But how can we be at that point already? How can we be so lost already?
Soon it’s really dark, and the night feels dangerous. And Pequeña and Chico are looking to me for answers.
But I don’t know.
I don’t know where to go.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t why I thought I could do this.
I don’t know.
Pequeña
Sometimes night feels like a faceless terrible thing with claws, a wild thing with a black, palpitating heart.
It rides on our backs, our fear growing with each step.
“I’m scared,” Chico says under his breath.
“Relax,” Pulga tells him. But I don’t think Chico was talking to Pulga. Or to me. I think he was telling the night he’s scared, so maybe she will take pity. Maybe she will leave us alone instead of reaching out, grabbing us, swallowing us whole.
We move farther away from the street, scared now of any car that might go by. We can’t trust anyone. But especially not now, not at night when all kinds of darkness awaken.
“Pulga . . .” I say finally, when it’s apparent there are no taxis, or houses or people or buildings nearby. “It’s okay . . . if you don’t know where we’re going. Let’s just figure out what to do, okay? Let’s find a place to hide, camp out, until the sun comes up.”
“Out here?” Chico says, his voice immediately filling with panic.
“I thought . . . I mean . . . I don’t know what I thought,” Pulga says, looking around. His voice is strangled and I know if I could see his eyes, they would be filling with tears. But he clears his throat. “Yeah, we’ll hide out somewhere,” he says, the softness gone now, the street-smart tone back.
“No way,” Chico says.
My stomach clenches like a fist at the thought of spending the night out here, too. “We’ll figure things out in the morning. For now, let’s just look for somewhere—”
“But I thought you had this figured out, Pulga,” Chico says. “I thought you knew—”
“Shut up,” Pulga says. “Tell me what you’ve done to get us this far. Tell me where we have to go next. Do you know?”
Chico’s face is hurt and angry and I try to reach for his hand, but he suddenly says, “Wait! Look, is that a house? Do you see? Over there?”
I try to make out where he’s pointing in the distance.
“It is!” he says again, and I think he’s right. There is a small house, with fencing all around it. “Let’s knock, ask them to let us stay just the night,” Chico says.
“Are you crazy? For all we know that house belongs to someone we want nothing to do with . . .” Pulga says. “Who knows who lives there . . .”
“Or it might be abandoned,” I say.
“If it is, it won’t be for long. Someone might come there in the middle of the night and I don’t want to be there if they do.”
“No, look, I think I see some toys out in the yard. That’s gotta belong to a family. Come on.”
“No, Chico, stop,” Pulga says, but Chico is running toward it now, and we are hurrying behind him, Pulga whispering for him to stop, to wait. But he doesn’t. And as we get closer, I notice a dim light coming from the back of the house.
“Wait . . .” Pulga warns again as Chico runs up to the tall chain-link fence, barbed wired along the top.
But Chico’s already yelling, “¡Bueno! Is someone home? Please . . .”
Pulga pulls Chico away from the fence, and I think I see the curtain move slightly at the front window, but it’s so dark it’s hard to tell. “¡Bueno!” Chico calls again, and suddenly, a bright white floodlight is flipped on, so bright it practically blinds us, and I put my arm up, shielding my eyes. I hear a door open, and the harsh voice of a man yelling out to us.
“Who’s there? Who’s out there? What do you want?”
“I’m sorry,” Chico calls. “We’re just . . . we crossed the river . . . and can’t find a way to town. Please, señor, can you help us? We have nowhere to stay.”
The man takes a few steps out, and I see his dark figure against the bright lights. I see the shotgun he carries in his hands, aimed right at us.
“He has a gun,” I whisper to Pulga and Chico.
But already Pulga has his hands up. “Please, señor!” he yells. “We’re just three kids. Don’t shoot, please. We’ll leave. We’re sorry.”
“Please, don’t shoot!” Chico cries, “Please, we need help!”
