Illegal (12 page)

Mama looked so sad that her eyes were dragging on the floor. She barely moved inside the house.

I was stuck somewhere in between. Should I just give in and cry, or should I do something to prove all of this wrong? Maybe this is what I deserved?

Papa couldn't be dead. How could he be dead if we had come all this way?

Jorge knocked at the door,
“Hola
.” He spoke in a low voice. It was the way my papa had talked to birds with broken wings as he placed them back into their nests.

Manuela waved him in. Mama looked out the window, tears in her eyes.

“Thank you for everything. I don't know what to do. Where do I start? How do I even find the body?” said Mama.

The body. The name of it was horrible. Papa was not a body. He was a real person—flesh and blood.

“No, don't worry about that right now,” said Jorge. “I'm not sure how to tell you the news.”

I sensed Jorge knew something we didn't know.

“What do you mean?” asked Mama.

“I mean, I'm not sure that you are ready to hear about what happened,” said Jorge.

I was tired of not knowing. Papa had been gone for so long; I needed to know just so I could feel something for him, to shake off this numbing cold that was taking over my body.

“I want to know,” I said. It was easier to pretend to be strong than to wilt in the corner. I had built a brick wall around myself and I clung to it for support.

Jorge looked at me. “No, I'm sorry; you are too young for this. Why don't you take a walk or something?”

I was furious and felt like hitting something again. “Too young? You mean I'm too young to think I'm
going to die on the back of a truck, or to take care of my mother, or to earn money for my family?”

Manuela approached me. “I know you're upset, but—”

I didn't want her pity, either, so I lashed out in whatever way I knew how. “I'm not Tessa, and no amount of babying me will make it better that she disappeared!”

Manuela held her face like she had just been slapped. “You know she disappeared after the gang thing. She dealt drugs. We couldn't even have a funeral. Not even a good-bye.”

“My father didn't do any of those things! He was just a worker and he didn't do anything wrong! Where is my good-bye?” Jorge's and Manuela's eyes grew large with horror as I screamed my version of the truth.

But shouting wasn't enough to quell my anger. “I know I'm here in America, where everything is supposed to be better. But it isn't. I want to live in a place that doesn't smell like garbage. I want my
quinceañera.
I want to be fifteen again.”

Mama had covered her eyes and tears dripped onto the table from between her hands.

“I want to know,” I said. “It's what I have left.”

“The truth won't make this easier,” said Jorge.

My mother finally raised her head. “Please, we both deserve to know.”

Jorge let out a large sigh. “I spoke to the family Arturo stayed with for a few weeks. Apparently, he fell from a large building where they didn't have much safety equipment. Several of the men who stayed in the area saw the accident. They think the company dumped him by the work hall.”

Mama turned white. “They dumped him? Dead?”

“The company worried the construction site would be shut down because of the illegals. All of the other men left the site because they were afraid. The owner threatened that he would turn them in to Immigration,” said Jorge.

¿La migra?
Is this why no one would talk?

Jorge continued, “The family who was renting a room to Arturo says that all of the men have left the area. She didn't even know which work site. It's just a rumor to her.”

A rumor. Then this story might not be true. Papa
could
be alive.

“But where is my husband? Did they bury him?” asked Mama.

I felt my feet starting to burn. The earth began to
shake, preparing to swallow me.

“The woman said she wasn't sure if the story was true. But I called the city morgue. If it's him, he's buried nearby.”

Buried. Buried. No.

“How could this happen? Is it really him?” asked Mama.

At any moment, I would be gobbled up. I felt like a piece of glass, falling from the counter, shattering on the tile.

“The local police never did much of an investigation. This story is all over the work halls, because the men told me the same version. Every few months, a body is dumped there. The workers think it's the companies. The police think it's drug dealers. This happens every day. It's not even news. I'm so sorry.”

There was hope. Dear God, please don't let Papa be dead. “So maybe Papa isn't—”

“I'm sorry. The woman at the mission gave me this. She said it was with his things.”

It was a Western Union receipt with the word “Cedula” written on it. It was wrapped around a small picture of Mama, Grandma, and me.

It was true. Papa had only one picture of us. He would never leave it behind.

Angels did let things fall from the sky. “What have we done to deserve this?” I said to the ceiling, as if God might answer me.

On one hand, a huge weight of my expectation had been lifted. Here was the answer. Papa wasn't a promise breaker. But a huge sadness crept into my shoes and was crawling up my legs like a hairy spider. I couldn't move, or the monster would bite with its poisonous wrath.

Papa. Gone. Papa. Gone.

I felt Jorge lift me from the chair and place me into bed. I remember Manuela brushing my hair with her fingers. I didn't have the energy to fight.

Time twisted in hazy circles. Was it afternoon? Had months gone by?

“Tell me about Cedula,” I heard Manuela ask.

My lips were moving, but it wasn't me talking. Someone else's voice knew how to answer the questions.

“We lived in an orchard with grapefruit. My grandmother has owned it for more than twenty years. My papa was born there,” I said.

“That sounds nice. Where is your grandmother now?” asked Manuela.

“In Cedula, waiting for Papa. We send her money from Western Union. We wanted her to come and be here when we found Papa.”

“I see. Do you have a phone in Cedula?”

“No, we lived outside the town. I know Hector has a phone in his office.”

“Who is Hector? How come I've never heard of him?”

“Oh, he runs the bank. We became friends because I went there every week.”

I felt her fingers rubbing small circles into my
back. Grandma would do this whenever I couldn't sleep, her gentle patting lulling me to sleep.

“How did you come?” I asked her.

“Oh, sweetie, I didn't come to the States, I was born here. My grandmother came across a long time ago.”

“Tell me the story,” I said as I closed my eyes.

