Sia Martinez and the Moonlit Beginning of Everything

by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

  When we reach the spot, my spot, I press the brakes a little hard, and Noah gives a yelp as the seat belt cuts into him. “We’re here,” I say, like an ass, because obviously we’re here. But before he says anything in response, I open the door and fling myself out.

  91

  WE WALK A BIT. THE shadows of the saguaros are long, like they’re trying to pin their spines on us. The wind smacks itself back and forth, and my hair keeps getting in my face. I tuck it into my jacket and pull my hood up.

  I can’t stand the silence any longer. Neither can Noah, apparently.

  “So.” He snaps his fingers together in a quick beat. “Hey.” He points. “Remember that weird email I got from that collection of numbers? That said, Don’t talk to reporters or else?”

  I don’t respond.

  “Well, I talked to Omar about it, and he got one, too. The same day. Same minute, even. He said his cousin also got one. That’s the wild part. All three, the same exact moment.”

  I roll my eyes. “He’s lying.”

  “But what if—”

  “Noah. He’s a liar.” I sharpen my voice. “That must be why you two get along so well.”

  That slaps us right back to silence. Even the wind quiets down, like it’s eavesdropping or something.

  I look at Noah, and he looks back at me so devastatingly, I know he’s sorry. But I just can’t deal with the fact of his lies right now. “So Jeremy did go and testify for your mom, huh?”

  Noah whistles out a sigh and nods. “Yeah. Uh, he went in there to confirm my father’s history of abuse.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Things aren’t looking that great for her case at the moment, though. With him being a sheriff and all. He’s got a lot of officer buddies who can confirm what a great, jolly fellow he is.”

  I snort and then there’s silence for a long while.

  Everything’s numb. I can’t even feel where I end and the air begins. But then my shoe snags a rock, and I trip, just about to face-plant, and Noah’s arms are around me, long and warm, helping me up.

  “Thanks.” And then I feel so dense for saying it, to him, this liar, this asshole, who thought he could fool me. And fuck, he did. That’s what I hate most about it. I’m supposed to be smarter than that. And I guess thinking about this has made me even denser than dense, because I trip again, my hands clutching at Noah’s chest without my permission. I dust myself off and step back once I’m upright again. Meanwhile, Noah grimaces and clutches his ribs.

  “Jesus,” I say. “I didn’t grab you that hard.”

  But Noah’s not paying attention to me anymore. In fact, he looks like he’s seen a spirit or something. He grabs my arm and points. I turn.

  The blue lights are back.

  The hairs on my neck stand straight up.

  Noah’s looking through the binoculars he brought for moon-gazing. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s that Aurora thing, alright.” He hands them to me.

  I put the prismáticos to my face. The craft; it’s made of something really shiny. The moon glints off it. I think there might be letters or something carved into the sides.

  I realize I’m seeing a lot more detail than I should, even with binoculars. I lower them as Noah says, “Uh, Sia?”

  It’s, like, only two freaking miles away. And it’s getting closer, angling toward us. Like we’re the destination.

  “This is really a weird coincidence,” Noah remarks, panic creeping into his voice.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.” I say it low, almost just to myself.

  “What?” Noah asks, but we jump when the craft starts to rattle. Watching it choke in the sky, I realize how smooth it normally slides in the air, as though it were part goose or swan, not mechanical. Not made from any human hands.

  But now it sputters and coughs. The blue lights blink haphazardly, as though signaling something like, Someone fucking help, please.

  And about a mile or so away, it sinks into the ground, throwing up dust like a snarling bull before it charges. I glance at Noah, who’s holding up his phone, filming. “Jesus,” he whispers.

  It slides closer with a smatter of red sparks, giving a low, long howl that sounds… God. It sounds unearthly.

  Goosebumps glide along my arms and chest so strong it hurts.

  The thing finally stops moving, the desert sand all around it like a fog.

  Noah and I look at each other for a moment before we run to my car, fling the doors open, and dive inside. I turn the key before I can even settle into my seat and I press the gas so hard, we screech forward with a jerk, into the moonlit smoke that now surrounds us.

