by Hester Young
I leave my body behind, let myself swim in the spinning light of the disco ball, around and around and around until I’m giddy. Exultant.
Now the room is underwater. The men brush against me, but they’re only fish, slippery bodies who can do me no harm. I am a mermaid come to life, ensnaring them with my sultry song of flesh, drowning them, drowning us all in the pink and purple lights, the crushing waves of music.
When I come up for air, the building is empty, the space dark. I’m alone but for one figure, a watchful shadow, her eyes fixed on me from across the room. A young woman.
She leans against a counter, chin in hand, dissecting me with her fierce gaze. Her features are approximate, smudgy even, a half-drawn pencil sketch. Long, dark hair. A pert nose, defiant lips. And radiating from her in thick, black waves that make the air shimmer: anger.
Who are you? I ask.
She crosses her arms. Lety, she says. I’m Lety.
I recognize the name. She’s the girl who killed herself, the fifteen-year-old in Nogales whose death broke Donna’s heart. But what am I supposed to do for one dead by her own hand? She already made her choice.
What do you want? I ask.
She steps away from the counter, and I realize she’s wearing only the skimpiest of clothes. Towering heels, fishnet thigh-highs, a shiny black bra and thong. I recoil. Was that her at the club, getting groped by all those men? Teresa didn’t tell me the poor girl was a stripper.
Lety approaches me with a click, click, click sound, surprisingly steady on her precarious heels. She stands in front of me, hands clamped into two tight fists.
Mi hermanita, she tells me. My little sister, Yulissa. You have to help her.
Up close, I can see she’s short, even with the extra three or four inches of shoe. And her youth—I see that, too. Beneath the makeup and the sexy costume, she’s just a kid, a small and sullen teenager rolled in layers of attitude. Hardly a match for all those men, all those hands reaching for her beneath the lights. No wonder she wanted out.
I can’t, Lety, I say. I can’t go to Nogales. I’m sorry. I have the crazy urge to explain to her that I’m a little overbooked right now. That whatever crisis her sister is going through, it’s just not a good time for me.
Why? Por qué no? She leans in, and her breath is cold, so cold, when she whispers in my ear. Are you afraid of that shower?
I stare at her. Who is this girl, and how does she know what I’ve been seeing?
Is it real? I whisper. That scene in the shower, is it real?
Lety runs a hand through her long dark hair. What you see is always real.
Then what do I do? The scene I keep seeing—how do I stop it?
You come to Nogales, she says, stepping back into the darkness. You help Yulissa. Her face has gone smoky, her body dispersed like steam, but I still catch her final words. It’s what your mother would’ve wanted.
Sixteen
When I come to, I’m standing between two elevator doors. At some point in my waking vision, I must’ve wandered into the hotel corridor. Now I find myself half inside the elevator, half planted in the hallway. The automatic sensors don’t permit the doors to shut on me, and so they’re caught in an endless loop: attempting to close, detecting me, dinging, opening again. I glance at the placard to make sure I’m on the right floor and step back into the hall.
All things considered, Noah reacts fairly well to my banging on the hotel door at three a.m. After I provide him with a pseudo-logical explanation about wanting ice and forgetting my room key, he puts his gun back in its holster and promptly falls asleep.
I don’t tell him about Lety. I’m still turning it over in my mind, trying to understand. Is she offering me a way out, an outcome other than that blue and yellow tiled bathroom? If I go to Nogales, can I really change the ugly future that has haunted me for weeks?
I crawl back into bed. Huddle up against Noah, seeking comfort in his slow, unchanging breaths. In the end, I have no choice, and that, I suppose, makes it easier.
If helping Lety’s sister means a chance to save my daughter, I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it.
• • •
I WALK THROUGH THE DAY a distractible mess, trying to figure out where to begin my search for Yulissa and how to convince Noah to get on board. I sit zombielike through a meeting with Micky’s caseworker, absorbing only snippets as Daniel and Noah discuss our plans to become Arizona residents.