“Come on,” Pulga says, grabbing on to Chico. “Let’s go.”
“Keep your hands up! Walk away from here with your hands up.”
“Señor, please . . .” Chico begs.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not a shelter. And I don’t care who you say you are. You need to leave. Right now.”
“Pero, señor, por favor . . .” Chico cries. “You don’t have to let us inside your house. We’ll sleep out here, on your patio . . . please.”
“Get out of here. I can’t help you. There’s a cemetery up the road where migrants sleep. Go there.”
“Pero, señor. . . .” Chico begs, his voice full of desperation.
The old man cocks the gun. “I’m warning you, kid.”
“Come on,” Pulga urges. “Chico, come on! You’re gonna get us killed!” Pulga takes a step back, pulling Chico back with one hand while he keeps the other one in the air. Chico holds on to the fence like a life raft and Pulga yells at him again. “I’m serious, Chico!” he says, pulling him so hard.
“Stop!” Chico yells, clutching on to the fence tighter. “I don’t want to sleep in a cemetery! Please!”
Chico is bigger, stronger than Pulga. Nothing Pulga does or says makes him let go.
“I said go!” the man yells.
“Come on, Chiquito,” I whisper. “Come on, we’ll be together, okay? I promise, you’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you,” I tell him gently. “Please? Okay?” He starts crying, but finally, he nods. Finally, he lets go of the fence.
“The cemetery is about ten minutes that way,” the old man says, pointing his gun. “You’ll see the tombs. That’s all I can help you with. And don’t come back here again.”
We walk away backward, away from the house. After a few minutes, the bright floodlight goes out and we are enveloped in the night once again.
Chico’s crying fills the silence as we walk. “It’s all right,” Pulga whispers, his voice tinged with irritation, but mostly compassion.
I pull him close to me, hold him tighter so he won’t be so afraid. But I can feel how his body shakes.
“I want to go home,” he says. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Pulga says. “Look, look right there. I think that’s the cemetery.”
“You think that’s comforting? I’m scared of muertos,” Chico says.
“There are good spirits, Chiquito. Ones that help us,” I tell him, making out shadows up ahead, tombs rising out of the darkness.
“There’s bad ones, too,” he says, and I think of the stories Mami has told me about spirits. How they can be angry about leaving this life and do bad things to the living. How they roam the streets and the cemetery, at night, waiting.
“We don’t have a choice,” Pulga says.
Chico sucks his teeth, but he knows Pulga’s right. Turning back now is impossible.
We walk slowly to the cemetery, crickets chirping loudly as we approach the tombs cautiously. I try to open my eyes wider, trying to take in everything, to detect any movement. We try not to make any noise as we come up on the tombs.
We walk in, but not too far. I feel like we’re being watched. I strain my eyes, looking for others, and I think I see figures on the ground. I think I hear whispers rising in the stagnant night air. But I can’t be sure. And I don’t know who they are.
A
re they like us? Or are we who they like to hunt?
“Here,” I whisper to Pulga and Chico, ducking down behind a tomb. “Let’s just stay here.”
“Okay,” Pulga says quickly. Chico is breathing so hard, but he doesn’t cry. He holds on to me tighter; even as we settle in, he grabs on to me and tucks his body against mine.
I get a flash of that baby and it takes my breath away. An electric pulse runs through my breasts and I feel for wetness on the bandage I’ve wrapped tight around my chest. Just a small amount of milk.
But I swear I hear a heartbeat, and I don’t know if it’s mine, or Chico’s, or that baby’s. A sick feeling washes over me, and tears spring to my eyes but I wipe them away quickly. I won’t cry for something I never wanted and can’t love.
We lie back against the concrete slab and I look up at the sky. I wonder if my bruja angel will come if I call for her. If she’ll whisk us away from here and deliver us to the border if I wish it hard enough.
I stare at the sky, looking for her in the stars. It seems impossible that a sky can be so full of them. It seems impossible that anything beautiful can exist.