  92

  I STOP THE CAR ABOUT twenty feet away from the thing. Madre de Dios. It’s the size of my whole house. Granted, it’s not a big house. But shit.

  As I plummet out of the car, this weird buzzing fills me. It’s a long bass note, vibrating from my chest and head and hands. I guess it’s coming from the craft. I make my way toward it.

  “Careful,” Noah shouts. “Might be hot. Make sure your shoes aren’t melting or anything!”

  My Converse look fine. And anyway, this thing, this area, it’s not hot. It’s freaking freezing.

  Noah’s next to it, taking photos of something with his phone. I join him and see the inscriptions on the surface of the metal. They look like they’re scratched on with an old nail. The letters, or whatever they are, they’re beautiful. They’re made up of spirals and triangles and discs. They’re a little more distinct than Omar’s piece of metal. More purposeful or something.

  But it’s weird; if I blink at them, it almost seems like they’re changing—but maybe it’s the clouds moving over the moon.

  I take a step closer. Shit. They are changing. Just like Omar said.

  My heart beats loudly as a spiral turns into an o, as a circle turns into a t.

  I gasp when it’s finished. There’s only two words pulsing in front of me.

  THEY’RE COMING.

  93

  I JUMP BACK AND ALMOST knock Noah over. “Do you see that?” I say to him, pointing at the script.

  “I know, it’s incredible,” he says, holding up his phone. “It’s fucking glyphs, Sia. Like some ancient Mayan shit.” He gives me a long look before turning back to his phone. “It looks just like the thing Omar brought us.”

  Guess Omar’s not a liar after all hangs around us, unsaid. But I’m too freaked to engage inaudible words when there are ones carving themselves into metal right in front of my face. “No, I mean…” I trail off as I gesture to the letters. The English words are gone, replaced by spirals and scratches.

  “Some weird shit is going on here, Noah,” I say with panic rising in my voice. “I think we should get outta here.”

  We freeze as we hear a muffled groan.

  “Jesus,” Noah says. “There’s someone in there.”

  “Of course there’s someone in there. Someone’s gotta be manning this thing.”

  “I thought it might be controlled remotely,” Noah says, walking around the perimeter. “I mean, that’s where all aircraft tech is going, and this seems really advanced—” He’s rounded the corner. I can’t see or hear him anymore.

  I give the glyphs one last glance before I run after him.

  “Sia!” he yells.

  I run harder and see his silhouette, crouched over a huge gash in the craft. I get closer and my blood, my bones, my everything feels like stone when I see the line of a figure in front of him, crawling out.

  I stop. My breath is fast and won’t slow down.

  “Sia,” he says, motioning for me to come. “She needs help!”

  “She?” My voice sounds funny, all high and shaky.

  “Sia, come on!”

  I nod and slowly walk.

  The features of her are getting clearer, but it’s still hard to see. She looks human. That’s good. I think.

  When I see her face, though, everything turns into slow motion.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
r />   He’s pulling her up, but she can’t walk that well. He says something, but my ears are ringing—from what, I’m not sure—the bass note, panic, maybe my heartbeat. Maybe all three.

  Finally, I can speak.

  “Noah, that’s my mom.”

  94

  NOAH’S FACE WHITENS. “WHAT DID you say?”

  “That’s my mom.”

  “Jesus, that’s what I thought you said, but—”

  She’s there, in his arms, all woozy, in and out of consciousness. When she sees me, her eyes widen and she grabs my arm and pulls me close.

  “M’ija,” she whispers. “We’ve got to get somewhere safe.” She coughs and looks into our eyes. “Ellos vienen.”

  They’re coming.

  The way she says it. Something in my spine pays attention and yells at my limbs to move. She’s passed out again, so I get under her other arm and we take her to my car.

  95

  I’M DRIVING ON THE HIGHWAY, and this boy I almost had sex with last week whose dad caused the death of my mother is sitting in the back seat with my mom’s head in his lap. And she’s not dead. My mom’s not dead.

