The students were horrified to think a man could be so cruel as to rob and abandon such a young girl. Their eyes flashed with indignation and righteousness. Yes, I agreed: Man can be so heartless.
The girl with the brown skin sat up on her knees and in heavily accented Spanish asked, “Do you still want to go to Los Angeles?”
I could barely speak as a plan began to form that I might travel with them to Los Angeles.
“So, do you think this is God’s will for me?” I asked Señora Lopez later that evening.
“Only you can answer that. Does it feel right?” She was washing dishes in the sink and had lifted her hands from the sudsy water as she turned to study my face.
“Well, it’s like you described, something that came to me. I did not seek it out.”
She nodded, “¡Bueno! You will know better as you take each new step.”
“Is that how you felt when you came here to Arizona?” I asked.
She glanced toward the living room where Ana was watching TV and lowered her voice. “I was supposed to travel with Ana earlier. My husband had arranged for both of us to join his sister here in Arizona, but I refused to leave him. I sent Ana with my cousins.” She sighed deeply. “I remember his eyes the morning that the soldiers came to our village. They spoke louder than his words. ‘Get to Ana! ¡Ahora!’ I tried to run, but his screams drew me back.” She paused and shook her head. “I often think how much easier it would have been for him if I’d left with Ana. At least some of his suffering would have been avoided. Or if he could have known that I would eventually make it here, that I’d find Ana, that kind people would help us every step of the way. I pray that somewhere he does know that now.”
I watched her hands as they dipped into the water again and thought how much she had endured.
“Do you miss your country, your home?” I asked as an afterthought, realizing that I didn’t miss mine—certainly not Chiapas, not even Oaxaca anymore. It was Papá, and Rosa, and Manuel that I ached for.
“Mi hogar es con Ana,” she said, echoing my thoughts.
I rubbed my hand over the slight bulge in my stomach. “I’m not sure where our home will be.”
“You’ll know when you get there—wherever it feels like family.”
As she turned and smiled, I saw that woman again, the woman I’d seen in Ana’s face, the woman with the eyes of a saint. If she could feel such kindness again, despite all she’d been through, then perhaps so could I.
The students were scheduled to return to Los Angeles in two days, so I had to act quickly, which meant I had to call Berta and Diego, to see if a visit was even welcome. I had no idea how they might respond. Did they feel resentment like Mamá? Since it had always been Rosa who spoke with Berta, would she even know who I was? And what would I say about Rosa?
“Help me, Ana,” I asked as she laid out some of her clothes for me. “What can I say about Rosa?” My voice quavered with emotion. “I just can’t tell her the truth.”
Ana continued neatly folding a light blue T-shirt with a daisy on its pocket. “I suppose the only possible story would involve love.” She lowered her eyes as she said this, and I knew she was thinking of the young man who often picked her up for church meetings. Though their relationship seemed limited to parish functions, I noticed how she hurried to the door when he came and how his eyes followed her as she reached for her bag or bent to kiss her mother. Something was just beginning to blossom there. “You already told the students something about a boyfriend, a novio, didn’t you?” she added.
I nodded. “So . . . she fell in love and traveled on with him? But Rosa would never leave me like that,” I said, remembering how I had refused to leave with Manuel. Yet if I had, and she had returned safely to Oaxaca . . . my eyes brimmed with tears.
Ana continued, “She would if she thought you were happy as well, perhaps with . . . Manuel.” She said his name softly, knowing the sound would pierce my heart like a surgeon’s blade. “You could say . . . well . . . you could say that she is with her novio, and that Manuel, your novio, has gone on to Temecula with his brother to make some money, so you can marry.” She smoothed out the clothes and stepped back. Our eyes met for an instant, both of us holding back our emotions.
“Gracias,” I said, hugging her tightly. “Then that will be my story.”
Trembling, I reached for the phone and sank into the cocoon of my sofa. The number appeared clearly in my mind. I took a deep breath and began to push the numbers. My heart raced like a galloping horse. The voice that answered on the fourth ring sounded sleepy.
“Lo siento, so sorry to bother you,” I began, speaking slowly in Spanish, “but my name is Alma Cruz. I am Juan Cruz’s daughter. I wish to speak to Berta. Es Berta?” The pause was so long, I thought I had lost the connection or that perhaps she didn’t speak Spanish very well. “Hello? Hello?”
“Yes,” a woman’s raspy voice responded. “Sí, sí, I’m sorry. Did you say this is Juan’s daughter, Alma?”
Hearing my father’s name spoken so familiarly brought tears to my eyes and stirred embers of hope.
“Yes! His daughter. And you are . . . ?”
She hesitated, “Berta. Yes, I’m sorry, yes, this is Berta.”
“And Diego, is he there?” Suddenly
