We Are Not from Here

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I understand.”

  Marlena asks again where we are from. And exactly why we’re leaving. Chico and I tell her about Rey and she listens intently, quietly.

  “So it was you two who witnessed the murder.”

  “Not exactly, but yes.”

  “And then he pressured you to work for him, to be part of his gang?”

  Chico and I nod and she turns to Pequeña. “You too?”

  Pequeña hesitates. “Why are you asking us this? You’re not going to stop us from going on, right?”

  “No. It’s a dangerous trip. It’s an almost impossible trip. I won’t stop you, because I know you’re running from worse. But I do have to make sure this shelter is as safe as possible. That crooks and criminals aren’t coming here pretending to be migrants who then turn around and prey on real migrants. Some people do that, you know. They’ll say, ‘Oh, come with me, I know of someone who can help you.’ Or ‘I know a way you can make some money.’ And then . . .” Marlena shakes her head. “Who knows with who or where you’ll end up? Bueno, I know it sounds heartless, but I have to make sure you’re really in need.”

  Pequeña’s eyes fill with tears and she wipes them away roughly before they can even flow down her cheeks.

  “Our stories are real,” she says, glaring at Marlena. Pequeña’s face turns dark red as she tries to hold back tears, hold back her anger.

  “I’m sorry . . .” Marlena says, looking at Pequeña carefully. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “I’m running . . . from the same guy, too,” she spits out. “Do you need me to tell you more than that?”

  If Pequeña’s words were visible, they’d be black, tinged with red and orange like burning coals.

  When Pequeña looks at Marlena, something passes between them that makes Marlena shake her head, “No, that’s enough,” she says, before going on to the next question.

  It hits me then, so suddenly, it feels like I’ve been struck. The truth is silver and white and flashes, like lightning. It comes from somewhere above, cracks into your brain, shoots down to your heart. Zaps you.

  Rey.

  Pequeña is running from Rey.

  Because that baby, that baby she didn’t want, that she couldn’t look at and could hardly stand to hold, that baby is Rey’s.

  I look at her, but she won’t meet my eyes. She is looking at her feet, wiping at tears I can’t see but I know are there.

  “Pequeña,” I whisper, but she shakes her head.

  Marlena directs more questions at me and I answer. She explains the rules of staying at the shelter; a stay here is limited to no more than three days; backpack searches are mandatory to ensure we are not carrying any weapons (I glance at Pequeña, who puts her hand in her pocket); men and women sleep in separate quarters unless there are no bunk beds left and then it’s the floor in a common room; two meals are served a day—breakfast and dinner—and only at specific times; we’re allowed one shower during our stay, and we must stand in line and wait our turn; showers must be done one at a time except for mothers helping their children; no belligerent behavior; no threatening or harassing other migrants; no alcohol; no drugs. Breaking any of these rules will get you kicked out and back on the streets.

  When Marlena is done, she looks at us and asks if we understand.

  “Yes,” we say in unison.

  “Good,” she says as she searches each of our backpacks. Then she walks us out to the dining area, where she adds them to the shelf piled high with other backpacks, and past a volunteer who looks over them and makes sure that nobody takes anyone else’s bag. And then, finally, she tells us that even though breakfast is over, we can still get some food if there’s any left.

  The women who scrape the last of the breakfast food onto our plates look at us warmly. Speak to us. Look us in the eyes. Tell us to eat.

  Chico sneaks glances at Pequeña as we sit down at the table, now empty except for us. We don’t ask Pequeña anything more about Rey.

  We eat our food in minutes. Around us, people play cards or talk quietly. Every now and then, there is laughter and the sound of it is odd and out of place. The television is on now and plays loudly in the corner; a gossip show Mamá used to watch even though she said it was garbage flashes on the screen. Television people in bright, crisp, expensive clothes.

  A woman sits inches from the television, staring at the faces of the made-up women, listening intently to stories of celebrities.

  We watch from the table, one show to another to another.

  We go outside and watch a few guys kicking a soccer ball.

  We watch people wash clothes by a cement sink outside.

  The hours pass.

  Marlena finds us before she leaves for the night and tells us we can shower tomorrow. That there are no more beds available, but there is another large room around back where we can sleep on the floor.

  “We have no mats and the floors are concrete, but here are some blankets,” she says. She hands them to us and shows us where the room is.

  “They turn the lights off in an hour,” she says.

  I think about asking Marlena for my backpack. For the Walkman I carry there, with the tapes Mamá gave me a few years ago. Things that belonged to my father that his sister had sent us.

  But I remember the promise I made to myself. That I would only listen once I got on the train.

  “Gracias,” I tell Marlena, who is all business and efficiency, who gives us a small smile and nods. But her eyes flicker with compassion.

  “Nos vemos mañana,” she says. “Buenas noches.”

  And then she is gone, and there is only us, and the woman in the corner playing some kind of game with a teen girl and a toddler girl. Another two women near her. An old man with a girl about Chico’s age. And us.

  Chico, Pequeña, and I settle down in the far corner of the room, opposite a wall with a huge mural of la Virgen.

