The Same Sky: A Novel
Page 19
In my years here in the Ace Motel, I have barely spoken to American kids. There is a new grocery across the street, which advertises “real local food.” I went inside once, ogled things like couscous, almonds, and Texas peaches (picked by Ernesto, perhaps?). The cashier told me I was supposed to bring my own containers to fill and that this would help eliminate waste from the planet. I said, “Like a bread bag?” and he laughed as if I had told a joke.
In the parking lot outside the room we share with two other families, we cook beans. Even the druggies (who never share a motel room with more than three others) look askance at us. They would be surprised to know I can use the word “askance.”
I have worked hard to learn your language. Most of my relatives speak little English. I go to places where Americans congregate and speak loudly—shopping malls, Starbucks coffee bars, Subway sandwich shops. For the price of a drink, I listen to the way Americans speak, and there is even a clean, free bathroom. I can record the voices around me to play for myself later, the way as a child I played the songs of Stevie Wonder even after my batteries died.
I know how privilege sounds: haughty, a bit loud, incensed by imagined slights. Americans don’t seem to laugh as much as we do, in my family. Maybe they haven’t been forced to see the worst of human nature, to know the true value of joy.
On The Beast and in the shelters along its rails, people traded stories about their experiences. We talked about bandits, robbers, rape. We agreed that people were kindest in Veracruz and Oaxaca. Once, as I rode the train, a very old woman threw a blue plastic bag that landed in my lap. I opened the bag to find six rolls, a bottle of lemonade, and a sweater.
“Thank you!” I called, waving.
I heard her voice ring out in the distance: “May God watch over you!” And so He has.
Now that we are here, we do not talk about The Beast.
I will finally answer the essay question you have posed: What was the worst day of your life? You might be surprised to hear that the worst day of my life did not take place along the journey from Tegucigalpa to Austin, Texas. The worst day was not losing my brother Junior, though that was a very bad day. Being raped more than once was … I have no words. But it was not the worst.
I gave birth to a baby girl on November 3. The hospital was clean, and already decorated for Thanksgiving. Paper turkeys lined the hallways along with paper cutouts of cornucopias, which I learned the word for later and hope never to see again. My mother was very angry with me, but when my contractions began, she helped me to her boyfriend’s truck and drove us south, to the address on the papers I had been given.
The labor pains were like a drill, boring to my very center. I was offered an epidural and I refused it, wanting to feel everything, knowing what was to come. But then the agony increased, and again I was offered an epidural, and I said yes. A doctor with a white mask covering his white face told me to push, push, and I pushed. But it was not enough. My mother spooned ice chips into my mouth. Her hand on my forehead. Her fingers in my hair. My mother: in spite of everything, she would take care of me.
My daughter was born in the hours between the middle of the night and the dawn. Her face is burned into my eyelids: whenever I sleep, or even blink, I see her. She had curls, night-black. Her eyes were a very pale brown, and her eyelashes were long and dark. She looked shocked to be in the world. She parted her lips and screamed.
They cleaned my daughter and wrapped her in a blanket with a pink cap on her head. Then they gave her to me. I kissed her, tried to take in her smell, to remember. A wave of longing caught me in its fist. You can do it! the wave told me. It is not too late! And I let myself have the fantasy of taking my daughter home to the Ace Motel, sleeping next to her (and my new sister and my brother) in my Dora the Explorer sleeping bag. Making her dinner in the parking lot, watching her run between the cars, dancing in the Texas sunshine. My mother pulled us both into her arms. “It is a mistake,” she whispered. “Do not give up your child.”
But I knew a different future was possible. I thought of opening a book in a circle of light next to a cream-colored building. I felt a backpack full of books on my shoulders, imagined a takeout cup of tea. Even in the hospital, moments after giving birth, I saw this version of myself and prayed that God would understand my decision.
And my daughter! She would not grow up in a room that smelled of sweat and beer and frustration and beans. She might even have her own room, all by herself, with a crib and a mobile from the Pottery Barn catalog I had once picked up at a Starbucks coffee bar. A crib that cost eight hundred and fifty U.S. dollars! And soft, thick blankets. And a mother—one of these American women—who did not have to make terrible choices. My girl would not have to struggle. She would not be hungry. No one would hold her down on the top of a train, shoving his seed into her, thrusting with anger and pain. I brought my lips to my baby’s perfect rose of an ear. And like the old woman in Veracruz who had thrown me a bag of bread and lemonade, I said, “May God watch over you.”
And then I gave her to the waiting nurses and signed the papers. I ate a hospital breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and a fruit cup. I slept for a while, and then I got out of the metal hospital bed, my breasts on fire, full of milk for no one. My mother helped me dress myself and settle into a wheelchair. We left the room.
As my mother pushed me toward the elevator, an American couple entered through the doors at the end of the long hallway. They hurried toward the viewing room, and I knew. I saw them exchange a smile; the woman reached for the man’s hand and they clasped fingers. The man wore a T-shirt that said “University of Texas.”
As we passed them, the woman looked at me. Her face was clear and untroubled. She was shining with happiness.
