Santiago's Road Home

by Alexandra Diaz

  “I know,” Santiago said, even though he didn’t.

  “They tried to shoot us, too. Mamá and me. Then they took Mamá away.”

  “Yes, but you’re safe now so lie down,” Santiago insisted.

  “Here?”

  “Sí, ahora.”

  Llorón circled the floor like a dog before settling down on his side with his arms under his head and his sightless eyes still open. I should have told him to sleep somewhere else.

  “Now close your eyes,” Santiago said. “Keep them closed and Mamá will come.”

  Finally he shut his eyes, and Santiago exhaled, crumbling back to his corner. A few seconds later Llorón let out a part snort, part moan—a sound that any other night would have had the boys laughing and trying to mimic it.

  Santiago motioned to the guards, pointed to his metallic blanket, and then to the snoring Llorón. Understanding, Herrera hurried to get the sleepwalker a new sheet, while the other guard blinked at Santiago and gave him the smallest smile, the closest any guard came to thanking an inhabitant. Good enough.

  Santiago pulled his own blanket over his head. While drowning out the perpetual light, it did nothing to shield the snores. But snores were better than screams, reality checks better than nightmares. The next morning when Llorón remembered nothing of the night terrors and teased Santiago again about his girly book, Santiago kept his mouth shut. If that didn’t make him the star candidate to get into foster care, he didn’t know what did.

  * * *

  The volunteer lawyers finally returned to the center at the end of January. Except Señora Bárbara wasn’t among them.

  “Con permiso,” Santiago asked the elderly lawyer with the age spots on his hands and face. “Is Señora Bárbara coming tomorrow?”

  The lawyer tilted his head back to look up at Santiago. “No, mi’jo. She’s not returning for a long while. She just had herself a beautiful baby boy. Bless them both.”

  Santiago remembered her pregnancy, of course, but hadn’t realized she wouldn’t return once the baby came. He wanted to feel happy for her, but betrayal overpowered him. She had promised she’d be back. She had also said he’d be in foster care in a couple of weeks, six weeks ago.

  “Do you know—I mean—what about my applications?” he stammered. “She put me on the list for foster care and other facilities several weeks ago, and I… well, I’m still here.”

  “Don’t worry, mi’jo. The interns at the office have taken care of everyone’s paperwork.” The old man pushed up his glasses and gave him a pitying look. “Pero desgraciadamente, these things can take several months—for some people, years. The government wants solutions ahora, but then takes forever in pushing forth action.”

  “What about writing letters? To try to convince them.” This couldn’t be it, not after everything. “I’m a good kid. Always helping. Ask the guards how good I am.”

  “Every individual’s situation is different.” The man shook his head. “There are over thirteen thousand youths in facilities all over the country, and this is one of the better centers. Many are living in tents, with metal fences like cages. Lo siento, but it’s out of our control.”

  Weeks ago he had thought staying at the center wouldn’t be so bad. But the idea of foster care had changed everything. He knew he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up; he shouldn’t have planned for the future. He’d made the same mistake with María Dolores.

  “Please tell Señora Bárbara I congratulate her on her new baby.” The sharp edges of his favorite book, tucked into his waistband for safekeeping, dug into his chest and groin. He shuffled toward the door and started the line to go outside. It gave him something to do.

  An asthmatic boy who’d barely been at the center for two weeks skipped around in a circle like a little kid. “Hey, guess what? I’ve been approved to go into foster care tomorrow. Can you believe it?”

  Santiago turned away and pulled the back of his sweatshirt over his head like a hood. Sick kids always seemed to get the favoritism. A part of him wished the boy’s foster family would be despicable.

  CHAPTER 33

  Santiago stood with his back to his compañeros, fingers laced through the chain-link fence surrounding their outdoor area. They hadn’t been out in days due to the cold and, even now, were only outside so the main room could be cleaned.

  The February wind howled, and the clouds above crackled with thunder. A second later icy rain pelted down on them. He heard the scramble of fifty-some teens rush to the door and hug the wall of the building while Castillo fumbled with his key card.

