I spun Mama around on the merry-go-round. I saw her frown over and over again. The swimming pool was closed for cleaning, and the heat was exhausting.
As we boarded the bus, I realized I would never have another birthday with my father. I wanted to make myself stop loving him, because maybe then the pain would go away.
When we found the cemetery, we had to ask directions from a groundskeeper. After walking deep into a quiet area, we saw the headstones change from marble to flat stones of concrete.
“I’m not sure which one he is,” said the groundskeeper, pointing to a flat area that had recently sprouted small blades of grass. We sat in the full sun until our backs burned and mixed sweat with our tears.
Papa’s grave didn’t even have his name. I kissed the ground and left my leather sandals with him. They didn’t fit me anymore. I wanted to give Papa something of myself.
Mama didn’t notice my bare feet. I guess she didn’t have anything left either.
“I love you, Papa,” I whispered.
And we walked back to Quitman Street.
CHAPTER 39
Spitting and Stealing
Two days later, resting grew old and boring. Mama continued to lie in the bed, but I felt like a caged tiger.
I walked to the cemetery. It was a long hike on a bumpy, cracked sidewalk overgrown with weeds. I didn’t mention to Mama where I was going and I left my purple flip-flops under the bed.
She was lying facedown on the mattress crying when I left. We hadn’t moved from the apartment in two days. I was suffocating in the misery. I wanted Keisha or Flora, because I could talk to them in ways I could never talk to Mama. I was ready to open my mouth and let it all spill out.
Jorge and Manuela weren’t home from Nuevo Laredo yet. Time stood still in this sticky, sad place.
Large trucks zoomed by on my walk. They were going too fast for this street. The sidewalks sloped toward the curb, and I could feel the hot rush of wind as the trucks passed by. Gravel smacked my legs and bare feet. Ants I passed seemed to slow down under the sun’s constant glare. My head was hot.
But who cared? I did.
Freshly cut grass bloomed in the air. I could hear the busy freeway beyond the trees. I could see the black iron fence running down the road to the left. On top of the gate was a white concrete angel looking at me with sad eyes.
“This isn’t it,” I muttered to her.
At the back of the cemetery lay lots of little stones. I wasn’t sure which one I was looking for. I hoped something would look familiar, and my sandals would be the markers. I passed hundreds of gravesites with fancy marble stones, small trees, or benches. Poems and names were written on the side, but I wasn’t interested in collecting the sad words of dead people.
At the back of the cemetery, hundreds of tiny headstones lay sprinkled in the grass like stones in the street. Nothing looked familiar. I walked down several rows, and when I was sure no one was looking, I stole a few flowers from different graves.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the headstones. “I’m sure you don’t mind sharing with someone who died with nothing.” I had now turned into a thief.
The words scared me. Papa died with nothing. He died alone. Those people threw him away like trash.
There were no names on the stones. A small chapel stood in the back. Maybe this was a good time to rest. Maybe this would be a good time to pray.
The door of the chapel was locked. No one was around, so I sat on the steps for a while with the flowers wilting in my hands. The shade of the tree let sunlight dance through them and make hazy pictures on the concrete. After sitting for a few minutes, I realized how tired I was.
I stood up and tried the door again. I needed it to be open. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I called.
The thorns from the stolen roses pierced my hands, so I threw them down to the ground. My palms throbbed in pain.
No one answered the door and I didn’t care how much my hands hurt. “Where are you? Open up! I need you. I need to talk to you.” I beat on the door. “Why did you throw him away? Why have you left me here all alone?”
The wind blew through the trees in a gentle rhythm.
I needed answers, and God wasn’t giving me any.
Angels don’t come out of the sky. They hide inside locked churches.
“I hate you. Do you hear me? I hate you!”
I took the postcard out of my pocket and tore it to shreds. Bits of paper fluttered away in the summer breeze.
I spit on the steps of the church and walked home.
CHAPTER 40
Qué Onda Guero
I felt the booming of the bass, the high triplet of a whistle. I didn’t pay attention.
“Hey, Tessa. Where are your shoes?” A teardrop was tattooed into the corner of his eye and a star on the crook of his hand.
“¿Qué?” I turned my head to see a suave-looking man hanging out the window of a black Monte Carlo.
“I haven’t seen you in a long time. Get in; I’ll give you a ride.”
Tejano music sang from the car. I had to pick up my feet in a fast dance to keep them from burning on the concrete. I shook my head no and continued to the corner.
“Come on, Tessa, we could have a little party.” He pulled the car around, blocking me from crossing the street. “Like last time.”
There was another teenager in the car. I could see his shiny hair as he opened the car door. “We didn’t know you was back in town. Let’s rumba like last time.” He pulled at my arm.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re confused; I’m not her.”
The driver leaned over to show me an ID card from his visor. “Sure it is. Here’s your picture. It was my prize, but I never thought you would be brave enough to show your face around here.”
I leaned in. It was a Texas driver’s license with what looked like my picture, but the name said Contessa Ana Villareal. I reached for it when I felt them pull me into the car.
