You’re going to die out here.
Pulga
Black metal gates close behind us, and we’re in some kind of parking lot, near a building the color of sand. I am shivering now. My clothes cold from the car’s blast of air-conditioning.
“Vamos,” the agent says, opening his door, then mine.
I try to get out, but my legs won’t work and I stumble and crash to the ground, my face skidding across the concrete. All I want is to stay there. But the agent grabs me and pulls me to my feet, back out to the heat.
“Camina,” he tells me, the word sounding ugly in his mouth. Walk. All I’ve been doing is walking. He mutters more in English, some words I only sort of understand. “Don’t pull that shit with me. I know you can walk.” But my legs feel like paper as he pushes me along.
The building’s doors open and close behind us, blasting coolness again. He pushes me down a hall to some kind of office where I sit on a chair, hard and rigid as the ground, and he asks me things I don’t understand as my body begins shivering again. I don’t answer him.
He looks through my backpack and gives it to another agent.
He smiles and nods. “Okay,” he says, grabbing some kind of folded-up foil and walking me back down the hall to another room. When he opens the door, a colder air rushes out and I see a room full of people huddled and covered in foil blankets.
“Here you go, amigo,” he says, shoving the blanket in my arms and pushing me in. “Have fun.”
He closes the door and several boys who look about my age, plus a few older men, sit on concrete benches along concrete walls. They look over at me for a minute before huddling back under their aluminum sheets again.
The room is freezing, exactly like walking into a cooler. Cold air blasts from an air duct in an empty corner of the room, over a dirty-looking toilet only slightly hidden by a half wall. The room is gray and fluorescent white and silver—no warmth at all.
I wrap the crinkly blanket around me, sit down on the concrete floor where the cold penetrates my body, my wet clothes, instantly. It seeps into my bones and makes me ache with cold. But I’m too tired and weak to get up.
Everyone here looks dead—either lost in sleep or half-consciousness. I wrap the thin silver covering around myself tighter, silver like ice and steel and blades.
I can feel my blood slowing, my heart barely pumping. I can feel my body slowing down, shutting down. I can feel myself freezing.
Maybe this is what dying is like.
Maybe my body has finally decided to give up.
The thought is almost comforting. And for the first time in a while, I let myself think of Mamá and Barrios. I push away the fear, and the blood, and the shouts and the bullets, and my head fills with colors. Tones of marigold and tangerine and burnt sienna. Memories of warmth on my skin as we walked in that sun. I think of the pinkish red of Mamá’s lipstick, the flush of her cheeks, and the vanilla scent of her perfume.
And then other thoughts creep in. Pequeña. Out there, alone. Burning in the desert. I wonder if she is alive.
The door opens and somebody hands us some crackers, that my hand reaches for and puts in my mouth no matter how much I tell it not to. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to keep going. But my body has fought to survive too long to listen to my mind. This happens again, and then again, until I’m wondering if I’m imagining things:
The door opens and somebody else is pushed into the cold room.
How long have you been here? he whispers. I look at him. I try to speak. But nothing comes out. He just stares at me and pokes my arm.
“Hey, you okay?” he says, but then I don’t hear any more as I wrap myself tighter in the foil, frozen like meat kept in a freezer. I stare at the fluorescent light. There is no day or night here. Only that light.
My blood doesn’t feel like it’s pumping to my brain anymore. All I can think about is the cold and how my heart has become a frozen lump with razor-sharp edges.
That’s all I can feel, the sharp sting of icy needles every time I take a breath.
I really think we’re gonna make it, Chico’s voice rings loud and clear in my head. I look up, and there he is, draped in a silver blanket over his head, like la Virgen María. His face and lips, blue. His eyes, staring at me.
He’s both terrifying and beautiful.
Don’t give up now, Pulga, he says. When I blink, his ghost is gone. But I heard him. I know I did.
“How long will they keep us here?” somebody says, interrupting my thoughts. When I look, it’s the guy who asked me if I was okay, his face tired, his lips chapped and split.
I look at the light bulb overhead. I think of Chico. And through shivering whispers I tell the guy the words that have been running through my head, “There is no day or night here.”
I don’t know how long it takes me to get the words out.
But I do, I get them out.
And I picture Chico’s stupid grin.
* * *
~~~
A bright light shines in my eyes, making them pulse and throb. I can’t see anything but I can hear somebody yelling to keep moving. And somebody else laughing. And the smells of air and dust and diesel fill my nose. A sudden warmth penetrates my skin.
First, I think I’m back in Guatemala City with Pequeña and Chico.
Then I remember them. I remember that I lost them.
Then I think maybe I’m in the desert again, my backpack in hand.
But when I can finally open my eyes enough against the blinding sun, I see I’m outside and there is a bus in front of me. An agent is holding a bag of apples and telling me and the other guys my age, as well as girls who seem to have come from nowhere, to grab one as we get on the bus.
