“No, no, no.” She rattled off a long rant in Spanish about how Antonia didn’t know what she was doing and how much of a burden it was to have to handle so many children. “You have to go back to Catemaco. Right away.” She took some pesos from the center pocket of her dark skirt. “Here. Now go right back and wait for the next bus.”
Though utterly confused, I didn’t think it was my place to question her authority, so I did as I was told and walked the kilometer back to the bus stop I’d just left. I waited for another bus to take me back to Catemaco. By now, the sun blazed down on me, my tummy growled, and I couldn’t stop licking my lips because they were so dry. Why didn’t I get something to drink while I was in Calería? Thankfully, the bus arrived soon, and I again found a seat —and shade from the noonday sun. I smiled and tried to find adventure in going back. Once the bus arrived back in Catemaco, I disembarked and headed for the apartment of Rafael and Antonia.
I opened the door only to hear Antonia shout, “What are you doing back here? Did you not understand me when I sent you to Calería? Where are the pesos I gave you?” implying that I had spent them on myself.
“May I please get a drink of water? Then I’ll tell you the whole story.” By that time, Rafael, Gabriel, and Hyrum had joined us in the tiny kitchen. I felt more gawked at than I had been on the bus. I shared my tale and then cowered as I waited for the anger to erupt from Antonia’s lips. But though I could see that she and her husband were highly annoyed, they didn’t direct their anger toward me. Instead, Rafael and Antonia talked about the crazy lady in Calería who had sent home the little girl who’d only just arrived.
This time, Rafael handed me pesos for yet another bus ride. He squatted down in front of me, his breath hot on my face as he sternly said, “Go to Calería and stay there. Do not come back to Catemaco, no matter what they tell you. Do you understand?”
I gulped and nodded, not trusting my voice to answer him aloud.
Any remaining sense of adventure had left, any enthusiasm vanished, any joy about my day dried up like the hot, Mexican sun. I trudged back to the bus stop and waited for the next bus to Calería. The bus was much more crowded this time. I joined workers on the way to their menial jobs and had no choice but to stand for the entire trip. My legs ached, and I felt weak from hunger.
Once I arrived back in Calería, I returned to the concrete house and experienced the same surprise and annoyance that Rafael and Antonia had greeted me with in Catemaco. I waited for the adults to stop talking —and shouting —to explain myself. “Rafael said, ‘Go to Calería, and stay there.’”
Ultimately, they agreed to let me stay, for which I felt grateful. I don’t think I could have faced another bus ride. No one ever explained their reasoning to me, so I never found out why they had shuffled me back and forth from Calería to Catemaco over that long, hot day. But the experience helped me understand my worth —or lack thereof —to all the adults around me.
I felt unloved and unwanted, a little girl who was nothing more than a nuisance. With no father or mother around to protect me or see to my needs, I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, especially where I ended up that day. I hadn’t eaten anything the whole time, during any of the bus rides or the short stops before being turned around. I was starving. But that physical hunger paled in comparison to my hunger for someone —anyone —to care for me and want me.
In Calería, the adults sent me to the little store nearby on a regular basis. At the time, I thought they trusted me to do a good job, when in actuality they couldn’t risk being seen in public for fear of the authorities tracking them to my father and other outlaws in our group.
Being light-skinned, fair-haired Americans, we really stood out. Mexican residents always noticed our comings and goings because of that. Plus, our neighbors must have thought it strange that we had so many people crammed into two houses next door to each other. Rena and her family lived next door to Lorna, another of my father’s wives.
On one of my shopping trips to the little corner store, the teenage daughter of the store owner showed a special interest in me. She was so pretty with her long, brown hair, and she seemed so normal. I had quietly observed her going to school on the city bus carrying her books in her leather mochila and envied her life I could only dream about.
In Spanish, she eagerly greeted me when I entered the store. “Well, look here, it’s little Anna. How are you today?” She grinned and waved.
I told her I was fine and headed for the aisle with coffee.
“Wait, come talk to me.”
I eyed her suspiciously and stayed rooted in place.
“Silly girl. I’m not going to hurt you. Come on. I’ll give you a free Coke.” She held a glass bottle of soda, something I’d had so rarely that I could count the times on one hand. I couldn’t resist.
I hurried behind the counter, and she picked me up and placed me next to the cash register. “So, tell me about your family.”
I took several gulps of the glorious liquid and enjoyed the fizzy bubbles. My delay tactic gave me time to think. I knew better than to answer her questions, and I deflected them with short, abrupt answers.
My heart raced and my face flushed. “What do you mean?”
“Where are your mom and dad?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.
“What is your dad’s name?”
“I don’t know,” I lied.
Thankfully, she stopped questioning me.
Mom would be so proud of me. The girl’s gift of a Coke to bribe me into revealing family secrets had been wasted.
It was the first time I recall lying to avoid someone finding out about our family. But doing so became easier as time went on.
I LISTENED TO RENA’S SOFT ALTO VOICE float a melody through the tiny house in Calería. I was lying on a thin mattress on the floor, with no pillow, staring up at the underside of the metal roof and trying to imagine happier times and places, such as when I was with my mom. Why did we have to be apart? Rena finished singing “Oh, You Can’t Get to Heaven” in hushed tones. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she told us the story of attending high school in the United States. For a few brief moments, I imagined a world far from my own living nightmare.
The days here weren’t any different than they were in Catemaco. I earned money to buy food for the family by selling cake slices, and I scrubbed clothes on an old-fashioned washboard, hanging them on the clothesline out back to dry. At any given time, we might have anywhere from nine to twenty of my father’s followers and children living under the same roof. That many people produced tons of dirty clothes.
“Good night, kids.” Rena slowly got up off the floor where she had been sitting, leaning against the concrete wall. I could hear fatigue in her grunts.