The Same Sky (21 page)

The corner of Lamar and Fifth was bright with the giant Whole Foods flagship store. Dazed, drawn like a moth to a flame, I wandered inside. The entire store gleamed, even the customers—their hair shone, their teeth were pearls, sleek fabrics covered their trim limbs. The food was beautiful, lush and swollen. I felt as if I were in a dream of some futuristic, perfect place. The grains were lined up in alphabetical order, not a smudge on their Plexiglas containers. Rows of multicolored sushi gleamed, as perfect as untouched children’s toys in their packaging. There was a wood-fired pizza station, a nut-roasting station, a fish counter with no fishy odor, and even a chocolate fountain, for the love of God! It was sickening. It was glorious. A place where every desire could be sated. I stood in the middle of the store and looked skyward, seeking understanding, but all I could see were more floors, escalators leading more wealthy people to limitless delights.

A woman in spandex pants bumped into me, knocking me off-balance. “What the hell is the matter with you?” she said, her eyes frowning but her brow remaining shiny and uncreased. Under one arm, she held a firmly rolled yoga mat.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

“Maybe you should figure that out,” she said.

“Yes, I should,” I answered.

“In the meantime,” she added, “maybe you could move away from the gluten-free cookie bar.”

I nodded dumbly and stumbled out of the store. Back on Lamar, I felt a bit more like myself. I wanted, more than
anything, to go back to Mildred Street and to have Jake there, asleep on the couch in his bathing suit. I ran back toward Donn’s, and when I reached the parking lot, the minivan that had been blocking me was gone. It felt like a sign.

35
 

Carla

W
E SPENT ALMOST
a week in the shelter, planning how we would reach Texas. We shared stories and warnings, eating soup for three meals a day. Ernesto began romancing an older Mexican woman, whose brother, Marcos, had a job waiting for him in America. Marcos, stocky in a dark blue shirt and a hat that said “No Fear,” took pity on us. Marcos had instructed his wife to mail money to him at various points in the journey, so he could not be robbed. In fact, he boasted, he planned to hire a
combi
from the shelter to Mexico City, bypassing a week or so on The Beast.

I began to follow Marcos like a puppy, it is true. It was amazing to think that he had an employer in America. There was even a Dodge Ram truck stashed for him in Laredo, Texas! The owner of a farm had given Marcos the
truck when it became too old for his use, Marcos told me. He liked to boast, but I was happy to listen. I had never known a father, much less a handsome one with money and a job. I sat at his feet while he told stories. And I was not the only one!

Marcos and his brothers, he said, traveled every year from Southern Mexico to Texas. For eight years now he’d been riding the rails, picking up the Dodge Ram in a parking lot just over the border, then driving it to the farm. Marcos had no map but knew the roads by heart, especially the ones to avoid because of border agents. “We are such good workers, we are worth a Dodge Ram,” said Marcos proudly. His three brothers smiled and nodded, a bit more bashful but not much more bashful. After the harvest, they returned home for Christmas, bearing lavish gifts and money. The following year, they headed north again.

“This year we brought our sister, Juliana,” said Marcos. “If she marries that young friend of yours, the rancher will be very happy with me.”

I was surprised Marcos thought a boy with a number tattooed on his face would be a good match, but I guess muscles are muscles at harvesttime. Marcos scrutinized my expression. “Is he a good man?” asked Marcos.

“He helps me and my brother out of kindness,” I said.

Marcos nodded, pleased. “My sister made a bad choice in Xaltianguis,” he mused, “but maybe this friend of yours can turn her life around. Would he be a good father?”

I swallowed. “He has been like a father to me and my
brother,” I chirped. I hoped God would forgive me for stretching the truth.

Marcos nodded, impressed.

“We were alone in Tegucigalpa,” I added, unable to stop talking. “Ernesto found us without food. My grandmother had died. Out of the goodness of his heart, he offered to help us find our mother.”

Marcos listened, and having him pay attention to me was like a drug.

“He … he found us food. He protected us as best he could. He is … like an uncle to me.”

The dinner bell rang, and Marcos looked away.

“He’s in love with Juliana, I can see!” I blurted. But Marcos was already walking into the large kitchen, where Father was ladling soup. I scrambled after him.

For those of us who did not have the fortune it would cost to hire a
combi
, the train from Ixtapec through northern Veracruz and toward Mexico City was rumored to be especially dangerous; we were in a valley of lawlessness (explained Father) where unsavory characters lay in wait to steal from us, violate us, and kidnap or kill us. Father did not treat me like a child, which I appreciated, because I no longer felt like a child.

I lay awake on my cardboard bed at night, going over the route in my mind, tracing the lines that led from Ixtapec to Nuevo Laredo and the Rio Bravo (called the Rio Grande on the map). Next to me, Junior slept, his breath shallow. I knew he was still sniffing Resistol. He left the shelter in the afternoons and returned with a vacant
stare and little appetite. I told him that he was risking his life, venturing from the shelter, but he ignored me, so I stopped scolding. The power of the glue was far stronger than my words. I had decided to believe that the shifty-eyed boy who cared more for fumes than his sister was a devil who was inhabiting my brother. I had seen Father looking at him warily. I had to get Junior to our mother, I knew, so she could take care of us. I prayed for his recovery, though I could not think of anyone who had come back from the place Junior had gone.

