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.
Jake’s truck was parked on Mildred. Happiness flooded my body at the sight of it. I heard Beau’s voice as I parked the car, and found Jake, Beau, and Camilla in our backyard. “Honey!” said Jake, his face alight at the sight of me.
“Honey,” I answered.
“We brought margaritas,” said Beau.
“The girls are asleep,” said Camilla. “I have the baby monitor in one hand and a margarita in the other. Is this bad parenting?”
“I don’t think so,” said Beau, touching her hair. We only had three porch chairs, so I sank into Jake’s lap. He put his arms on either side of me. I was home.
37
Carla
THE COMBI DROVE all night, and I tried to sleep. Although I was more tired than I had ever been, I stared out the window, unable to rest. We took back roads. At one point in the journey, we stopped to relieve ourselves. My eyes and mouth felt caked with sand. The night smelled of sage. I wondered if Junior had returned to the shelter. I tried to comprehend that I would never see him again.
After a few minutes, the driver said, “Get back inside.”
Marcos and his brothers filed quickly into the combi. They were professionals: sleeping every instant it was possible, completely alert and ready to run in a fraction of a second if necessary. I moved reluctantly. My brain was not well—I considered walking back down the road, finding Junior and telling him he was mistaken: I was not the kind of person who could leave her brother behind.
“Carla!” said Ernesto.
I stood and crammed myself into the combi. I was more afraid of the darkness than I was of becoming a stranger to myself.
When the sky was lavender, the combi dropped us in an alley near the train station. In Mexico City, the farthest north I had ever been, I looked heavenward and gave thanks. I was still alive.
I knew I should feel elated to have made it out of Chiapas. I was one more train ride from the United States border. But leaving my brother had given me an illness. Around me, my friends were in good spirits, but I felt achy and exhausted. Marcos told us to be patient and wait for the correct train, which would take us to Nuevo Laredo, located across the Rio Bravo from Laredo, Texas. “I have no Dodge Ram in California!” he said. “A train bound for Tijuana or Nogales does nothing for me!”
Now that I had failed my brother, I began to feel that my journey was without value. If I showed myself to la migra, told them I was Honduran, I would be sent on the so-called Bus of Tears to Tegucigalpa. I would not be crying, however. I would be thinking of Humberto and the life we could begin. We would not have much for food, and there was the smell of the dump, but even so, it was heaven on earth compared to Mexico City.
The harsh morning illuminated ugly Lechería Station. I looked at the violent graffiti (Jesus stabbed with a knife, for example, or a gun against the head of a child) and knew that evil people watched us, waiting to see what they could take. My will to move forward was small. I was afraid.
In a shop window, I saw myself for the first time since I had left Tegu. My eye was swollen and ringed in bluish brown where I had been hit on the train. A large cut—almost healed—had left a scar on my cheek. I was so skinny you could see the bones beneath my face. I looked like a starving mongrel. I stared at the glass. What had I become?
We spent a night by the tracks, and still the correct train did not arrive. It felt like a sign. I had forsaken my brother and I hated myself. I watched the dirty sky through eyes covered in grit. What was the point of this?
Finally, my head on discarded newspaper, I dreamed. I thought of Humberto—his arms, his hands, and his lips. He would not have to know I had been raped on the train. I could never tell him of my shame—I would be cast out of my village if anyone knew, and Humberto, much as he loved me, could never make a good life with me, marrying (as we had planned) in Maria Auxiliadora Church.
But there was no one to tell him, now that Junior was lost. I could stand at the altar in a white wedding gown. I felt that God would forgive me. And when Humberto touched my body, it would be healed.
I woke with a feeling that there was something left for me. I found Ernesto next to Juliana and told him I was going back to Tegu. “Why, when we are so close?” he asked.
“I’m sick,” I said. “I need to go home.”
Juliana put her cool hand on my forehead. She shook her head. “No fever,” she said. Her eyes were kind. “Don’t you understand?” she said.
“Understand what?” I said.
“Carla,” said Ernesto, “we have no home.”
38
Alice