Rosa. Something about Rosa. I struggled to remember.
Fleeting images came first. Rosa limping along the road to Oaxaca. Rosa making dolls with Lupe. Rosa laughing beside a camp fire . . . in Nogales? Yes, and with Manuel! I remembered Manuel! His dark eyes like coals warming my heart. Where was my Manuel?
Then I saw the border fence imposing and high. Beyond that, no images. Nothing more.
But I could feel something dark. Something as ominous as the thick fog and the whistling wind atop the box car. Like dry ice, a chilling flame bore into my stomach, then spread down my legs. I shivered. Wedged teeth chattered like mice feet on a dirt floor. Closing my eyes tight, I willed myself back into the void.
A small man, dressed in a gray suit with a black shirt and striped tie, sat beside my bed. His dark hair was slicked back neatly; silver framed glasses rested halfway down a thin nose. Everything about him was perfect. Even the way he sat, with his back arched and his head held high. He too spoke in Spanish. His voice sounded far away, even though he sat right beside me. Like the woman with the eyes of a saint, he spoke of safety. He told me I had nothing to fear, yet in saying that he was telling me that there had been something to fear—and that terrified me. I think I made a noise, for he sat forward suddenly, and holding forth a pad of paper and a pen, he asked me if I had any questions for him. Our eyes connected for a moment; then I turned away. He sighed and sat back in his chair.
I closed my eyes and tried desperately to push the sound of his voice even further away. But I heard him just the same. He said he was a doctor, that he wanted to help ease my pain, my emotional pain. Did I have any family? Someone they could call? I kept my head turned and my eyes closed. Silence. One minute, two. Then I heard the leather of his shoes creak as he leaned forward. But when his cold fingers touched my arm, I screamed with such force that something burst in my mouth. A team of doctors and nurses spent the next hour fastening it back together again.
Whenever I moaned in pain, the nurses brought medicine that kept me shrouded in fog. I’d curl up inside the tent of white sheets and let the mists of oblivion wash over me.
The kind woman with the round face sat beside me again, coaxing a straw between my lips and urging me to drink. I found comfort in her eyes. They were full of sad wisdom. They were forgiving. I watched as she placed the straw in the glass and, keeping her finger over the tip, lifted a straw full of juice to my parted lips. As she released it, I felt most of the cool liquid drip down my chin, but a hint of sweetness managed to slip through.
I woke to the sounds of men arguing in the harsh tones of English. One voice sounded familiar.
When it slipped into Spanish, I recognized my perfect little doctor. “No, no está lista!” She is not ready, he was saying in between his anguished attempts in English to deter the other man, who strode firmly into my room like a stubborn rooster. Not ready for what?
He was a tall, thin white man with tan pants and a blue jacket. His white shirt was wrinkled; he wore no tie. My doctor stood beside him, tight-lipped, arms crossed, in an immaculate black suit.
The tall man’s face softened into a smile as he spoke to me in English. My doctor said in Spanish, “This gentleman is an official from the police, and he wants to ask you a few questions.” As I looked into the dark eyes behind the silver frames, I knew that this was one time he hoped I’d remain silent.
They each pulled up a chair and sat beside my bed. With my doctor translating in soft hushed tones, I was asked once again, “What is your name? Where are you from?” And then, “Can you tell us what happened?” He held up a white board and held forth a pen.
I kept my breathing slow and even. I looked past both men into the gray sky beyond the window and tried not to hear their voices. I could see the top of a palm tree in the distance.
“Take your time. Any information at all is fine.”
I conjured the sound of the train’s rhythmic roar over the tracks. I even began to sway to the rhythm. Raataataat. Raataataat. Raataataat. Their voices became muffled. Raataataat. Raataataat. Fainter and fainter.
But the next question seemed to anger my doctor, for his voice rose above the rattling of my train, so I paused and listened.
“No,” he was saying, refusing to translate.
The thin man turned directly to me and said two words in English. Words that I knew well, for my father had said them to me before after making lists of numbers to add. In Spanish and then in English, he would say, “¿Cuántos? How many?”
“How many?” this man asked again softly. “How many . . . men?” He held up his hand, one finger, two fingers, then three. My doctor pushed back his chair and rose in anger.
“¡Basta! Enough!” he shouted.
But it was too late. Those simple words . . . how many . . . men . . . pierced through my walls and tore open my thoughts. I saw Rosa’s swollen face. I smelled the rancid breath of a man laughing above me.
“Rosa!” I screamed through clenched jaw. I writhed in agony feeling strong hands
