by Kate Banco
Chapter 12
La Frontera
The exit to the US border crossing is in front of us. This is what we’ve been looking for, yet the dread inside my body makes me sweaty and shaky.
“¿Qué te pasa, hijo? What’s wrong? We’re here! You got us here. Don’t worry! Everything will work out. The highway leading us to our new life is in front of us. I find a place to pull off the highway. I need to gather my thoughts. Our trip here was all we thought of for the past few days, now that we are here we don’t know where the next step will lead to.
“¿Papá, how do we cross over? What do we do? I don’t think we can drive across the border. They are going to ask us for our visa or some other type of permission to enter the country.” I say with a shaky voice.
Papá pulls out a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. I grab the piece of paper and the only writing on it is a phone number.
“What is this? Whose phone number is this?” I ask.
“It’s the number el primo gave me.”
“He only gave you a phone number? I thought you knew someone here who would help us. What if this phone number isn’t real? What if when we call they don’t answer? Do you see all the cars in front of us? We are all headed to the border crossing, and I don’t know where we will find a place to call. This scares me so much. I’ve heard terrible stories about walking across the desert. We can’t do that with Abuelita and Memo. I don’t think either one of us will survive either. Why didn’t you tell me before you didn’t have a plan,” I say as I rest my forehead on the steering wheel.
“Don’t worry, hijo. Let’s find a place to call,” he says as he pats my back.
“No, I have a cell phone Paco gave me for times like this. Let me try to call,” I whisper.
The heat of the mid-day sun already has made it too hot to breathe inside the stopped car. With all the cars whizzing by it also makes it hard to hear. I call the number and hear the buzzing of the call on the other end. It rings three times before someone answers.
“Bueno,” a deep voice answers.
“Hello, we are near the San Ysidro border and someone gave my father this number to call for help. Can you help us?” My voice gives away my fear and nervousness.
“¿Quién te dio mi número? Who gave you this number?” He snarls.
“A friend from Lazaro Cardenas, mi primo,” I answer.
“Well, you can’t cross there, and you should have called me earlier. It’s too late today for you to cross in San Ysidro. You’ll have to go to Mexicali.” I hear him cough and spit.
“But that is so far away, can’t we cross here? We’ve driven a long way already.”
“No, you’ll need to go to Mexicali to cross today.”
“How far away is Mexicali?” I ask.
“A little less than three hours,” he says.
“Exhaustion has its grips on us and my Abuelita is not well. She needs to rest,” I say almost crying into the phone.
“Doesn’t matter to me, if you need help you need to go to Mexicali. You could try Tecate, and it’s a little closer. I have some people there who might help you. Take route 2 and it will take under an hour. But remember I have more help in Mexicali, your choice,” he says.
“We’ll do that, we’ll go to Tecate. I can’t keep my Abuelita in the car for too long, it’s very hot.”
“Okay, call me again when you get near the border in Tecate,” I hear the phone go dead.
I look at the phone and hope I have enough minutes and battery to be able to call him back.
“We have to go to Tecate; it’s about one more hour.”
“Oh, hijo. No puedo más. I can’t stand it, it’s too hot,” Abuelita whines from the back seat.
I look in the rearview mirror and see Memo is asleep with his head against the window. Sweat rolls off of him and I see he can’t take much more either. I make the decision to get back on the highway and find Highway 2 to Tecate.
Papá has taken out his beads and I see him mumbling the rosary as he stares out the window. Once again it’s up to me to get us out of this situation. I’m sixteen years old and I’m in charge of our safety, health and the start of our new life in the States. Not what I want to do, that’s for sure.
In front of us I see a sign that says U.S border crossing and exit here sign for anyone not entering the States. I take the exit and as we leave the San Ysidro border crossing area in front of us are two choices. It’s either el centro de Tijuana or highway 2 to Tecate. I choose the highway to Tecate and decide we need to make a stop for gasolina and some cold drinks. Abuelita needs to get out of the car and walk around. On the next corner I see a Pemex station and pull in.
“Gracias a Dios,” Abuelita says.
When we stop Memo wakes up and asks if we are in California yet. We all say in unison, “Almost.”
“Quiero una coca-cola, tengo mucha sed. I want a coke, I am so thirsty,” Memo says.
“I’ll fill up the car with gas while you all go wash up in the restrooms, try to cool down a little. We can buy drinks inside. Maybe they have air conditioning and we can rest for a few minutes,” I say with authority I don’t feel at all. My father should be the one making these decisions. His rosary beads are still in his hand and he may be needier than Abuelita.
“Papá, go inside with Memo y Abuelita. I’ll be there in a minute. Go,” I say.
The three of them walk toward the convenience store. I think we should turn around and go back to Lazaro Cardenas. It would be so much easier. Who knows what will happen when we cross the border. It’s obvious Papá doesn’t have a plan. I have no idea how much money he has for the rest of the trip, or to start our new life. I reach in my pocket and pay for the gasoline from the money Paco gave me. Papá isn’t even aware he didn’t give me money for the gas. The day needs to get better or we won’t make it across the border.
