The Exile

by Gregory Erich Phillips

  Soon, her legs were aching, but she kept her focus, smiling methodically through each conversation, trusting she still looked pretty, though she had no makeup on and her hair was matted into a ponytail. She should have started out by going to the makeup sample counters at the department stores, pretending to be an American tourist.

  Late in the afternoon, she got lucky. One of the smaller hotels found their restaurant short-staffed with a large party of Australian tourists reserved for dinner. The hotel manager told Leila she was a godsend, with her serving experience and perfect English. He didn’t seem to notice her hesitation before saying her name was Marissa Montero. She knew he needed a waitress and trusted he was smart enough not to ask her too many questions.

  The best part of the job was that they gave her a uniform, getting her out of her dirty clothes. Counting on tips, she could at least buy fresh underwear and new shoes in the morning.

  As she left the office, she realized that she should have used a different name. She wanted to have a name in which she felt love, which was why she chose the name of Manny’s first wife. But Paulo would remember that name if he tried to look for her here.

  She walked across the stone courtyard. Cartagena harbor came right up to the edge of the hotel grounds. Fragrant vines lined the upper balconies. She walked through the open-walled restaurant, behind the kitchen, to the servers’ bathroom. She washed her face and changed into her uniform. Hotel Caribe it said across the left side of the black shirt. The pants were also black. The uniform didn’t fit her great, but this wasn’t the time to care. Some safety pins and needle and thread would also be on tomorrow’s shopping list. One of the other waitresses let Leila use her makeup to freshen up before their shift.

  “Where did you come from?” The girl stood beside her at the bathroom sink. She was dark and petite, with big brown eyes.

  Leila sighed. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to tell someone. “I got deported from the United States yesterday.”

  “¡Dios mío, pobre mujer¡”

  “At least I have a job now. It’s a start.”

  “Do you have any place to stay?”

  Leila shrugged.

  “Stay with me tonight after our shift. I live close by.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Por supuesto. What are you going to do, sleep in the street or spend more than you earn for a room here?”

  “Thank you. You’re very generous.” She handed back the makeup. It wasn’t quite her color, but it would do.

  “Marissa, right?”

  Leila remembered to nod. The false name was safer, even with this girl who could be a friend.

  “I’m Alejandra. That’s a beautiful ring on your finger. Are you married to an American?”

  Leila looked down at her ring—the little diamond Ashford got for her as soon as he could afford to. “It’s hard to remember, but I think our wedding was supposed to be next weekend. It seems like something from another lifetime now.”

  “Can’t you stay there if you get married? That’s what I always thought.”

  “It doesn’t work that way anymore. Ten years ago, maybe, but not now. Not if they really want you gone.”

  Alejandra blotted her lips and buttoned up her purse. “My apartment is small, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you need to. I live with my grandmother and my baby daughter. You won’t mind?”

  Leila smiled. “I have a baby girl too.”

  “Still in the United States?”

  “Yes.”

  Leila saw the horror that filled Alejandra’s eyes. Another question seemed to hover on her lips, but the two young mothers just looked at each other. The moment was filled with more confusion than understanding.

  “Vamos, chica,” Leila said. “We’d better get to work.”

  Late that night, with her body throbbing in pain, Leila lay on the couch in Alejandra’s small apartment. Despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t sleep. The city noises beyond the thin walls were cacophonous. Her mind raced, spurred by all the sounds that pounded against her inner ears.

  She couldn’t even begin to process everything that had happened. But for the first time since she had left Ashford in their apartment in Santa Fe, she felt a little progress. She had made a start.

  She ached for her daughter. She longed to feel Ashford’s arms around her. Would she ever see them again? Was there any way back? Was there even any way she could contact them without putting herself in danger?

  Leila even missed Romeo. What she wouldn’t give to have her kitty plopped heavily on her legs right now.

  She closed her eyes and tried to picture where Ashford might be, what he might be feeling. Was he back in Phoenix? Would he even know where she was, what had happened to her? It comforted her to picture Cristina with her father. At least the baby wouldn’t lack love.

  Leila didn’t realize she was crying until the first teardrops released from her cheeks and fell onto the scratchy couch cushion beneath her head. It was the first time since boarding the plane that she had let herself cry.

  Her last night with Ashford, they had argued. She hated to think about it. It seemed so petty now. She wished she had been more loving to him. She had been afraid to get too close. Even after everything that happened . . . after everything they sacrificed for each other, she had still held something back from him. It broke her heart to think how she wouldn’t allow herself to love him as much as he had loved her. How many chances did you get at a love like that? Now, her chance was gone.

  She hummed a lullaby, hoping by some magic to reach them through the intensity of her longing.

  “I love you, Cristina. I love you, Ashford.” She willed the words across uncounted miles. She pressed the engagement ring on her finger to her lips. “Find me, my darlings.”

  35

  LEILA WAS SURPRISED by how late into the morning she slept. It had been hard to fall asleep, with everything that weighed on her mind and heart. But once she did, her body welcomed the time to recover. Alejandra and her grandmother were not early risers, so the apartment was just coming to life when Leila rose. She showered and put on the new, ill-fitting restaurant uniform.

