I nodded and stepped back. As the sun washed over me, I felt a surge of energy. I turned to walk away, but he held up his hand and said, “Wait! Un momento, por favor.” Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a black leather wallet. Removing the contents of green bills, he folded them neatly in half and handed them to me.
I shook my head, “No, it’s not necessary. You’ve already done so much.”
But he took my hand and placed the bills in my palm; then just as Señora Lopez had done with the crucifix, he folded my fingers over them. “Babies cost money.” He smiled, then added, “Y los doctores también.” Then gently touching my chin, he asked, “Your jaw? Is it healed?”
“Yes, it aches now and then, but it’s okay. And thank you so much,” I said, referring to the money in my hand. As I walked away, he called to me one more time.
When I turned, he asked, “Your name? ¿Cómo te llamas?”
“Alma,” I said without hesitation. “Alma Cruz.”
Ana was waiting behind a bush with two lemonades in her hand. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
I nodded, too choked up to speak. But as we drove on home, I composed myself enough to ask, “Could we stop somewhere first?”
She looked at me questioningly.
“I want to buy a book . . . a small notebook . . . and a pencil.” And I proceeded to tell her about my little journal of math.
15
City of Angels
This van had seats. Three rows, in fact, with comfortable, plush cushions and armrests that folded down. Beside the middle seat sat a large cooler, which they had filled with ice and drinks and snacks. With loud music pumping, it was like a party on wheels—nothing like my van ride in Nogales.
We left in the evening to avoid traffic with the plan to drive right straight through, each student taking a turn at the wheel. That morning, Ana had given me a counterfeit social security card and a green card that she had purchased for $125—just in case we were stopped. If I were caught by authorities and my papers found to be fake, I would tell them I had lied to the students and that they were not aware I was undocumented. The last thing I wanted was to get them in trouble—or Ana for that matter.
None of this made sense to me. I could not enter el norte to search for my father without being a criminal of sorts. It wasn’t enough that I had to sneak and hide, but anyone who helped me was put at risk as well. Borders and fences, quotas and visas, I did not understand. I simply wanted to find my father. I wouldn’t harm anyone or take what was not mine. Why was my presence such a problem?
In an attempt to look like the students, I pulled my hair back into a long ponytail and wore a pair of jeans and one of their college T-shirts. I sat in the rear of the van with Eduardo, the Spanish speaking boy. He told me that if we got checked for IDs at any point to stay calm, pass up my papers, and then gaze out the window or pretend to sleep.
As it turned out, the ride was uneventful. I tried desperately to get some sleep, but my rising anxiety kept me wide awake. I hadn’t realized how secure I felt at Ana’s, but as the van sped further and further away, my hands turned cold and something in the pit of my stomach burned. Ana had made it clear that I could contact her at any time, and she would find me a ride back. She said we were family now, that I wasn’t alone. I knew as I waved goodbye that I would always stay connected to them, no matter where I ended up.
How I ached for Rosa. She had always been my companion; I’d never gone anywhere without her. Those hazy weeks in the hospital and the months that followed at Ana’s, I had been in a cocoon, incapable of thinking and feeling with any great depth, but now that I was moving forward again, my walls of protection had fallen away. I felt exposed and unprotected—and so very alone. Driving through Arizona in the dead of night, I felt the enormity of my life without Rosa. Trembling, I hugged myself and tried to stifle a sob.
Kind Eduardo may have sensed my restlessness, for he began to talk. He told me he wanted to be a doctor, like his father, and to travel to countries like Honduras, where his father’s parents were born, or to Africa, where many children were starving. He wanted to work with the very poor, he said, where there was great need. I could tell by the way he spoke that he must be very smart. I asked him if college was difficult. He thought for a minute and then said it was probably like crossing the desert, one step at a time.
I gazed out the window at the passing darkness. That was my entire future now. One step at a time.
Los Angeles, like Mexico City, was terrifyingly huge—an endless maze of streets and freeways, with more vehicles than I had seen in my entire life. Houses, apartments, large buildings, small buildings stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. It truly never ended.
“Is this still Los Angeles?” I asked again and again, as we wound our way through the early morning traffic, and they laughed and kept nodding yes.
Most of the students were dropped off on a busy corner near the college. Eduardo and Kelly, the girl whose father owned the van, would continue on with me to what they called
