We Are Not from Here

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  I look over at Pulga, who barely looks up from his feet. “We are so small,” I whisper. But he doesn’t hear me.

  After a while, our soft footsteps become louder in my ears. Our hearts beat like drums and echo in that empty desert as the night turns cold.

  And we walk.

  We walk.

  We walk.

  Pulga

  The cold of the desert night numbs my fingers and feet. It numbs the hot throb in my shoulder. I take deep, huffing breaths to numb everything—my lungs, my insides, my heart.

  But the cold has not reached my brain yet, that place where memory still lives. So Chico breaks through. And Mamá. And my father who I never knew but I made a god.

  Maybe Chico is next to him, and they are both looking down at me. I wish this felt comforting, but instead I worry about what they see, who they see, when they look down at me.

  I hear Nilsa say something about all the stars in the sky. “So many estrellas, Nene. Mira todas las estrellas.”

  I hear how he gasps, how he tells his mother they’re so beautiful. I wonder how they can talk about stars. Already, it feels like we have been walking for hours. My legs burn and my feet hurt. And I think of how Gancho looked at me as we set out.

  But I keep my head down. I stare at my stupid feet taking step after step, but what I want to do is reach over and cover Nene’s eyes with my hand. I want to tell him, Don’t look. There is nothing beautiful here. The world is ugly and terrible. And one day you will have a best friend, someone too good and too pure for the world, so the world will get rid of him. And then you will know.

  But I don’t say that.

  So I walk, even though I could lie down right here and not care.

  I walk because Pequeña won’t let me stop—not yet.

  I walk, waiting for my body to give out.

  I walk because I’m not afraid of dying anymore.

  I walk, my backpack getting heavier with each step, weighted down with all the things we carry.

  I walk because I am already dead.

  Pequeña

  We walk, each step deepening the cramps in my sides, the aches in my legs.

  We walk, taking small sips to ration our water, trying not to drink more, until the temptation is so great that I take a huge gulp, feel it go down my throat and slosh into the emptiness of my stomach.

  We walk, blisters forming and burning with each step.

  We walk, and walk, and walk, until our tongues are wagging, our brains telling us just one more step.

  Now one more.

  And one more.

  We cover miles, we cover hours, we cover night by lying, tricking, manipulating ourselves.

  One more step.

  Now one more.

  And one more.

  One more and one more and one more and one more.

  Until the sky begins to lighten.

  Gancho leads the way with the two brothers, José and Tonio, behind him. Then Nilsa, who has Nene on her back, using a scarf to tie him in place. He’s so tired he can’t even hold on to her. His arms flop on his sides and his head on her back. Alvaro follows behind them, carrying their bags. And Pulga and me behind Alvaro.

