And I wonder if he’ll be with me on that train. If his spirit is walking next to me, even now.
I look at the clock—five more minutes. I look at Pequeña and Chico, who are both looking at that clock, too.
“Está bien, Abuelo?” I hear a girl say. It’s the one old man who hobbled to the mural of la Virgen last night.
He nods and smiles at her, trying to reassure her.
They both have their bags and are headed to the front door. They must be going to catch one of the minibuses or vans also. A part of me wants to ask but then, I don’t really want to know. I feel bad for the old man. Already, I’m worrying about him, about his granddaughter. And I don’t have room for any more worry or ache in my heart than I already have.
I see their silhouettes in the doorway, the evening light behind them. The old man is wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of sneakers I saw Marlena giving him earlier. He starts coughing, so violently, he has to stop walking.
And then he is grabbing his chest. And then the young girl is screaming.
Just like that.
People rush to him. Father Gilberto is on the ground next to him, yelling for someone to call an ambulance.
The girl is screaming.
She is screaming. And screaming. And screaming.
She is begging him not to leave her. She is begging God not to let him die. She is begging everyone around her.
And we are all standing there, unable to move, unable to do anything. And I think, to her, we must look like we can’t hear her. A woman goes to her knees trying to hug the girl, trying to pull her away as the priest says the old man needs room. But she is holding on to her grandfather’s hand so tight. And she is screaming.
“We’ve come so far, Abuelito! Please! Please! Stay with me!”
I turn away from it. But before I do, I see her looking at me. And I see the flash of desperation.
“Don’t leave!” she yells, her voice so shrill, so high, I don’t know how God wouldn’t be able to hear her.
I know she means her grandfather. I know that’s who she means.
But the way she says it, the way she looks, I can hardly move.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though it’s impossible for her to hear me. And we go, into that dusk, far away from her.
Far away from the dying.
Pequeña
Outside, we don’t say a word. We hear the wail of an ambulance.
Pulga looks around, his eyes intense and glistening as he tries to figure out where we are and where we need to go. I know a part of him wants to cry. I know his heart is aching for that girl and her grandfather. Mine is, too.
We’ve come so far!
Her scream was so primal. So scared.
Even with the rush of voices of all those who hurried to help, voices yelling for someone to start CPR, yelling for someone to call an ambulance, for everyone else to stand back—even with all those noises, it’s her scream, and the way it reverberated through that shelter, that I’ll always remember.
I feel that scream inside me, too.
“I think it’s this way,” Pulga says. The words bring me out from inside my head. He’s reading his notes, looking down at the notepad I saw him scribbling in earlier, as he stared at the maps on the wall in the shelter. Up ahead there are more people who have left the shelter and are headed in the same direction, and more still who appear on the street. All of us looking lost.
We walk faster and a tangy sour smell fills the air, mixed with the smell of roasting meat. The ambulance wails louder, its lights flashing in the early dusk, until it wails past us like some creature in pain. Like the girl screaming back at the shelter.
Maybe it’s still her I hear.
I grip the straps of my backpack tighter.
We turn down a street.
“Muchachos . . .” A woman with a small child heading down the same road as us gestures, trying to get our attention.
“Is this the way to the highway?” she asks. She has a backpack. Her little girl has one, too, with a unicorn stuffed animal peeking its head out of the zipper.
Pulga glances in the woman’s direction and gives just a quick nod. Chico looks at the little girl and gives her a smile and a little wave. She waves back shyly.
“I think so,” I tell her.
“Oh, good,” she says, sighing in relief. “I wasn’t sure but I saw a lot of people with backpacks walking this way so . . .” She struggles to walk fast and talk, to keep pace with us. But Pulga has sped up and is walking so fast now, it’s hard for me and Chico to keep up. Within minutes, there’s a good amount of distance between us and the woman. I look back and see a look of defeat on her face as she pulls her little girl along with her.
Chico looks at me and then at Pulga.
“Why’d you do that?” Chico mumbles.
“Do what?” Pulga says, scratching his head and looking irritated.
“Leave them behind like that? She was just asking . . .”
“And I answered,” he says.
“Yeah, but . . .”
“But what?” Pulga says, moving even faster now, keeping his gaze ahead. He doesn’t bother to look back at even me or Chico as we struggle to keep up. We have to jog to match his pace.
“You want them to ride the buses with us, too? You want to know what happens to that little girl, Chico? To her mother? You want to be around when one of them drops dead like the old man back there? Or worse?”
We don’t say anything. And we pretend not to notice when Pulga wipes his eyes quickly. Pulga’s words hit me like little knives.
“He’s right,” I tell Chico.
Chico looks at me, then shakes his head. “We shouldn’t be like that, though.”
“I know,” I tell Chico. He’s right, too.
The streets smell like urine. The stickiness of the night and the blood still draining from my body make me feel like I haven’t showered in days. My jacket is bulky and hot, but I keep it on.
I think of the old man back at the shelter. He’d been behind me in line for the shower, so I overheard when Marlena gave him a pair of sneakers to replace the ones that had fallen apart on his journey from Honduras.
