Illegal

by Bettina Restrepo

  I pushed the money into her hands. “If we wait any longer, then we’ll really be out of money.”

  I poured the steaming water into the cups and watched the lazy curls float upward. Maybe prayer was like steam, going upward to heaven. Then hopefully the answers rain back down when you need them most.

  I pulled Mama’s hand into mine. “We need to be a ‘we’ again. Then everything can be okay.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Cartas

  The word was frozen permanently into Grandma’s face. No. No. No.

  Mama eyed me with concern. Grandma stared off in a different direction, as if ignoring us would make the entire conversation disappear.

  Later, I heard the voice from her morning Mass blast out of the television. Mama slipped quietly out the back door as I washed the dishes. The volume increased as the program continued, as if Grandma was trying to drown out her own thoughts with the television.

  As I tried to sneak out the back door, Grandma called from the couch, “I forbid you from going.”

  “I’m just going out to the orchard,” I called back to her.

  “It’s the end of the conversation. You are not going to America.” She huffed air through her nose like an angry horse stomping in its stall.

  I hesitated, because I knew how Grandma would react. “Mama went into town to buy our bus tickets to the border,” I said.

  Grandma gasped as if I had punched her in the stomach. “What! We have to stop her. That money was for the tax man.”

  “No, Grandma. I told her to do it.” The cuts on my arm were still hot and red from the fall.

  The rosary beads were wrapped around her hand so tightly I thought her circulation might be cut off. “God will bring Arturo back to us.”

  I didn’t know how prayer would work. The harvest was finished, and nothing was planted for the summer. “We can’t survive like this,” I said.

  “You can’t go against God. I have to trust my faith,” she said belligerently, turning back to the television.

  “Where was God when Papa stopped calling? Where was faith when the nuns stopped coming to Cedula?” I asked, trying to trump her argument.

  “Faith is believing when there is nothing to see. That’s when God’s plan is happening!” She yelled like I was deaf, trying to get me to understand.

  What if faith was stupidity?

  “God has been talking to me. He told me to go,” I said back quietly.

  Grandma rarely yelled at me. “Don’t lie to get your way!” I backed away from her hand and the swinging beads.

  “He’s been trying to talk to me but I didn’t want to listen. He wants me to find Papa.” Was it really God’s voice, or just my own trying to convince me?

  Grandma pulled out the guilt card. “You can’t. You can’t leave me here alone.”

  I had my own stack of aces. “God told me to. You always preach that when God calls, you have to go. This is my faith.”

  My own stupidity.

  She turned off the television. “You don’t know God. You never went to church and you don’t listen during Mass. You are a child!”

  “Mary was fourteen when she conceived Jesus.” I slammed the door on the way out to the orchard. “I’m old enough to know!”

  I found my missing postcard leaning against a tree. The trees always knew what I needed, and whispered stories in the soft wind. Maybe they were murmuring for me to stay? The dust swirled. I could still smell the faint aroma of fruit. The last few grapefruit hung like moons in the trees.

  I climbed slowly into the tree’s lower branches and sat. Leaning my head against them, I wondered deep down in my soul about the voice, and whether I was old enough to know anything.

  Three mornings later, the sunrise stars above Cedula blinked like a sleepy baby waking from a nap. Grandma blessed everything again, including my shoes, and crossed me three times.

  “I love you, Grandma. We’ll be home soon,” I said. I didn’t know if that was the truth—because I wasn’t coming back until I could fix things.

  “Of course you will, mija.” Her eyes welled with tears and she blessed Mama’s luggage again. “But you can always stay.”

  “Don’t cry, Grandma. I’ll see you again.”

  Grandma stopped and took my face in her hands. “Of course you will. I will see you every day in the trees.”

  My heart shattered and the tears slid down our faces. I wanted to feel her hands every day and to wake up and see the sun shining in her hair. How could I do this from so far away?

  “Someday,” I whispered. No words seemed good enough for this moment.

