Return to Sender (4 page)

“Mamá, ¿qué pasa?”
I asked, sitting up. “What's wrong?” Luby was already snoring and Ofie complaining that we were making too much noise.

“Shhh,” you whispered to me, pointing over to my grumpy sister. “Nothing is wrong, my heart. But you will never forget me, ever?”

I shook my head adamantly. How could you even wonder about such a thing and why were you wondering now?

“Whenever you feel sad or lonely or confused, just pick up a pen and write me a letter,” you said, tucking my hair behind my ears.

“But why would I write you a letter if you are here, Mamá?” I had heard that Abuelita was sick, but neither you nor Papá had mentioned your going away.

You laughed the way people do when they are embarrassed at being caught making a mistake. “I mean … that it's good to write letters. When you write down your thoughts to anyone, you do not feel so alone.”

I nodded, relieved by your explanation. Soon after you tiptoed out, I fell asleep. But that night I had nightmares. We were crossing the desert again. There was a serpent wrapping itself around and around your body like a boa constrictor. Then a huge pen came writing across the land, drawing a big black borderline. I woke up, startled. The apartment was so quiet. I thought of getting up and finding you and Papá, but the peaceful breathing of my sisters drew me back to sleep.

Next morning, what a shock when Papá delivered the news! Now I understood why you had said the things you had, Mamá. My sisters cried and cried, but I had to stay strong for them and for Papá. Still, I bit my nails down so far that they bled. Papá kept reassuring us that the journey home was no problem, as you would be entering your birth land on an airplane, not on foot through a desert.

The danger came with your return after
Abuelita's death to be reunited with us. Papá had sent extra money so you could reenter the United States the safer way, through a reservation, disguised as the wife of an Indian chief, sitting in the front seat of his car.

You called before starting back, and we were so excited! For days afterward, we cleaned every corner of that apartment; even Ofie helped without complaining. We wanted everything to look perfect for your return. Finally, every surface twinkled and every package and can and box in the kitchen cabinets looked lined up with a ruler. And then, we waited and waited, and waited …

Papá could not notify the police because it was illegal for you to be trying to come in without permission in the first place. Finally, he decided to leave us with our uncles and retrace your steps. Tío Felipe tried to distract us with his songs and jokes, but this time it didn't work. Tío Armando took only local jobs so he could come home at the end of the day.

Every night, Papá would call. “Have you heard anything?” he would always begin, and we'd ask him the same thing back. But no one could tell him anything about your whereabouts. By the time he returned, Papá was almost crazy with grief. Nights, after everyone had gone to bed, I would find him in the kitchen, sitting in the dark, his head in his hands.

“Papá, she will return.” I was the one now reassuring him.

“Espero que sí, mi'ja,”
he would say in an anguished voice. “I hope so, my daughter.”

As the months have gone by, he has calmed down, Mamá. Sometimes he hears me telling my sisters, “When Mamá comes back,” and a strange, pained look comes on his face. Like he half wants to believe it but can't let himself hope too much. If my sisters press him, he just says, “It is in God's hands.”

But I know you will return. That is why I write you. It is like the candle that Abuelita promised to keep lit at her altar until we returned. To light our way back to Las Margaritas. Or now to light your way to Vermont, to a farm owned by a crippled farmer and his kind wife, who seemed surprised when she picked us up at the bus station.

“I didn't know that there were children,” she said.

“¿Qué dice?”
my father asked. “What did she say?”

“I thought it was just going to be the three men,” the woman went on.

“They are my uncles and my father,” I explained. Luby clung to her little dog and to Ofie, who clung to Papá, afraid they would not be allowed to enter Vermont, even if they were Americans.

The woman must have seen our fear. Her face softened, but still she looked undecided.

“They will not bother,” my father said.

When I translated, the woman shook her head. “Bother? Are you kidding? You guys are lifesavers! Angels, really.”

“¿Qué dice?”
Papá asked again.

None of us three knew the word for lifesaver in Spanish. “It's like a candy,” Luby tried.

“She says we are angels,” Ofie offered in her know-it-all voice.

For the first time in a long while, Papá laughed.
“Sí, sí,”
he said, nodding at the lady.
“¡Somos ángeles mexicanos!”

Mexican angels, Mamá! How is that for being a special alien?

Soon we were piled in the lady's van with the windows tinted so you cannot see inside, but once inside, you can see out. Tío Armando and Tío Felipe sat in the backseat, and Papá and Luby and Ofie in the other backseat. And guess who rode in the front seat with the lady? Me!

We are now living in a house called a trailer beside the home of the farmer and his wife and their handsome son, who looks about the same age as Tío Felipe, and their daughter, Sara, who is so pretty and nice. (She says there is another son, who is away with relatives because he has not been feeling well.)

“This is your new home,” the farmer's wife said when she brought us here. But a home means being all together, so until you are back with us, Mamá, we will never feel at home, not in Carolina del Norte, not in México, not here.

Soon after we arrived, the daughter Sara came over with a big box of her “old” clothes that looked brand- new to me. But they were all far too big for us. “Grandma can alter them for you. She can sew like a barn on fire.”

