Preston's Honor(77)

I nodded, looking over my shoulder to see a line forming at the door and watching as Becca started unpacking the boxes. She gestured to the first people at the door to come forward and they did, taking what she offered to them.

Yes, I knew about the trouble these people faced firsthand. And looking at the line, some had more than one or two mouths to feed.

There was a man near the back with his hand on the shoulder of a woman holding what looked like a newborn baby in a fabric carrier on her chest. The small lump let out a tiny squall and the woman reached down and adjusted her shirt in a way that let me know she was nursing the baby hidden by the material of the sling. She smiled softly and crooned to the baby who quieted again.

Sadness and a feeling of loss slid through me, and I looked away. I had been so overwhelmed and lonely during the time I had tried nursing Hudson those first several months. They’d faded into a fog of depression and self-condemnation and I’d never get them back. And then I’d left and missed the second half of his first year.

My throat felt tight and I busied my hands by unpacking boxes and organizing food with the others, who were putting the vegetables in one location, the fruit in another, and the dry goods in yet another. I would not sink into self-pity when so many right in front of me were in greater need.

I glanced over at Rosa, and she was looking at me thoughtfully. I blushed, feeling ashamed as if she could read my thoughts, as if she knew I was feeling sorry for myself rather than focusing my mind on the work I’d come to share in.

The line grew outside and the busyness of the job took my mind away from my own melancholy. A man holding a little girl, who appeared to be about three or four, moved up to the table and took the bag I gave him with a head nod and a shy thank you. I handed a shiny, red apple to the little girl in his arms and her eyes grew round with delight as she brought the fruit to her mouth and bit into it. I laughed. “?Dulce?” Sweet? She nodded happily and they moved along.

An hour later all the food had been doled out and the people had gone back to their homes—small wooden structures in three rows of a dozen or so. The camp almost looked like a very run-down, very small town, which effectively it was.

Outside, the few children I’d seen in line kicked a ball together. The women sat on benches nearby, including the woman with the tiny baby still strapped to her chest. I watched her, noticing how the other women fawned over the baby, leaning in to peer into the opening the carrier provided. The young mother laughed and patted the baby’s bottom.

Rosa joined me as I watched the children play and the mothers interact. “Alejandro, Raul, and María are going to help make a couple of repairs. I’m useless when it comes to tools that aren’t of the kitchen variety.” She laughed softly. “They shouldn’t take longer than half an hour or so. Is that okay, or do you need to get back? Is someone waiting for you?”

At her question, my heart squeezed. “No, that’s fine. No one’s waiting for me.” If I had still lived with Preston, he would be waiting for me, but right now he was at home and as far as he knew, I was either still at work or headed home. He might call me but I had my cell phone with me so I’d know if he did. As for my mama, she’d never waited for me. Even when I’d been a very young girl, I’d come and gone as I’d pleased.

Rosa smiled gently. “Sit with me?”

“Sure.” We went to a wooden bench near the front door of the community center and sat in silence for a moment, watching the people and glancing at the sun setting over the mountains.

“Becca’s family came here from Oklahoma in the thirties. They were Dust Bowl migrants.”

I looked over at Rosa, tilting my head, the quote rolling off my tongue, “They were hungry, and they were fierce. And they had hoped to find a home, and they found only hatred.”

Rosa laughed in surprise as she looked back at me. “You’re a reader. Steinbeck, yes. The words apply to these migrants, too, yes?”

I nodded, looking back to where the women sat, watching as a few weary-looking men walked from the community center back to the cabins they occupied. Hoping for a home and so often finding only hatred.

You can’t always understand some cultures.

One of those Mexicans.

Surely you understand why I don’t invite you in.

“Yes.”

“It’s easier with community, though. Conditions are not ideal, but at least they have each other.”

I nodded. “Sometimes I wonder if my mother would have been happier if we’d lived in a place like this . . . or just somewhere where she could speak to people other than me. Speaking so little English, she must have been so lonely not being able to converse with women her own age.”

Rosa studied me for a moment. “Ah, yes. That’s very difficult. For both of you, I imagine. My own parents didn’t speak English either, but they came here with lots of family. And they had all of us kids to interpret for them. After a while, they learned enough to move easily through society, to start a business, to make a good life.” She paused before asking, “Your mother, she is . . . undocumented?”

Heat rose in my face at the direct question and the familiar shame engulfed me. My mother had never wanted me, so why did it hurt me so deeply to know she was unwanted, too? That if people knew, they would call her names and cut her down? I knew Rosa wouldn’t do that, but the honesty still didn’t come easily. “Yes,” I said very softly.