The Same Sky (18 page)

“We’ll be fine,” I said.

“She can’t live here,” said Jake.

I breathed out. “She has nowhere else to go,” I said.

Jake spoke with a measured calm, as if he had practiced his words on the walk home. “I know you wanted a baby,” he said. “I know how much you want to … take care of someone. But this girl isn’t ours. She needs more help than we can give.”

“Noted,” I said.

Jake paused. I knew he was fighting the urge to yell. “When I get home from the trip, I don’t want her here,” said Jake, his voice tight. “Is that
noted
?”

“I can’t promise anything,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m saying this with love, but I don’t really like who you’re turning into,” said Jake.

I turned from him, curled into myself.

Jake spoke quietly, his voice deadly sad. “I know you’re disappointed with our life,” he said.

I was quiet. He was right.

“I’ve worked so hard—we both have, Al … and you are always … you are
still
disappointed. I hate myself for that.
But you know what, Al? I want to be happy. If you can’t even try to be proud, or even the tiniest bit satisfied, I don’t know what to say. I can only disappoint you for so long. It’s killing me.”

“Jake …,” I said.

“Yes?”

The hope that I would say the right thing—that I was satisfied; that I didn’t want a child, not anymore; that I would stop fighting God’s plan, would stop trying to fashion a baby out of a dog or an opportunistic teenager named after a brand of bottled water—hung in the air, it must be said, like smoke. And then it dissipated. Jake rolled over and closed his eyes.

I must have fallen asleep, because something woke me—the sound of a car pulling up to our house. The clock radio on my nightstand read 4:03. Stumbling from bed, I went into the living room to see that the couch was empty. I heard voices outside, and pushed open the front door.

“Evian?” I called. “What are you doing?”

Two men sat on my porch swing. One wore a leather jacket and one a sleeveless T-shirt. Both were smoking, dropping ash onto the ground. “She’s having a little discussion,” said the one in the jacket. He watched me steadily, and I felt scared. They were drinking something brown from crystal glasses that had been my mom’s.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Conroe,” said Evian. She was leaning against a post, and had dressed and reapplied her makeup. She also held one of my mother’s glasses.

“Evian, come back inside,” I said.

She laughed, and the men laughed with her. “Let’s roll,” said the one in the jacket, and the two men stood. The swing crashed into the side of our house. Evian tossed my mother’s glass onto the lawn and followed the men down the steps and toward a sedan with tinted windows.

“Evian!” I cried. “Come back here!”

I ran down the walk and grabbed her arm before she could get in the car. She yanked it back with force. “Who do you think you are?” she hissed. “You’re giving me a couch to sleep on, lady, you’re not my mother!”

She slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door, and the car peeled away. I stood by the street, my hand covering my mouth. Who
did
I think I was? Who?

29
 

Carla

I
LAY AWAKE ON
a mattress as thick as my wrist. When I moved my body, the springs complained. The smell of urine filled my nose. In my whole life, I had never slept by myself, and I couldn’t stop thinking of my brother, whom I had failed. I prayed for assistance, though I was no longer sure that anyone was listening.

By the time my interview had concluded, the last bus of the day was gone. I supposed I would be transported back to Honduras in the morning. I am ashamed to remember how close I came to losing faith during my night in the Mexican jail.

I finally fell into a deep sleep, and I saw Humberto. He was waiting for me inside my grandmother’s house. Without Junior, Humberto and I could make a life together. I had not sold my crumbling home; I had left in haste and
without the thought that I would return. But in my dream, Humberto had swept the floor and filled the kitchen with ingredients. I could even smell onions frying. Humberto opened his arms and held me—not in a romantic way, but as if I were a baby needing comfort.

After what had happened to my body, I no longer wanted to kiss Humberto, or anyone. All I wanted was a motherly embrace. I wanted my mother. I hurt.

In the dream, Humberto fed me with a warm wooden spoon. There were bad people outside the house, but Humberto had installed a large padlock. I felt a fragile peace.

When a guard opened the cell door in the morning, I jumped up, all the calm of my dream falling from me as if it were a skin I had outgrown. The guard’s eyes slid up and down my body like hungry hands. I looked at the floor and prayed he would not touch me. “You have family in America?” he said. His voice was rough, and my heart beat terribly, thumping at my rib cage as if it would escape.

“My mother,” I whispered. I must have been somewhat delirious. “I want my mother,” I said. My eyes filled stupidly with tears.

“Breakfast,” he said, handing me a tray of bread and water and then closing the cell again. I dried my eyes and ate.

The bus to Honduras was empty but for me and one man, a skinny man with thick eyebrows. It made me upset to think about the cost of the gasoline to drive me and one man all the way back to Tegu. I could have fed Junior for a year with the money. I tried not to ask God why He would
allow this, but a voice in my head said anyway, “Why?” Maybe God was taking care of the man who owned the bus, or the old man who drove us, his expression placid as a cow’s.

The bus lumbered to the edge of town. I rested my head on the seat, looking out the dusty window. It was early in the day, most of the shops still shuttered, no children playing outside. The driver turned down an alley. Sharply, the bus pulled to the side and stopped. I sat up, panic igniting in my veins. The other Honduran looked relaxed, as if he knew what was going on. My mouth was dry; I waited. The voice I could not silence in my mind said,
Please, God. Please, God
. The driver opened the door.