  Still, Santiago didn’t move. The hammering rain had no effect. Santiago saw no point in shielding himself, no point in dancing, either. No point in anything.

  “Hurry up, I’m freezing,” Llorón whined to Castillo.

  By the time Castillo got the door open and everyone piled inside, Santiago was drenched to the core, his hair plastered to his face. Castillo called and waved him to hurry up. At the door Santiago turned to look at the rain one last time. The first rain he’d seen or felt since that night in the abandoned shack back in México, when he’d refused to return to la malvada’s house. The drops changed from clear to white, pelting to weightless. Snow, he realized, before Castillo almost shut the door in his face.

  “Can we go back outside later?”

  Castillo laughed before speaking. “Are you kidding? Without coats or shoes? You’re lucky you actually got to see snow for a second. The other guys will be jealous.”

  Santiago’s wet flip-flops squeaked as he followed the hall back to their main area. His feet squished in the drenched socks. He removed his book from his waistband and held it away from his wet body. In the bathroom he used a towel to dry the hard, wet cover. The glossy sheen had protected most of the book, but the corners of the cover were no longer rigid and had swelled to double their original size. Inside, the edges of the pages warped in small waves.

  Once convinced the book had suffered only minimal damage, Santiago busied himself with removing his clothes, wringing them out, and drying his body as best he could before pulling the wet clothes back on. It was Friday, and they wouldn’t receive fresh, dry clothes again until Sunday. Being the middle of the afternoon, the hot water wasn’t turned on in the showers.

  The perpetual cold air in the main room felt like a punch in the gut when he emerged from the bathroom. He shuffled to his spot against the wall, his legs just barely able to hold his weight.

  His teeth chattered as he draped his metallic blanket over himself, hugging it close. If anything, his body shivered more as he huddled in his corner. His book lay on the floor next to him, but for the first time, he didn’t feel like reading. Instead, he rested a shaking hand on the cover, just glad to have its presence nearby.

  He didn’t move until dinnertime. Still damp and violently shivering, he dragged himself to the food line, before a guard forced him. Lunch had been sandwiches with some kind of bad-smelling meat. Because most people hadn’t eaten the sandwiches (Santiago had; he ate everything), there were plenty left over for dinner, and they didn’t receive their hot meal of the day. He didn’t eat a sandwich this time. Instead, he grabbed two cups of fruit cocktail and only got through one; the other he left behind on the table for someone else. If Consuelo was working, he didn’t stick around to help her.

  Back in the main room, he settled in his corner for the night, covering his head with the metallic blanket that no longer seemed to work its magic of keeping him warm. His body shook so much, an incessant rattle came from the sheet.

  At some point the overhead lights dimmed, marking bedtime. But that’s when the screaming started.

  “¡Mamá! ¡Quiero a mi mamá!” someone kept screaming. Santiago recognized the screams. They came from someone he knew. He’d better shut up before la malvada came and made him stop. But he didn’t stop. Like someone being tortured.

  If only Mami were here. His mami, not someone else’s. His mami who would warm him up and stop the screaming. He wa
nted his mami. Where was Mami? Where was anyone when he needed them?

  He thrashed from one side to the other, unable to get comfortable, still unable to get warm. His body broke into a sweat while simultaneously shivering. His damp clothes clung to his body, or was it the sweat that soaked them through?

  The lights came back on. To stop the screamer? No, the screamer had stopped, but several people talked. Muttering things he couldn’t understand. Why didn’t they shut up? It was supposed to be quiet time. Dim the lights again. Make them stop.

  But someone was kicking him. Maybe even saying something? He opened an eye to find a uniformed person looming over him.

  “Get up, you lazy bum. Time to eat,” the guard said.

  Santiago pulled the blanket back over his head and got kicked again. Hard, in the back. He gathered himself up, Mami’s book in hand, but his legs gave way from under him, and the lights slowly went out, this time completely.

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 34

  Into the unknown: the future

  The bed creaks under Santiago’s shivering body. Maybe it’s not a bed, but a coffin.