  Maybe it was important we kept saying those things. It didn’t matter that we didn’t know what was going to happen. It only mattered that we wanted it. Maybe that is what prayer is for?

  Mama twisted her hands and squirmed. “I’m sorry. We have to go,” she said to Grandma.

  I kept looking back. Long after I couldn’t see her hands waving, I could still see her hair in the rising sun.

  When we reached town, I imagined the tips of our trees waving in the mounting sun. I didn’t have a postcard of Cedula. I would have grapefruit and the smell of soap.

  Across the street, Hector jingled his keys to attract my attention. “Please, don’t tell me you are leaving,” he said with concern, pointing at the red suitcase.

  I crossed the dusty road to look at him for the last time. “Make me a promise,” I said. “Will you do me a favor and watch out for my grandmother?”

  “Yes, of course.” Hector searched my face, looking for answers.

  The bus turned the corner with a heave. “Maybe you could watch TV with her? Or tell her when our money arrives?” I said quickly. “I need to know Grandma will be safe.”

  Mama motioned at me from across the street.

  Hector kissed me on the forehead. “Be safe, my little friend. Until.”

  I cocked my forehead, “Until what?”

  “Just until,” he said with concern in his eyes.

  I couldn’t even form the words to say good-bye.

  CHAPTER 9

  Las Decisiónes

  Outside of the Matamoras bus station, the stale air hit my face. The road oozed filth, and everything seemed to be dipped in a coat of garbage. Fear and excitement mixed in me like oil and water. Mama’s hands were slick, but I held on to them anyway.

  A young girl with liquid eyes looked through the crowd and locked eyes with me. She held out her hand. A beggar.

  I had a few broken pieces of candy. “Take it.” Her smudged fingers grabbed the bits of sugar.

  “That was very kind, Nora,” said Mama with a tight squeeze of my hand. “But be careful, we can’t give something to every beggar.”

  I watched the little girl scamper away, and then she disappeared behind a taxi. A plastic Virgin of Guadalupe rested on the dashboard of the delapidated car. The idol wore a sad face and held handfuls of roses. The patron saint of the country I was abandoning. The deep eyes of Guadalupe stared at me. Perhaps she knew about my doubts. Maybe she knew the voice in my head telling me to go to America to find my father wasn’t God’s—it was mine. A dry gust of exhaust pushed against me, and I felt I had grown a million years since leaving Cedula this morning.

  Mama pulled the address of the coyote out of her purse. “I guess we should find a taxi.”

  I waved at the taxi with the statue on the dashboard. “He seems safe,” I said.

  “My lucky girl. You’ll help me make it through this,” Mama said with hope.

  The roads developed bumps and scars as we drove through the city. Horns honked as the smell of the exhaust choked me. Seeing broken telephones and run-down markets reminded me of what I was leaving and why. I laid my head on Mama’s shoulder.

  The taxi stopped next to the fruit docks. Wooden pallets, cardboard boxes, and random carcasses of citrus were scattered around the trucks. But here, there wasn’t the lingering aroma of sweet fruit. It was the sharpness of diesel making my eyes water.
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  There was nothing beautiful about this place. Why would so many people come this way if it weren’t worth the risk? This wasn’t a choice or a whim.

  We had to go and we had to survive.

  No one ever talked about this part.

  CHAPTER 10

  Via

  In front of my eyes, my plan shattered like a lightbulb on a tile floor. This produce depot reeked of rotting fruit, diesel, and danger.

  The coyote approached us with a swagger. Shiny sunglasses covered his pockmarked face.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Two thousand each.” Tobacco stained his teeth, several of which were coated in silver.

  “We don’t have that much,” I said, stepping in front of my mother, who had become mute. She trusted me. I had to do this right.

  He licked his lips. “Then go back to your village, unless you want to pay with your virginity.”

  “Fifteen hundred. Nothing else.” I tried not to shudder.

