I responded to no one except the woman with the eyes of a saint. Her name was Ana. Ana Lopez. I answered her because she asked so little. “Juice or milk? Is this light too bright? Curtain open or closed?” Only once, she asked gently, “Quién es Rosa?” and when she saw my eyes and heard my groan, she let it be.
Of her, I asked three questions on the white board. “Where am I?” “How did I get here?” and “Was I alone?” She said that I was found lying by the entrance of the emergency room here in Nogales, Arizona—alone.
No one else in a similar state was brought in at that time. No young woman, no young man. Only me. Alone.
When she asked me where I was from—the United States, Mexico, Central America—I realized they knew nothing about me. In fact, I was referred to as Jane Doe. I didn’t answer, and she didn’t ask again.
It was the doctor, the perfect one, Dr. Ramírez, who would not let it rest, for he wanted to contact someone, anyone, who could bring me comfort, he said.
But I deserved no such thing.
I stopped moaning for the medicine so that I could feel the pain. In fact, I worked at making it worse—tightening my jaw repeatedly or jerking my shoulder back and forth—when no one was there, of course. And I made myself remember everything . . . vividly . . . so I would endure it again and again. This I deserved. For it was all my fault.
Ana watched me quietly. She was not a nurse, I discovered, but an aide, and so could not bring me medicine. But she tried to ease my pain in other ways, even when I said no. A soft pillow under my shoulder, a gentle massage at the base of my neck. Once I saw her add some herbs to a drink that she then coaxed between my lips. Yet I noticed that when doctors or nurses entered the room, she seemed to disappear into the surroundings. If spoken to, she would cast her eyes downward and draw into herself, then nod and hurry off to get whatever was demanded.
One evening she entered my room with an uncharacteristic air of nervousness. Pulling up a chair, she actually sat down and whispered that she’d overheard the nurses talking. They said that it was believed I had been attacked while crossing the border. Apparently, my sunburned face, cactus scratches on my arms and legs, blisters on my feet, as well as a degree of dehydration, gave it away. They also said that a similar attack had happened weeks before.
“They are planning to move you.” Ana spoke so quickly I had to focus on her Spanish, as her dialect was slightly different. “They are sending you to an immigrant detention center soon, where it’s hoped you will recover from your injuries and co-operate with authorities. If you don’t, you could be kept indefinitely at the center, and, mi niña, it is like a prison there.”
As I listened, I pushed aside my rising fears and decided this was the punishment I deserved. Imprisonment would be an apt penance.
But Ana had another plan. She said she could sneak me out of the hospital and take me somewhere where I could get strong. When I shook my head, she wisely whispered, “Once you’re strong, you will be better able to find out about . . . Rosa.”
I turned anguished eyes to hers and mumbled slowly through my lips, “I know about Rosa. Ya sé de ella.”
My stomach churned as I imagined her abandoned body decaying just like those we had come upon together. And all because of me. I had insisted we cross again. I had convinced her—pushed her—to try just one more time. And I had led her to an end far worse than the one she had feared in the desert. In the desert, we might have kept the hope of imminent rescue alive. In the desert, we might have had time for a coming to peace. But the end she met was one of despair and terror. I might as well have stripped off her clothes for them.
I turned away from Ana and curled up into a tight ball. My shoulder throbbed; I yanked it over harder still.
But she persisted. “You don’t know. You don’t know anything for certain. Ahora escúchame. Perhaps someone found her, and they’re caring for her.” Ana leaned in closer, “Someone who would not go to authorities.”
I knew she was onto me. I knew she was trying to save me from myself, but she had a point. What if Rosa was alive? What if she needed me? If I had survived, perhaps Rosa had, too, and Manuel. Oh, my sweet Manuel. What fate had he met at their cruel hands? I remembered the chilling silence when I shouted for him near the end. He’d have been better off riding the trains with the boys from Guatemala. But he’d chosen to stay with me.
I turned to Ana and for the first time looked into her eyes without turning quickly away. The pain reflected there was overwhelming. I grasped her hand.
Tears flowed as she spoke haltingly, “My father and brother died in the hands of heartless men in Guatemala during the war,” she paused and drew in her breath, “so I do understand . . . a little.” She stroked my face the way my father used to do when I would carry on the night before his departure. “So, you must get strong . . . for Rosa.”
I closed my eyes and saw Rosa’s face, the swan-like curve of her neck, and Manuel’s tender eyes beneath his tangled mass of hair; this time, I let my tears fall. First in gentle trickles and then in torrents. I hiccupped and sobbed, gasped and choked. Ana sat with me until, exhausted,