  If only this whole death thing would hurry up and happen. Then he’d be back with Mami. Things would be fine, and the screaming would finally stop.

  Where is he, anyway? Some kind of transitional realm into the “other” world? Has to be. The light hurts his eyes. His body aches—tired and stiff, but not enough to merit screaming. And his throat, so raw—no strength to scream.

  So, who’s screaming? Or yelling, rather? Not him. The noise hurts his head. Harsh and scolding. Coming from a man, not a teenager. An older white man with white hair, white mustache, and a white coat. Someone Santiago has seen before.

  “Extreme negligence on your part,” the voice says in English, though the words would have been very similar in Spanish.

  Then: “A human… his life.”

  Wait. Did someone “lose” their life? Someone’s dead? Is he the someone? Is it possible to die without knowing it?

  A fleece blanket covers his body. Underneath him, something molds around his back and head. A bed and a pillow. Comfort. He’s definitely comfortable. So he could be dead.

  The voice belongs to the doctor who examined him on arrival, his eyes still red, this time filled with rage. The bodies he’s talking to become clear: Herrera, Castillo, Patterson, and other guards he doesn’t recognize.

  He must still be at the center. His head pounding, limbs arching, body shaking. No purgatory, just inferno.

  The doctor continues to yell, now saying something about not being able to do his job if the guards don’t do theirs. “Not surprisingly, the family is pressing charges.”

  Even though the doctor only speaks English, the line about pressing charges is familiar—Santiago heard it the few times he watched a courtroom show on daytime televisión. The family of the dead is suing.

  A lump presses against his already raw throat. Someone has definitely died. But not him—no one in his family would sue on his behalf.

  The doctor issues further insults before picking up a towel and throwing it at Patterson’s face. Grabs a gray sweatshirt and flings it at Herrera. Finally, the doctor waves his hand in dismissal. Quick, eyes close. See nothing, know nothing. If the guards know he witnessed the scolding, he’ll be truly dead.

  His throat burns as he breathes through his mouth. He coughs and then chokes from the pain. Things hurt a lot less when he was dead.

  When he is sure the guards have left, he slowly opens his eyes again and forces out words. “¿Dónde estoy?”

  Instead of answering, the doctor holds out a plastic cup full of some red syrup. It tastes like a melted lollipop coating a bitter insect, but it does soothe his throat.

  “Where I?” Santiago tries again, this time in English.

  “Infirmary.”

  “¿Eh?”

  “Medical room,” the doctor clarifies.

  The same machines hum as they did when he received his entry physical, the same sterile atmosphere as before. Except this time a book (his book!) sits on a table, and two cots are positioned against the wall—his, and an empty one.

  A tousled blanket remains on the empty cot. Someone had been in it.

  Consuelo enters the room bearing a tray laden with food. Santiago turns his head to follow the delicious smell, using every bit of strength to push himself to his elbows and then to sitting.

  She places the tray on his lap. “Sopa de pollo. I made it especially for you and the other sick…” Her voice trails off, and she excuses herself from the room as tears run down her face.

  Santiago’s hand reaches for her. Wait, don’t leave. He lets out a hacking cough instead.

  “Who boy died?” Santiago asks in English once he’s able to talk again. “What he name?”

  The doctor returns to his side with another cup, this time holding a long white pill, a round peach-colored one, and a capsule. “Mendez. Lorén Mendez.”

  The name isn’t familiar. Maybe it’s one of the little boys. Or someone from his section he only knows by nickname. But the doctor doesn’t seem to be in a chatty mood, going through paperwork and scowling. Maybe Santiago is better off not knowing right now.

  The soup, cool enough to eat, hot enough to soothe, tastes a gloria. Tender pieces of poultry cover the bottom of the bowl along with real carrots and peas.

  On the tray, Consuelo included a soft, warm roll with a pat of butter, an orange and a banana, a purple Jell-O cup, and a glass of grapefruit juice. His shrunken stomach cries for him to stop, while the rest of his body yearns for the nourishment. He’s never swallowed pills before, but they go down nicely hidden within the Jell-O.