  He grabbed the money. “I don’t have time for you anyway. Get in the mango truck. It’s leaving soon.”

  Trucks were roaring to life around us, dissolving our words into the dust.

  We walked toward the cab of the truck, but the dockworker pointed to the back. “Inside the truck!”

  He flung the suitcase in the back of the semi and motioned for us to jump in. The man on the dock made a low whistle and shook his head like this was a big joke. I wanted to spit in his direction, but my mouth had dried up in fear.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Shaking my head in protest, I watched my feet disobey me. I wondered if angels would watch over us on the way to America. I felt my courage shrinking.

  We moved all the way to the back of the truck. The heat from the metal of the trailer pulsed from the late-afternoon sun. It seemed cooler in the direct sunlight than here in this oven.

  There only existed a small space on a wooden pallet. “This is our home for the next ten hours,” said Mama, pointing to the floor.

  A forklift crashed onto the truck, pushing more pallets in. The sound crunched around us as pieces of wood cracked against one another. A shriek escaped my mouth.

  I tried to stifle my fear by clapping my hands over my mouth. “Mama, they’re putting more stuff on the truck.” Panic climbed from my chest and my skin grew cold despite the heat.

  The curious dockworker smiled at me from the forklift. It was as if he knew all the secrets that no one was telling us. Fear was climbing my legs like heavy mud, ready to sink me to the bottom and smother the life out of me. “No, Mama. Let’s do it another way.” I shot up and pushed against the pallets looking for an escape. “Let’s just ride the bus and explain to the people we are looking for Papa.”

  Mama pulled at me. “We can’t; you gave him our money.”

  The noise from the machines was deafening inside the metal shell of the trailer. The air got heavier. The space filled up with the scent of ripe mangoes and heat. No crying or giving in to the fear. I had to concentrate on Papa. Our life could begin once we found him. I had to think clearly about our survival.

  I took a deep breath to think. Food. Water. Money. Papa.

  “We don’t have anything to drink and we need water.” It was also an excuse to get out into the air.

  Mama pulled me down to our spot. “No, I’ll do it. You stay here.” She scrambled up and over the pallets, leaving me alone.

  My body shook, so I closed my eyes in prayer, but words escaped my mind. The constant rumble made me rock back and forth, and waves of nausea hit me. I hated feeling like a cowering child who was hiding under the bed from the chupacabra.

  I overheard the men on the dock talking. “The money is decent, but it would have been better if I could have found more to come on this trip,” said one of the voices on the dock. Was it the coyote?

  “The driver is always asking for more,” said another voice outside of the truck.

  I poked my head out of our space when the coyote saw me.

  “¿Chica? ¿Donde está su Mama?” His teeth gleamed like a rabid dog I had seen once on the edge of Cedula before someone shot it. “Maybe I do have time for you today.” He loosened his belt.

  Pushing myself back, I growled, “Get back. You’ve already been paid and I have a knife.” My only weapon was my mouth and a few quick lies. “I’ll cut you into pieces and feed you to a pig,” I snarled. He pulled his lips into a sneer and walked away.

  The air seemed wavy with the heat. My hand slipped through the cardboard of a mango box. I found a prayer card.

  Many farmers pray over their crops, even dropping in cards like this one to bless future production. The only hope they have left is an unseen God who might save them from the poverty sitting around the next corner. I wondered where my God was.

  On the front of the card was a somber face of Jesus, and on the back, a prayer in Spanish. A garland of roses lined the card where it said Iglesia de Guadalupe.

  Mama climbed back into the truck with two gallons of bottled water. “It’s all I could find.” She touched my face, and pushed a strand of hair out of my eyes.

  “Are you okay?” she asked with concern.

  I reached back into the broken box and pulled out a mango. I placed the prayer card in my bra.

  As I bit deeply into the soft skin of the mango, its yellow juice ran everywhere. I had to make a new plan. On the other side of Mexico, there stood a new life to find. My father, education, money. These were things we needed to fix our situation.

