“You mentioned a detention center once. Where is this place? Perhaps we can find him there?” My voice was stronger now.
He looked at me a long while before he spoke. “It has been too long for that, I’m afraid. He would have been released by now, deported back to Mexico, and he certainly would have been able to contact us.”
“He could be ill or injured,” I paused. “Or there could be some other reason?” I watched his eyes closely, but all I saw was sadness.
Before we left him, he offered us tacos, and then reaching into his tin box, gathered up some bills and pressed them into Rosa’s hand. “God be with you,” he whispered. “Please let me know if you learn anything about Juan.”
We rode the bus back in silence.
This I remember vividly. As we passed familiar sights, it felt different to me, empty, cheerless, forlorn. Oaxaca was not home. Nor was I Papá’s little girl, the giggly yet serious student, anymore. I wasn’t sure who I was or where I belonged. I glanced at Manuel who had taken the seat in front of us so we sad sisters could sit together. I leaned against the window and closed my eyes. Something was pulling me north, away from Chiapas and Mamá, away from Oaxaca, pulling me north with Manuel toward whatever I could learn about Papá. But Rosa? I reached for Rosa’s hand. She responded by grasping mine in both of hers. “What now, Rosa?” I asked softly. “Where do you want to be? What feels right to you? With Mamá? With Lupe? Here in Oaxaca with Mundo or Señorita Garcia? ¿Dónde?”
I remind myself often that I asked her this, and that when she turned her face to mine, her eyes were bright with tears as she answered firmly, “Wherever you are is my home. Contigo. Let’s go look for Papá.”
Two days later, Señorita Garcia drove us to Mexico City to meet her brother. In all it took about six hours, plus one stop to eat our packed lunch. Rosa sat in front, so I was able to sit in back with Manuel, holding his hand the whole way. I loved how he played with my fingers and sometimes tickled my thigh. I took his hand and placed the tips of his fingers on my pimienta de cayena scar, running them back and forth and thinking how one day I would show him. A couple of times, I leaned my head on his shoulder and dozed off for a while. There was something special about this quiet time where we couldn’t really talk privately, yet the touch of our hands spoke volumes.
Shortly after we had first settled into the car and were on our way, Señorita Garcia told us about her brother, which explained some of the awkwardness we’d felt whenever she spoke his name around her father. Apparently, Orlando, unlike the rest of his family, had detested school, finished reluctantly with poor grades, and then left home at sixteen, refusing to go to university. His passion was soccer, a sport he had tried to pursue until an injury ended his chances. He now drove a bus for a living. While he had kept in touch with his sister and his mother, he and his father had not spoken in years. Señorita Garcia had tried many times to get them to reconcile, but both were too stubborn.
“Even at our mother’s funeral,” Señorita Garcia said sadly. “It would have broken her heart to see how they avoided each other. Tan triste.”
I was thinking how tragic this was when Manuel suddenly spoke up, “What would it accomplish? It wouldn’t change anything. Your father will always be disappointed in him, and your brother will always carry that with him.”
The car was quiet for a while. No one spoke. Each of us following our own train of thought with this last statement. My heart ached for Manuel, trying desperately to join his brother and make his family— his father—proud. I hoped I wasn’t holding him back or slowing him down, although this latest turn of events, that was taking us the length of Mexico, was certainly a stroke of good luck. I squeezed his arm, and he gave me a half smile.
Señorita Garcia’s thoughts apparently led from Orlando to me, for she glanced up at me in the rearview mirror and said, “Alma, wherever you end up, go back to school, and especially if you get to el norte. If you settle there, take advantage of their adult school. Learn English as soon as you can—it is free. And pick up your math again. You must.” She moved her eyes from the road to me repeatedly. “Promise me, wherever you end up, you will go back to school. ¿Sí?” Her eyes were waiting for my answer. I had shown her my math journal the day before, and she had been beyond thrilled, immediately checking and confirming my answers.
“Sí,” I promised, though the thought of going to a school in America terrified me. I hadn’t been to school here in two years. Would I be able to catch up anywhere after falling so far behind? I met her eyes in the mirror and managed a smile. “And I will continue my math journal, too,” I reassured her.
She nodded. “Good. You can always come back here, you know. When your journey is finished, you can always come back.” When she spoke those words, I had an inkling even then that I might never return to Oaxaca.
We approached Mexico City by late afternoon. At first, we were stunned by the tall imposing buildings in the distance, but as we got closer, it was the endlessness of the city that took our breath away. No matter which direction we looked, homes and buildings stretched beyond the horizon, until they looked like little ants marching up to
