The concluding speaker comes over and whisks Oscar away. That’s when Charlie comes up to me, looking hesitant. “Hey, Mil,” he says softly. “I didn’t know you were coming to this.”
I look down at my feet as I close the small gap between us. “It was kind of a last-minute decision.”
“I’m so proud of you. You were amazing.”
“Thanks.”
Mr. Wheeler reaches us, and he slaps a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Millie, I’m so glad you came. So glad. Your words were inspiring,” he says.
I still don’t like that word: inspiring. I don’t want to be anyone’s inspiration. I don’t want any of this to be about me. But I say, “Thanks, Mr. Wheeler,” and leave it at that for now.
“Thank you,” he says, “for saying what our lawmakers and our fellow citizens need to hear.” He shakes my hand before wading into the crowd on his own.
I sigh. As a person, as my mother’s employer, as the father of the boy I briefly hoped to date, I still find Mr. Wheeler deeply frustrating. But I can’t deny that as a politician, he’s fighting for the right things—for policies and ideas that I would want my senator to champion. I will at least give him credit for that.
I look around and see expectant faces watching me. Some are young, including a lot of Latinas about the same age as Susana and me—perhaps activist students. There are scattered groups of middle-aged white people, and I can’t help feeling surprised that they’re here, that this cause is important to them. And of course there’s Sele, weaving her way over to me, beaming with pride.
Charlie’s hand sways toward me, and I know he wants to touch me, but he doesn’t. Abruptly, he puts both hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. I want to talk to him, but I don’t know what to say.
Susana gives me a hug. “Thank you for coming, Millie. It means so much.”
“Thanks for inviting me. Do you know Charlie?”
She smiles. “Yes, I met Charlie and his dad earlier. I hope Charles Wheeler will be our senator one day soon. It stinks that I can’t vote for him.”
Of course, because she’s not a citizen, she can’t vote. Once again, I think about the unfairness of it all.
Charlie’s dad calls to him and waves him over to where he’s standing. Charlie excuses himself and, with a last look at me, walks away.
Susana is still focused on me. “There’s something else you can help me with, if you have some time this summer.”
“What is it?”
“Well, now that families are being reunited and released from the detention centers, there is a lot they need help with. There’s a resource center in Potrillo where they can go once they’re released—where they can have a shower, get clean clothes, and get help with transportation. The organization that runs it needs volunteers to help pass out the clothes and shoes and toiletries, and to help serve the meals. I’ve been collecting shoes to take down there. But I can’t go,” she says, looking down at the ground. “There’s a Border Patrol checkpoint on the way back, and they’ll ask if I’m a citizen. I could get detained there. I can’t risk it right now.”
I remember that checkpoint. I remember how much it intimidated me, even though I’m a citizen.
“So you want me to take supplies down?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes, if you’re willing. I’ve collected about two hundred pairs of shoes. Can I get your contact info so I can drop them off?”
I look at her, and I see my parents. I see my younger sister. I see people who are brave because they have to be. I see people who will give of themselves because the alternative is to live in fear, closed off from everyone who tries to love them. I see people who have so little, yet are willing to fight for those with less.
I nod. “Absolutely.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I wake up at six because that’s when Mami wakes up to make coffee. The kids are still sleeping, and she’s sitting in the kitchen in her bathrobe, waiting for the coffee to percolate.
“Buenos días, Mami,” I say, coming into the kitchen. I sit across from her, stifling a yawn.
“Buenos días, mija. Why are you up so early?”
I plunge right in. “Stanford offered me a full scholarship. They want to pay for everything, Mami. Tuition, books, room and board.”
“What? Stanford, mija? Really?” She grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me into a long embrace.
When she lets go of me, she takes a deep breath, and a few short sobs accompany her exhale. “When did you find out?”
“I’ve known for a while, but I wasn’t ready to tell you.”
“Well, you’re going, right?”
“Yes, I already accepted. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away.”