I pull the car over to park under the only shade tree available. Maybe it will cool the car down a few degrees. My t-shirt, drenched with sweat, sticks to me. If I change it for a dry one, it will be in the same condition within a few minutes of getting back on the highway. I get out of the car and walk toward the store, I grab the door handle and someone taps me on the back and shouts.
“You can’t park there. That’s the boss’s spot. Move your car now,” the short sweaty gas attendant says.
“It’s only for a minute,” I say.
“Move it now,” he barks
I return to the car and park it in another spot in the full afternoon sun. It won’t be pleasant getting back in a few minutes. I hope everyone has been able to sit in air conditioning for a few minutes. As I open the door I realize it’s hotter inside than out. I wave to Papá and point to the restrooms. I go in and rush over to pour cold water over my head. The sink stained with brown streaks has only a trickle of water comes out of the faucet. Frustrated, I try to wet the back of my neck and wash my face. The reflection in the mirror is of a sixteen-year-old. He looks fourteen, covered in sweat and has no idea of what awaits him in the next few hours. I wonder what other people think when they see me. Do they know I’m responsible for my whole family, do they know I just lost my mother and still grieve every day?
When I exit the restroom I see Abuelita is buying a large bottle of cold water and palitos for everyone. She knows that a popsicle may help our spirits and cool us off for a few minutes at least.
“We need to get going. It is only going to get hotter today We need to get to Tecate,” I say.
“Sí, hijo. ¡Vamonos!”
Memo drags his feet as we walk back to the car. We all feel the same way, but because we are older we need to pretend we are sure things will get better. We get in the car and the seats are now hot to sit on and there’s no way any of us want to continue our trip. We all would like to turn around and go home. I wonder if I should ask if that is an
option. Would it be so bad to go back to Lazaro Cardenas to our little house. I could find work to help out, but I think Papá has decided to find a better life for us. I’m not convinced what is ahead of us is better.
We pull back on to the highway and merge in to traffic headed to Tecate. If I could have predicted what awaited us, I would have turned the car around.
“Papá, a dónde vamos en California? Where are we going?” I ask with the hope he knows an address or a person who can help us there.
“A California, hijo, a California,” Papá answers.
“You don’t have an address of a friend or a family member there? What do we do when we get across the border, do we have a destination?”
“Yes, California. There is a lot of work in California,” He says with a smile.
“Yes, Papá but where are we sleeping tonight? Where will we sleep tomorrow night? We can’t keep driving. Paco and Teresa don’t live in California, they can’t help us there. We need friends or someone who will help us find work and a place to stay,” But I already know he doesn’t have a plan. I’ll need to make a plan. First, I need to know how much money he has I have no idea if he has enough money for gas to get us across the border.
The signs for highway 2 and Tecate appear along the road. We should be there in less than an hour. The man I called said to call him when we were almost there. Should I call him now, it’s about thirty minutes away, or do I call him when we get to the border crossing. These are all questions I didn’t have to worry about when I lived in Lazaro Cardenas. All questions I didn’t have to consider before my mamá died. She would have said this was a ridiculous idea and we would have turned around and gone home. She’s not here and we are now migrants and don’t have a home or a place to spend the night.
Highway 2 passes through a lot of what looks like apartment buildings close to the traffic. I can see drying laundry on the terraces. Children are playing underneath the clothes for shade, small children too young to be left alone on a terrace. The thought terrifies me, but I guess if you grow up in an apartment you have different fears than if you grow up on a ranch.
When there aren’t any buildings or apartments, I see some people trying to stay cool under the few trees in the dirt. They look at the cars with ghostlike faces. Do they want to cross the border for a better life or are they just trying to stay cool in the afternoon sun? Plastic bags pile up along the fence on the highway along with bottles and trash. It isn’t any place I’d like to stop or stay. I push down on the accelerator and realize I will have to drive for the rest of the trip. Papá has given up the driver’s seat forever.
I need to find a rest area or a place to pull over. I need to make the phone call to see who will help us cross the border. I hear the same ringing tone at the end of the line.
“Bueno, quién es?” He shouts.
“This is Ricardo. I called you earlier from Tijuana. You said you could help us cross at Tecate. Can you still help us?” I ask.
“That depends, how much money you got?”
I turn to Papá and say, “Papá he wants to know how much money we have. What do I tell him?”
“Cinco, tell him five,” He answers.
“Five dollars? Five hundred or five thousand? How much?” I almost scream.
“Cinco mil pesos,” He answers.
“That’s all? Papá, we won’t have any money to find a place to stay if we give him that money. It’s only fifty dollars,” I say as I want to start crying.
“Hello, you still there? How much?” The man says.
“We have two thousand five hundred pesos. No more,” I lie.
“What? How many people do you want to cross?”
“Four, my Abuelita, my hermanito and mi Papá. How much would that be?” I ask.
“You don’t even have enough to get one of you across by walking across the desert. Fifty dollars is nothing. Do you all want to cross together?”
