Illegal

by Bettina Restrepo

  “Maybe I could come for a while and go to school? Even Grandma could come for a visit.”

  “No, mija, I don’t know how yet. To save money, I’m always changing where I live. There is no address. But don’t forget, I know where you are. You are in my heart, so you are never far away. I love you, but put your Mama back on the phone.”

  “Soon, Papa. Make it very soon.”

  And then a click. It seemed like time was always running out.

  I didn’t tell Papa I loved him. It would be the first thing I said when we found him.

  The heat from the truck weighed me down. I tried to conjure more memories, but I was pulled into the present.

  I tried to fill my lungs with breath, but only got a shallow gulp. “It’s just so hot in here.”

  “I know. Have some water,” Mama said faintly.

  Drinking deeply, the lukewarm water splashed down my front. The prayer card melted into a pasty wet glob against my chest.

  “Be careful, we only have so much. The driver will give us a break when we get across. La migra will check the truck at the border.”

  Later, when the doors opened, Mama’s legs shook violently. I was convinced someone would hear her knees clicking like empty bottles. My mouth wished for more water, but Mama hadn’t even had any. Fresh air circulated around the trailer and I wondered how long it would be until we had the break Mama promised.

  “Mangoes. We’re heading up to Houston,” said the voice in English. Mama lay on the pallet with her eyes tightly shut. My eyes felt dry, but I couldn’t seem to close them. I wanted to drink up the light for as long as possible before it disappeared.

  “Load looks okay, but I have to look at your permits for the fruit,” said the other voice. And then the door closed and my air disappeared.

  Mama held me close and offered me water as my panic rose again. We prayed. I looked for roses in the darkness. I promised God I would go to church as often as possible.

  The truck lurched forward. I could feel it picking up speed.

  Mama leaned over to me and whispered, “We’re in Texas. How do you like it?”

  Her voice sounded rough. Her hands were shaking.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead. “I’m hot. Is there any more water?”

  Mama’s voice sounded weak in the dark. “Why don’t you eat a mango?”

  No more fruit. The smell tried to overpower me and the nausea was returning.

  “I never want to eat another mango again. Ever.”

  Mama laughed a little. I could hear her voice getting raspy. She reached out in the dark and touched my forehead. “You’re funny. We’re almost out of water, and we have quite a ways to go. Why don’t you rest?”

  “Mama, you drink some of the water. You haven’t had any.” Mama worked too hard and rested too little. Once, I found her in the orchard, leaning under a grapefruit tree with bleeding hands. She had worked so hard her legs just gave out, and she fell out of the tree, nearly breaking her back.

  “Don’t worry about me, mija.”

  In the dark, the beads of the rosary clicked like knitting needles.

  Putting my head in her lap, I closed my eyes only to be haunted by the weeping eyes of Guadalupe. My head pounded and the darkness swirled around me.

  I awoke when Mama threw up in the corner. I had been leaning in the other corner because it was too hot to lie in her lap. Although my clothes were soaked, I had stopped sweating. The sides of the truck were getting cooler.

  “Mama, are you okay?”

  She groaned. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I just feel sick.”

  Worry coursed through my body. Nothing seemed right anymore.

  Mama’s words blurred into the whirring of the truck.

  “Mama, I saw roses in my dream. A real sign. The Virgin of Guadalupe is going to help us. God told me to come to Texas.”

  But Mama didn’t move. I could only hear her faint voice.

  She whispered over and over, “God, please…”

  CHAPTER 12

  The Lion and the Lamb

  With a bounce, I jolted awake. Were we stopping? No. The truck lurched forward again and stopped.

  It had been hours since we’d crossed the border. Only the numbing hum of the road singing, ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.

  The truck driver was supposed to stop and give us air. Something to drink. He hadn’t given us anything. My faith had completely disappeared. To hell with religion; I needed air.

  Now only the stale smell of mango and our heated bodies filled the trailer.

  I didn’t know if it was my imagination, or my falling in and out of sleep. It seemed the world was getting smaller and darker.

