The Same Sky(43)

I refilled my plate during the commercial break.

The last apartment was located near restaurants and coffee shops. It was small, with a weird contraption that looked like a metal drawer but was used to “make dried vegetables and fruits.” The couple appeared unimpressed. The wife noted that she didn’t really cook, and again the husband nodded by her side. “I really like the balcony!” the woman yelled as she took in the busy streets below the third apartment. The husband said it was pretty loud.

I was worried for the couple from Canada. None of these apartments would work, it was clear. The problem was not Beijing. I thought about Mr. and Mrs. Bridge. I thought about me and Jake.


The phone rang during the next commercial break. It was Jake, back in Austin, calling from Conroe’s. “Hey!” I answered, my voice false and wrong.

“How did everything go today?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m just sitting here eating spaghetti. Want to join me?”

“Lainey wants to watch prep,” said Jake. “She wants to follow the whole process.”

“Oh,” I said, imagining Lainey in a lawn chair next to Jake, how romantic the flickering light would be on her smooth visage. “That sounds really fun,” I said. “I can come, too.”

“Are you insane?” said Jake.

“Slightly,” I said.

“Is she gone?” said Jake.

“Who’s that?” I said.

“Evian,” said Jake.

“Oh, Evian!” I said. The television was muted, but I could see that the Canadian couple had chosen the gated community. On the screen, the wife appeared with a watering can and trowel, smiling unhappily in her huge new garden. “She’s not here now,” I said cagily.

There was silence on the line. “I need you to take her home,” said Jake finally. “We need some time to find ourselves again. Okay? We’ve been through a lot, honey. I’m asking you for this, and it’s important to me. I just want to come home to my wife. Please.”

I didn’t say anything, remembering how good it had felt to put clean clothes in the drawers of the bunny bureau. “Hello?” said Jake. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” I said.


Soon after this conversation, a large pickup truck with flashing lights turned onto Mildred Street. I could hear loud rap music as the passenger door opened and deposited Evian, a bit disheveled, on the sidewalk. The truck roared away. Evian came inside and said, “I am really tired.” She threw herself onto the couch, her head inches from mine. She stretched and yawned theatrically.

I practiced the words in my head: I need to take you home now. But when I opened my mouth, I said, “Do you want some spaghetti?”

“No,” she said, “I’m good.”

“Do you have any homework?” I asked.

She laughed. “No,” she said. Evian smelled like beer.

My phone rang. It was Camilla, from next door. “Is everything okay over there?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about me.”

I hung up the phone. Evian fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. A new episode of House Hunters International began. A Canadian couple was looking for a Costa Rican bungalow in which they could begin a new life.





33




Carla


I RAN TOWARD THE shelter, pushing the metal door open and finding a dim room full of slumbering people. The room smelled like unwashed skin. I scanned the bodies but did not see my brother. A priest who had been reading in the light provided by a small window stood and approached me. “You are safe,” he said soothingly, quietly. “God has brought you to this place, and you are safe.”

Terror burns your skin from the inside. Constant watchfulness freezes your bones. Looking at the kindly priest, I almost fell to the floor. My shoulders slid down my back, and I took a shuddering breath. “Are you hungry?” he asked. I said nothing.

“Come,” said Father, and I followed him to a small kitchen where he ladled soup into a white bowl. He handed me the soup and I ate. “Where have you come from?” he asked me.

“Tegucigalpa,” I said.

“And you are going to El Norte?”

“I am going to find my mother in Texas.”

He nodded. “You are all alone?” he asked.

“I was with my brother, Junior. And another boy, Ernesto.” I described them both, and Father told me to stand. “We have a soccer field in the back,” he said.

I was eager to get outside, but Father touched my arm and asked if I would like to have confession. Too afraid to admit the way I had been violated, I shook my head.

“Bad things happen to good people sometimes,” said Father. He placed his hand on my cheek. “God forgives you, if your heart is good.” I wanted to believe Father. I looked deep into his brown eyes, searching.

“My heart,” I said.

He nodded. “I know,” he said. “God bless you, my child. You are a strong person to make this journey.”

On his face, I saw pity. I knew he had seen terrible things, worse, perhaps, than the ones I had seen. He knew—as I did now—about what was possible. We had both tasted evil.