The Exile

by Gregory Erich Phillips

  As he drove, Ashford’s tired mind struggled for focus. The people at the detention center had told him that Leila’s case had been processed and then she had been moved. They didn’t even know where. He needed to find out why she’d been arrested. That would give him clues about the next step in her case.

  Manny would have some answers. But for others, Ashford had to talk to his mother.

  The familiar outline of Camelback Mountain came into view as he drove into Scottsdale. His emotions roiled as he turned off the highway toward his old home in the North Scottsdale hills. He missed his mother, despite all that had been lost between them. But he suspected that she was somehow behind Leila’s disappearance. If that was true—the cruelty of wrenching a mother away from her infant daughter—he would never forgive her.

  He drove up the long ascending driveway and parked in front of the house. The sun was low against the western mountains. Being here felt so familiar in every way, but his heart wasn’t fooled. This wasn’t home anymore.

  Samantha ran out the front door as soon as Ashford got out of his car. He was aware of how he must have looked—unshaven, hair unkempt, clothes wrinkled. This was no time for vanity.

  “The prodigal son has returned!” She embraced him.

  Ashford held his tongue but wanted to call out her hypocrisy. She was no prodigal’s parent meeting the wayward son on the road. She had sent him away.

  “Mom, I need some answers.”

  She took a step back from him and pushed her blond hair behind her ear. “Is that the only greeting I get after all this time? After all these months dying for a word from you?”

  “Do you know what’s happened to Leila? Do you know why?”

  “What do I care?” Her tone gave her away. She may have been able to fool her clients, but she couldn’t fool him. She knew.

  “Tell me what happened. Why did immigration pick her up?”

  Samantha sighed. She turned and took a step toward the house but turned back when she saw he wasn’t going to follow her inside. “Oh, honey, if you could know what I’ve been through this last year.” She wouldn’t look into his eyes. “Without you, I’ve endured it all alone. They closed down my company. I went bankrupt. Did you know that? All those years I worked to build it, and now it’s gone. I lost everything I worked for just like I lost you. It’s been horrible.”

  Ashford did feel for her. He could see how she’d changed. The year really had worn her down. Much as he would have wanted to be there for her through it all, their severance was her choice, not his.

  “What happened to Leila?”

  Samantha looked down at the ground, cowed by his persistence. “There was a hearing. We all had to testify, but she couldn’t be found. Where did you take her?”

  “So you had her subpoenaed?”

  Samantha turned away again. When she turned back, her eyes had changed. She finally looked at him directly. “What do you want from me? Are you looking for someone to blame for throwing your own life away? Yes, I had her subpoenaed. The investigators found forged papers in her loan files. When she failed to appear, the court drew the obvious conclusions. It never became a criminal trial, which I assume is why they didn’t try harder to find her. But naturally it would catch up to her in time.”

  “I see.”

  However his mother wanted to frame it, Ashford understood that she had made Leila take the fall for her own indiscretions in the mortgage business. It was almost too easy. Samantha got to keep her house and resume her career with a different bank, while Leila, the one who always tried to do business right, sat in an immigration prison. Anger boiled up in his chest.

  “How does it feel to have taken a mother away from her infant daughter?” Ashford regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. His mother had lost a child too.

  “Me? You’re blaming me? How do you think I feel? That bitch took my last son away. You were all I had. I hope they deport her ass. She never belonged here.”

  “Why do you hate her so much?”

  “Come back to me.” She extended her arms toward him. “Look at you. You need me. I’ll help you get back on your feet. I’ll help you take care of your child.”

  “I can take care of myself and my daughter.”

  “Where’s the baby? I want to see her.”

  “I’m not bringing her here. You’ll need to earn the right to see your granddaughter.” He opened the car door.

  “That’s not fair. After all I’ve done for you.”

  “Goodbye, Mom.”

  32

  “SO, NOW YOU know the truth. Leila is not my natural daughter. Neither she nor I have told this to anyone, until today.”

  Ashford sat stunned in Manny and Carmen’s living room, trying to process the amazing story he’d just heard.

  “I know she wanted to tell you, but she was afraid because of your mother.”

  Ashford nodded. It made sense, but it stung that she wouldn’t trust him with her deepest secret.

  “I’m sorry I kept it from you as well.” Manny turned to Carmen, who sat with disbelief written across her face. “For her protection, we had to turn the lie into the truth we lived every day. She couldn’t afford the smallest slip into an old habit—a remembered name. You see how quickly things can unravel for even the most well-established immigrant in this country. They might come for me next.”

  So many thoughts raced through Ashford’s head.

  “But how did anyone find out now?” Manny broke the silence. “That’s the part I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t think it was her identity that got her into trouble.” Ashford had recovered from the initial shock of Manny’s story and was beginning to think through possibilities again. “I saw my mother this afternoon. She was definitely behind Leila’s arrest, but I don’t think she knows what you just told me. If she knew, she wouldn’t have been able to help telling me.”

  “Then what was the reason?”