  Reaching for her in the dark, I touched her cold, clammy skin. “Mama, what’s happening?”

  Fear gripped me and I screamed, “Mama!”

  She moaned like a sick animal.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. I became afraid of death—hers or mine. Please don’t let us rot here. This time, I didn’t know exactly who I was asking.

  “Uh, yes. No. I’m not sure. Maybe I should,” said Mama. Her words ran together, not making any sense.

  “I’m sorry.” I rubbed her back. The truck went over a large bump and several of the pallets shifted toward us again.

  The brakes squealed. “Mama, sit up. The pallets are moving.” She leaned forward with more of a flop. Her shadowy figure seemed like a wet mop. Limp. Sticky.

  “I think we are stopping. Maybe we’re here?” asked Mama in a weak voice.

  I hoped we were near the end of the truck ride. “Don’t worry. We’re almost there.”

  Then, with a loud clink, the door opened and light flooded in. My eyes stung from the bright rays of sunshine pouring into the semi.

  Peeking from behind the pallets, I couldn’t focus my eyes.

  “Hey! We’re here in Houston. Get out,” the driver said in a gruff voice.

  My vision blurred in the light. I looked down, squinting, and saw how gray Mama looked on the floor of the truck. I pressed my hand to my heart and felt the prayer card. “Guadalupe, give me strength,” I prayed.

  “Hey, I know you’re back there. Come on. I gotta deliver this fruit around the corner, and I can’t do it with you in here. Time to get your stuff and get moving.”

  This time, I stuck my head out to look at him in full view. “Un minuto, por favor,” I said in my most adult voice.

  Mama looked at me. “Help me up.” Her wrists seemed so tiny as I pulled her to her feet.

  The pallets scraped and whined as he pushed on them. The driver banged the side of the truck. “Holy Jesus. What is that smell?” I could hear the anger in his voice. “What the hell did you two do in here?”

  Mama struggled and swayed. Her eyes appeared cloudy as if she had floated away to some strange place.

  The man glared at me square in the eye. “And who the hell are you?” he shouted.

  I cowered back to Mama, but then remembered she was weak. I had to be the strong one. After all, I was the one with the vision of the Virgin—now was not the time to doubt myself. I felt adrenaline course through my body.

  His tone irritated me. “Nos estamos yendo,” I said. I was determined to help us get away fast. Besides, didn’t he owe us something for not stopping, not even once?

  Trouble stirred in my stomach. The way he balled his fists. The glare of his eye.

  He pointed at Mama. “Look, lady, it’s one thing to be crazy enough to come this way, but I never would have agreed with having a girl back here.”

  His words sounded confusing, but I got the point that he was angry. Maybe he thought we cheated him? We were the ones who almost died. He was supposed to stop and give us air.

  He glanced in the corner where Mama had vomited. I peed in the other corner halfway through the trip because there was a small crack. Although the pee was gone, the smell remained.

  He pointed at us with a cruel fing
er. “Look, you crazy wetbacks, I’m fixing to deliver this fruit to a grocery store. You want to ruin my load? You’re gonna have to pay extra for all of this, and you definitely have to pay extra for her.”

  He continued to push into the truck. An opening cleared for us to escape.

  With the sound of a threat, Mama’s strength struggled to return. She cleared her throat. I pushed her and the suitcase toward the opening of the truck.

  “¿Estaba tratando de matarnos?” My voice pitched like a wild dog. I found a bulge in the side of the suitcase. Grandma must have packed us one of her stink candles.

  Mama could barely walk and I pulled frantically at the suitcase. The pallets tripped our every step. “Air! Water!” I pointed my finger at him, just to let him know that I was serious. How many times had I said this? I would not let this man continue his quest to kill us.

  He sneered at my accusation. “Look kid, I don’t know what they told you, but I always get paid something on this end. No para. Just be lucky you’re here and I don’t drop you in front of the police and tell them you stowed away in the back of the truck.”

