I saw myself in a hammock, blue sky above me, Esteban giving me an occasional absentminded push, while MaMaLu sang as she hung clothes up to dry. Those afternoon naps in the gardens of Casa Paloma, with my nanny and her son, were my earliest memories. Hummingbirds buzzed over red and yellow hibiscus, and bougainvillea spilled from fat, unkempt hedges.
Ay, yai, yai, yai,
Sing and do not cry,
Because singing cheers us up,
Cielito lindo, our hearts. . .
MaMaLu sang when Esteban or I got hurt. She sang when we couldn’t sleep. She sang when she was happy, and she sang when she was sad.
Canta y no llores
Sing and do not cry . . .
But the tears came. I cried because I couldn’t sing. I cried because my tongue could not form the words. I cried because MaMaLu and blue skies and hummingbirds defied the darkness. I cried as I held on to them, and slowly, one step at a time, Terror retreated.
I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. I was still engulfed in darkness, but I was aware of a constant rocking motion. Maybe my senses were starting to kick in. I tried to flex my fingers.
Please.
Be there.
Work.
Nothing.
My head was still pounding, from where he’d knocked me out, but beyond its boom-boom-boom there were voices, and they were getting closer.
“You pass through Ensenada often?” A woman’s voice.
I couldn’t make out the whole reply, but it was deeper, definitely male.
“ . . . I’ve never got the red light before,” he was saying.
My abductor’s voice, etched in my brain, along with his shoes.
“No big deal. Just a random check before . . . crossing the border.” The woman’s voice was fading in and out. “I need to make sure . . . vessel’s serial number matches the engine’s.”
The border.
Ensenada.
Shit.
The rocking motion suddenly made sense. I was on a boat, probably the same one he’d taken me out to. We were at Ensenada, the port of entry into Mexico, about 70 miles south of San Diego, and the lady was most likely a customs officer.
My heart picked up.
This is it. Your chance to escape, Skye.
Get her attention. You have to get her attention!
I screamed and screamed, but I couldn’t make a sound. Whatever he’d given me had paralyzed my vocal cords.
I heard footsteps above, which made me think I was probably in some kind of storage space below the deck.
“Just to verify, you’re Damian Caballero?” the woman asked.
“Damian,” he corrected. Dah-me-yahn. Not Day-me-yun.
“Well, everything looks like it’s in order. I’ll take a pic of your hull identification number and then you can be on your way.”
No! I was losing my window of opportunity.
I couldn’t kick or scream, but I found I could roll, so that’s what I did. Left to right, side to side. I rocked, harder, faster, not knowing if I was knocking up against anything, not knowing if it was making any difference. The sixth or seventh time I did it, I heard something grate above me, like wood scraping against wood.
Oh please.
Please, please, please, please.
I put everything into it, even though it was making me dizzy.
Something crashed. A loud thud. And suddenly it wasn’t so dark anymore.
“What was that?” the woman asked.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“It sounded like it came from below. Mind if I take a look?”
Yes!
“What do you have in here?” Her voice was clearer now.
She was close.
Really close.
“Ropes, chains, fishing equipment . . .”
I was starting to make out faint lines running vertically above me, inches from my face.
Yes. I can see! My eyes are okay!
I heard a lock turn and then the room flooded with glorious, blinding light that made me want to weep.
I tried to align my eyes with the gaps above me, the ones that allowed the light through. It looked like I was on the floor, trapped under planks of wood.
A man’s silhouette appeared on the stairs, with another figure behind him.
I’m here.
I started to rock furiously.
“Looks like one of your crates fell over,” said the customs officer.
I pushed it over. Find me. Please find me.
“Yep.” He walked towards me. “I just need to secure them.” He jammed his leg against my crate, preventing it from moving.
I could see the lady clearly now, through the slits of the lid—not all of her, but her hands and torso. She was holding some paperwork, and there was a walkie-talkie hanging from her belt.
I’m here.
Look up from your clipboard. You’ll see the light shining on my eye.
One step forward and you can’t miss me.
One. Lousy. Step.
“Need some help?” she asked, as the man picked up the crate that I’d managed to dislodge and put it back on top of me.
Yes! HELP. Help me, you dumb twat!
“I got it,” he replied. “A bit of rope, some hooks and . . . we’re good to go. There. All secured.”
“Those are some good-sized crates. Expecting a big catch?” I heard the thud of her steps on the stairs.
No! Come back.
I’m sorry I called you a dumb twat.
Don’t leave me.
PLEASE.