  We watch as one of the women gets on her knees, inches over to la Virgen bit by bit—her knees scraping against the concrete floor.

  I’ve heard of people traveling miles this way, over dirt road and pebbles and gravel, on their knees to appeal to the altar of a saint or holy figure. It is a way of showing sacrifice, suffering, and respect. A way of making one worthy of their prayers being answered.

  As if her actions are a cue, one by one, the other migrants do the same. Even the old man, who topples over and has to steady himself with his hands every few inches but does not give up until he is right in front of that mural.

  Chico looks at us and is the first of us three to follow. Then Pequeña. Then me.

  My jeans protect my skin, but the boniness of my knees makes them ache.

  I look over at Chico and Pequeña, at how they close their eyes. Chico’s face is scrunched up and I can almost hear the pleading I imagine repeating in his head. Please, please, keep us safe. Pequeña’s face is stoic, almost expressionless, but her lips move ever so slightly.

  I try to pray, but all I can do is wonder why we have to hurt to be worthy of God’s grace. And then I worry it’s blasphemy. And then I worry I’ll be damned.

  So I concentrate on the mural. How the colors seem to glow even in this space partly lit by a weak night-light plugged into the room’s only outlet. Red like blood. Turquoise like the water in Río Dulce. Blue like the sky I’d look at on the back of Mamá’s motor scooter. Green like the walls of Don Felicio’s house. Yellow like that flower outside the warehouse.

  I think of Mamá.

  I don’t want to think of her. Until now, I’ve pushed her out of my mind each time she’s come in.

  But there is no more landscape to watch and there is no sound of wind or tires or hissing of the bus. No television or people to distract me.

  There is only Mamá.

  My eyes fill with tears that f
low no matter how much I don’t want them to. I don’t want to think of her, back home, staring at the ceiling, thinking of me. Wondering how I could leave her. How I could lie and tell her everything was okay. How I could hide so much from her. I don’t want her wondering what kind of trouble I was in and how she could’ve protected me.

  I don’t want her wondering if I’m okay now.

  Or where I’m sleeping tonight.

  I hear a cracking sound and I wonder if it’s my heart breaking.

  Maybe it’s not made of muscle and chambers. Ventricles and arteries.

  Maybe it’s made of glass. Maybe those sharp pains in my chest are shards slicing me from the inside out.

  And maybe it can never be put back together again.

  I look up at la Virgen.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Even if I’m not sure God will hear me, I pray. I pray like Chico.

  Please, please keep us safe.