  A word that sounded familiar. Police. He wanted to stop and call the police.

  Worse than death would be the police. We could not go to jail.

  Mama swore at the driver and stumbled. She melted stomach-first into a box of mangoes. I pulled at her wrist.

  The trucker stuck out his hand and spoke to me in broken Spanish. “More pesos.”

  “No. No. No.” I stood in front of the suitcase and slipped my hand into the pocket and around the candle.

  I tried to remember the few English words Hector taught me. He practiced his words with the commercials from TV.

  “No para. No mas dinero. No money.” The money belt hidden around my waist felt like a concrete block. I made my legs obey the thoughts in my head. We had to get out of the truck fast.

  The driver grabbed at Mama, but instead he got me. My hair stretched painfully away from my scalp. This was no school yard fight. I flailed my arms and absorbed the smell of his sweaty shirt until my feet left the ground. I was being pulled toward him over the boxes.

  With my free hand, I threw the candle at him with all of my might. Without time to think, I turned and sunk my teeth into his arm until his salty blood ran down my chin. I pushed my arms with every ounce of my strength against his thumbs. Pain cleaved through my hands as I hit his face and throat over and over again.

  All I could hear was Grandma’s voice in my head. Get them in the vulnerable spots. Without eyes, they cannot chase you.

  I grasped for the sockets and pushed my fingers in.

  He jerked hard and the hair ripped from my head. My jaw tightened and he screamed. I squirmed out of his reach and out of the trailer.

  He let go and clapped his own hands over his eyes. Bits of candle clung to the side of his head, and blood dripped from his chin onto the truck.

  Mama squawked in a coarse voice, “If you don’t want me to scream and act like a crazy woman, you’ll stay away from us. I’ll tell everyone you put my girl back here to kill me and steal her. That you were going to sell her to rich Americans as a puta.”

  Her words were useless against this monster and she still looked completely bewildered. He continued to moan as he pressed his hands to his face. Our declarations stood meaningless against his pain.

  We staggered away from the truck. I grabbed Mama’s hand and carried our suitcase with the other. There wasn’t time to gloat over our victory.

  A crowd of people formed across the street. They watched, but no one came to help. I had a strong suspicion this was not the first time they had seen a fight with a truck driver.

  I turned in the opposite direction and pushed Mama to speed up her steps. I felt nothing except for the need to get far away from the truck.

  The truck driver cursed while holding his eyes. “Damn stupid Mexicans! You’ll never make it here. They’ll deport you.”

  I turned around and did something I’ve never done before. I pointed my middle finger at him and kept walking. Fast.

  I didn’t know which way to go, so I followed the first things I could detect.

  The smell of breakfast and the sound of distant church bells.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sanctuary

  We walked in silence as I held Mama’s elbow. Her breath pounded. I tried to keep her from weaving on the sidewalk like a drunkard. The terror of the fight dripped off us. This place was humid and full of concrete—like an alien world.

  At a bus stop, we collapsed onto scarred benches.

  “Where should we be going?” I asked. Grass grew in the cracks. The sidewalks bulged in lopsided angles. Writing was carved into the Plexiglas windows of the bus stop.

  Mama stared into the distance. “Closer to the tall buildings. That’s what your father talked about on the telephone. Tall buildings.”

  I hadn’t bothered to look up over the trees in front of us. In the distance were the largest buildings I had ever seen. The windows winked in the sun. Was this the Tejas Papa had described?

  Summoning my strength I said, “We need to rest and to find food.” I could hear familiar music coming from around a corner. I recognized a word on the sign down the block: TAQUERÍA.

  “Look. A restaurant. We’ll go there and eat.” We never had the money for a taquería in Cedula, but this felt familiar, like a sanctuary. A washatería next to the pink building shot out hot, stale air.

  Mama stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and crumpled to the ground. I helped her up but she felt like a limp noodle. “You are such a good daughter. Just wait until I tell your father how brave you are,” said Mama.