I hear Chico take small quivering breaths, trying not to cry.
“Look at the stars, Chiquito,” I whisper. “Look at the stars and listen to the crickets and don’t let anything else fill your mind. I’ll stay awake, you can rest,” I tell him. I reach for his hand and hold it. He squeezes my hand and looks up.
I hear a rustling in the grass, and I tell myself it is just insects and rodents. And I try not to think of Rey—a cockroach who scurries through cracks and defies doors and locks and windows.
I imagine his cockroach legs scurrying through the streets of Barrios, climbing on to the bus that led us here, onto the raft that crossed us into Mexico. I imagine him biding his time, waiting to climb up my leg as I lie here, to scurry across my torso, my breasts, my neck. To whisper in my ear, I’m here. I found you. You can’t run away from me.
I wait. For him. For ghosts. For the cries of the dead. For La Bruja.
The crickets chirp louder. Cuidado, cuidado, cuidado, they say.
Chico is balled up as small as possible, tucked next to me on one side, Pulga on the other. And together, we outwait night. I feel some blood leaking from between my legs and hope it is not enough to soak through the pads I layered there.
“Day will come,” I whisper. And it will. Because the world doesn’t care how much pain you are in, or what terrible thing has happened to you. It continues. Morning comes, whether you want it to or not.
Bugs crawl on me as we wait, mosquitoes and ants bite me. I don’t smack them away; any movement might wake up Chico and Pulga. Instead, when I feel the sting, I think of Rey and let it remind me why I’m running.
I close my eyes and dream of bugs, entering my ears, my nose. Of them crawling down my throat. I wake to the sound of a fly in my ear, and my eyes snap open to bright white and a voice too close.
Pequeña.
I reach for the knife in my pocket, and with a quick press of a button and swift click, the blade shoots out, within inches of Chico’s face. He shrinks back, suddenly wide awake, and he and Pulga both stare at me, at the blade.
“Sorry,” I tell Chico, my hand still clutched tightly around the handle as others in the cemetery—men, women, children—emerge from behind tombs, begin walking toward the road.
“Let’s go,” Pulga says, staring at me, at the knife. I put it away and we hurry, following the people staggering out of the cemetery.
The warmth of the sun gets hotter with each step; the humidity grows thicker. My skin slicks with sweat as we pass a few little houses. We pass fruit vendors. And then small stores. And a run-down restaurant.
And slowly, the world seems to bustle around us as we enter town. As more cars and motor scooters and people with commerce zip past.
“Look,” Pulga says, gesturing to a driver leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. “I think that’s a taxi. Let’s see if he’ll take us to the shelter.”
The tall, lanky man stares at us as we approach.
“Perdón, señor. Can you take us to the Belen shelter in Tapachula?” Pulga says to him.
The man looks us over, takes in our clothes, our backpacks. “You have to pay in advance.”
Pulga digs into his backpack and takes out an envelope full of money in dollars, quetzales, and pesos. The guy stares at him, then laughs and shakes his head as he takes another drag. I look around, wondering if anyone saw.
“You’re lucky I don’t steal from kids. Here’s some advice: Don’t pull all that money out in front of anyone. Especially those dollars. You’re not going to get far making mistakes like that.”
Pulga nods, looking embarrassed. And like a little kid. I take a deep breath and push away the fear and worry I’ve kept at bay. I think instead about where I would have slept last night if I hadn’t run away.
The man gestures for us to get in the car, where it is even hotter than outside and smells of heat and sweat and baby powder. We pull away from the curb and as we drive through the streets, more people seem to appear out of nowhere.
People on foot, clutching on to their backpacks.
People who look lost and dazed.
People who woke from the dead.
People who look like us.
Pulga
We pull up to the shelter, a low building painted bright orange. A flash of Chico’s face, glowing by the fire the night we burned my clothes, flickers in my mind.