“Come on, chica. It was so much fun last time, but we never got to finish.” The oily-headed boy slid in next to me and closed the door. The driver moved his hand up my leg.
My brain defrosted and a voice filled my head.
Get out of the car.
I hit his hand away, but he dug his fingers into my thigh. “What, you don’t like it no more? You loved it last time.”
Last time?
I heard the voice again.
Get out. Escape. Survive.
I pulled the gearshift as hard as I could, and we all jerked backward violently. I punched at the horn. My feet kicked at the other boy, but it seemed I could only reach the dashboard.
The voice grew louder.
Run.
The driver lashed at my face. I kicked again and the car lurched up and over to the side. I was now on the floorboard. The left side of the car was jacked into the air.
Hydraulics—the car was jumping in different directions. An automotive tango was making us into passenger popcorn.
Fuerte. Be strong.
I was tangled into the passenger’s legs, but I couldn’t reach the door handle. His ankles held me down into the alcohol-soaked floorboard.
Fight. I suddenly realized this was not a voice of a patron saint. Today it was my father’s voice. Fight!
I sunk my teeth into his Achilles’ heel and kicked with all my might. The car lurched again. The horn blared. Curse words bounced in the car in a blur.
I reached the handle, and fell out of the car.
The giant anthill boiled in front of me. I reached down and scooped.
Small red dots engulfed my hands as I threw the dirt into the Monte Carlo. I scooped again and again. Throwing. Cursing.
“You won’t do to me what you did to her!” I screamed.
More ants. More swearing. Until the car sped away.
I heard howls in the distance. I could see them slapping at themselves as the car turned the corner.
I smacked the ants off my hands, arms, and feet. Ang
ry welts rose on my arms and legs.
At my feet lay Tessa’s ID card.
I picked it up and ran the rest of the way home.
CHAPTER 41
Bonfire
A bonfire of pain shot from my arms and legs from the ant bites.
I stopped on the stoop to scratch. A pink candle glowed on the doorstep. It smelled terrible.
I worried about the fight with the boys. Would I be in trouble again without anyone asking me what had happened, or would Tessa’s ID redeem me? I wiped my face and discovered my nose was bleeding. Jorge’s truck sat on the curb.
I looked down at my shirt. Footprints. Blood. Dirt. How could I explain any of this?
The door to the apartment opened and the scent of a familiar soap hit me square in the face. “¡Dios santos! What has America done to you?” screamed Grandma.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Am I dreaming?” I asked, rubbing my eyes and reaching out to touch her.
Grandma grabbed my arm. “What happened? Aurora, get some rags and olive oil.”
I stuttered, “I-I was at the cemetery visiting Papa. There were these boys…”
“Did they attack you?” Jorge stood defensively. “Do you know who they are?”
Everyone’s questions flew at me at the same time. I scratched at my legs, wanting to claw them off. The fire ant bites seemed to sting all the way through my skin down to my bones.
“They thought I was Tessa,” I said.
The room grew instantly quiet.
I flipped the ID card onto the table. “They had this.”
The rush of the moment caught up with me. Like the panic couldn’t run as fast as I could and had finally huffed into the room. I didn’t want to think about what the boys wanted from me and I didn’t want to think about what they took from Tessa.
Manuela grabbed at the plastic card. Her palm covered her open mouth.
“Grandma, how did you get here?” I asked.
Manuela began to cry. “We have to call the police. Nora has to tell them what happened.”
“No!” Mama and I shouted.
“Police?” asked Grandma. “Won’t they send us back? We can’t go back. I just got here.”
Jorge held up his hands. “We’ll sort this out later. Everybody calm down.”
“B-but—” stammered Manuela, “I need to know.”
I clapped my hands over my ears. It sounded like cats fighting outside the window late at night. Garbling, high-pitched nonsense.
Jorge put his hand on Manuela’s shoulder. “This isn’t the answer. It’s just a piece of plastic. This doesn’t bring Tessa back. Perhaps it’s time you let her go.”
“B-but—” she stuttered again.
Jorge pulled her toward the door. “We need to go. The appointment for the permit is in ten minutes.” Manuela dabbed her eyes and loudly blew her nose.
“No police,” I said. “Please!”
Jorge motioned his finger for me to come closer. “I’m not calling the police. I’m the one who smuggled your grandmother in, so now is not the time to get the authorities involved,” he whispered.
Outside the door, Mr. Mann stood with a worried look on his face, doughnut bag in hand.
CHAPTER 42
Telenovelas
Mama filled the bathtub with hot water and a bit of bleach. I sat in it until my skin wrinkled and the itching stopped. Grandma sat on the toilet seat while I bathed.
“Have they told you?” I asked.
Her eyes misted. “I know, mija. Jorge told me. It’s why I came.”
It was easy to let the wall down around my heart if I had somewhere soft to land. “But why? Why did he have to die?” I sobbed. With Grandma, I could be who I really was. Naked or not, my emotions were out for all to see. I unleashed my heartache like a hurricane on Grandma.