  The sun rose hot in the sky and the cement steamed in wavy heat patterns. My hands were still sticky from the mangos in the truck. Sweat beaded on Mama’s upper lip.

  “I can’t wait to see him.” I wanted to give her hope. It would push us through. I felt like I was inventing lies that I would say over and over again, hoping they would become true. The voice in my head had fallen silent.

  The taquería glowed pink and green. A blast of cool air hit me in the face when I opened the door. The tortillas smelled fresh and made me feel at home and a little safer. Everyone spoke Spanish. The music blared Tejano in a lively rhythm.

  Mama placed her hand to my chest. “Nora, do you have blood on your shirt?”

  I looked down to see the splotches. I tried to smooth the wrinkled cotton down, but rings of salt expanded around my waist in a rippled stain.

  “A little. I think there’s more on the driver. I bit him. Didn’t you see?” The reality of the moment crept into my senses. I was doing my best to block out the pain, but the evidence stained my shirt.

  “No, everything moved so fast, because he was screaming. You saved us.”

  I was growing braver. No thoughts, only actions. I wasn’t waiting for someone to save us.

  A waitress clunked icy glasses down on the table. The site of water brought me back to the present instantly. A busboy brought a plastic bowl of chips and salsa.

  “We didn’t order this,” I told the busboy frantically. “No extras.”

  “It comes with the meal,” he said a bit snottily. I gave him an ugly stare.

  We both grabbed the glasses. The cool water dissolved the cracks in my throat. Mama took deep drinks out of the orange plastic cup and I could hear her gulp across the table.

  “You looked thirsty. ¿Tu quieres algo?” asked the waitress. She wore a thick gold chain with the name Cecelia written on it. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from her face and her dangling earrings.

  Mama bobbed her head and her parched lips hung open like a hungry bird. “Yes, lots of water, and maybe a Coca-Cola for the niña.”

  I didn’t bother to correct her. The ice in the glass felt good against my bruised chin, and a Coke would be nice.

  “Despacio. There is enough water here for everyone.” The waitress touched my head and smoothed my hair where the trucker had gr
abbed me. “You drink as much as you need, and I’ll be sure to tell the busboy.”

  Mama smiled and reached across the table for my hand. She looked better.

  Outside the windows of the restaurant, teenagers strutted by in shorts and tiny tops. They almost looked naked. One of them had a star tattoo on her shoulder. They looked my age, but seemed so much older. Like a pack of feral dogs, roaming the outskirts of town until a meal appeared or someone shot them.

  “She’s nice,” Mama said, gesturing to the waitress and ignoring my glances out the front window. “She knows how to give respect.”

  Nodding, I became lost in thought. Why would those girls dress that way? Did I need new clothes? Grandma said that only putas had tattoos. What did I know?

  “I need to use the bathroom.” I reached into the suitcase for something clean and not covered in blood. The shirt smelled like Grandma’s hot iron. I wanted to hug it, to bring Grandma closer to me, but I worried someone might think I was crazy.

  I pushed open the door to discover a half-naked girl bathing herself in the sink. Her deeply tanned back was emaciated and bruised around the edges.

  “Shut the door, this ain’t a peep show,” she said to me as I stood in the doorway shocked and staring.

  I slipped into the stall to escape her aggressive stare. She looked like a naked version of the hunter girls, except without tattoos. I waited until I heard the door slam to come out, wishing I could tear off my old skin and flush away the memory of the fight.

  The mirror reflected an angry red line that ran down my scalp from where the hair had been pulled from my head. I touched the hairline and rearranged it to the left, fluffing the hair out. I continued to wash until the water made me numb.

  The dripping blood from my neck had stained my shirt. When I looked closer at the stain, I could see it.

  A rose. The Virgin of Guadalupe’s rose. She sent visions of roses.

  It was a sign of strength. Not like a burning bush, or tears on a statue, or a mysterious voice in my head, but a real sign. I wondered if this counted as one of those miracles, like when a statue cried or Jesus showed up on someone’s burned toast.