The Book of Unknown Americans(17)

Before long, I heard a sound and looked up to see a car approaching. I watched as it neared and got louder, then sliced by and faded into the distance again. I told myself, It’s a good sign. If there was one car, there will be another. You just have to wait.

The rain was falling harder now—my hair and clothes were damp—and I crossed to the other side of the street and stood, clutching my purse. Maybe I could call the school and tell them not to let Maribel get off the bus if I wasn’t there in time. The translator, Phyllis, had told me that for students Maribel’s age the school didn’t require that anyone be there to meet them. She was allowed to get off the bus whether I was there or not. But maybe if I explained that this was a special circumstance? Maybe the bus driver would wait?

I dialed the school and when a voice answered, I said in English, “Hello?”

“Hello?” the woman on the other end said.

I didn’t know how to say, “I’m looking for my daughter,” so I just blurted out her name. “Maribel Rivera,” I said.

“Hello?” the woman said again.

“Is there someone there who can help me?” I asked in Spanish.

There was silence from the other end.

I reached in my purse and pulled out the dictionary, flipping through the pages to find the English word for “help.”

The woman on the other end said something I couldn’t understand.

In Spanish I said, “My name is Alma Rivera. My daughter Maribel goes to your school. Is there someone who speaks Spanish?”

I waited for a response while I fumbled again with the dictionary, searching for any word that might make a difference.

“I need to speak to someone,” I said. “I need the bus driver to wait.”

The woman said something else that I couldn’t understand and I nearly wept in frustration. They were only words. I had the sense that I should have been able to unpack them, that there was only a thin veneer separating me from their meaning, and yet the veneer was impenetrable.

A second later, I heard the clap of plastic against a hard surface, as if the woman had put the phone down. I waited to see if someone else was coming, someone who could help me, but what I heard next was the beeping of a disconnected line.

In a fit of defeat, I threw both my phone and the dictionary to the ground, watching them skid and spin across the wet pavement. Why hadn’t I called Phyllis instead of the school? I was wasting time. But when I picked up the phone, the screen showed that there was no reception. I held it up like a torch and squinted. Still nothing. Even after walking a few steps in every direction, I couldn’t get it back. Chingada madre! I should have known better. It was a cheap piece of plastic, but it was all we had been able to afford since Arturo had insisted that we buy two—one for each of us—to be able to use while we were here.

Rain pattered against the ground like the sound of applause. The pebbles along the shoulder of the road where I stood were slick and glistening. Weeds bent toward the earth. I crossed my arms over my chest to cover my blouse, which was wet enough now that anyone could have seen through it to my bra, then uncrossed them again when I remembered there was no one here to see me.

What time was it? How long had I been out here? I imagined Maribel getting off the bus, standing in the middle of the parking lot, her backpack hitched high on her thin shoulders, confused because I wasn’t there. Then I imagined the boy from the gas station skating up the way he had the other day, looking for her, and dread welled inside me.

Why hadn’t I stopped that car earlier? I should have run into the middle of the street, waving my arms. I shouldn’t have let it pass by.

Frantically, I scanned the road in both directions. I started walking, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to see if perhaps another car was coming down the road behind me. I jogged for a while until I was out of breath. How late was it now? I checked the phone again, but there was still no reception. I punched all the buttons and held it to my ear, praying for a tone. But still nothing. I leaned my head back and screamed at the sky. A useless scream. No one could hear me out here. And then I started crying, my tears falling as dully as the rain.

I heard it before I saw it: the rumble and the whir. I stopped and turned around. A bus. It wasn’t just a mirage, was it? Was it the same bus that had dropped me off before? It didn’t matter. It was going the opposite direction now, the direction I needed to go, and it was coming toward me. I waved my arms and started crying harder. In Spanish I yelled, “Stop! Please stop for me!” I didn’t care that the driver wouldn’t understand what I was saying. He would see me and stop, wouldn’t he? And when he did, I stood on the road and shouted up at him, “Kirkwood?” He nodded and I stepped up onto the bus.


TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I arrived, soaking wet and shivering, at my stop. I ran so fast to the apartment that my lungs burned.

“Maribel!” I yelled as I flew into the parking lot. “Mari!”

It must have been 2:45 by then, maybe later. I dashed up to our front door, but it was still locked. Through the window, I could see that the lights were off. I turned and shouted again. “Maribel!” I thought someone would hear me and open their door—Nelia or Ynez or Fito if he was home—but to my dismay, no one did. I stood on the balcony and scanned the apartments, wondering if Maribel was inside one of them. Maybe someone had seen her and brought her inside. Celia, I decided. I should try her first.