And I was free.
I climbed into my mother’s boyfriend’s truck and she drove us home to the Ace Motel. No one spoke to us as we hurried into Room Sixteen. The men had gone to work, and my mother bathed me in the cracked tub. I can still remember the feel of the warm washcloth on the back of my neck. I tried to remind myself that I would recover, go to school, and make a bright life for myself in America. I would go to university and become a lawyer or a doctor. I would buy my mother a wonderful house. Maybe someday I could see my baby again. I had checked the box on the paper that said she could contact me. My body felt liquid. My daughter was gone. As my mother washed my hair, I cried with abandon, letting go.
This was the worst day of my life.
50
Alice
THE PAPER TURKEYS on the wall flutter as we walk down the hospital hallway. Since my mother’s death, I have always hated hospitals, but for some reason I am not scared this time. It’s true: this birth mother could also change her mind, as Mitchell’s did. We might be getting our hopes up only to have them dashed. But something has shifted in me. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, or ten minutes from now, but I am calm. A faded banner above the nurses’ station (likely brought out every year) says, “Be Thankful, for You Are Blessed.”
I reach for my husband’s hand. It is warm.
A heavyset woman in a pink sweatshirt pushes a wheelchair past. The girl—no older than twelve—glances up. Her expression is so sad it stops my breath. I feel her sorrow enter me, slow and terrible. As she is wheeled toward the exit, the girl watches me over her shoulder. She reaches the end of the hallway, and when the door is opened, she turns from me, toward the light.
Jake has allowed me to pause. But now he squeezes my fingers—a question. I meet his eyes and nod.
There is a glass window a few feet ahead of us. I pull Jake forward. In the nursery, only one tiny cradle is occupied. Swaddled in a pink blanket, a baby is asleep. Her round face is so lovely. Jake pulls me close, his breathing ragged. “There she is,” says Jake.
A woman approaches, her heels clicking smartly on the floor. “Mr. and Mrs. Conroe?” she calls.
“Yes,” says Jake.
She reaches us and crosses her arms, staring, as we are, at th
e baby. “Ah,” she says, “I see you’ve found her.”
“Yes,” says Jake.
Machines whir and buzz, a strange lullaby. My blood roars in my ears. The baby girl yawns, showing us her petal of a tongue. And then she opens her eyes. They are caramel-colored. It seems she is looking at me.
Her cheeks, her curls, one tiny exposed fist!
“I’ve got you,” I whisper to my daughter.
She gazes at me for a moment, then exhales deeply and closes her eyes. Her tiny chest rises and falls as she finds her way to newborn dreams.
For my Ash, my Harrison, and my Nora
Acknowledgments
Without Alexia Rodriguez, who enabled me to meet immigrant children and to attend a Homecoming football game and dance, this book would not have been possible. Thank you so much, my dear friend.
The soul of this book comes from the work of Father Alejandro Solalinde Guerra, whose shelter, Hermanos en el Camino in Ciudad Ixtepec, Oaxaca, provides a safe place for migrants, offering them food, shelter, medical and psychological attention, and legal aid. His work and his words are the meaning of grace.
For the gift of time and glorious silence, I am tremendously grateful to Madroño Ranch, the MacDowell Colony, and the Corporation of Yaddo.
Michelle Tessler, your guidance, kindness, and encouragement mean everything to me. Also, thanks for the bourbon.
Kara Cesare, I am blessed to have your sharp editorial insight and your enthusiasm and love for my characters. You dream of Carlos and Junior, but every author dreams of an editor like you.
Many thanks to Ben Tisdel, Jenny Hart, Paula Disbrowe, Claiborne Smith, Stacy Franklin, Erin Kinard, Laurie Duncan, Dalia Azim, Mary Helen Specht, Erin Courtney, Samin Nosrat, Jodi Picoult, Dr. Joe Gonzales, John Mueller, Daniel Vaughn, Nina Schmidt Sells, Ellen Sussman, Leah Stewart, Jennifer Hershey, Kim Hovey, Libby McGuire, Gina Centrello, Benjamin Dreyer, Liza Bennigson, Sarah McKay, Mary-Anne and Peter Westley, Barbara and Larry Meckel, and my beloved barbecue research team, Nora, Harrison, Ash, and Tip Meckel.
Para todos los niños que han compartido sus historias conmigo: gracias por enseñarme el verdadero significado de la fe. Deseo que todos los que lean esta novela aprendan de su valentía, y que, un día, todos Uds. encuentren su hogar.
By Amanda Eyre Ward
The Same Sky
Close Your Eyes
Love Stories in This Town
Forgive Me
How to Be Lost
Sleep Toward Heaven
About the Author
AMANDA EYRE WARD is the critically acclaimed author of five novels, including the bestseller How to Be Lost. She has spent the last year visiting shelters in Texas and California, meeting immigrant children and hearing their stories. This novel is inspired by them. Amanda lives in Austin, Texas, with her family.
www.amandaward.com
Facebook.com/AmandaEyreWard
@amandaeyreward