  Before finishing the juice, he raises the glass toward the empty cot.

  “It should’ve been me, Lorén. I could’ve been with my mami, and no one would care.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Santiago stays in the infirmary for the weekend, until his cough disappears and his strength returns. Every mealtime, Consuelo brings him a different soup—lentil, beef, tortilla. Each one homemade, each one probably paid for from her own salary. He insists she doesn’t need to, and she insists she wants to. In exchange he tears out a page from a magazine the doctor has, writes muchísimas gracias on the top, and presents her with a picture of a flower bouquet.

  The doctor releases him in time for Señor Dante’s Monday afternoon class. Everyone stops their boredom to stare. Some back away like they did with Llorón’s sleepwalking. Others gawk like they’re witnessing some kind of phenomena. Thanks to Chismoso, everyone knows more about Santiago’s medical state than him.

  “Is it true you almost died of hypothermia?”

  “Mano, I saw you faint. That was some scary stuff.”

  “Where did you stay?”

  “Did you see the dead body?”

  Too much, too many. Santiago cowers from the mob, covering his head with his arms. “Please, just leave me alone.”

  He needs somewhere to hide. The bathroom? No, a different open door beckons. He darts into the classroom and slides into a folding chair near the teacher’s desk in the front. “Save me.”

  Señor Dante nods without question. He walks to the door and calls the class in. “Chicos, vamos.”

  Once the afternoon teens enter, the teacher turns to the class and addresses them all in English. “Today, anyone who wants to talk has to do so in English.”

  “¿Por qué—”

  “No, English.”

  A grumble echoes through the room as Señor Dante throws out questions like “What is your favorite animal?” and allows squawks and roars in lieu of responses when the boys don’t know the name in English.

  Santiago meets the teacher’s eye and mouths, Gracias.

  Señor Dante raises his eyebrows, waiting. Santiago’s lips form new words. Thank you.

  Señor Dante blinks in acknowledgment and continues teaching.

  * * *

  The nighttime screaming stops with the death
of Lorén Mendez, and several things change in the center.

  People from the outside visit and inspect the facility: politicians, lawyers, and reporters. Heads shake, interviews are conducted, and more scolding is done, but their standard of living doesn’t change much—no beds and food that’s only sometimes edible. The exception is their clothing.

  Now if their clothes get wet, they’re required to ask for a dry set. No exceptions. In a room full of bored, mischievous teenagers, a lot decide to take showers with their clothes on. And the guards can only keep issuing dry clothes.

  Also, if they’re cold, they have the right to additional clothes. For a few days, a group of boys go around with underwear on their heads as skullcaps until the joke stops being funny. A real thing that becomes popular is to use an extra pair of socks as mittens; Santiago’s live in his pockets along with his toothbrush and metallic blanket. His book still lives in his waistband.

  Turns out the metallic blankets only work by retaining heat. Señor Dante explains the science of it, and they even conduct an experiment with a lamp and a cup of ice. It would have been a cool class if their lives hadn’t depended on it.

  But most of all, the guards now actually pay attention to everyone, shifting their eyes from one boy to the next like special agents, except without the sunglasses. Chismoso swears the doctor actually shouted, “Make sure you check on the boys you’re paid to protect instead of standing around counting the fleas on your arms.”

  Anyone who gets sick receives a dose of nasty-tasting medicine. Lesson learned: If you’re only a little sick, you use up all your weakened energy to pretend you aren’t.

  Who knew that even in death Lorén Mendez, the whiny sleepwalker the boys called Llorón, could cause so much trouble?

  CHAPTER 36

  The spring winds continue to kick up as February wears on, gathering dust and dirt and flinging it into Santiago’s face, the only person brave or stupid enough to confront it. Some days the wind blows so hard that the guards cancel the boys’ outdoor time. No fresh air, no fantasies of what it’s like beyond the chain-link fence. Everything exactly the same, every day no different from the rest.