“Mija, that doesn’t matter. I am so happy. We’ll miss you, of course, and it won’t be the same without you, but what a wonderful opportunity. Sele is a strong girl, like you. She will do just fine.”
I nod, but don’t say anything. I fear that the minute I start to speak, tears will spill out.
Mami wipes at her eyes with a folded-up napkin. “Do you know how hard it was to leave you in charge after Papi died? To leave so much in your young hands? I cried every day when I left the house.”
“You cried?” I ask her. Mami never cries. Except for now.
She nods. “You were such a young girl in charge of so much, and I felt so guilty about putting all that responsibility on your shoulders, but I had no choice. It was the only way. And hardship builds resilience and character. Look at you, Milagros. You are a strong young woman. You’re ready to conquer this world. Sele is so much like you, and we can help her build resilience and character too, so that when she leaves too, she’ll be ready, just like you are.”
I nod, amidst tears, wondering how Mami can hold hers at bay, how she cries only when no one sees her. I bite my lip to stifle a sob.
“Papi is looking down on you, so proud. So proud. He’s the one who wanted to name you Milagros. He would say that you’re his little miracle. It was for you that he wanted to come here. He would never have left his home, his family, his mother if he hadn’t wanted to give you the best.” Mami reaches over to put a hand on my arm. “You are the reason we’re all here. When he found out we were having you, he wanted you to be an American, to have all there is to have here, because you deserve it. You deserve Stanford. And you deserve Charlie Wheeler. You deserve to have what makes you happy.”
Tears are falling down my face to the table. I reach for a napkin to wipe them away.
Mami gets up and comes around the table to give me another hug. I stay in her arms, thinking that in just a short time, I won’t have her this close to me anymore.
“I have some news too, Millie.”
“What is it, Mami?”
“Mrs. Rosario and I are starting a cleaning business. She has a lot of contacts with a few offices and some families. I told Belinda that we are working to getting it going in a few months. She said the timing is good because she’s thinking of cutting back her hours at work, and if Mr. Wheeler wins his election, they might all move to Washington, D.C.”
I lean back to look at her. “Really? You’re going to stop working for the Wheelers? And they might move?” The idea of Mami cutting work ties with the Wheelers surprises and pleases me. For her to start a business and make her own career choices would be fantastic.
“That’s terrific, Mami. I’m so happy for you.”
The coffee is done, my tears have subsided, and the kitchen begins to fill with yawning bodies. The phone rings, and Mami answers it. As soon as I hear her greet Detective Blake, I hang on her every word. It’s mostly Detective Blake speaking with an occasional “I see” from Mami. It’s a short phone call, and I stare at Mami as she hangs up the phone.
“Detective Blake said they arrested someone.”
I gasp. “Who?”
Javi grabs Mami’s arm. “From the fire?”
“Yes,” Mami says. “They were able to investigate some of the latest onli
ne comments. They found someone local who was making comments. She said they questioned him and then found traces of those chemicals in his car. They arrested him this morning.”
“Thank God!” Sele says, hugging Mami.
“So, he’s in jail?” Ceci asks.
“Yes, mija,” Mami says, crouching down to kiss Ceci on the forehead. “He’s in jail.”
“How long will he stay there?” Javi asks.
“I don’t know,” Mami says. Quickly, she changes the subject.
He’s been arrested. The man who lit our house on fire, who hates us because of where we’re from, is now sitting in a jail cell. I guess next there might be a trial, sentencing. There might also be news stories that will put us front and center in the media again.
Before I can think too much about it, though, I get a text from Susana. She’d like to drop off her donations this afternoon. I’d almost forgotten that I agreed to take two hundred pairs of shoes to a resource center in Potrillo.
≈
In the midafternoon, Susana and her mom arrive. Mami, Sele, and I help them carry in eight large cardboard boxes. They take up most of the living room. Mami gives Susana and her mother, Juana, a hug. She tells them to sit down and brings them iced tea. Mami and Juana immediately start talking like they’re old friends, comparing stories of their kids.