  “I think she’s concussed, Sia,” he says. “We should take her to the hospital.”

  “No hospitals,” she yells and I jump. “No hospitals, no police stations, not our home, either, Artemisia, no nada. That’s where they’ll be. We need to go somewhere.…”

  I check my rearview mirror. Looks like she’s passed out again.

  “Shit,” I say. “Where in the world am I supposed to go?”

  Noah doesn’t respond.

  Where the fuck am I supposed to go?

  96

  MY GRANDMOTHER CARRIED CRYSTALS EVERYWHERE. Nothing pretty and polished like you’d see in a New Age store. Her crystals looked like dusty rocks. I’m convinced half of them were actually just dirty desert glass, all matte smooth and pale pink under the sticky sand.

  She put them all in a little leather satchel and tied the whole thing to her belt. During long desert walks, she’d pull one or two out and hold them to the sun, as if, somehow, the light through the stones told her where her next steps should be.

  It didn’t matter how far we went when Abuela took me to gather herbs and flowers, didn’t matter whether or not we could see her shiny tin trailer on the line of the horizon. We always made it back home.

  I have one of her crystals on my rearview mirror, hung with a hemp string. It’s light yellow and chipped. Feo.

  Right now, though, at a stop, I hold it in my fingertips, angling it toward the red light. I try to convey to the ghost of my grandmother how sorry I am that I told her to shut up.

  Please, I beg. Orient me.

  97

  WHEN I TURN OFF THE car, we’re in front of Rose’s house. There are still a few lights on inside.

  “Stay here,” I tell Noah as I open the door. “Make sure she doesn’t…” Doesn’t what? I don’t know. Die again? I don’t know. I shut the door and walk up.

  Mrs. Damas answers. “Sia?” she says, peering out at me in her pink pajamas.

  I open my mouth to explain myself, but nothing comes out. I swallow.

  Mrs. Damas takes a step closer, puts her hand on my arm. “Did something happen?”

  I nod.

  “What is it, is it your father?”

  I shake my head, turning as I hear footsteps behind me. Noah’s helping my mom walk up. “She, she wanted to come,” he says sheepishly.

  “Who’s there?” Mrs. Damas steps out of the threshold. Rose is just behind her.

  “Sia, that you?” Rose says. “What the heck is going on out h—”

  She’s cut off by the shriek of her mother. Mrs. Damas’s arms are wrapped around Mom.

  “Sia.” Rose is startled. I’m not sure whether we’re good yet, good enough to hug, good enough for me to cry on her shoulder. Rose looks unsure, too. “Who is that?” she says, looking past me.

  “It’s my mom.”

  “What? Are you serious? She came back?”

  I nod, even though it’s the understatement of the millennium. “Yeah. She came back.”

  Rose swoops right next to me and grabs my hand. She’s whispering. I think I’m the only one who can hear it. “It’s a miracle.”

  98

  THEY HAVE MY MOM ON the recliner and she’s sleeping or something. Before I can finish my thoughts, Rose’s dad asks us repeat our story. Again. For the thousandth time. I sigh.

  “Are you sure you mean a spacecraft?” he says to me and Noah.

  “The same one, Mr. Damas, that was spotted downtown last week,” Noah says. “It was in the Sentinel.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a, a truck? Or a mirage!”

  “Oh!” Noah jumps up. “I have it here, on my phone, you can see.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” Mrs. Damas asks Noah as he taps on his phone.

  “I’m—uh. My name’s Noah.”

  Both of Rose’s parents eye the bruises on his face.

  “He’s my partner for a science project,” I say. “And a fucking asshole,” I mutter under my breath. Mrs. Damas frowns at me. Great.

  I point at Noah’s phone to remind him of the task at hand. “Right,” he says. He plays the video and Cruz Damas’s face turns green. He starts pacing and speaking to Mrs. Damas in Creole.

  Rose rolls her eyes. “Dad, please. Please.”

  “Is he saying my mom’s the devil?” I ask, and both Cruz and Maura Damas stop to stare at me.

