wash off so much dirt. That small bar smells so good, I want to eat it. I press my tongue to it and it tastes like lotion and roses and beautiful things I forgot existed.

  I rub it over my head. I fill my ears with bubbles and rub them up and down my arms, across my chest, over my whole body, over and over and over.

  And still I feel like I will never be clean again. Like there is not enough soap to wash away all of this pain, this rot. I think of how things, once rotted, can never be fixed.

  “Hurry up” comes a call from the other side of the door, and I do what I’m told. I hurry. I rinse and dry and get dressed.

  The clothes are too big on me, but at least they don’t smell. I exit the bathroom, my filthy clothes in my hand, and feel strange, too exposed without the layers of dust and dirt. As we walk through the maze of halls, the guard points to a trash bin and tells me I can throw my clothes out if I want. I hold on to them tighter.

  He takes me to another room, where someone yells, “¡Número!” and points to a backpack. I shake my head, not knowing where the paper went, trying to explain. He gives me a dirty look, but hands me a paper to write down the number.

  8640.

  He looks at it and then disappears to another room. When he comes back, my backpack is in his gloved hand. It looks like an old relic. An unearthed artifact, taken from another life.

  “Here you go,” the man says, pushing it all toward me. “Your whole life, right?” A semi-amused look passes across his face. “What a life.”

  I stare at my backpack. If I unzip it, will Rey emerge, gun raised in my direction?

  Will Mamá? Maybe my father. Maybe Chico and Pequeña.

  Maybe the sun in Guatemala and the hammock on our patio.

  Maybe Don Feli, hands to his neck, as he lay dying.

  Every good thing. And every bad.

  I nod and grab my backpack—my whole life.

  Yes.

  * * *

  ~~~

  The guard leads me to another part of this building, to a place I’ve never been before. And here, in a room, the lawyer waits. And another woman.

  “Hello, Pulga,” the lawyer says.

  The other woman looks nervous. But maybe, also, familiar. She stares at me, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Do you remember?” she says.

  It takes me a moment to place the face of so many years ago. To look at it in real life instead of in a photo album.

  But it’s her, my father’s sister. My tía. Tears stream down her face, but my mind and heart are numb. Even as I notice the features of her face that resemble those of my father I’ve only seen in pictures.

  I nod and she rushes over to me, hugs me tightly. But still I don’t feel anything except the pain of her pressed against the rot on my chest. A part of me worries it will spread on to her and I pull away.

  “You’re going to stay with me while we wait for the courts to hear your case. You don’t have to be here anymore, okay?”

  I nod as she thanks the lawyer over and over again, who nods and promises me she will do all she can, but their words sound empty in my head.

  We walk out, and I suddenly remember Nene. I think of him waiting for me to come back from the shower. Waiting for me tonight. Waiting for me tomorrow. Going hungry because I won’t be there to give him any of my food.

  My heart gives a weak quiver, and then we walk outside, where my eyes throb from the brightness. When we get in the car, my father’s sister asks me if I’m okay and I nod. “Yes, thank you.” My voice is not my voice. It is robotic and cold and doesn’t care.

  I stare out the car window at that building that crushes those it contains, that grinds what little humanity is left in any of us into nothing.

  Then she is on the phone, in that parking lot where I can still see the fence
and chains around where I was for I don’t know how many days. And I hear her say my mother’s name and my heart quivers slightly again. And I hear her say, Yes, I’m with him. I am looking at him, Consuelo. He is right here! He’s okay. I promise you. He’s right here. He’s alive.

  She holds the phone to my ear, because I can’t reach for it. And for the first time in forever, I hear Mamá’s voice.

  “Pulga, Pulga, hijo . . . It’s okay. I understand. I’m not mad. Te quiero . . . Do you hear me? Te quiero. Dios mío, you’re okay! And Pequeña, too! Ay, gracias a Dios.” She is sobbing. And her voice is so far away. Like she’s outside the universe, even. I feel so far away from her. More than ever.

  “Say something, hijo. Por favor, hijito . . .”

  I clutch the phone, not knowing what to say. Not knowing what I’m supposed to do.

  I sit there, listening to her voice, listening to her cry, listening to her say my name over and over again. Like she’s trying to remind me who I am. But I don’t know what to say, what to feel. I look at my father’s sister, whose eyes are wide, scared. And I have to turn away.

  I turn back to the window and my father’s sister takes the phone. I hear her assure Mamá I am here. That I’m just in some kind of shock. That we will call back soon.

  She puts the phone to my ear once more and my mother tells me she loves me, over and over again, before my father’s sister takes it away.

  I try to remember feeling loved. Feeling real.

  The car is on, the vents are blowing cold air. We are backing out of the parking space. And then we are driving away.

  That’s when it hits me. Everything—all those days of desperation and holding tight, of fighting and never stopping, all the nights of crying and fearing and starving and not caring, all the sacrificing and dying. It really happened. All of it. To me. To us. To all of those in cages.

  It happened.

  And it’s finally over. I can finally leave it behind.

  That’s when I feel it—my heart.

  It explodes.

  That thing I’ve been beating to death, that I don’t know if I’ve been trying to kill or revive, shatters. It breaks into a million pieces, the noise so loud, I hear a great crashing in my ears, like glass, so much glass breaking. And I cannot breathe.