  Alejandra met her in the apartment kitchen, wearing short-shorts and a loose tank top with a dim blue star and letters so faded that Leila could barely read Dallas Cowboys across the gray of the shirt.

  “Is there a computer at the hotel we can use?” she asked Alejandra while they ate corn cakes and drank coffee with coarse sugar.

  “We’re not supposed to, not for personal things.”

  “Are there no exceptions?”

  Alejandra considered for a moment. “Let’s go over a little early today. I can get you online before our shift.”

  “Thank you. I have to tell my family where I am.”

  “Is there anything they can do to help you?”

  “I don’t know. But they’ll want to try if they know where I am.”

  “I’ll write down our phone number here. We can’t call out to the United States, but they could call you here.”

  “That would be wonderful. You’ve been so kind to me.”

  Leila felt grateful to be eating a second breakfast on her second day in Cartagena. It was lucky. As badly as things had gone, it could have been worse. Alejandra’s grandmother’s kitchen couldn’t have been more different than yesterday’s clean, white kitchen in the rectory. Pots and dishes were everywhere. Various photographs and trinkets hung on the yellow walls. The pipes in the ceiling clattered as water washed through from the apartments above. The one similarity to yesterday was the ancient tin coffee kettle on the stove, emitting the same wonderful smell.

  Leila felt Alejandra’s eyes on her as she sipped her coffee. She was examining her with curiosity and wonder.

  “I’ve heard stories about people deported from the United States,” she said, “but you’re the first person I’ve met who actually has been. Are all the stories true?”

  Leila sighed. “I’d heard the stories too and never rea
lly believed it. Living in the United States all those years, it was always in the back of my mind, but I never believed it could happen to me.”

  She remembered everything, back to the day she left her home here in Cartagena. Once Manny gave her a new identity, she had been so trusting of the new life. She really became this new person. But she always should have been more cautious, knowing her danger. It was still tough to know exactly what had happened after her arrest, but her false identity didn’t seem to have been too tough for the authorities to unravel.

  “Yeah,” she said, “now that I’ve been through it, I have to say the stories are true. It was awful. It happened so fast. I barely remember the time in the detention center. I must have been delirious, maybe even sedated. I do remember being afraid. Any of those guards might have tried to have their way with me, and there would have been nothing I could have done, no one I could have told. They said I waived my right to an attorney, which I can’t imagine having done unless I’d lost my head. They told me I had a right to a phone call, but I couldn’t remember the phone numbers and email wasn’t given as an option. So, I was completely alone and at the mercy of the people who just wanted me out of the country as fast as possible.”

  “Why would anyone want you out of their country? Look at you. You’re beautiful.”

  “I don’t even know what I can say. I was successful, too, until I made one little mistake. Then it was all over.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

  How could she explain it to Alejandra, who had never been to the United States? She had never imagined before moving there how resentful some people were toward Hispanic immigrants. It took years before she felt like she could almost understand the root causes of those feelings. What she never gave enough thought to was the danger that arose from that prejudice.

  “Most Americans are wonderful people, but there are a few who have such hatred. No, hatred’s not a nice thing to say. It’s fear. Some people there are so afraid of losing what they have, so they lash out against anyone who they think might take it from them. They perceive that Latinos want what they have. Maybe we do, but there’s enough prosperity in the United States for anyone who’s willing to work for it. One person’s success doesn’t take away another’s opportunity. The fear is persistent. The fear looks like hatred, but that’s not the heart of it.”

  Even Samantha was only afraid. She was afraid of losing control—of her son’s destiny, of her career, of her fortune. It came out as prejudice and hatred, but it was rooted in fear. Realizing this made Leila feel a little less bitter toward her.

  “There are frightened people everywhere. In the United States, it’s the frightened people who have all the power.” She didn’t want to dwell on it. She wanted to focus on what was ahead—getting as settled as possible and getting in touch with Manny and Ashford to devise a plan. What that plan would be she didn’t know. What path was there to getting reunited with her daughter? There had to be some way.

  She tried not to worry about Samantha’s cruel offer and especially tried not to think about Paulo. It was yesterday’s nightmare that would hopefully just go away. Now, she was with caring people. She had a job and a fresh start. This part of town was far from Paulo’s jurisdiction.

  Leila finished her breakfast and stood up. “I want to go buy some things before work. You know, makeup, shampoo, underwear . . . I have nothing. Thankfully, those Aussies tipped good last night. I’ll meet you back at the hotel this afternoon.”

  The restaurant was empty when Leila arrived at Hotel Caribe that afternoon. Last night, the whole bayside of the restaurant had been open, with a nice breeze coming off the water. Now, the glass doors were shut and the drapes were pulled. It was a newer restaurant, catering to tourists, so air-conditioning was a must. It was being protected now from the hot afternoon. She sat in the shade of the awning, looking out toward the lapping shore of the bay until Alejandra arrived. She hopped up and followed her new friend in.