  * * *

  ~~~

  The next morning, we sit outside for breakfast. The shelter is off a side street that’s off a side street from the main road, so I can hear the muffled sound of traffic, of horns blaring and vendors selling, just through the surrounding trees and just under the louder noise of the shelter. Of pots and pans in the kitchen, of people waking and conversing, of water running and the television blaring with morning cartoons and small kids giggling.

  A couple of guys approach us, sit nearby. “Where you guys headed?” one of them asks.

  My heart races at the question. I remember Marlena’s comments from yesterday about people at shelters who pretend to be migrants.

  But Chico, with his mouth full of eggs and beans, quickly answers. “Arriaga,” he says just as I say, “Al norte.” I realize I forgot to tell him to stop answering questions when strangers ask.

  “Arriaga,” one of the guys says, “to catch La Bestia, right? Us too! Are you leaving today? We can travel together. I’ve made the trip before. I know the way.”

  “Oh, wow!” Chico exclaims. “That would be—” His voice stops and I can see that Pequeña has turned to him and blocked him from the guys’ view.

  “Really,” the guy goes on, “last time I got caught crossing el Rio Bravo. But, I mean, that was probably a good thing because honestly, I almost drowned.” He shakes his head and looks at me.

  He looks honest enough, but I can’t tell if he’s being truthful. Can’t tell if he was convincing enough for Marlena but is really someone trying to lure us out of here. Lead us to who knows where. Maybe he’s another wolf—just like Rey.

  I can’t take the chance.

  “Nah, man. We just got here,” I tell them. “We’ll be here for a couple of days.”

  Pequeña is talking to Chico in a low voice and when she moves out of the way again, I see he avoids looking at me.

  “We’ll probably stick around that long, too,” the guys says. “Maybe we’ll see each other on the other side one day.” But I don’t respond and he gives me a funny look. I nod and turn, stare at my plate so he won’t keep talking to us.

  The thing is, he could be perfectly harmless. I might have messed up bad because maybe he could’ve helped us out.

  But there’s no way to know for sure.

  I try to imagine how the three of us look to others.

  Targets.

  I keep eating, but the beans get stuck in my throat. It’s hard to swallow past the fear that we’ve run into guys like Rey here already. The three of us stay quiet and eventually the two guys finish their food and walk away.

  I turn to Chico. “Don’t tell anyone else what our plans are. Now we have to keep our eyes on those guys and make sure they aren’t keeping their eyes on us.”

  “Sorry,” he says, staring down at his feet.

  I shake my head, feeling bad because I made him feel bad, on top of all the worry of the trip.

  “It’s okay, Chico,” Pequeña says gently. “But Pulga’s right. We can only trust each other.”

  “It’s fine,” I mutter to Chico. “Just . . . por fa, be more careful, okay?”

  He nods.

  Pequeña looks at me. “When do you want to leave?”

  “Tonight. We’ll catch one of those white minivans from here all the way to Arriaga. The trip is only a few hours, but it will take us a lot longer than that because there are checkpoints. We’ll have to get off before checkpoints and walk through the fields, then make our way back to the highway, past the checkpoint, and catch another minivan.”

  Chico looks worried. “At night?”

  I shrug. “From what I’ve heard, the checkpoints are less active at night and there are less of them. So we’ll cover more distance faster.”

  Pequeña nods.

  “If we leave at seven tonight, we’ll have twelve hours of darkness to make the trip. After sunrise, there are more officials out,” I continue. I look down at the food on my plate. My stomach is in knots, but I also know I need energy to make the trip.

  I think of what lies ahead of us. I think of the women who made us this food. And even though it falls like a heavy brick in my stomach, I eat it all. Chico and Pequeña do the same.

  Father Gilberto suddenly comes out and begins talking to those of us who have gathered there. Marlena is handing out leaflets with information about other migrant shelters along the way, numbers migrants can call for help, organizations that aid migrants, and in the same breath, reminds us to always be on guard and not be too trusting. Warnings about the dangers along the way and then a whole section on the dangers of riding La Bestia.

  We listen intently, and a sobering quiet comes over us when the father pleads for us to be vigilant and careful. I glance at Chico. He looks like he’s going to throw up. I glance at Pequeña. Her face is almost expressionless, but there is a kind of stoic anger building in her eyes. Padre Gilberto tells us that we are standing next to those who will die along the way. People turn ever so slightly, looking at one another. And those of us who are lucky enough to survive will carry injuries and trauma that will last a lifetime. He lets that sink in for a long time, before reminding us to trust in God. Nothing is impossible for God.

  I think of all the people who have passed through here, just like us, only to die hours or days later.

  The brick in my stomach grows heavier.

  Father Gilberto prays over us, and then the crowd disperses, quiet at the father’s words of sobering reality.

  We understand danger. We grew up with danger. But this danger feels different.

  This danger feels more crushing, but maybe because it’s so close to where hope lives.

  Father Gilberto is right. But the problem is if we think about all that can go wrong, we won’t go on. And if we don’t think about it, we’ll probably die.

  I try to push it out of my mind. For now.

  “We’ll shower before we leave,” I tell Chico and Pequeña. “It’ll probably be a while before we get another chance. And the fresher we look, the less attention we’ll draw.”

  When we go to Marlena to get our backpacks, she hands them over and shows us to the long line of others waiting. “There is only one shower, so it’ll be a while. There is no hot water and you have five minutes. But it’s something.”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  We sit on the floor as we wait, moving up every few minutes as someone goes into the shower and then emerges back out into the hallway. If someone is taking too long, the next person bangs on the door. We move up, and up, and up; we are near the kitchen, where I can see another line of people. That line is for those who can afford to buy a calling card. One by one they are handed a cell phone to borrow.

  I watch as a guy dials. He waits, and then I hear him say hello to whoever is on the other end of the line. Then he is telling them he made it to Mexico, that he’s in a shelter, that he’s okay, but each
word comes out more choked than the one before. Then he is staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face. He stays like this a few minutes, trying to compose himself. He nods at whatever is being said to him, but he can’t seem to get any more words out.

  I look at Pequeña.

  “Let’s call them,” I tell her. “Let them know we’re okay.”

  She looks at me. “We should. But . . .” She stares in the direction of the guy. He’s hunched over now. “Do you really want to?” she asks.

  I know what she means. I know she thinks I will dissolve in a pool of my own tears if I hear Mamá’s voice.

  And she’s right. I think about it. I think of her voice. Of the strangle in it as soon as she hears mine. Of the way she will want to crawl right through the phone, to hold me, to pull me back to her. Of the way I will have to hang up. Not knowing if I’ll ever hear her voice again.

  “If we call, we won’t go on. We won’t be able to. And they’ll convince us not to,” Pequeña says. “Before you know it we’ll be back in Puerto Barrios, back to the things that sent us running.”

  I look down, hoping she doesn’t see the tears in my eyes just at the thought.

  Another person is on the phone now. More tears streaming down another face. Another person choking on his words. Swallowing his pain. I hear my mother’s voice in my mind again. And some part of me inside crumbles.

  “We’ll call when we’re closer,” she says.

  I nod. When. Not if. Because we’ll make it, I tell myself.

  I look over at Chico playing cards with the little kids who were watching cartoons. They’re laughing as he acts like a clown and makes silly faces at them. And even though somebody might get irritated because I’m saving his place in line, it’s worth it. Just to see him being himself. Even if only for a little while.

  * * *

  ~~~

  That night, as seven o’clock approaches, my heart starts drumming faster. The beat picks up with each second that passes.

  I get my bag and make sure the Walkman is still there. Soon enough I’ll be on that train and able to listen to my father’s tapes. I focus on that. That moment. My father.