We’ve come so far!
He smiled and thanked her and showed me his shoes proudly. “These will take me all the way to los Estados Unidos,” he said, looking at the sneakers like they were magical. He and his granddaughter were headed out tonight, just like us. He’d showered and gotten ready for death.
I look down at my own sneakers, dirty and old. I wonder if they will take me all the way to the States, or if I’ll end up like the old man. Dead before he even set foot out the door.
And his granddaughter. What will happen to her? Will she be sent back home—back to whatever it was that she was so desperate to escape?
I force myself to stop running all the scenarios in my head, to leave the thought of them behind no matter how terrible it makes me feel.
Just keep walking.
Soon the crunching of gravel underfoot gives way to a louder rushing sound. We’re near a highway, I think; cars are passing us by, some beeping and some people shouting out to us every now and then.
“Why are they yelling at us like that?” I ask Pulga. His eyes are looking everywhere.
“Some don’t want us here,” Pulga says, shrugging. “We are to Mexico what Mexico is to the States.”
We walk along that stretch of road for a while, before finally one of the minibuses pulls up right ahead. Pulga starts running and we follow.
He has the money ready for the three of us, separated from the rest of his money this time. He takes a seat right behind the driver, and we squeeze in next to him. More people get in.
“¡Rápido!” urges the driver. The line of people moves faster, paying the fare and trying to settle down quickly. The van take
s off before everyone has even found a seat.
We stare out at the road, cars passing us by, minibuses and vans, people still on the side of the road walking trying to catch a ride.
“Perdón, how long before the first checkpoint?” Pulga asks.
“Depends,” the driver says. “They move around. Sometimes you only ride ten minutes and suddenly a checkpoint has popped up.” The driver keeps his eyes on the road. Has a phone on his dashboard.
“Let us know, man. As soon as you see a checkpoint.”
“Relax, relax,” the driver tells Pulga. “It’s not good for you if you get caught and busted. But it’s not good for me, either. I need to make a living. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know.” He turns on norteña music and plays it loudly.
But Pulga sits upright in his seat, looking out the front window like an eagle. I keep my eyes on the side of the road, dark and thick with trees. A flash of the girl with that unicorn in her backpack punches into my mind and I imagine her walking tonight, in all that thick darkness.
A lump forms in my throat. A heaviness in my chest. She looked tired. And her eyes seemed sad even as her mouth smiled.
I’m glad Pulga wouldn’t let us wait up. I’m glad she’s not in this minibus. I don’t want to know her fate.
Up ahead there are red taillights as traffic slows down. My body tenses up. The loud music feels strange, the horns and accordion blasting in the minibus as we sit here like springs ready to burst. I look at the time lit up on the dashboard as minutes tick by.
Too much time passes while we’re stuck, unmoving.
Suddenly, the driver’s phone flashes. He looks down and immediately makes his way to the far right lane of the highway. A car horn blares.
“This is it, get out. ¡Que Dios los guarde!” the driver yells as he turns down the music. “Get out, get out!”
The door opens and there’s a rush as everyone gathers their things, calls to one another to hurry, and we spill onto the side of the highway. I catch a quick glimpse of a woman running with a rosary in her hands before she gets lost in the trees and heavy brush.
“Chico, Pequeña!” Pulga calls. I grab Chico’s hand and pull him along, trying not to lose sight of Pulga as he makes his way into that forest. He turns, searching for us, but keeps running toward the field.
“We’re here.” I catch up and grab on to his shirt.
We run, grass crunching under our feet, stumbling over tree roots, not stopping even as branches smack our faces and bushes and leaves brush against our clothes. My abdomen is clenching, my heart pounding. My backpack swings from side to side with the heaviness of the water bottles we took from the shelter. Chico clutches my sweaty hand harder as it begins to slip from his grip.
“Don’t worry, Chiquito,” I manage to say. “I won’t leave you.”
But these little sounds escape him, terrible sounds like those of a hurt or scared animal, and it puts me even more on edge. I hold his hand tighter. “Don’t worry!” I say as we dodge through trees.
Pulga is ahead of us and he runs so fast, like a mountain goat, over the uneven terrain. It’s impossible to keep up with him as he yells, “Hurry, hurry!” But we run faster, under that darkness, into that darkness. Into someone who will want to rob us, or authorities who are already waiting out here, knowing that drivers drop migrants off before checkpoints. Or worse—narcos who will kidnap and hold us until they get money from our families.
My insides feel like they will fall out of me at any moment with each hard thump of my feet on the ground. For a terrible moment, I think, I can’t. My body can’t do this right now.
But then I remember what my body has already done, what it has been through. What it will go through if I don’t run.
Fear and adrenaline rush through me.
So I run. I keep going, until finally, Pulga slows down. We ease up the pace, until we are jogging.
“Stop,” Chico says. “Stop . . . just . . . for . . . a . . . minute.”
We slow down to a stop, finally, and Chico falls to the ground.
