The Same Sky(39)

“I can’t promise anything,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m saying this with love, but I don’t really like who you’re turning into,” said Jake.

I turned from him, curled into myself.

Jake spoke quietly, his voice deadly sad. “I know you’re disappointed with our life,” he said.

I was quiet. He was right.

“I’ve worked so hard—we both have, Al … and you are always … you are still disappointed. I hate myself for that. But you know what, Al? I want to be happy. If you can’t even try to be proud, or even the tiniest bit satisfied, I don’t know what to say. I can only disappoint you for so long. It’s killing me.”

“Jake …,” I said.

“Yes?”

The hope that I would say the right thing—that I was satisfied; that I didn’t want a child, not anymore; that I would stop fighting God’s plan, would stop trying to fashion a baby out of a dog or an opportunistic teenager named after a brand of bottled water—hung in the air, it must be said, like smoke. And then it dissipated. Jake rolled over and closed his eyes.


I must have fallen asleep, because something woke me—the sound of a car pulling up to our house. The clock radio on my nightstand read 4:03. Stumbling from bed, I went into the living room to see that the couch was empty. I heard voices outside, and pushed open the front door.

“Evian?” I called. “What are you doing?”

Two men sat on my porch swing. One wore a leather jacket and one a sleeveless T-shirt. Both were smoking, dropping ash onto the ground. “She’s having a little discussion,” said the one in the jacket. He watched me steadily, and I felt scared. They were drinking something brown from crystal glasses that had been my mom’s.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Conroe,” said Evian. She was leaning against a post, and had dressed and reapplied her makeup. She also held one of my mother’s glasses.

“Evian, come back inside,” I said.

She laughed, and the men laughed with her. “Let’s roll,” said the one in the jacket, and the two men stood. The swing crashed into the side of our house. Evian tossed my mother’s glass onto the lawn and followed the men down the steps and toward a sedan with tinted windows.

“Evian!” I cried. “Come back here!”

I ran down the walk and grabbed her arm before she could get in the car. She yanked it back with force. “Who do you think you are?” she hissed. “You’re giving me a couch to sleep on, lady, you’re not my mother!”

She slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door, and the car peeled away. I stood by the street, my hand covering my mouth. Who did I think I was? Who?





29




Carla


I LAY AWAKE ON a mattress as thick as my wrist. When I moved my body, the springs complained. The smell of urine filled my nose. In my whole life, I had never slept by myself, and I couldn’t stop thinking of my brother, whom I had failed. I prayed for assistance, though I was no longer sure that anyone was listening.

By the time my interview had concluded, the last bus of the day was gone. I supposed I would be transported back to Honduras in the morning. I am ashamed to remember how close I came to losing faith during my night in the Mexican jail.

I finally fell into a deep sleep, and I saw Humberto. He was waiting for me inside my grandmother’s house. Without Junior, Humberto and I could make a life together. I had not sold my crumbling home; I had left in haste and without the thought that I would return. But in my dream, Humberto had swept the floor and filled the kitchen with ingredients. I could even smell onions frying. Humberto opened his arms and held me—not in a romantic way, but as if I were a baby needing comfort.

After what had happened to my body, I no longer wanted to kiss Humberto, or anyone. All I wanted was a motherly embrace. I wanted my mother. I hurt.

In the dream, Humberto fed me with a warm wooden spoon. There were bad people outside the house, but Humberto had installed a large padlock. I felt a fragile peace.

When a guard opened the cell door in the morning, I jumped up, all the calm of my dream falling from me as if it were a skin I had outgrown. The guard’s eyes slid up and down my body like hungry hands. I looked at the floor and prayed he would not touch me. “You have family in America?” he said. His voice was rough, and my heart beat terribly, thumping at my rib cage as if it would escape.

“My mother,” I whispered. I must have been somewhat delirious. “I want my mother,” I said. My eyes filled stupidly with tears.

“Breakfast,” he said, handing me a tray of bread and water and then closing the cell again. I dried my eyes and ate.

The bus to Honduras was empty but for me and one man, a skinny man with thick eyebrows. It made me upset to think about the cost of the gasoline to drive me and one man all the way back to Tegu. I could have fed Junior for a year with the money. I tried not to ask God why He would allow this, but a voice in my head said anyway, “Why?” Maybe God was taking care of the man who owned the bus, or the old man who drove us, his expression placid as a cow’s.

The bus lumbered to the edge of town. I rested my head on the seat, looking out the dusty window. It was early in the day, most of the shops still shuttered, no children playing outside. The driver turned down an alley. Sharply, the bus pulled to the side and stopped. I sat up, panic igniting in my veins. The other Honduran looked relaxed, as if he knew what was going on. My mouth was dry; I waited. The voice I could not silence in my mind said, Please, God. Please, God. The driver opened the door.