She murmured the way Grandma used to whisper to me. “She came like lots of people: through the river. She lived with Jorge and me for five years before she died. Would you like to see a picture of her?”

Manuela opened her purse and brought out a color picture. The woman had white silvery hair like Grandma, and deep brown eyes. She could have been Grandma's twin sister.

“Manuela, she looks like my grandma Isabel.” I realized that I didn't even have a picture of Grandma. I had been carrying her around in my head.

I missed everything about my grandmother and her silly grapefruit recipes. It seemed all fruit made me sad or nauseous since the mango incident.

“Manuela, would you look for Flora? I would really like to see her,” I asked.

“Sure, honey. Just get some rest,” she answered.

My eyes closed. I dreamed of sweet-smelling trees and fingers combing through my hair.

I woke up to Mama's clanking in the kitchen. Fresh doughnuts sat on the table.

I forced myself to sit up. “Mama, why didn't you wake me? We'll be late.”

Work had been engraved into my head. No work. No money. No nothing.

“No. Jorge and Manuela are taking a few days to get everything ready for the new restaurant. I think they went to Nuevo Laredo to buy tables and chairs.”

“So what do we do for money?” I asked.

“Jorge left us some. He told me not to worry, just to rest.”

I didn't want to rest. I wanted to see Papa's grave.

“Mama, did Jorge tell you where Papa was?”

Mama stared at the sink. “Yes. It's up the road a bit. We can go by bus.”

I tried to ask for directions to the cemetery from someone who didn't speak Spanish. The black woman in the shop sneered at us. “I don't speak none of that Spanish, so you'll just have to find someone to translate. You should learn to speak English. This is
America
!”

We bought flowers at the market. The loud, playful music seemed all wrong today. Once again, we were in a place that was all wrong for us.

The bus wouldn't come for an hour, so we waited in the park. There was no sign of Flora, and I wondered if she had disappeared out of my life too.

Mama pushed me on the swings. I wished I could swing high enough to fly away to Mexico, but my wings never sprouted.

I spun Mama around on the merry-go-round. I saw her frown over and over again. The swimming pool was closed for cleaning, and the heat was exhausting.

As we boarded the bus, I realized I would never
have another birthday with my father. I wanted to make myself stop loving him, because maybe then the pain would go away.

When we found the cemetery, we had to ask directions from a groundskeeper. After walking deep into a quiet area, we saw the headstones change from marble to flat stones of concrete.

“I'm not sure which one he is,” said the groundskeeper, pointing to a flat area that had recently sprouted small blades of grass. We sat in the full sun until our backs burned and mixed sweat with our tears.

Papa's grave didn't even have his name. I kissed the ground and left my leather sandals with him. They didn't fit me anymore. I wanted to give Papa something of myself.

Mama didn't notice my bare feet. I guess she didn't have anything left either.

“I love you, Papa,” I whispered.

And we walked back to Quitman Street.

Two days later, resting grew old and boring. Mama continued to lie in the bed, but I felt like a caged tiger.

I walked to the cemetery. It was a long hike on a bumpy, cracked sidewalk overgrown with weeds. I didn't mention to Mama where I was going and I left my purple flip-flops under the bed.

She was lying facedown on the mattress crying when I left. We hadn't moved from the apartment in two days. I was suffocating in the misery. I wanted Keisha or Flora, because I could talk to them in ways
I could never talk to Mama. I was ready to open my mouth and let it all spill out.

Jorge and Manuela weren't home from Nuevo Laredo yet. Time stood still in this sticky, sad place.

Large trucks zoomed by on my walk. They were going too fast for this street. The sidewalks sloped toward the curb, and I could feel the hot rush of wind as the trucks passed by. Gravel smacked my legs and bare feet. Ants I passed seemed to slow down under the sun's constant glare. My head was hot.

But who cared? I did.

Freshly cut grass bloomed in the air. I could hear the busy freeway beyond the trees. I could see the black iron fence running down the road to the left. On top of the gate was a white concrete angel looking at me with sad eyes.

“This isn't it,” I muttered to her.

At the back of the cemetery lay lots of little stones. I wasn't sure which one I was looking for. I hoped something would look familiar, and my sandals would be the markers. I passed hundreds of gravesites with fancy marble stones, small trees, or benches. Poems and names were written on the side, but I wasn't interested in collecting the sad words of dead people.

At the back of the cemetery, hundreds of tiny headstones lay sprinkled in the grass like stones in the street. Nothing looked familiar. I walked down several rows, and when I was sure no one was looking, I stole a few flowers from different graves.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered to the headstones. “I'm sure you don't mind sharing with someone who died with nothing.” I had now turned into a thief.

The words scared me. Papa died with nothing. He died alone. Those people threw him away like trash.

There were no names on the stones. A small chapel stood in the back. Maybe this was a good time to rest. Maybe this would be a good time to pray.

The door of the chapel was locked. No one was around, so I sat on the steps for a while with the flowers wilting in my hands. The shade of the tree let sunlight dance through them and make hazy pictures on the concrete. After sitting for a few minutes, I realized how tired I was.

I stood up and tried the door again. I needed it to be open. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I called.

The thorns from the stolen roses pierced my hands, so I threw them down to the ground. My palms throbbed in pain.

No one answered the door and I didn't care how much my hands hurt. “Where are you? Open up! I need you. I need to talk to you.” I beat on the door. “Why did you throw him away? Why have you left me here all alone?”

The wind blew through the trees in a gentle rhythm.

I needed answers, and God wasn't giving me any.

Angels don't come out of the sky. They hide inside locked churches.

“I hate you. Do you hear me? I hate you!”

I took the postcard out of my pocket and tore it to shreds. Bits of paper fluttered away in the summer breeze.

I spit on the steps of the church and walked home.