  “Good,” said Alejandra, “the night manager hasn’t arrived yet, but I have a key. Let’s hurry so we don’t get in trouble.”

  She logged on to the restaurant computer, then turned it over to Leila, who opened her email. There was only one, from Manny.

  “Leila, do not email again from this account. Do not tell us where you are yet. You are in more danger than you know. Wherever you emailed from yesterday was not secure. A few hours after you wrote, Paulo Varga emailed me too. He knows you are there, and somehow he got into your email.”

  As Leila read the words, her head swirled. She felt nauseous. It wasn’t possible, except that of course it was and she realized how careless she had been yesterday at the internet café. Reading Samantha’s email had shaken her up and she had left too quickly, forgetting to log out and leaving herself open to the very trick she had pulled to get online in the first place. That teenager with the flip phone must have gone over as soon as she walked out.

  Stupid. Stupid.

  She changed the password on her email account, then logged out and shut the browser. This place was surely not secure either.

  How far would Paulo go to find her? How many places did he have eyes and ears?

  “Are you okay?” Alejandra was watching her from a stool nearby.

  Leila looked up at her. Those big brown eyes in a head too small for them accentuated the girl’s curiosity. Alejandra had been nothing but kind to her. How careful did she need to be? Was there no one she could trust?

  “Yeah, it just all makes me so sad. I get overwhelmed.”

  “I bet. Are you done?”

  Leila nodded.

  Alejandra stood up and reached for her arm. “Let’s take a short walk by the harbor. We have some time before our shift. The air will do you good.”

  Leila took Alejandra’s arm and allowed herself to be led out of the restaurant.

  So, not even email was safe. How horrible. She certainly couldn’t ask Manny and Ashford to call at Alejandra’s grandmother’s apartment. Paulo might end up calling instead. She was completely alone and isolated now. Would she ever see her daughter again?

  36

  “ASHFORD, MANNY, A letter from Colombia!”

  Ashford leaped up as Carmen ran in, holding an envelope. She handed it to him. Manny stepped up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder as he opened the envelope with trembling fingers and pulled out the two sheets of paper. The three read it silently together.

  My Dear Ashford, Manny, and Carmen,

  What is there for me to say after all that has happened except that I love each of you so much. I long for the day when we will be together again though right now I feel hopeless.

  As you know, I was arrested and deported to Colombia. Samantha threatened me with this the day I told her I would not give you up, Ashford, or give up our child. I didn’t believe she would be able to carry through with the threat. I should have been more careful. When I went in for the mortgage exam, they tracked me down. I’m not entirely sure whether I was deported for the mortgage case or if it had to do with my ambiguous identity. I know that my name raised questions. How much they found out about my past I don’t know. My case was processed and closed so fast.

  It was so confusing at the detention center. Florescent lights blasted down in the shared cells the whole time, so even when I slept I awoke delirious. I suspect I was given some sort of sedative. I’ve heard about these things happening to other people who went through it, but I always assumed it was an exaggeration.

  I wish I could console you by telling you I am safe, but you already know that is not true. I am hiding and I am afraid. Here I don’t even have a name. Manny, the people from your past want revenge. I have a place to stay and a job at a restaurant in a hotel. But I don’t know how long it will be before I’m forced to move on. I don’t know how badly they want to find me.

  Worst of all, I don’t know any way I can get back to you, whom I love so much. I think about Cristina every second of every day. Ashford, I dre
am of you every night. I imagine a future where we can be a happy family again. I need your love and am dying without you.

  I cannot tell you how to contact me, as I don’t have a phone and I would not feel safe having you call or write me here. Even email is unsafe. Nothing is secure and the cafés are watched. I’m scared to try again after what happened last time. I will write again as soon as I think of a way for us to safely connect.

  Kiss our daughter and tell Cristina every day how much her mother loves her. Each moment I spend apart from her cuts wider the gaping hole inside me. I dread that she will forget me. I am no longer in captivity, but my loneliness and hopelessness has built a new prison around me. I am a mother in exile. I am a mother with a broken heart.

  Sending all my love,

  Leila

  Ashford took the letter, once he was sure that the others had also finished reading it, and sat down on the couch. Manny took the envelope and went to his own chair.

  Ashford didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what to feel. Leila’s letter was dark, but somehow it gave him hope. This was the first contact since that initial email almost a week ago. He knew what he needed to do.

  “So, he hasn’t found her yet,” Manny said. “That’s good. She’s being careful. She hasn’t forgotten how. But it will be hard for us to find her too.”

  “Why wouldn’t she tell us where she is?” asked Carmen.

  “She’s afraid if we wrote back the letter would be intercepted.”

  “Would that really happen?” asked Ashford.

  “You don’t know Colombia. Look how easily they intercepted her email.”

  It was difficult for Ashford to believe.

  “Look at this postmark.” Manny pointed at the corner of the envelope. “She mailed it from Cartagena harbor, but put no other identifying mark on the envelope. It’s hard to feel hopeful, but this letter does encourage me. When that man emailed me last week, I didn’t know what to think, especially after Leila went silent. I didn’t know if she knew he was looking for her or not. But now we know she does.”