My goodness! For a moment I wondered what kind of a strange grandmother would sew like that. But Sara explained she meant her grandmother could sew anything. Why didn't she just say that?

Along with other things at the bottom of the box there were some real pretty hair clips and a lip gloss and blush, which I got to keep. Sometimes there are advantages to being the oldest! Not that Papá will let me use makeup. Like I told you before, he has become even more strict now that you are not around to protect us.

When Sara was leaving, I asked her if she knew where I could mail a letter. I had the first one I wrote you because I didn't have a stamp or way to mail it on the road. And soon I will be done with this one, too. Sara said just bring it over to her mother, who could mail it when she went to town.

So, Mamá, I will say goodbye. As you can see, I followed your advice and I have written you not one but two long letters! And you were right. I have felt less alone as I write them. I think I will keep writing letters every day of my life.

Con amor
and with love,

Mari

P.S. Mamá, I am almost too upset to write! I will not be mailing you these letters. Instead, I am to keep them until you come back.

What happened was that Papá saw me writing and asked who I was writing to. When I said you, he got that pained, strange look on his face again, but he did not say anything.

Then, last night when he came in from the evening milking and I told him I had found a way to mail you these letters at our old address, he looked scared.

“Let us converse, my daughter,” he said, nodding toward the bedroom he shares with my
tíos.
When Ofie and Luby got up to follow us— my little tail, I sometimes call them—Papá shook his head. “This is a private conversation,” he explained, shutting the door behind us. He sat on the bed and patted a place beside him.

“Mari, it is not a good idea for you to send those letters,” he began. Then, very gently, he explained how we are not legal in this country. How Mexicans getting mail might alert
la migra
to raid a certain address.

“But, Papá, a lot of Americans have Spanish names! Look at Luby. Look at Ofie!”

Papá just kept shaking his head. I think that having to live secretly for years in this country has made him imagine danger where it doesn't even exist. “You can save them until you see your mother again,” he said. “How wonderful it will be for her to sit down and read them over and know all the things that happened while she was away.” For the first time in a while, my father's voice was soft and warm and his eyes glistened. I don't think he allows himself to miss you as much as he really does, Mamá, or we would all be too sad to continue, no matter how many jokes our uncle Felipe tells us.

“Promise me, my treasure, please,” Papá said, taking my face in his hands. He looked so worried! “For everyone's safety, you will not mail those letters.”

What could I do, Mamá? I couldn't go behind his back, and I didn't want to upset him by arguing with him.
“Te lo prometo,”
I promised.

He gave me a grateful smile and kissed my
forehead tenderly. “Thank you, my daughter, for understanding.”

But I do not understand, Mamá. Never in a million years will I understand my father's fears.

I have to close or I will wash away the words in this letter with my tears.

NAMELESS FARM

“I think it might be a good idea for you to go next door and introduce yourself,” Mom greets Tyler at breakfast. It is his first morning back at the farm after being away. Tyler has missed the farm terribly, but one thing he has not missed is his mother's good ideas.

“Mom,” Tyler groans, “I already met them!” Early this morning before breakfast, Tyler slipped into the barn to check on Alaska, his favorite show cow. The three new Mexican workers were there hard at work, but they looked up, curious, when Tyler entered. He waved hello and then hung out, even helping one of them, who can't be any older than Ben, put the milker on the skittish Oklahoma.

“I meant say hi to the girls,” his mom explains.

Tyler puts his head in his hands so he doesn't have to see anything but his bowl of cereal. Too late he remembers his mother has told him this is rude. Horses have blinkers, not humans. But sometimes, Tyler hates to tell her, sometimes he would just as soon see less, not more, of the world around him, a world full of accidents, bad luck, and Mom's good ideas.

But maybe because he just got home yesterday, his mom doesn't say anything about his blinkers. Instead she starts in on the sappy stuff that always makes Tyler cave in to her good ideas. “They don't seem to have a mother and they're cooped up in that trailer. It'd be really nice if you maybe just popped in and made them feel welcome.”

How's he supposed to make three girls feel welcome? He should have borrowed a clown costume from Aunt Roxie and Uncle Tony! Furthermore, Tyler hopes his mom is not suggesting that he has to be friends with three girls just because their father works on the farm.

“I have a really good idea,” Tyler says, sitting up. “Why don't I go help the guys with the milking? One of them didn't even know how to adjust the milker when it got loose on Montana.”

Mom folds her arms and looks at him with that math-problem look. “First, Tyler Maxwell Paquette, remember these guys come from farms back in Mexico where there aren't any machines, so it's going to take them a few weeks to learn how to work all the equipment. Second—”

“That's why I should go help.”

Mom is shaking her head. “Second, I'm sure they can handle the milking. They've caught on quickly. And third …” Mom always numbers her reasons when she wants to make a point, but often, like now, she forgets the point she was trying to make. “The oldest one is eleven and she's going to be in your grade at school.”

“But I thought you said they were a secret!” Tyler blurts out. He has kept mulling over why he's not supposed to talk about the new workers being Mexican.

His mother looks unsure. He has obviously caught her in a contradiction, which usually means he's going to get scolded and sent up to his room.