Orlando’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding? He learned the most painful part of your life in the heat of an argument?”
She nodded.
Shaking his head incredulously, he said, “Well, that’s the only way I’ve ever communicated with him. Thought it was just me.”
“It made a difference, I think. He has been gentler with me. In fact, since Mamá died and he had his heart problems, he has softened. You should give him a chance, before he dies. You may never forgive yourself. Piénsalo.”
“Oh no, no. I don’t need to think about anything concerning him,” he said, literally backing away from her. “Don’t start that again. Don’t worry. I will have no regrets, believe me.”
With that, he said goodnight and closed his door.
Señorita Garcia then turned to us and said, “Just be careful out there, whatever you choose to do, be careful. But not too careful. Have no regrets.”
No regrets. I now know that no matter what path you take, there will always be regrets. Siempre. For what you did, what you didn’t do, for what you should have done. There’s no escaping that fact. It’s how you live with the regrets that determines your life.
Waking before the sun, we gathered our things and barely had time to kiss a groggy Señorita Garcia goodbye. “Stay in touch. Let me know where you go. Send me math problems! No me olvides.” She was still talking as we closed the door.
It was dark as we rode through Mexico City to the bus terminal, but even in the dim light I was overwhelmed by the immensity of the city. Silhouetted against the sky were buildings as tall as mountains and beyond that the remaining blanket of a city stretching out as far as the eye could see.
Despite the early hour, the terminal was teeming with travelers, though most were sleepy and silent. Orlando handed Rosa and me two tickets and instructed us where to board the bus. Rosa reached into her handbag and he waved her off. “No, no, it’s all taken care of.” Then he motioned Manuel to follow him, and abruptly we were separated.
“Wait!” I shouted, and they both turned. “You’re sure he’ll be all right?” I asked plaintively. Orlando shot me a quick, hard look, reminding me to be more discreet, but fear for Manuel’s safety was more than I could bear.
Manuel stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me. “No te preocupes. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
I buried my nose in his chest and inhaled his scent. He lifted my face to his and kissed my forehead. Then he turned and, following Orlando, was swallowed up by the crowd.
Rosa took my arm, “Come on, mi hermanita, let’s begin our journey.” As she hurried me to our bus, she whispered, “We’re on our way! Can you believe it?” It was the first time I’d seen her excited about anything in a long time. In fact, I couldn’t remember a time when she’d seemed almost childlike with excitement. It was definitely contagious, but I couldn’t let go of my image of Manuel in some small, confined space.
Our first destination was Guadalajara, another six-hour trip. We were seated just a few rows behind the driver’s seat, so when Orlando finally took his seat and started up the bus, I kept my eyes on the back of his head, waiting for some sort of signal—a nod, eye contact, anything—to tell me that Manuel was on board and okay. But he simply watched the road ahead.
“Relax,” Rosa kept saying, squeezing my hand. “Everything is fine, I’m sure.”
While I had faith in Orlando—he was after all a Garcia—I could not rest easy. Even the videos on the hanging monitors added to my anxiety, for they were filled with men kicking, and screaming, and fighting. I fidgeted in my seat, flip-flopping just like the ninjas on the screen, until the woman in front of me leaned over her seat back and hissed, “¡Basta! Will you please sit still!”
Rosa spoke up immediately, “Please forgive her; she is very nervous.”
“I don’t care what her problem is, she is driving me crazy.”
An old woman sitting beside Rosa asked, “¿Por qué? Why is she nervous? Where is she going?”
Rosa and I exchanged a glance, and what I heard Rosa say almost made my eyes bulge out of their sockets. With a face as serious as a nun’s, Rosa said to each of the women in a whisper, “Mamá is sending her to become the wife of an old man in Guadalajara.”
All anger disappeared. Their eyes and voices softened at once. “Oh pobrecita, you poor thing,” they murmured.
The woman in front sat down, then turned again, and through the crack between the seats said, “May la Virgen bless you with a kind man.”
“Perhaps he’ll be too old to bother you,” the woman by the window mused. “Perhaps he’ll die and leave you some money while you’re still young.”
Rosa squeezed my hand tight, but I couldn’t hold back the giggle— and neither could she. We snorted and sniffled. I rubbed the tears from my eyes and tried to keep my lips turned down in a frown. After that, I felt a bit better.
In Guadalajara, we were to switch to another bus that would take us the longest distance, through Mazatlán to Hermosillo—only three hours from the border city of Nogales. Orlando had arranged to drive that bus as well.
We waited by the first bus until it was empty, then watched as Orlando disappeared toward the back. A few moments later, Manuel appeared, face flushed, hair soaked, carrying a blue shirt in his hand.
Orlando walked behind him. “Put that away for now,” he said pointing to the shirt. “Put it back on once you get inside again.” Then handing me some money, he said, “Take this. Get him something to drink—and get yourselves something as well. I’ll meet you right here in thirty minutes.”
“No hay problema. I’m all right,” Manuel said even before we could ask. “From time to time it gets