The day before they were leaving in the
combi
, Marcos and his brothers told me, Ernesto, and Junior that they would allow us to ride with them. At the thought of bypassing a week on The Beast, of sleeping in a van instead of facing the sickening lurching, exhaustion, and terror of the train, I began to weep. “Do not cry, little bird,” said Marcos, putting his warm palm on the top of my head. “God is good.”

Junior remained expressionless.

In the yard where we played with the limp soccer ball, I told Junior that an inch in the
combi
was priceless—a chance to stay alive for another leg of the journey! Of course, the driver could be dishonest: he could drive us to a secluded spot and rob or kill us. But Marcos seemed to know what he was doing. “You can sit on my lap,” I told Junior. “You can sleep without fear. We have been blessed!”

Junior didn’t seem to hear me. He scanned the playground
for something more, something else, something I didn’t have to give.

The night before our departure, I could not sleep. Marcos had said we would leave before dawn. I thanked God for saving me from having to climb on the train again. I knew the
combi
route was dangerous, marked with immigration checkpoints, but nothing scared me as much as The Beast, and the things that could happen to a girl on The Beast at night.

Endless minutes later, I heard Ernesto’s voice. “Wake up, Carla,” he said. “We’re leaving now.”

I sat up, rubbing my face. I put my hand out, groping for my brother’s bony shoulder.

“Come, child,” said Father. “I will bless you all together before you depart.”

There was no bony shoulder. “Where’s Junior?” I whispered. I stood and went outside. The
combi
idled, surrounded by Marcos and his family. Ten of us would fit like an awkward jigsaw puzzle into the van. In the coal-colored night, I searched for Junior.

“God be with you,” began Father. His voice was warm honey. He told us that his blessing was from the families we had left behind, from the mothers and fathers and children we were going to El Norte to assist. He said the prayers were for those who had come before us, and for those who would soon arrive. We bowed our heads and thanked God for our lives, for God’s love and guidance. Father concluded, and I saw Ernesto put his arms around Juliana, holding her under the low sky. Maybe he did love
her; who knew? Hand in hand, they walked toward the truck.

Ernesto remembered me and looked back. “Carla,” he said. “Come. It’s time.”

“What about my brother?” I said. No one answered. We all knew Junior was seeking glue. The driver pressed his foot to the gas pedal, making the engine hum.

“God be with you,” said Father.

I was rooted to the ground. To get into the van would be to abandon Junior. It was the hardest decision I had made until this point. I thought about the lurching of The Beast. I thought about my hands, frozen solid, on the hopper rails. I thought about the man with the wolf eyes who had made me into a woman without my consent, how it had felt to be split apart.

“Carla,” said Marcos, “come, child. We must go.” The
combi
door remained open. The bodies of my companions, none of them my relative by blood, would be warm.

There is no other way to say it: I chose myself.

36
 

Alice

I
DROVE PAST THE
Whole Foods, across the interstate, to the Eastside. I parked in front of our house, ran up the walk, and threw open my door. Jake was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Evian and Sam were entwined in front of our television, watching
House Hunters International
and dry humping.

“Break it up!” I shouted. They separated quickly, Sam sitting up and putting his glasses on, Evian glaring at me sultrily, her lipstick smeared. “One of Sam’s friends was
shot
tonight,” said Evian defiantly. “And you are
not
going to tell me we can’t hang out and help each other
process
!”

“In fact, yes, I am,” I said. “I’m sorry, Sam, but you need to go home now. And Evian, so do you.”

Sam rose, murmured goodbye, and hustled out the
door. Evian glared at me. “Someone shot our friend,” she cried. She crossed her arms across her unbuttoned shirt.

“Evian, we need to talk,” I said. I sat down on the couch, and she turned her back to me. On the television, a man said, “They call this a bedroom?” I picked up the remote and turned it off.

“Listen,” I said. “I want to help you. But you can’t live here anymore. I’m going to take you home to your mom now.”

Evian turned to face me. Instead of screaming or protesting, she seemed resigned. She sighed. “Okay,” she said.

The usual dogs rushed my car as we drove toward Evian’s trailer. I shuddered. “They’re
dogs
,” said Evian nastily.

The trailer was filled with light, and when I stopped the car, a woman with dark hair came outside. She looked exhausted. I took a breath, prepared to open my door. But Evian leapt from the car and ran into her mother’s arms. They held each other, then went inside the trailer. I was unsure about what I should do. Evian had surprised me more than once already.

Slowly, I got out of the car and gathered Evian’s things. The dogs barked at me as I piled them outside the door. Before leaving, I called, “Bye!”

Evian opened the front door. “Um, Ms. Conroe?” she said. “Thanks.”

Evian’s mother appeared. “I appreciate you keeping an eye on this wild thing,” she said. “I do.”

“Okay,” I said. “Well, goodbye.”

I drove away feeling as if something in me had been scraped out. It seemed strange that no one was mad at me—not Evian, for returning her home; not her mother, for letting her stay with me. The truth was painful to admit—I didn’t matter all that much to either of them. As I stopped at a red light on South First, my phone buzzed with a message from Evian:
Can u take me to mall this wknd to get dress for Homecoming???

I texted back:
You got it
.