With that she ushered Rosa and I down a hallway, telling Manuel over her shoulder to sit for a moment and she’d be right with him. I saw him look helplessly around and finally perch on the edge of a wooden bench.
After soaking in a warm tub of lavender suds, Rosa and I sat on a bed in a room with a door that closed. I had just finished brushing and braiding Rosa’s hair, and she had begun to brush mine. I gazed at a painting on the wall of sunflowers in a basket, feeling like I was in a dream.
“Everyone has been so kind,” Rosa was saying. “It’s like the world is helping us along the way, day by day—like it was meant to be.” She stopped for a moment and touched my arm, so I turned. Her eyes were shining as she said, “Maybe we will get to el norte. Maybe we will find Papá.”
I hugged her tightly and clung to her words as well. But something about this kindness frightened me, though I wouldn’t speak of it to Rosa. I knew there was not an endless supply of goodness in this world, and it worried me when things went too well. I found myself wishing that bad things were happening, so I could look forward to the good. Instead, I felt a gnawing anxiety of what might be lurking around our next corner. I immediately pushed these dark thoughts from my mind and turned to focus on the sunflowers. As I shifted on the bed, a sharp pain radiated down my arm from my healing shoulder. It would always plague me, I knew, but was it proof that I’d paid my dues or a reminder that in life there would always be pain?
Tired of my own thoughts, I reached for my journal while Rosa continued to brush my hair.
Math Problem #3
Señor Garcia, who is 68 years old, has read, on the average, 8 books every month for the last 47 years. If he continues this pace, how many more years must he live to reach his goal of 10,000 books? If this is not possible, how many books must he read each month to achieve this goal by the age of 90?
8
The Length of Mexico
Professor Garcia studied his daughter quietly while she laid out our story of a missing father, a mother and her dubious boyfriend in Chiapas, and finally, of our hope to try to learn something of our papá, who may or may not be in el norte. When she finished speaking, he kept his gaze on her for a few moments, then, clearing his throat, he turned and spoke directly to Rosa and me.
“I sense my daughter is skirting the real issue here. You are thinking of going to el norte?” Before we could answer, he continued. “You know this is a very dangerous idea. Thousands have died in the deserts alone, not to mention the criminals smuggling drugs across the border or preying on innocent victims like two young women. You’ve heard of Ciudad Juárez?”
“¡Papá!” Señorita Garcia interrupted, but her father placed a hand in the air to stop her.
“I’m just laying out the facts,” he said, still addressing us. “I’m sure you’ve heard all of this before.”
Ciudad Juárez was spoken of even as far south as Chiapas. Everyone knew of the hundreds of women found dead in that god-forsaken border town and the lack of evidence—and effort—to solve their murders.
Sitting around a table in the garden, we had just finished eating while listening to the birds flitting above and inhaling the scent of some sweet blossom that perfumed the air. Rosa was dressed in a pale blue blouse that Lupe had given her, and I had been thinking how lovely she looked and how she should be married to a professor and living in a house just like this. Thoughts of Ciudad Juárez shattered that vision until Rosa placed her hand on Señorita Garcia’s to calm her and turned soft eyes toward the professor.
“You are quite right,” she said, “so please, tell us, what do you suggest?” How I wished I had her composure and grace.
He smiled, “You mean beyond not going at all?”
She nodded.
He sighed and, removing his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “If I were your father, I would not want you to risk your lives. ¡Absolutamente no!”
At this I could not keep still. “We are not risking our lives! Thousands of people cross the border with no problem. You make it sound so doomed.”
“Yes, doomed and very dangerous, and Elena,” he said, now turning to his daughter, “I hope you have no intention of aiding this plan beyond your sympathies, an excellent dinner, and a good night’s rest, for if you are once again going to champion another grand cause, may I say that I am not pleased that my daughter wishes to become an expert in human smuggling. This is illegal, you are aware?” He turned to each one of us. “¿Ilegal, entiendes?”
“You are impossible! I knew I shouldn’t have included you in this,” said Señorita Garcia as she sat back in disgust. “‘Championing another grand cause’? ‘Expert in human smuggling’? I don’t know what I was thinking.” Her black eyes flared as she crossed her arms tightly across her chest.
“Were you thinking that I would be obnoxiously pedantic and didactic, but ultimately obliging and fiercely supportive?” Her father pushed back his chair.
I wasn’t entirely sure what he was saying, but I was fascinated by the fireworks between father and daughter—and I couldn’t help but wonder what Papá and I would sound like at that age.
Rosa, however, was more focused on the message. “Illegal?” she kept saying. “Illegal? I hadn’t thought of that.”
“¡Dios mío! Illegal in whose eyes!” Maestra was standing now. “You’re trying to find your father! If you feel following his path might give you information . . . even some closure . . . well, who under God’s blue sky