The Honduran man with the large eyebrows stood. “It’s your lucky day, little girl,” he said. “Come.” I lifted my gaze, unsure if I had heard him correctly.

“Let’s go,” he repeated.

My mouth opened. I was scared, wondering what he wanted from me. (I figured it was going to hurt, whatever it was.) I rose and stepped hesitantly toward the man, expecting him to grab me, force me down.

We moved toward the door of the bus and the driver did not look at us, just waited. We stepped into the alleyway. The Honduran man bid me to follow him, and I did, ducking behind a building. The bus started up and drove away.

“You can go,” said the man, once we were out of sight. “Unless you have money for the
coyote
. What an idiot! But at least he paid the Zetas in time.” He rubbed his eyes.

I didn’t know what he was talking about, though I understand
now. The drug cartels in Mexico run everything from the prisons to the human-smuggling
coyotes
. If a
coyote
falls behind on payments, his cargo is taken away. As soon as my fellow passenger’s
coyote
paid the Zetas (who controlled the town we were in), the cartel ordered his release. God had not left me alone. He had put me on a bus that would not leave town.

I took advantage of God’s kindness, the first good thing anyone had done for me in some time. I looked up and down the street, then began to run. I pushed my sore legs against the ground, breathing deeply, moving fast. In the distance, I heard the siren of the train. I could climb atop the train at any time, I knew. I could find my brother, and bring him to America. God was with me.

30
 

Alice

I
WOKE TO THE
smell of coffee. Bleary-eyed, I pulled on my ratty robe and opened the bedroom door. Jake was frying eggs in the kitchen next to Lainey, who wore a leather miniskirt and boots that came up above her knees. Her hair was in a bun on the very top of her head, a look I didn’t understand but surmised was chic. Lainey leaned close, smelling Jake’s pan. I put my shoulders back and ran my fingers through my hair, wishing desperately that I had a more glamorous robe to pull on … a kimono, something silk. “Oh, hey,” said Lainey. “I’m so sorry, did we wake you?”

“Not at all,” I said breezily. I made my way quickly to the bathroom, but the door was locked.

“Evian’s in the shower,” said Jake without inflection.

“It’s
so funny
you have a teenager on your couch,” said Lainey. “Named Evian,” she added.

“Oh, she just needed a place to crash, you know?” I said, my words coming fast and screechy, as if I had no control over my mouth.

“This house is
adorable
,” said Lainey. “It is
so cute
. In New York, this place would be huge!”

I went back inside the bedroom and closed the door. There was nothing for me to add to the breakfast confab. I sat down on the bed, considering climbing back under the covers. Instead, I opened my bureau drawer and found a sweater dress that was a bit pilled and stretched out. I took off my pajamas, donned the dress, and added turquoise vintage boots and lipstick. I brushed my hair and pulled it back. Thinking of Evian, I applied mascara. I threw open the bedroom door for the second time, feeling more ready to defend my house and husband. “I love eggs!” I trilled.

Lainey was already out the door, trailed by Pete, who leapt into the truck. Jake had his overnight duffel in his hand. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry, there wasn’t enough.…” I followed his gaze to the kitchen, where two plates and the frying pan sat in a sink full of soapy water. “There’s some coffee,” said Jake.

“Okay,” I said.

“We’ve got to get going,” said Jake.

“Sure,” I said.

Jake smiled at me, and I smiled back. “I love those boots,” he said.

“And I love your—” My sexy statement was cut short by the bathroom door slamming open and Evian appearing in a cloud of fruit-scented steam, a toothbrush in one hand, her phone in the other. She wore tight jeans and a midriff-baring T-shirt.

“Adios,” said Jake, exiting quickly and jogging toward Lainey, who could be heard saying, “I love your neighborhood’s
atmosphere
. Like East Village meets Rio meets … Perth!”

“You’re out of shampoo,” said Evian, sitting on the couch, staring at her phone.

“Evian,” I said. “We need to talk about what happened last night.”

Obsequiously, she folded her hands in her lap and looked up. “Yes?” she said.

“Who were those men?”

“I’m going to be late for school, Ms. Conroe,” she said. “Maybe we can talk about this later? Um, are you driving me?”

“I guess so,” I said, filling my mug with coffee.

As we made our way to the car, Evian commented, “If I were you, Ms. Conroe, I’d keep my eye on that New York slut with the meth bun.”

“Evian!” I said, unlocking the car doors. “You can’t use language like that, honey. Honestly. If you want people to take you seriously, you need to be more careful about how you present yourself.”

“But am I right, Ms. Conroe?”

I started the car and sighed. “You may be,” I acceded.

We drove toward Chávez. I knew I should force her to
explain the previous night’s antics and then tell her she couldn’t stay with me anymore, but I was worn out. “You can drop me here,” said Evian a few blocks from school.

“I’ll take you to the front door,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, “if we don’t show up they’re gonna close us.”

“Hmm?” I asked.

“They’re trying to close our school,” said Evian. “
Again
. Don’t you read the papers? We’re not worth it. If they close Chávez, I’m dropping out. I am
not
going back to Travis.”

“They won’t close the school,” I said.

“Attendance is an issue,” said Evian. “Also, the testing is an issue. We’re too dumb.” She laughed hollowly. “And too many pregnant.”