  “Since when do you know Creole?” Mr. Damas demands.

  “I don’t,” I say.

  He looks skeptical and glances at Rose, who shakes her head.

  I sigh. “It’s just that, anytime something freaks you out, you always say it’s the devil. I hope I’m not stepping out of bounds when I say that you’re very predictable, Mr. Damas.”

  “The Lord is predictable,” he retorts.

  “Sure,” I say, nodding. “But that—that’s my mom. I know my mom. That is my mother.”

  “How do you know?”

  I blink in surprise at Noah.

  He holds his hands up. “Look, I’m not saying she’s the, uh, devil or anything.” He gives a wary glance toward Mr. and Mrs. Damas. “But, uh, Sia. She fell out of a freaking spacecraft that crashed in the desert. What if she’s a clone? Or a robot? Or a shape-shifting extraterrestrial?”

  “You’ve been watching too much X-Files,” I say.

  “That’s it,” Mr. Damas says. “I’m calling the cops.”

  I stand. “Please don’t do that.”

  “You brought this evil into my house. It’s up to me to get it out.”

  I swallow. “You’re calling the cops, though? You’re calling Sheriff McGhee?”

  This actually gives him pause. “Why don’t you take her home,” he says, his voice almost at a shout. “Take her to Luis.”

  Noah shakes his head. “She won’t let us. Says that’s where they’ll look for her.” He shrinks under the glare of Cruz Damas. “Erm, with all due respect, of course.”

  Thank the Lord Mrs. Damas steps in. “Your mother, what she keeps saying… They’re coming. She’s probably talking about Border Patrol.”

  I think of the letters on the craft. Is that what that thing was warning us about? Immigration officials?

  “We should take her to the church,” Mrs. Damas continues. Mr. Damas looks like he’s going to explode, but she touches his arm gently. “If there’s something sinister here, she shouldn’t be able to walk into God’s house. And there, she’s also protected from ICE.”

  “That’s right,” Noah says slowly. “They can’t take her from a house of worship.”

  Everyone looks at Mr. Damas. “Fine,” he spits out. “But my daughter’s staying right here.”

  “Dad!” Rose says, but he silences her with a look.

  “I’ll go,” Mrs. Damas says. “Give me the keys and I’ll let her into the safe house.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Damas,” I say. “We
’ll test her first. We’ll put her by the altar and make sure she doesn’t burst into flames, okay?”

  He narrows his eyes at me. He always thinks I might be fucking with him, but whatever I’m saying always makes too much sense, I guess. He waves me off.

  “Let’s go,” I say. I don’t need to be around this guy a moment longer.

  99

  THERE’S A SAFE HOUSE NEXT to the priests’ residences where parishioners can stay for a little while if they’re down and out for whatever reason. Mom stayed here when we first heard Sheriff McGhee was pissed that her part-time mechanic work was putting Pat Lorrington’s shop out of business (a total lie, as Lorrington ran his garage into the ground without help from anyone). But the sheriff sicced ICE on her the second we thought we could return to our normal lives.

  Lorrington’s business still burnt out.

  We put Mom in the twin bed and I sit on the edge for a few minutes. She’s asleep, having woken up a few times on the road to say some creepy shit like, They cut into my blood and I’m the only one it didn’t kill.

  When Noah’s grabbing some water, Mom looks at me for a moment and says, “You’re next, Sia.” And she’s out again.

  I decide not to tell Noah about that one.

  The only things I got from my dad are my black eyes. Everything else is from Mami—deep olive skin, wide fingernails, hair the color of buckwheat. She looks thinner, and she’s in a weird, oversized gray uniform. But otherwise, she’s perfect. Right here, in front of me, eyes closed, taking long, deep breaths, her hand curled around mine.

  How can this be?

  100

  AFTER THE DEPORTATION, AFTER ALMOST a year in Mexico, trying to get back in legally. And after she gave up on that and slipped into the Sonoran. After all this, Dad told me Mom was missing. And that she’d been missing for so long, there was only one explanation.