At some point, Andrea Rincón calls. It takes me an embarrassingly long time to realize that she’s the adoption lawyer Teresa promised to put me in touch with. We make an appointment for next week, which I forget to write down.
When it’s time to get Micky after school for our scheduled visit, Noah’s rethinking the wisdom of dragging me out. “Are you sure you’re up for this today?”
I tell him I am. I tell him I can’t wait to see my niece. I don’t tell him I’m collapsing under the weight of all these girls who need me, my daughter, Micky, and now this Yulissa character who could presumably follow in her sister’s suicidal footsteps if I don’t somehow fix things. That, I keep to myself.
Noah has chosen mini-golf for our first unsupervised visit with Micky, and so Vonda lends us a booster seat and the three of us drive to a nearby course. Though we slather ourselves with sunscreen and buy large bottles of water to stay hydrated, I quickly conclude this was not the brightest idea. After three holes in 107-degree weather, the undersides of my breasts and belly have transformed into busy waterways of sweat, and I’m about ready to pass out from heat exhaustion. Micky, too, is flushed and perspiring, yet when I offer her a break, she declines, chin up, shoulders back.
She’s never played mini-golf before, but she takes in everything that Noah does, imitates his stance, tries to duplicate the way he grips his club. When she hits the ball too lightly or too hard, her bottom lip pokes out as if the error pains her. A perfectionist, I determine, although where she got that from remains a mystery. Neither Ruben nor Jasmine appeared overly concerned with excellence.
Eventually, feeling anxious and faint from the sun, I seek relief in the shade of a windmill and refuse to budge while Noah and Micky play out the remainder of their game. From a safe distance, I watch them attack the fourth hole, watch Micky’s look of concentration as she squares herself up for a shot and Noah’s patient, encouraging nod. Her ball sails unscathed between two mounds and nearly reaches the cup. Noah offers her a high five, which Micky returns after some hesitation. She sticks her fingers in her mouth, and for the first time, I think I see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I’m glad I sat this one out. These two are fine without me, I think, but then the image of his putting her to bed in the new house comes flooding back, cryptic, unsettling. Maybe Micky is not meant to be mine. Maybe she’s Noah’s, the one thing he’ll have left when the baby and I are gone. Maybe today is a prelude of things to come, a preview of my absence.
I can’t let that happen.
I dig around in my wallet for the card Albert gave me at the Sonora Hope luncheon. He knew Lety. Perhaps he knows Yulissa, too. I dial his number.
“Charlotte!” Albert sounds oddly excited to hear from me. “I was going to call you.”
“Really?”
“I wanted to tell you,” he says. “I took my son to the pediatrician. He had strep throat, just like you said. We’re lucky we caught it.”
The news doesn’t surprise me the way it once would’ve, but it’s good to know I’m getting better at interpreting my impressions. “Well,” I say, “at least strep is easy to treat, right?”
“You’d think,” says Albert, an edge to his voice. “But my ex-wife took Josh to a homeopath, who said it was a simple fever. They’d been giving him these herbs instead of antibiotics. I’m glad you mentioned strep. I honestly don’t know if I would’ve taken him in otherwise.”
&nb
sp; I know better than to trash his ex, even if she’s made a questionable parenting decision. “It sounds like your son is in good hands now. I hope he feels better soon.”
“Enough about me,” Albert says, sensing my change in mood. “What’s on your mind?”
Noah and Micky have finished another hole now and stepped out of view. I kick off my sandals, give my swollen feet some breathing room. “I was hoping you could help with something. Did you or Donna ever work with a girl named Yulissa?”
“Yulissa,” he repeats. “The name is familiar.”
“I think Yulissa’s sister received services from Sonora Hope. Lety? The girl who committed suicide.”
“Oh.” Albert’s voice falls a little at Lety’s name. “To be honest with you, I really didn’t know Lety’s family situation. She was your mother’s case.”
The thought of Donna hovers there for a second between us, ghost mother and missing friend. I hold the phone away and drizzle my water bottle over my head, my cheeks, my eyelids.