  “I believe my mother had Leila framed for mortgage fraud.”

  Manny put his hands to his face. “People will be eager to prosecute a case like that. It may give us a little more time, but it would be hard to save her.”

  “But Leila did nothing wrong. I’m sure of it. We were away. She never got the subpoena. My mom framed her. Once they realize that, they’ll have another hearing or a trial and she can clear her name.”

  Silence hovered in the room. Manny and Carmen looked at him as if he had said something wrong. He was confused.

  “My boy, you have no idea how it works for people like us in this country. I love you, and I don’t blame you for your ignorance. But please, open your eyes. A hearing, a fair trial . . . those are the privileges of US citizens. A handsome white boy like you can live your life, take a few risks, knowing if you slip up you can always make it right in court, maybe hire a good lawyer. It doesn’t work that way for us.”

  Manny continued, “All these years, as ‘American’ as I seem to be, I’ve stayed vigilant every day. One slip and it could be the end of this life. It doesn’t even matter that I’m ‘legal,’ with all the right paperwork. That status can be revoked so easily. One too many beers one night or one time losing my temper in an argument, that’s all it would take. ICE is looking for chances to deport Latinos. With something like mortgage fraud, the processing of the case is expedited. Any hearing would be quick and one-sided.”

  Ashford heard Manny’s words and began to feel the weight of the horrible possibilities, along with the guilt of his own privilege.

  “Now, think about what would have happened in this hearing. Who are they going to blame? On one side, you have your mother: white, beautiful, articulate, with a team of lawyers ready to lay out her case. On the other side, you have a Hispanic immigrant who left the state and didn’t show up for the hearing. You think she’ll have a chance to clear her name now?”

  Manny paused. “But as dire a picture of her chances as I just painted, if they found out that she isn’t really my dau
ghter, things would move even faster. She’d have no name and no rights. She might have already been deported to Colombia. She would be in some real danger there.”

  “That can’t be possible. It’s not right! She has a child here. They can’t really do that, can they?”

  “They can do whatever they want. Noncitizen mothers are taken away from their children every day.”

  Ashford stood up and looked out the dark window. His legs were weak from fear and exhaustion. Tears hovered in his tired eyes. The nightmare grew more terrible by the day.

  Through the window, Ashford could only see the shadows in the small yard. Leila’s spirit was still there, in memories of happy afternoons and evenings filled with laughter and music.

  Through all the worries of their first year together, something like this had never even entered his mind. Could it have been in Leila’s thoughts as a vague terror? He had worried about their finances, about his severed relationship with his mother, about his fitness to raise a child. But their togetherness had never been in doubt. As long as they were together, they had told each other so often, the world could do its worst. He had never imagined the possibility that Leila would be taken away from him.

  “What was her name . . . before?”

  “Cristina.”

  He smiled. Of course. While Leila had become her identity, she wanted to let her hidden identity live on in another.

  How heartbroken she must be on this night, perhaps in a prison cell, perhaps abandoned in a country where she knew no one, with no resources and no future. How could a mother—with a heart brimming over with love—live without her infant daughter? That child was part of Leila’s soul from the moment of her conception. Ashford understood now. Even this afternoon, separated from Cristina for half a day while he drove to the detention center, he missed his little girl. Losing her would crush everything in him. How could Leila live with that bond severed?

  His own mother had started this, out of jealousy and injured pride; one mother taking what was most precious from another.

  Ashford was angry at his mother, at the immigration authorities, at his country. How could they do such a thing? Even a violent criminal should have the right to a fair trial, to see her family. Yet a mother had been wrenched away from her infant child because she was born in the wrong place. The injustice of it stunned him into rage.

  He had to find her. Their own love was secondary. He had to reunite mother and daughter if it cost him everything . . . if it was the last thing he did.

  Ashford turned back toward Manny and Carmen. “What can we do?”

  “Tonight, we can pray. There’s nothing else to be done right now. Try to get some rest. You look exhausted. Save your strength. Tomorrow, we’ll call every immigration court in the state if we have to. I know a couple of immigration attorneys too. We’ll call them. If Leila’s still in the country, we’ll find her.”

  “And if not?”

  Manny didn’t answer. Ashford saw his gaze grow distant for a moment, perhaps with a memory he didn’t want to voice.

  “Pray, my boy. And rest. It’s all you can do right now.”

  Late that night, Ashford lay awake in Manny and Carmen’s spare bedroom—Leila’s old room. Cristina slept soundly on her back between his arm and his torso. He had the sheet and the Aztec-patterned quilt folded down under her chin and across his chest. The baby was comforted by her father’s presence, but she also comforted him. A short time ago, he was terrified of the fatherhood thrust so unexpectedly upon him. Now, it was all he had, his only identity.