  * * *

  ~~~

  It seems impossible when I see the night begin to lighten. I look over at Pulga and say, “We did it.”

  He stares at me and shakes his head.

  “¿Qué te pasa?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he mumbles, turning away from me. I want to tell him, We are this close. This close. Why is he giving up the closer we get? But I can’t talk to him with the others around. While Gancho leads us closer to the mountains, there is too much silence. We can hear each other’s breaths. We can hear each other’s steps and gasps as the sky gets brighter and we see the first bits of sun shining over the horizon. We climb over rock, and then more rock, until finally we are in a little hollow on the side of a mountain. A little hiding place for the day.

  “We’ll rest here until the sun begins to set again,” Gancho tells us. “Then we’ll continue. I advise you all to eat, drink water, and get plenty of sleep. We have another long night of walking ahead of us and you have to keep up.”

  I look over at Nilsa, who looks exhausted and like she might vomit. Her lips are turning pale and her eyes are half-closed. Alvaro is whispering to her, putting a protein bar up to her mouth, until she takes a bite and chews it slowly, mindlessly. Nene, who has been sleeping on his mother’s back, is now wide awake and wanting to play.

  “Let Mamá rest,” Alvaro tells Nene, and then even though he looks exhausted, he pulls a small rubber ball from his backpack. Nene smiles as his father plays catch with him. I get lost in the back and forth of the ball, and almost fall asleep before I remember to eat first.

  José and Tonio are in a corner, finishing up a can of tuna each. They position their backpacks as pillows and settle in. Gancho puts his hat over his face, crosses his legs at the ankles, and tries to sleep.

  I pop open a can of tuna and take out a protein bar, then look over at Pulga, who hasn’t moved since we got here. “Are you okay?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “What? You’re not talking to me all of a sudden?” He stares out at the opening of the smallish cave, at the sun getting brighter and brighter out there. I can feel it warming up the earth, the rock, which lets off the heat and reaches us even in here. But Pulga looks out there like he’s thinking of something.

  “Say something, Pulga. What is it?”

  “I just . . . I don’t care anymore, Pequeña.”

  Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Gancho lift his hat, and stare in Pulga’s direction for a moment before putting it back over his face and again settling into sleep.

  I move closer to Pulga. “Don’t say that,” I whisper. “We’re almost there. We’re so close. How can you not care?”

  He shrugs. “I’m so tired,” he says.

  I’m too exhausted to give him a pep talk now, my mind a little too thick to think clearly. So I just take out another can of tuna, pop it open, and hand it to him. “Here, eat this and rest,” I tell him. “You’ll feel better.”

  He takes the can and I begin to eat. The warm, fishy taste in my mouth makes me want to throw up, but I know it’ll give me energy. So I keep eating it, and then the protein bar, too. I look at Pulga; he is still just staring.

  “Eat,” I tell him. But he puts down the can and curls up.

  “Later,” he tells me.

  I think about taking that food, about shoving it in his mouth and forcing him to eat it. But instead, I let him rest.

  And I give in to sleep too.

  Pulga

  Everyone sleeps except me. And Nene. He sits between his parents’ exhausted bodies, their hands clasped together like a protective barrier so they will sense if he gets up, walks away.

  I stare at him as he looks around the cave. As he studies José and Tonio on the far side. Gancho next to them. Then he looks at his parents, puts his face right up to his father’s to see if he’s really sleeping. He switches to his mother, pats her head.

  Then he looks at me and waves, but I don’t wave back. He waves again, but I don’t wave back. He reaches behind him and retrieves a small rubber ball. He points to it, then to me. “¿Quieres jugar?” he whispers. When I don’t answer he stares at me like he’s trying to decide something.

  Maybe he wonders if I’m dead.

  He puts the ball down on the ground in front of him and rolls it to me.

  I watch as the dirty pink ball, the color of a tongue, slowly rolls in my direction. I watch as it stops right in front of me. Nene looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to reach for it and roll it back. But I don’t.

  He smiles at me, points at the ball like maybe I haven’t seen it. When I still don’t move, he whispers, “Come on, it’s right
there.” When I still do nothing, he starts to stand to retrieve it, but even in sleep his mother’s arm presses down on him and prevents him from getting up.