“I can’t believe you collected all these shoes,” I tell Susana, gesturing at the boxes we’ve brought inside.
“I’ve been collecting all month,” she tells me. “I got donations from church, my neighborhood, families my mom knows from work. Each box has a label telling if it’s for men, women, boys, girls, and what sizes.”
“That’s great.”
“I wish I could have brought more. Most of the families coming in have been wearing the same pair of shoes for weeks by the time they get out of detention. The shoes are dirty and wet. Their shoelaces have been taken away. They are all looking for a clean pair of shoes.”
“I wish we had some to give,” I say, thinking of all the old pairs of shoes under Javi’s bed at the old house.
“Could you help me with these?” Susana asks. She’s holding a large paper shopping bag. “I just picked them up on my way out of town and didn’t have a chance to clean them before we left.”
“Sure, no problem,” I say, guiding her into the kitchen.
She wets two white sponges that she brought, and we sit down on the linoleum floor. “These sponges are like magic. They make things very clean.” She hands me a sponge and begins taking tennis shoes out of the bag.
I watch her scrub the white trim around a pair of blue Vans, managing to clean off all the graying parts, so that the shoes look new.
“Oh, wow,” I say. “That is like magic.” I start scrubbing the bottom trim of a black tennis shoe.
“These are going to make a big difference for the asylum seekers,” Susana says. “They have court dates, some of them have ankle bracelets for when they have to go back to have their case heard. Some of them haven’t showered for weeks. They haven’t had a proper meal for weeks. So, at the resource center, they can shower, get a set of clean clothes, clean shoes. Volunteers cook and serve them a meal. Then they have other people help them make travel arrangements. They go to stay with family or friends, whoever is sponsoring them. So they might take a bus or a plane to their new location, and the staff at the resource center helps them get in touch with their family or whoever is paying for the bus or air fare.”
“So, what will we be doing when we get there?” I ask.
“Handing out clothes and shoes, serving the meal. I have been wanting to go so badly, but I just can’t risk it. The Border Patrol checkpoint has really been scrutinizing people coming through lately.”
“It must be so hard, feeling unsafe like that all the time.”
Susana makes a neutral noise in her throat. “I was four when I came here with my parents from Mexico. We crossed at the border. My parents paid a coyote to get us across. I don’t remember anything about that, but I can’t imagine making it across the border, after that long journey, and then being taken away from my mom and dad, not knowing when I would ever see them again.”
I think again about Ceci, now or even younger, being taken away from Mami, all by herself in a detention center. For all that we’ve been through, at least we haven’t had to endure that. “I’m glad the child separation policy got reversed,” I say. In truth, though, that doesn’t comfort me much, because the sinister mind that thought up separating children from their parents is bound to come up with the next awful way of making immigrants suffer.
We clean about six more pairs of shoes, and then Susana helps me put them in the right box according to size and gender. “Thank you so much for taking all of this down. I hope one day to be able to go and help. It’s so huge, for people to see a friendly face when they’re just coming out of detention.”
“Thank you for getting all of the shoes together and for bringing them all to me. I know it was a long drive for you and your mom. How’s your situation right now?”
“We’re doing okay. I got my diploma. I wasn’t able to attend graduation or walk the stage, but at least I graduated. I’m starting college in the fall, and we’re staying with family. I’m very lucky.”
Mami and Juana come into the kitchen. Mami starts packing a bag of snacks, fruit, and drinks for them to take with them on their ride back home. Mami and Juana embrace and exchange phone numbers, vowing to keep in touch. Susana gives us all the information for the resource center—location, hours, contact numbers. I thank Susana and give her a hug before she and her mother head out.
≈
It’s Monday morning. Mami takes the kids with her to the Wheelers’ again. She leaves me with a can of white paint, two paintbrushes, and six very scraped, very graying kitchen cabinets.