“Of course, we don’t want to get separated.”
“How old is your Abuelita?”
“I think seventy years old. She’s very tired,” I say.
“She won’t survive the trip, you need to send her home. And the little one how old is he?”
“We can’t send her home and my brother is seven.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen, I’m sixteen years old.”
“You better learn to say you are fifteen. If you get caught and they separate you, they’ll send you with the adults if you are sixteen. If you are fifteen or younger you’ll go with your brother. He’ll need you if you get separated. Believe me,” He says.
“Okay, I’m fifteen, my brother seven, my Abuelita 70 and my Papá is thirty-five. Can you help us?” I beg.
“If you get caught your Abuelita is not getting across. She can’t work so they’ll send her home. You and your father will be able to work, but your brother will need someone to watch over him.”
“Abuelita came to help take care of my brother. She will be at home with him.”
“I’m just telling you what will happen if they catch you. And… you need to sign some papers.”
“What kind of papers?” I ask.
“An IOU. You need to sign an IOU saying you will send money to me every payday. Until it’s paid off, you will owe me for getting you across.”
“My stomach drops and I need to take a deep breath before I ask the next question.”
“How much will we owe you?” I ask.
“Ten thousand for the old woman and ten thousand for the little one. For your father twelve thousand and for you twelve thousand. Total is forty-four thousand.”
I calculate in my head and think it’s not as bad as I expected. “Okay, so forty-four thousand pesos. Is that right?”
I hear laughter at the end of the call,,“No, forty-four thousand dollars. Are you crazy? No one is going to help you for pesos. Here at the border, we calculate everything in dollars my friend.”
I turn to Papá and relay the information the man told me on the phone. Papás face turns white and he starts to cough. He leans forward and starts to sob. His chest heaves up and down and his sobbing is uncontrollable. Now, what do I do? If I hang up they may not want to help us if I call back. I need to keep the coyote on the phone.
“Okay, I’ll sign it,” I say.
“What about your viejo?” He asks.
“He’ll sign it too. What do we do next?” I ask.
“Drive up to the gasolinera near the border crossing. There is only one Pemex station there so you can’t miss it. Park your car and leave the keys on the front seat. Bring what you need for overnight, nothing else. You won’t be able to bring suitcases or big bags. Just the bare necessities. Bring a water bottle if you have one, you’ll need water. Stay near your car and someone will pick you up. The phone goes dead.
“Wait…” he’s gone and now I have to tell everyone we need to leave the car and only take a few things with us.
They all look at me to see what I will tell them. They expect I have good news, but it’s the farthest from good news there is.
“What is it, hijo?” Abuelita asks from the back seat.
“We need to leave the car and only take with us water and what we need for 24 hours,” I say.
“No, I can’t leave everything behind. What will I do? It’s all I have left in the world. Pictures, memories and some of your mother’s things. We can’t leave those behind,” she says.
“Papá, what do you think? Should we leave the car and everything or should we go home?” I ask.
“Home? Why? There’s nothing there for us anymore, hijo. We need to go to California. Let’s leave the car and do what they say,” he answers with sad eyes.
Memo says, “Papá, how will Mamá find us in California? Will she know where we are?”
Abuelita pulls him a little closer t
o her and hugs him, “Of course Memo, she’ll find you.”
I want to drive the car to the next exit south and go back to where we started or maybe drive back to Uruapan where at least we know Paco and Teresa. If I do that and something happens along the way I’d never forgive myself. I worry Papá will lose his desire to face reality. It already looks like he has built a fantasy world in his mind about California. He must think once we are there everything will be better and he will be able to make lots of money. He wants a better life for us.
My instinct tells me not to leave the car and not to get help from this unknown person, but I don’t know what else to do. Should I just try to drive across the border without help? What would happen if I did? Would they arrest us and take away our car? So many decisions.
I pull the car back on to the highway and almost get hit by a passing car. I’m sixteen years old and I almost got us all killed. I want my old life back. I want to go home.
We edge into traffic and travel the remainder of the way to Tecate. Near the exit, I see a Pemex station. I don’t want to stop there but see no other solution. I pull over and park the car near other cars parked to the side. I wonder if others agreed to the same deal, park your car, sign an IOU and cross the border to who knows what.
We all sit quietly for a couple of minutes. No one wants to get out and leave their things behind. I see Abuelita sorting through her satchel to see what she can leave behind. She only has one bag, but it is quite big. If we have to walk for very far I know I will have to carry it. I leave everything behind except my mother’s picture and a change of clothes. I know I can fit my clothes in Papá’s bag. He pulls things out of his bag, and I see he has brought some of Mamá’s clothes.
“Papá, why did you bring Mamá’s clothes? We won’t need them,” I ask.
He looks at me with sad eyes and says, “Because I want to remember her, smell her clothes and keep them close to me at night. I’ll keep her sweater and leave the rest.”
This is difficult for everyone but when Memo sees he needs to leave behind some of his toys, he starts to cry. “Why can’t I bring them? They’re mine. I need them!”