“Do you know where Lety lived?” I ask. “Where she was from?”
“She lived downtown, I think. Worked as a dancer before she came to us.”
The dancer part I already know. I saw the skimpy outfit and all those hungry men. “How did a fifteen-year-old get that job?”
“I’m sure she lied about her age. Underage girls aren’t exactly a rarity on that scene. Can I ask what this is about?” Albert has been a good sport; I owe him some kind of explanation.
“It’s . . . for an article I’m writing.”
He’s skeptical. “You’re writing about Lety and her sister?”
“No, no.” I cringe. Squinch up my toes, bracing myself for the lie. “There’s this magazine I used to work for, Sophisticate.” That part is true. That part makes the fiction easier. “I thought . . . maybe I could write a little feature piece about Sonora Hope. The kind of work you’re doing.”
“That would be great for donations,” Albert says. “Sophisticate is really popular with our target donors.” He means rich women. “Why Lety, though? Sonora Hope has done a lot of good work. Why focus on the one we couldn’t help?”
I have to spin the Lety angle somehow. “I think it would help to contrast a tragic story like Lety’s with the success story of someone like . . .” I grasp for the name of the one-eyed woman at the presentation. “Marilena.” I clear my throat. “I want readers to understand that there are real life-or-death consequences for these women, you know? To show how high the stakes are.”
Albert doesn’t reply for a few seconds, and I can tell that selling out a dead teenager to drum up some dollars doesn’t sit well with him.
“You could talk to Marilena,” he says at last. “She’s always happy to speak about the program, and she knew Lety quite well.” I wait for him to say more, but that’s apparently all I’m getting. “Let me get back to you about this, Charlotte. I’ll chat with Teresa, and we can get you some leads. As you can probably imagine, we’re very strict about confidentiality, but I think if we approached a few specific women, got their permission . . .”
I make some noise to indicate my assent, but the truth is I barely hear him. I wander the mini-golf course in a daze, past hills and winding chutes, past a pirate ship and a gaping gorilla mouth. I have to find the club that Lety worked at. I have to talk to Marilena. Someone has to know about this girl.
Follow Lety’s trail, I reason, and sooner or later, I’ll find her sister.
• • •
GETTING NOAH TO VENTURE into Mexico again will not be easy, but I know his weak spots, will do my best to exploit them.
“So Albert called me,” I say after we’ve dropped Micky off at Vonda’s. “Remember him? That guy from the Sonora Hope presentation?”
“Sure.” Noah frowns as a couple of kids in University of Arizona shirts dash foolishly in front of our car. “What’d he want?”
I play it casual. Try not to sound like I care. “We were talking about me maybe writing an article. Just a little piece to get Sonora Hope some exposure.”
Noah, God bless his predictable heart, lights up. “That’s a great idea! For Sophisticate?”
I nod.
“Baby, that’s perfect. Good publicity, that’s worth its weight in gold.” He pulls out into a line of cars. We’re in the Tucson version of rush hour now. “I assume there’s no hurry on this, right? Just whenever you got some time?”
“It would probably be right away. But if it’s just a couple thousand words, I could knock that off pretty quick. I don’t know.” I feign reluctance. This will work best if he thinks he’s convincing me, getting his own way.
“You don’t sound too excited.”
“Well, we’re so busy right now,” I say. “And I’d need a day or two in Nogales for research.”
“Oh.” That’s all it takes. One mention of Nogales, and he abandons the knee-jerk optimism. “Maybe in a few months, then. After the baby.”
“I don’t think that’s an option. I think it’s—time sensitive.”
He falls quiet. Our car creeps along, waiting to make a left turn. When Noah finally speaks, I realize that for all my strategizing, he sees through this act of mine, at least partially. “You wanna go,” he says, “don’t you.”
“I’m guessing you won’t want me to.”
“I think it could be dangerous. That bathroom . . .”
