She shook her fist at him. All she needed was to arrive wet and bedraggled on top of everything else. Cursing under her breath, she hitched up her shoulder bag and kept walking. About a quarter mile down the road, the same truck had pulled over to fix a flat. Apparently the pothole had damaged his tire. Maria bid the driver buenas noches, cheered by the poetic justice.
It was dusk when she reached her mother’s house. Delfina was pumping fresh water from the well, her puny arm flexing. She was frail and delicate, barely five feet tall. She’d been diagnosed with Williams syndrome, a rare genetic disorder, about ten years ago.
Delfina was special in more ways than one. She adored people of all ages and took great interest in their daily routines. The locals called her hadita, or little fairy, because of her small stature and pointy features. Maria had spoken with her only twice over the past four years because Delfina didn’t do well on the phone. She lived in the present, unconcerned with the past or the future. She also had poor eyesight, enhanced by thick glasses. Maria didn’t know if her sister would recognize her.
As Maria approached the pump, Delfina set down the full bucket. Maria opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
“?Eres mi hermana?” Delfina asked. Are you my sister?
Maria’s vision blurred with tears. “Sí.”
“Mi hermana, mi hermana,” Delfina sang, rushing forward. She loved repeating things. She repeated it about ten more times as they embraced. Maria’s throat closed up and she couldn’t respond. She couldn’t do anything but sob in Delfina’s arms.
After a moment of blubbering, they broke apart and Delfina ran toward the cottage to alert their mother. Maria picked up the forgotten bucket and carried it to the front door. Her mother was standing at the kitchen stove, patting tortillas into the proper shape.
Maria got choked up again at the sight of her mother. She was short and round and substantial. Womanly everywhere Maria was not. Embracing Delfina was like holding a hummingbird, but hugging her mother was like falling into a soft bed. It was the best comfort. The kitchen smelled delicious, adding to Maria’s pleasure. Next to the fresh tortillas, there were pots of beans and rice and shredded chicken. Maria’s stomach rumbled as her mother began a series of rapid-fire questions.
Why didn’t you call? What happened to you in the U.S.? Are you hurt? Are you hungry? Did you get deported?
“I’ll tell you after we eat,” she promised.
“You look tired, m’ija.”
“She is sad,” Delfina said.
“These are happy tears,” Maria insisted.
Delfina shook her head. She didn’t understand happy tears. Or maybe she understood more than Maria gave her credit for. There was a trace of sorrow beneath Maria’s joy. Leaving Ian hadn’t been any easier than leaving her family.
“Where’s Hugo?” she asked, glancing around. Her little brother hadn’t come out to greet her, which was odd. He was desperate for news from the United States, and eager to go there as soon as he was old enough to risk the journey.
Her mother didn’t answer. Now she looked sad.
“Is he okay?”
“Maybe we should discuss that after dinner as well.”
“Tell me now.”
Her mother removed the tortillas from the pan and turned down the heat. Then she sank into a chair. Her black hair had more gray than Maria remembered. The wiry mass had silver threads shot throughout, not just at her temples. “He ran away yesterday.”
Maria sat across from her, stunned. “Where to?”
“To the U.S. He left a note saying he would join you in San Diego.”
Maria clapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t sent word to her mother that she was coming home because of an old family superstition. It was better to arrive unexpectedly than not to arrive as expected. She’d also felt uneasy, as if someone was watching her. She hadn’t been able to relax until after she delivered the letter.
Delfina didn’t seem concerned about Hugo, but she never imagined bad things happening. She flitted around the kitchen, twirling her skirt.
“How is he going to get there?” Maria asked. Her mother couldn’t afford to pay for a trip across the border. Smugglers charged thousands of dollars per customer.
Her mother’s eyes watered and she didn’t answer.
“La Bestia,” Delfina said, excited. “He’s riding La Bestia.”
The Beast.
Maria’s stomach dropped at this news. La Bestia was a train that took the poorest, most desperate travelers across Mexico. Immigrants from Central America rode it all the way to the United States. They climbed up the sides and sat on top because there was no other way to board. Every year there were dozens of crushing injuries and fatalities. Some passengers fell asleep and rolled off. Others got accidently jostled or attacked by bandits.
Delfina didn’t remember, or perhaps she’d never been told, about the incident that would haunt Maria forever. It was the reason behind the family superstition. The one time her father had sent a message that he was coming home, he’d failed to arrive.
Because he’d fallen from the train, to his death.
Chapter 3
Maria went to bed early and slept for fourteen hours straight.
When she woke up in the morning, she felt much better. There was no place like home. No room more comfortable than hers, no food with better flavor than her mother’s. No town more peaceful. The air was warm and inviting, the pace of life less frenzied than San Diego or Tijuana.
She didn’t know what they would do for money, other than making and selling more pottery. Bigger cities offered greater opportunities, but she wasn’t eager to hit the road again. She needed some time to recover from the horrors of the Hotel del Oro, and some distance from Ian, to let her heart heal.