  He scowls at me. And I think, Good, he should know there are mean people in this world.

  But then, the more I stare at him, the more I picture Chico and my father looking down at me. And tears well up in my eyes. Was that who I was? Was that who I’d always been? Or was that who I was becoming?

  I don’t know.

  I don’t remember who I was. Or who I am now. The trip has erased so much from my mind and all that’s left in there is La Bestia and exhaustion and ghost voices and Chico’s death.

  I stare at Nene, at the way he stares at the ball. And I watch as my dirty hand reaches out, clasps it, and rolls it back.

  His face transforms. And he looks so happy, my heart aches.

  My heart, that thumping thing in there that feels too much, that artist’s heart that is a curse; and before the ball has even reached Nene, I shift, turn my back to him, and stare at the dull gray of the cave.

  “Gracias,” he says. And I try to unhear his gentle voice. I try to will my ears, all of me, to stop functioning.

  The gray gets darker and darker, until all the yellow of the sun has disappeared and night begins to fall.

  “Let’s go,” Gancho tells everyone. “Hurry up, get up, we have to walk all night.”

  Pequeña’s eyes look at me. “Two more nights, Pulga. That’s it. Just two more nights.”

  Until what? I want to ask her. What impossible future is on the other side of two nights? But instead I just nod, strap on my backpack, and follow everyone outside the cave, kicking the can of tuna aside with whatever bit of strength I have left.

  Pequeña

  The temperature drops and the desert gets cold. As we walk, I can hear Nene complaining of how he’s tired now, and Nilsa telling him to keep walking as she struggles to keep up with Gancho’s pace. Is it just me or is he walking faster tonight than last night? Alvaro picks up Nene and carries him, sets him down, carries him again, his breath coming harder and faster.

  I hear Nilsa tell Alvaro not to strain his heart, that the walking is already too much strain. And then I watch Nene climb on her back again, and Nilsa securing the scarf around him. My mind flashes with the memory of the baby that lived inside me.

  I can almost feel the weight of him in my arms.

  Gancho slows down only a little as she does this and then they have to hurry to catch up again. And even with all this, Nilsa, Alvaro, and Nene are ahead of us.

  “You have to walk faster,” I urge Pulga. We are at the back of the group. Again. “Please, Pulga,” I beg as he takes slow steps, barely looking up, not noticing the gap that is growing between them and us. “They won’t wait up.”

  “Échenle ganas,” Alvaro calls back to us, trying to motivate us to walk faster. But Pulga doesn’t seem to hear anyone or anything.

  We walk, and I keep my sights on Nilsa and Alvaro, urging Pulga to walk faster over and over again.

  My skin scrapes against the inside of my shoe, full of dirt, forming more blisters. My back aches from the water in my backpack. My head aches from straining to see the figures of Nilsa and Alvaro and Nene in the dark. They get farther ahead, and I pull Pulga along until we catch up.

  Over and over again.

  For ten hours, then eight, four, one more hour. Until the sky begins to lighten. Until another night feels like another miracle, and fatigue and irritation are once again replaced with hope.

  Gancho looks at me and Pulga as we slide into the small man-made shelter we barely fit in, built of brush and rocks, tucked into a dip in the earth. “You’re walking too slow,” he says. Then he looks at Pulga. “Your hermanito there doesn’t look too good,” he whispers.

  None of us looks too good. Alvaro’s face is red and abnormally glossy, even with the dirt on it, and it looks it’s going to pop. Nilsa looks half-dead. And the two boys, the strongest ones of us, look exhausted also.

  “He’ll be okay,” I tell Gancho, as he wets a T-shirt with some water and puts it on his own head.

  Pulga’s eyes are only half-open, and he looks ashy and gray. Almost as gray as Chico did in his coffin. The thought startles me so fiercely that I quickly get a protein bar out of my backpack. “Here,” I tell him, breaking the bar up in little pieces and feeding it to him even though he barely opens his mouth. The smell of tuna and powdery iron and metal fills the small area and makes me nauseated. But I eat a protein bar, too, and force myself to eat a can of tuna.

  I scoop some tuna on my fingers and put it in Pulga’s mouth. He gags, and then vomits the protein bar and the bit of water he’s had. Gancho stares at us, tells me to scoop up the vomit and take it out of the small structure.

  I reach for the warm vomit, scoop it up, trying not to look at it, and fling it outside. I wipe my hands on the dirt, and then on my dirt-encrusted pants, but still the smell lingers. In the air. On Pulga. And on me.