“I know.” I don’t say anything for a minute. Let him sit with it. Try not to press my case, the fastest way to get him digging in his heels. Finally, I can’t stand the silence. “What if we didn’t spend the night? Just crossed in and out of Mexico on foot during the day? Americans cross the border all the time. It wouldn’t have to be a big deal.”
He heaves a deep sigh. “I still don’t like it.”
“I could help a lot of people by writing this article.”
The light goes green, and traffic funnels forward. We just make our turn. “If this was all about helpin’ Sonora Hope, we could give them money ourselves,” Noah says. “It’s the story you want, isn’t it? You see a story you can’t resist, and you have to go chasin’ it. Is this how it’s always gonna be with you? You need dumb risks to feel alive?”
He’s angry. Angry at me for trying to manipulate him, angry at me for wanting to put myself and our baby in harm’s way. I’ve played this all wrong. Should’ve just told him the truth straight off.
“It’s not just the story, okay?” I slump forward, head in hands. “There’s a girl.”
He glances at me and knows. Knows immediately. “Oh, Jesus. You saw somethin’?”
“You know that girl Donna worked with who killed herself? Lety?”
“You saw her?”
“She wants me to find her sister. Help her somehow.”
He frowns. “The sister’s in Nogales?”
“I think so.”
“You think? You think but you’re not sure? You want to run off to some place that could get you killed, just like in your dream, because you think you need to find some girl?” He grips the steering wheel so tight I worry for a moment he’s going to tear it off the dashboard. “That’s bullshit. That’s bullshit, Charlie! That’s not fair to ask of me and you know it.”
I search for a good retort, a logical reason to make this trip, but come up empty.
“Why does it have to be you?” Noah’s close to tears. “Why now, when we’ve got everything to lose?”
I don’t know the answer to his question until Lety’s words have already left my lips. “It’s what my mother would’ve wanted.”
It is the rawest and most honest thing that I could say, one that acknowledges so many parts of myself I’d rather keep hidden. That, despite everything I’ve ever said, my mother matters. That, in my own pathetic way, I’m searching for a connection to her.
The admission makes me wa
nt to crawl under a rock, but for Noah, it’s a silver bullet. His shoulders sag.
“Tomorrow, then,” he says in a voice that’s all but broken. “We can go tomorrow. We’ll find the sister.”
I don’t know how to respond to my own victory. It doesn’t feel like I’ve won.
“We’ll go durin’ the day, like you said.” His eyes are on the mountains, the sky, the road, anywhere but me. “In and out, that’s it. And I’m not leavin’ your side for a minute. Every time you gotta pee, I’m right there with you, no arguments.”
“No arguments,” I promise. “I wouldn’t dare.” I study his face, now hard and remote. Wish that I could kiss him, hold him, bring him back to me somehow. I already regret the whole plan.
What does Lety know about my future, and what power can she possibly have to change it? She’s just some fifteen-year-old girl who succumbed to her darkest urges. Killed herself and then realized she had unfinished business.
“We don’t have to go.” I touch Noah’s shoulder tentatively. “I could just . . . ignore everything Lety told me.”
His body stiffens at my touch. “I know you don’t believe in God, Charlie. But I do.” He still won’t look at me. “I don’t know what you’re bein’ called to do. But I’ll help you do it.”
PART V
Nogales, Arizona,
and
Nogales, Sonora, Mexico
Seventeen
About an hour south of Tucson, the twin cities of Nogales rise up out of the desert, separated by more than just a wall. From the moment we pass through the metal, full-height turnstile, it’s clear we’ve entered another country, another world. Unlike Rocky Point, there are no cushy resorts, no high-rise hotels or pristine blue swimming pools. The Nogales of Mexico is a flurry of activity, street merchants hawking their wares, cars surging across intersections, men on doorsteps yelling suggestive comments at passing women. Noah’s presence and my pregnancy ensure that no leering remarks come my way, but they offer little protection from aggressive vendors and sketchy cabbies who urge us toward their taxis in broken English.