I go over the dulling, dirty cabinets with a coat of fresh, snow-white paint. Words swirl around in my head. Mami’s words, Susana’s words, Sele’s words . . . Charlie’s words.
None of our differences change how I feel about you.
Finally, I pause to send Charlie a text: I think I’d like to talk more after all, if you’re still willing. When is a good time for you?
≈
I hear a soft knock at the door, and I set my paintbrush down on the paint can lid to go answer it.
As I open the door to Charlie Wheeler, all rehearsed speech flies from my mind.
My arms go around his neck. I press myself to him, pushing him back a foot before he regains his balance and wraps his arms around my waist. He kisses me, and his hands work their way from my waist up to my back.
I pull my lips from his to look at his face. “I love you, Charlie. I want to give this another try.”
He presses his forehead against mine. “I love you so much.” He kisses me again. “I’m sorry for not listening before, for not trying harder to understand. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t be honest with me, especially when you’re upset about something.”
“I know,” I say. “And I don’t want to take all my frustrations and fears out on you. I want us to be a team.” I pull away once more, taking his face in my hands. “Speaking of which, I told Mami about Stanford. I can’t wait to go there with you.”
Charlie beams at me and kisses my cheek. “Excellent. Meanwhile . . .” He lifts my arm and starts rubbing at a white paint stain. “Want some help painting?”
I smile and look toward the kitchen. “Sure. It’s just a few cabinets. It shouldn’t take long.”
Charlie walks into the kitchen. “When we’re done, we can go to lunch to celebrate, and talk things over some more.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say, picking up an unused paintbrush and handing it to him.
≈
The next morning, Dr. Wheeler and Charlie pick Mami and me up. Sele has offered to babysit Caroline, Javi, and Ceci while we go to the resource center in Potrillo. We fill the back of Dr. Wheeler’s Land Cruiser with the
boxes of shoes that Susana collected.
I notice that no campaign staff are tagging along to document this experience, to post about it on social media or share it with local news outlets. It’s just us, doing this as people, not as symbolic public figures.
As we drive the two and a half hours to Potrillo, the thought lingers that Susana should be going with us. She’s the one who collected all of the shoes. She painstakingly cleaned them to make sure they were in good condition. She should be the one to take the shoes to the families, instead of having to stay away from the border checkpoint.
Dr. Wheeler drives while Mami sits in the front passenger seat. They talk about when all of us were little, remembering stories from years ago. They both laugh at the time when Caroline was four, and she would only wear pajamas out of the house for about two weeks. Mami tells Dr. Wheeler that when Javi was little, he would only wear socks and sneakers to the beach. He threw a fit when Mami tried to force his feet into flip-flops. Mami finally compromised by buying him some water shoes.
Charlie and I sit in the middle, as close together as our seat belts allow. We’re using his phone to look into our housing options at Stanford.
We also look at job opportunities on campus. I know I’ll have to get a job to pay for any extras that my scholarship won’t cover. Charlie says he wants to get a job too. He doesn’t always want to be asking his parents for money. We search for job openings at the bookstore, the library, and a deli on campus.
Once we get into town, Dr. Wheeler has no trouble finding the resource center. We park in front and begin unloading the boxes. Two people come out to help us; one is Sister Magdalena, who I met last time we were in Potrillo, and the other is a man in his thirties.
Sister Magdalena takes my hand and thanks me for coming. She introduces us to Mario Jimenez, the manager of the center. We all sign in and get visitor badges, and then we follow Mario through a seating area into another large room. Behind a counter are almost-bare shelves of shoes. Mario helps us unpack our donated shoes and sort them onto the various shelves.
“So, there is a bus coming in about fifteen minutes,” Mario says, looking at his watch. “When people get here, it gets a little chaotic. First, they get processed in, and then some of them will take showers, while others come to get clothes.” Mario points to a door with a large sign that says Showers/Las Duchas. There’s also a schedule posted for men, women, and children for various times throughout the day.
Where I Belong Page 21