It’s bruised and half of it is mushy and brown and I don’t want it. I’m about to toss it onto the floor of the bus, when Chico’s voice reaches me.
Eat the apple, Pulga, he says.
I look for him, but only see tired faces. My stomach groans with more hunger the harder I try to resist.
I don’t want to, but my teeth bite into it. I keep eating it, even as my stomach aches with each bite of apple I consume. It makes me feel sick, but I eat every part of it, even the seeds and the core. And when only the stem of it is left, I twirl it in my dirt-encrusted hands, hoping Chico sees.
The bus is hot and it feels like there is not enough oxygen for everyone. The sun burns through the window. We ride and my eyes feel heavy. If I close them, I might never open them again.
Little by little, the world falls away.
And I along with it.
* * *
~~~
We pull up to another building, also sand-colored, with rounded edges that look eroded by wind. Desert brush and big rocks and chain-link fence surround it on four sides. I can’t see any other buildings at all, only dirt and faraway mountains. We are in the middle of nowhere.
We drive through a metal gate that slowly closes behind us.
One of the agents gets up and yells at us to get off the bus, and we are separated into two different lines as we file out. Girls to the left. Boys to the right.
I wonder if we’re being brought here to die.
I look at the girls walking away and I suddenly remember Pequeña. And I wish I could see the girls’ faces, see if she is here, if somehow I missed her.
But then I remember that Pequeña’s hair is short, and she’s become someone else, and I left her in the desert. And then I think of how she’s probably dead and something in my chest aches and wants to rise in my throat.
So I shut off my mind and instead, I follow the boy in front of me as an agent tells us to keep moving.
We are led past the main building, to a large metal warehouse behind it.
A guard opens the door to the warehouse and we go inside.
Inside is
a large room with metal cages. We are lined up against the wall and instructed to remove our shoelaces and put them in our backpacks. A guard takes our backpacks, tags them, and throws them in a pile before handing us a number.
I look down at my piece of paper. 8640.
Another guard opens the door to one of three metal cages, all three filled with more boys, and closes it behind us.
My legs feel weak and a clamminess over my whole body dampens my clothes.
Some of the boys talk to one another, but my lips won’t form words even if I try.
So I sit on the ground, my back against the metal cage.
And I try to forget how I got here.
* * *
~~~
I wake up to a guard hitting my shoulder with a burrito wrapped in a napkin.
“Here, eat this.” I take it from his hand and look at the pale lump of food. I can hear some boys complaining.
“Eat it and be quiet!” the guard yells.
My stomach growls and I take a bite—the tortilla is sort of warm, but the inside is cold. And the more bites I take, the colder and harder it becomes. I chew the tiny frozen bits and swallow. Another guard hands us cups of water. And then they take the trash from us and lock the cage door again.
I turn away.
I pull my knees up.
And fall back into a black so deep, so wide, I don’t think I’ll ever come out of it.
Pequeña
I stare into the night until everything goes dark, until all I can do is listen to my breathing. Each breath is raspy, but it calms me, listening to the inhale. The exhale. Even as I wonder which breath will be my last.
I stare at the white pinpricks of light that appear through the black night sky and feel my body going cold. I look over, searching for Pulga, but he’s not there.
I remember the truck. The agent. The feel of his hands on me. Running.
And then I leave my body.
I float upward, from under that mesquite, into the cool night breeze of the desert, and higher still into the sky. I hover high above and all the pain, all the thirst, all the heartache I felt goes away. I don’t even care that I must be dead. I don’t even mourn that my life has ended, and somewhere down there, the vultures will eat my body.
I stare at the stars and I reach for them, and instantly, I can feel their heat, and when I reach out to touch them, electrical currents zap through my formless body. I feel like a thin delicate piece of cloth as the night breeze passes through me, as I stare at that whole desert down below. And I can see and hear everything.
I can see people walking down there, under cover of darkness. I can see the Border Patrol pickup trucks, cruising slowly, big white searchlights mounted on their trucks shining through the darkness. I can hear the crunch of feet walking, the soft whispers of mothers telling children to be quiet. I can hear the radio in the pickup truck. And the laughter of border agents. I can see a highway in the distance.
I can hear someone trying not to cry.
And someone crying. And someone dying.
Is it me?
And then I see her, La Bruja, with her dazzling eyes and long hair.
“Pequeña,” she whispers, and she is suddenly next to me. She smiles with lips that shimmer. Her silver hair ripples like waves. Her eyes sparkle and hypnotize. She reaches for my hand and suddenly, my body is light.
I think she’s come for me, finally. To take me.
I hear the voices of women, singing, laughing, over music I know cannot exist. They beckon me and I feel myself following them. I feel the coolness of La Bruja, that cold that ripples off her like a breeze.
I don’t know who she is, except . . . I do.
And then I become her.