There are people sitting outside the shelter. A woman in a bright pink shirt near the doorway, staring out at the street and standing on one foot, who immediately reminds me of a flamingo. A man in a blue-and-white-striped shirt sitting on an overturned paint bucket. His eyes take us in as we get out of the taxi, but then his gaze goes back to the street when we walk up to the entrance.
A priest in a long white robe spots us as we peer inside, nervous and unsure of where to go, what to do. He gestures for us to come in.
“Bienvenidos, hijos,” the priest says. “Bienvenidos a Belen.”
The thing in my chest, my heart, stirs at the way he welcomes us, at how he calls us hijos. I stare at the blue walls that make me feel peace. I exhale a breath I think I’ve been holding since we left. Relief washes over me.
I did it. I got us here.
I blink away the tears in my eyes and tell myself not to get emotional. I look at Chico, who smiles his stupid smile and says, “We made it.” I shake my head at him. But I can’t help smiling back, as my heart flutters in my chest like it’s grown wings. We didn’t make it yet. Not yet. We have so far to go. But we made it here. And that seems like something.
The shelter smells like home—like coffee and warm tortillas and sugar and green chiles and onions and simmering beans.
It smells like someone cares.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Pequeña whispers to me, looking around. I nod and watch as she asks someone and then disappears.
One of the women smiles at me, a flash of silver glinting from between two of her teeth. I watch as a boy younger than me, younger than Chico, holds his plate out to her.
“¿Sabes que?” she asks him, speaking to him gently. “When I make this food, I sing. And I pray to Papá Dios. So it will nourish your soul as well as your body.”
He smiles and she spoons eggs and beans onto his plate. She places two tortillas on top and hands him a wrapped chocolate cupcake.
My heart fills with a kind of emotion I’ve warned myself not to feel. It’s dangerous to feel too much, whether it is hope or despair. I wish I could reach into my chest, wrap my hand around that pulsing thing, and calm it.
“Sit down,” the priest says, gesturing to the long table in the center of the room. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.” He goes back to talking to a man who has the look of a beaten do
g to him. We sit down near the boy, who is by himself eating his food, and I stare at the man, at others who walk past us with that same expression.
They don’t look like people who have dreams. They look like people too tired, too scared, to dream. I wonder how long before I look like that, too.
Maybe I already do.
In a far corner, there is a small television but it is off. My eyes scan the wall where maps outlining different routes to the border hang alongside children’s drawings—stick figures of families. Some of the figures have happy faces and others, sad ones. Some of them have rainbows and some of them show stick figures fallen on the ground, their eyes tiny black x’s. A calendar marks the days.
“Hola.” A voice is suddenly next to us. “My name is Padre Gilberto.” When I open my eyes, the priest is there. A woman with glasses stands next to him with a clipboard in her hand, her gray hair pulled back in a frizzy ponytail. “This is Marlena, the co-director who works at this shelter,” the priest says, gesturing to the woman. “Where are you coming from?”
Chico looks at me and I answer. “Guatemala,” I say quietly.
The priest nods. “You’re headed to the United States?”
I nod.
“Well, Marlena will take you to answer some questions and get you settled in. Don’t worry, hijos. You are safe for now.” He reaches for my hand and holds it for a moment, before letting go and doing the same with Chico. I hope God’s grace will transfer to me in that touch, keep me safe for more than just now.
“Come with me,” Marlena says.
“Wait, there’s one more . . .” I tell her, looking around for Pequeña, who just then is heading back to us.
Marlena looks at Pequeña and nods, leads us to a room with a small desk and two chairs. Everywhere there are boxes—some stuffed with papers, others with random things like cereal and blankets and socks.
She closes the door behind us, even though the room is stuffy and hot.
She asks us our full names. When it’s Pequeña’s turn to answer, she hesitates before giving her real name. Marlena looks over her glasses and nods when she realizes Pequeña is not a boy.
We Are Not from Here Page 12