“We . . . gotta . . . keep moving,” Pulga manages. But he’s bent over now, trying to catch his breath. I fall next to Chico. And we all stay quiet for a minute.
Chico starts coughing, trying to catch his breath. And then his coughing turns to crying.
My body is buzzing, buzzing. My scalp is itching. I feel like I’m made up of a million buzzing bees. And tears are stinging my eyes.
“It’s okay,” Pulga whispers. “It’s just because it’s the first jump, that’s all. It’ll get easier.” But his voice is high, it’s unnatural. It’s scared.
“Yeah,” Chico whimpers.
“We’ll be okay,” I say, putting my arm around Chico.
And when we are finally able to catch our breath, and swallow our fears, we stand up again. My legs tremble, I don’t know if from fear or adrenaline.
“Okay, okay,” Pulga says, taking deep breaths. “Listen, we’re going to walk out here for about two hours. We walk out and up, northeast; imagine an arc in your mind that will take us around the checkpoint. That’s what we’re doing. There are a lot of trees and cover here, but we’ll walk that long, just to be safe. I think that will be enough.”
Our feet crunch through the brush and my eyes try to adjust to that infinite darkness. The moon seems nonexistent, though I catch the faintest sliver of it through the trees every few minutes.
“Out and up for an hour then back toward the highway for another,” Pulga says as we walk. I hold out my hand and grab on to his backpack because I can hardly see him. I take Chico’s hand and have him hold on to my backpack. “We have to be quiet, though,” Pulga whispers again. “Then we’ll catch another minibus. See how far it takes us.”
“Before we have to run out like this again?” Chico says.
“Yeah,” Pulga answers.
“How many times?” I ask. I can’t tell if the slickness between my legs is blood, or sweat, or my insides. I tell myself I layered enough pads; everything will be okay. My body can do this.
I hope I’m right.
“I don’t know . . .” Pulga says. “However many checkpoints there are.” His voice is so quiet. And then we all walk in silence, holding on to one another.
The night is quiet, too, disturbed only by the sound of our rustling, and every now and then, the rustle of something farther away. Maybe just an animal, or maybe others who were in the van. Or maybe those who were already out here before we came.
We don’t see anyone else, but we feel the fear, palpable in the air, as if the trees and bushes themselves have absorbed the weight of this journey from everyone who has ever roamed through.
And with each step it feels like we’re deeper and deeper into some kind of dark maze, some labyrinth or trap, that we might never find our way out of.
Pulga
We walk on in silence, listening for danger. I lead, keeping the image of the path we need to take—a white glowing arc—in my head.
My mind wanders, all the way back to Don Felicio’s store, the time a guy named Felix from our barrio had just returned from his attempt to reach El Norte. He talked about the routes through Mexico on La Bestia. His stories are the reason I googled articles and maps and information from the computers at school. They’re the reason I kept a book with notes under my mattress for the moment I would have to run. For this moment, when I would have to walk through brush and trees and fields.
Felix had talked about walking like this. I can almost hear his voice. They call us animals, Don Feli. Rodents and beasts. But let them call us what they want. He took a long swig from one of the coldest Coca-Colas in Puerto Barrios. I’ll run through brush and fields, cross borders, go where I’m detested and eat scraps if I have to. Whatever it takes to survive.
Felix was killed five months later. Chico and I were walking to school when we saw the police
cars and morgue truck that came to collect his body. Thrown on a gurney. Whatever was left of him, scraped up. And the first thought that came to me was how he looked like a butchered animal, lying there in the street. So much carnage, so much blood. Like an animal in the slaughterhouse.
That was before Chico’s mamita. And right before Gallo left and never came back.
I hear Pequeña’s breathing behind me and I remember the huge crush she’d had on Gallo. How he would walk by and wave to her when we were outside playing and he was on his way to work in his parents’ store. Pequeña would whisper to me, We’re going to get married someday. I’d laugh at her and tell her she was crazy. Gallo was older and besides, I’d already seen him pressed up against Leticia’s best friend, kissing her one afternoon around the side of Don Felicio’s store. But I never told Pequeña.
She was heartbroken when his parents finally told some of us he’d gone to the States, days after he’d left quietly in the middle of the night.
But he made it.
I imagine Gallo, walking like us, never looking back.
I imagine Felix, walking like us, only to be sent back on a plane and travel in a few hours what took him weeks to trek across. Only to return and be killed.
I imagine I am an animal. Skulking through the darkness.
Keen.
Instinctive.
Alert.
Alive.
Some don’t make it. But some do.
Why not me?
Why not us?
I hold on to this thought as we walk.
Why not me? my feet say with each pound to the ground.
Why not us?
There is nothing but silence and the sound of our feet and breathing.
Chico’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “I’m thirsty,” he says. “And itchy, like bugs are all over me.” He runs his hands on his arms, scratches his head. I feel itchy, too, and as soon as he mentions it, I can’t help but start scratching.
“We’ll have water as soon as we get back near the highway, when we catch another minibus.”
We Are Not from Here Page 14