  Ashford felt the baby’s breath rise and fall beside him, with a rhythm that mimicked his own. In sleep, her breath was marked by other noises—a gurgle, now a little coo in a tone that anticipated how her childhood voice might sound. Each new moment of expressive cognizance he saw or heard in her gave him a tingling anticipation of the future. With each moment so filled with promise, he didn’t want to miss a single one. But he wanted to share these moments with Leila. He wanted her to hear each new sound and see each new expression on their daughter’s young face. She had already missed too much time with their baby.

  He leaned his face forward to smell the top of the baby’s head. Her scent was fresh, new, and unblemished. It relaxed him and would soon ease him into sleep.

  Ashford loved this little girl with every fiber of his body. It was a different kind of love than what he had for Leila, in ways he never could have understood if it had been explained to him before. He clung to Cristina as the only thing in his world that made sense and as his only connection to the woman he loved. The baby clung to him for the same reasons, missing her mother, comprehending with her primitive senses that something was amiss in their world.

  “I’ll find Mama,” he whispered. “I promise you, I’ll bring Mama home.”

  33

  LEILA FINISHED HER simple breakfast, savoring the last of the strong Colombian coffee.

  “Muchas gracias, Padre. You’ve helped so much.”

  “I wish there was more we could do. But the church is poor in Colombia.”

  “Lo sé.”

  She glanced around and listened in amazement. There was a shocking familiarity to the morning sounds of the city outside the stone walls of the rectory. She was really here in Cartagena. Even after this long and horrible ordeal, culminating in yesterday’s terrifying plane trip, she still half-expected to wake up at home next to Ashford.

  The room was sparse but inviting. Either the priest or perhaps a nun kept the whitewashed walls and blue tile counters of the kitchen clean. The wood table, where they ate off tin plates, looked like it could have been made of the same boards as the floor. An ancient tin kettle, now quiet on the stove, still filled the room with the smell of coffee. On the wall hung two icons, one of St. Louis Bertrand, the other of the Blessed Mother cradling her child. Looking at them almost made Leila cry.

  She tried to count the days since she had seen her daughter—a couple of weeks, maybe more. It already seemed like an eternity. The separation might drive her insane. Sorrow tore at her heart, but she knew she had to stay sharp.

  She had slept last night on a cot in the chapel, together with two other women who had been on her flight. Relatives had picked up one of them early that morning. The other sat with Leila now in the rectory kitchen. This wasn’t the first time Leila had slept in a church. As a young girl, she sometimes snuck into one or another of the many small churches of Cartagena to pass a night, usually during rainy season. The churches weren’t comfortable, but they were safe. Last night in this church stirred many unexpected memories.

  “Do you know anyone in the country?” the priest asked her. “Any family or friends from your childhood?”

  “No. There’s no one.”

  “Do you want to try calling again? Surely, someone in the US could send you a little money.”

  “No, there’s no use calling again.”

  She would have loved nothing more than to call Ashford or Manny and Carmen. The irony was that she didn’t remember any of their phone numbers due to the convenience of cell phones. She was embarrassed to admit it to the priest. The one number she would have remembered, Manny and Carmen’s home phone, had recently been disconnected as they both transitioned to cell phones.

  Last night, she did the only thing she could think of and tried calling her own phone in hopes that Ashford had picked it up at the testing center. But the call went straight to voicemail. For all she knew, it was still in that locker.

  “I could email them. Do you have a computer here?”

  The priest smiled. “You’ve been in the United States too long. We are a simple parish. I do know that there’s an internet café about a mile east on the transversal.”

  “Thank you. I’ll try that this morning.” She was desperate to get in touch with Ashford and Manny. She needed to hear their voices, but email would be a start. She still found it hard to believe that she had not been allowed a realistic chance to contact them while at the immigrati
on detention center. When you no longer had a name, neither did you have any rights, apparently.

  She saw the priest look away with a strange expression.

  “What is it?”

  “You don’t seem like someone who is here with anything to hide, but you are beautiful, and that is reason enough to be careful. You should know that the internet café in this neighborhood is often watched.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a common first destination for deportees. Some people are interested in knowing who comes back. A beautiful woman with no family—no one to miss her if she disappeared—would be particularly interesting. Be aware of your surroundings.”

  The only thing Leila could be aware of was that she was here and her daughter wasn’t. Now that she was free, she had to find a way back to Cristina. Her heart yearned for her. Her hands ached to hold her. Her breasts still swelled with milk for the baby who was gone. She could have only so many regrets for herself. She had done the best she knew how with the hand she was dealt. But for Cristina, she deserved more from a mother than this.

  Despite the hopelessness of it all, Leila felt better after her first night out of a prison cell. The rest, the shower, the food, and the coffee had helped so much.

  But the biggest help of all was the humanity shown to her and the other women by this priest who had sought them out and brought them here. It meant so much to be treated with compassion. It helped her feel strong again. For the first time in weeks, she was looked at as a human being, after being an anonymous case file in the immigration detention center and a mystery at airport reception—a girl who was supposed to be dead.

  “I’ll pray for you,” said the priest as she prepared to leave.

  “Pray for my daughter, not me. Pray for the little baby who’s without her mother.”