And I am all the women who are leading me through the land of the dead. I feel all of their spirits inside me. I hear their voices, from inside my head. I see their faces flickering in my mind, all their faces.
I feel their spirits entering my body. Filling me with some kind of strength, with some kind of will.
I stare at the blue-white glow coming from my body, lighting up the desert, the night. And I wait for death.
* * *
~~~
In death, the sun rises. And mountains move overnight. In death, you find yourself close to a highway that appeared out of nowhere. In death, you crawl out from a tree too large to be in the desert.
* * *
~~~
When I open my eyes, my body is quivering and flickering, like I’m on fire.
I walk and walk, the fire in my feet and body burning, but refusing to be extinguished. It is a burn that moves my legs so that I am stumbling, running to the side of the road. It is a burn that fills my lungs and unleashes a reverberating scream from my body into that desert.
My head feels like it might burst from the sound of my own scream—that noise, thunder, roar, wail—that escapes me. It is so long, so all consuming, I can’t believe I could carry it. It fills the sky and as it does, I know it has been building inside me since the day of my birth.
I am not the only one to hear my scream.
A car slows, passes me.
The rear lights flash red.
The rear lights flash red.
The rear lights flash red.
The passenger’s and driver’s doors open.
Two women emerge and call out to me. They begin walking toward me as I feel my knees give way. I am a flower sprouting from ashes. I am life in the desert, and they pluck me and carry me to their car.
In the car, I lean my head on the window as they continue talking and calling on Diosito Santo. My eyes are barely open, but my sense of smell is strong.
The scent of burning lingers in the air.
The person I used to be dies.
But in my heart lingers some kind of hope about who I will still become.
Pulga
At first I think I am seeing things, but when I blink he’s still there.
I blink again, and still, he’s there.
In the corner, looking out at the room. His eyes are glazed over, but he looks scared. I walk up to him quietly.
“Nene?” I whisper. Four-year-old Nene from the shelter before we crossed. Nene, being carried on his mother’s back through the desert. Unless maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s another four-year-old boy that only reminds me of him.
He stares back at me and I’m almost sure my mind is messing with me again when he says, “I know you.”
I nod.
His eyes fill up with tears. “I don’t know anyone here. They took me away from Mamá.” His voice is high, and even though he tries not to cry, his tears spill and he puts his head down and begins to sob.
“Hey!” someone calls out to me. “Stop making that kid cry.”
I look over at a uniformed man in the room. But already, he’s distracted and occupied with another child who has started screaming and kicking his feet on the floor. Stomping and raging. Getting up and throwing himself back onto the ground.
The guard grabs the little kid, who only screams louder. The man picks up the boy harshly, by the arm, dragging him out the doors, where his screams get louder and sharper even as he’s being taken away.
Nene swallows back his sobs, even as more tears stream down his face.
“I want my mamá,” he whispers to me. His breath is sour, and his face is filthy. He’s still wearing the clothes I saw him in last, now dirtier. Little bits of crud get stuck in his eyelashes from his hands as he wipes away tears that won’t stop coming. “Do you know where she is?”
I shake my head.
I sit down next to him and I listen to him cry for his mamá, for his papá. And I want to walk away from him, but I can’t. “I was with Mamá, together, in a cage,” he tells me. “And then they asked me if I wanted some cookies to eat and I said
yes, and they took me away and never gave me anything to eat and never brought me back to her.” His tears come faster, his words harder to get out. “They brought me here instead. It’s my fault.”
I know I should walk away, but I can’t. “No,” I tell him. “They tricked you to get you away from your mamá and papá.”
He shakes his head. “Papá . . . fell asleep in the desert. He had to stay there . . .” he tells me, his voice breaking. “Mamá said he was just resting, that he will meet us in the United States, but . . . I don’t think she was telling me the truth.” He puts his head down and cries harder; his small body shakes with sobs that he tries to swallow down again. And I watch him, wishing that I could reach into his small chest and detach his heart from the rest of him so he won’t feel anything anymore.
We are so small, Pulga.
Pequeña’s voice from a lifetime ago reaches me now. And I remember her. And her baby. And Chico. And how she was right. We are so small.
We are specks that don’t matter to this world. Our lives, our dreams, our families don’t matter to this world. Our hearts, our souls, our bodies don’t matter to this world. All it wants to do is crush us.
It crushed Chico.
It crushed Pequeña.
It’s crushing Nene.
And it will crush me, too.
I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around them. I inch closer to Nene and he inches closer to me. And we sit like that, small, together.
Hoping maybe the guards will forget us.
Hoping maybe we can become small enough to disappear, but not so small we are forgotten.
“Just try not to think about it,” I whisper to him. “Try to erase it all from your memory.”
He nods, closes his eyes. His face looks pained, like he is trying to wipe away every image. But when more tears escape, I know he can’t.
* * *
~~~
That night, I dream of Chico.
We Are Not from Here Page 28