  I leaned my head against Mama’s chest and heard her beating heart. I remembered how I used to hear Papa’s heart too.

  CHAPTER 11

  Highway 59

  Sweat covered my entire body. It ran down my back and soaked my underwear.

  I jumped when the motor roared to life. It made the entire trailer growl. Mama’s face pinched. It was hard to be courageous after all the events of the day.

  The truck smelled funny, even with all of the mangoes. It reminded me of a wet, dirty dog.

  The doors closed and I reached for Mama.

  “La luz…” I whimpered. My body couldn’t keep my fears locked in anymore.

  But the doors clanked shut. A lock jingled. We were trapped.

  “No, mija, there are no lights.”

  “Can’t…breathe…” My chest ached with worry. I had never been afraid of the dark before.

  Mama held me and rocked me back and forth. “Calmate, calmate.”

  This dark scared me in such a primal way. I wanted to scream, to run home to Grandma. In this nightmare, soon I would be falling, falling, falling.

  The truck lurched forward, and the pallets slid closer.

  Curling into a small ball next to Mama, I said, “I want to go home.” The tears sprang from my eyes, crushing my throat.

  She touched my head and rubbed my back in small circles.

  “We’re going home…home to Papa.”

  “Home…my home,” I said into Mama’s dress as the tears ran down my face. My breathing was getting faster, and I no longer felt in control of anything.

  Mama reached for her rosary beads. I placed my hand over hers and we prayed until my breathing slowed down into shallow gasps. If Grandma was right, prayers could solve any problem.

  Searching my mind for the voices I had heard in Cedula, I imagined the dark eyes of the Virgin Guadalupe from the taxi. Maybe I could be brave like the man who saw her on the mountain? Maybe I could pray for her strength? Maybe roses would appear in the darkness as a sign we would be okay?

  A real sign from God could explain our situation, but so far, none existed. Picturing Papa’s face, I tried to remember his voice.

  “Mama,” I whispered, “I’m afraid I’m forgetting the little things about Papa. Like how he sounds, or which side he parts his hair on.”

  Mama sighed deeply. “You’ll remember immediately when we see him. His hair flips over to the left side, just like yours.”

  I felt at my hairline. I h
ad always tried to tug it to the right, and now I understood. He was part of me, all the way down to my hair.

  “I wished we would have had more time on the telephone,” said Mama. “He could have told us how to do this. But we won’t have to worry about telephone times when we find your father. Everything will be better.”

  A big thunk of the truck and the darkness reminded me things couldn’t be that easy. I tried to concentrate on good things, but a shallow memory of my last conversation with Papa floated through my brain.

  I faintly remembered how tired he sounded. “We work from early in the morning until late in the evening. There is a new job on a huge building. This will mean lots of money for us,” he said. The voice sounded clear, like he was talking in the next room.

  But Mama pushed me away from the receiver. “But the taxes are late. The crop isn’t doing well.”

  I stood closer to hear his voice. “There’s so much work, and I only have two hands to do it all. If I had more hours in the day, I could make twice the money. If we work fast, this tall building should be finished soon. I’ll never run out of work.”

  It seemed that Papa wasn’t listening to the words Mama was saying.

  “Papa!” I cried, but Mama patted me on the shoulder to be quiet.

  “We’re fine. The money you send helps us, but things aren’t going so well. Maybe it’s time I come to Texas?” asked Mama.

  The phone made a beep and a mechanical voice said, “Dos minutos.”

  “Papa!” I yelled next to the telephone.

  “Mija, don’t yell. I can hear you,” said Papa. “How is my baby girl?”

  “Papa, I’m not a baby anymore. Could we come to Texas this summer after the crop is finished?” My mind was emptying. I could only think about seeing him again and I couldn’t remember all of the things I wanted to say, forgetting I was angry about his broken promises.

  “Yes, soon my baby girl will be a woman. I promise we will see each other before your special birthday.”