  This space is too small to hold all of us. We can smell each other, and our hot breath makes it even harder to breathe as the air gets hotter and hotter with the sun rising overhead. Nene whines about the smell, but even he has no strength to do more. Flopped like a little brown rag doll between his parents.

  I feed Pulga another protein bar, even as he shakes his head. I keep putting small bits in his mouth, piece after piece, until it is all gone.

  “One more night,” I whisper to Pulga. “Hold on. Just one more night.”

  The stuffiness in the shelter becomes unbearable as the day wears on. We sleep. And I don’t think any of us would be surprised if one of us didn’t wake. It feels like being in an oven, and with each minute that passes even just breathing takes such strength.

  “Get rest,” Gancho says. “Tonight is more walking.”

  I close my eyes and try to sleep, but every few minutes I wake to the sound of Pulga’s breathing. He’s taking these deep, spastic breaths that sound terrible and ominous and loud in this small space.

  It sounds like death.

  I fall in and out of sleep, to those sounds. When they stop, I open my eyes and make sure he’s alive. When they start up again, I worry they are Pulga’s last breaths. Until finally, the heat subsides, and night begins to fall.

  Gancho, looks out of the shelter, “Get ready,” he says, pulling on his backpack.

  “Okay, Pulga. Let’s go.” But he won’t open his eyes. I touch him and his skin feels clammy. “Don’t do this,” I whisper as everyone begins to slide out of the shelter. “Come on, come on.” I shake him and his eyes open, and I breathe. “It’s time,” I tell him, grabbing his backpack. But Pulga doesn’t move.

  “I said, let’s go,” Gancho says, looking over at us. The whole group is looking over at us. Nilsa looks better, the brothers look better, even Alvaro looks less waxy and shiny.

  “We’re coming!” I yell back. “Pulga, let’s go.” I try to keep my voice steady, try to sound firm. He stares at me, and then ever so slightly, I see him shake his head.

  No.

  “We have to go. Now.” I grab my water and pour some into his mouth. He lets it dribble out.

  “Please, Pulga, don’t do this . . .”

  Gancho shakes his head, comes to the small opening again. Half of my body is out and the other half is grabbing on to Pulga, trying to pull him along. But I can feel the way he pulls back, actually resisting me. I stare back at him. “Why are you doing this?” I whisper, but even as he looks right into my eyes, it’s like he’s not there.

  Pulga is gone.

  Gancho leans down, looks at Pulga. “Well? What’s up? ¿Te vas a venir, o qué?”

  Again, Pulga shakes his head ever so slightly. No, he’s not coming.

  “Okay, muchacho, that’s your choice,” Gancho says, shrugging. He looks at me. “And yours, amigo. Because we’re not
waiting, and you either go with us or stay.”

  Alvaro leans down and tries to persuade Pulga, then Nilsa next to him. But nothing registers with Pulga, no word, no plea. He just stares.

  “I just have to give him some water, that’s all,” I say, grabbing another bottle.

  Gancho takes off his hat, wipes his forehead, and shakes his head again. “No, amigo. That’s not just dehydration you see there,” Gancho says. “That’s him giving up.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask, sitting outside the shelter now, looking at Gancho, at the whole of the group. The two brothers look at me with pity but don’t say anything. Nilsa holds Nene close. Alvaro looks in at Pulga, still speaking to him softly.

  Gancho shakes his head. “I’m saying your brother is not gonna make it. And you have a tough choice to make.”

  I shake my head and the world feels like it’s spinning, like my head is going to burst.

  “No,” I say. “We can . . . we can carry him.” I look at the two brothers, at Alvaro. “Between all of us, we can do it, please . . .”

  “Whoever carries him will lose time,” Gancho cuts in. “And strength, and they will dehydrate quicker. Mira, lo siento, but those are the facts,” he says, looking at the brothers, at Alvaro. “It’s everyone for themselves out here. That’s just the way it is.”

  “But I can’t leave him out here! Please . . . I’m begging you, please, don’t leave us!” I say, looking at each of them, trying to catch their gaze. But they all look down or away. My heart feels like it’s in free fall. A new kind of fear and desperation grips me as I realize they are going to leave us here. “Please . . .”

  Nilsa’s eyes fill with tears. The brothers both look away. Alvaro wipes his eyes.

  “Please, please . . . I can’t leave him. Don’t leave us.” I’m sobbing.

  The coyote looks remorseful, but still, the next words that come out of his mouth break me. “Vámonos,” he tells the group. And begins walking.