She held out the dry towel and pulled me into an embrace. “How could I not come? There is nothing for me to wait for in Cedula,” said Grandma.
“We were coming home to you and the orchard,” I said. “I was going to fix this for us.”
Grandma’s strong shoulders slumped. “There is no more orchard. Or at least, none that we own, and you are not responsible for fixing anything.”
I pulled on clean clothes but my shoulders ached. “I could have tried harder.”
Grandma pinched her nose in thought. “No. It was taxes, fertilizer, and the lack of money. None of it was from your lack of trying.”
Grandma seemed older, her wrinkles deeper. I felt like it had been years since I had seen her rather than months.
“But Grandma, it’s been in our family for years.”
Grandma’s chin cocked stubbornly in the air. “And now it will belong to a new family.”
So much heartache. First Papa. Now the farm.
Grandma wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Mija, I choose you. I choose to be here and make a new life with you.” It seemed her positive spirit had survived the trip.
“You’re going to stay?” I asked.
“Yes, of course I’m staying. You are my family. You have fixed me.”
“But how?” I asked.
Grandma smiled cunningly. “A friend loaned me the money to get to Nuevo Laredo to meet with Jorge and Manuela. He knows I will return the favor.”
“Who?” I asked, holding my breath, waiting for the answer.
“Hector,” she said.
“My friend Hector?”
“No, mija. He is our friend Hector.”
CHAPTER 43
Lost and Found
Later that day, I awoke to the bickering in the kitchen between Grandma and Mama. It seemed like some things didn’t change.
“Tell me everything. Exactly,” said Grandma.
“I only know when they buried him. Who knows how they do things here in America?” said Mama testily. The dark circles hollowed under her eyes.
“But we must seek justice and give honor to Arturo,” she insisted.
“You don’t think I want that?”
I could tell Mama felt insulted. What did Grandma think we were doing here in America—eating cake? None of this was easy.
Mama stared into her coffee. “But they threw him in the street like dirty dishwater. He died alone.”
“At least a funeral service at a church,” demanded Grandma. “We can do that much.”
Funerals cost money—more than we had. If there was a God, He didn’t like us. Why would I bother giving our hard-earned money to Him?
“But Isabel, we are illegal immigrants, we can’t call attention to ourselves,” said Mama. “You need to learn that we can’t go stomping around here demanding things.”
“God will care for us,” said Grandma.
A burning in my stomach rose like boiling milk as I sat up in the bed. “We don’t even count as people here.”
Grandma reached out to me. “Mija, you can’t deny God and His plan. You of all people should know. God told you to come here.”
Panic and pain had finally caught their breath. They were ready to chase me with all of their might. I bellowed out my thoughts, even though I knew it would hurt Grandma’s feelings. “There is no God and He has no will. When will either of you face reality?” I hit the door as hard as I could as I ran toward the park. “Because nothing matters anymore.”
Maybe I could outrun these feelings crashing all around me.
My feet pounded the pavement. I hate you, I thought spitefully as I headed toward the park. I could feel the heat from the day soaking through the soles of my feet.
In the park all I wanted to do was climb a tree, but the limbs weren’t low enough for me. I needed to be up in the air, away from all of this. I jumped and reached for any limb, but even in my desperation, nothing would come close. I grasped for anything. Even the trees were against me.
The pool was closed. I tried to squeeze between the bars, but my body wouldn’t budge. I wanted to dive into the cold water and to hold my breath and never come up. I wanted my father, who would n
ever be coming home. I wanted away from this place called America.
I cried for myself until the tears turned into salty rivers at my feet. Nothing here would make things better. The suffering was all for nothing. There would be no party, no school, no Papa, no nothing.
I thought I heard the trees whispering in the Gulf breeze.
Go home. Go home.
But where was home? Could it really be here? Mama and Grandma—did that make a home?
I didn’t want to hear voices anymore.
And where was God? None of the lessons the nuns taught said anything about this. Wasn’t He supposed to protect us? Wasn’t He supposed to listen to my prayers? I wondered if God or faith even existed on Quitman Street.
The night was busy transforming itself. Fireflies danced from one tree to another. Mosquitoes bit my legs, and frogs from the bayou sang songs only they understood.
Mr. Mann appeared from behind a tree. “Go home, Nora. Go home.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “But where is home?”
He looked at me with his dark eyes and tattered face. “Over there.” He pointed. He dropped one of my bowls in my lap. “Dreams in there.” He shuffled away.
Perhaps he wasn’t crazy.
What seemed like hours later, I heard my name in the dark. It was Mama.
“Nora! Nora! Please, I can’t lose you, too. Nora!”
I would not give away my dreams. I ran toward her in the night, because I wanted to be found. I wanted someone to rescue me.
I ran past the trees and the swimming pool and into her arms. The moon was full. The shadows touched us as we stood in the middle of the park, hugging each other.
Mama pulled me into her strong arms “We can start over. We may not matter to America, but we are important to each other,” Mama whispered into my neck.
I didn’t answer. I felt like a flat tire—out of ideas on how to make this work. Tomorrow I would think of something new.
CHAPTER 44
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