There was no rhyme or reason to it. Sin pies ni cabeza. She resisted, she was confused, and then, suddenly, something would snap back into place and she was compliant, agreeable. Even a year after the accident, I was still unable to discern the pattern.
It was humid when we walked outside. The three of us stood in the weedy grass along the edge of the parking lot until a long yellow bus dragged itself up from the street. It stopped in front of us and the door folded open. The driver, a woman wearing a baseball cap, waved and yelled hello. That much I understood. But when she kept talking, I got lost. Arturo looked at me as if to ask whether I knew what she was saying. I shook my head, and thought, This is how it is for us here. This is how it will be. We simply had to trust that the bus driver would deliver Maribel safely to school and that her teacher would make sure she was in the right classroom and that all day long, people would take care of her the way she needed to be cared for. We had to push past trepidation and believe that by sending her off we were doing the right thing. What other choice did we have?
Standing next to each other, Arturo and I watched as Maribel climbed aboard the bus. Through the windows, I saw her sit in a seat near the front and push her sunglasses up.
We had been planning our life here for so long. Filling out papers, hoping, praying, waiting. We had all of our dreams pinned on this place, but the pin was thin and delicate and it was too soon to tell whether it was stronger than it looked or whether, in the end, it wasn’t going to hold much of anything at all.
As if he had read my mind, Arturo said, “She’ll be fine.”
But I couldn’t tell if he was only trying to convince himself that it was true.
“Say it again,” I said.
“She’ll be fine.”
And because I wanted to believe him—because I wanted more than anything for her to be fine and fine and eventually better than fine, for her to transform again into the girl she used to be, for this past year to have been nothing but a strange, cruel detour that we could move beyond and never venture down again—I nodded and watched the bus heave away.
ARTURO LEFT FOR WORK not long after—he had his own bus to take, three of them, actually, all the way to the mushroom farm—which meant that I was alone in the apartment for the first time since we had arrived. I wasn’t used to being alone, here or anywhere, and the silence felt like an invasion. Usually in Pátzcuaro someone—either my mother or else one of my friends—stopped by in the morning. I would make café con leche and we would talk, sometimes for only a few minutes, sometimes for hours. And even on the days when no one came over, through the open windows of our house I could hear the noise of our neighbors—a Juanes song from a nearby radio, a barking dog, the dull banging of a hammer, the ripple of voices, the hush of the breeze. Here, it was as if I was sealed into a noiseless box, and even when I opened a window, all I could hear was the rhythmic whisper of cars driving on the nearby road.
I turned on the television for company and studied people’s mouths as they spoke in English, trying my best to replicate the sounds, even though I had no idea what they were saying. And they spoke so fast! I wasn’t sure if I was mouthing individual words or bunches of them strung together like grapes.
After a while, I turned the television off and wandered into the kitchen. I pulled out my comal and thought, Maybe I’ll make something. Something to remind me of home. But I didn’t have any of the ingredients I needed, so I just stood there, staring at the flat cast-iron pan, feeling homesickness charge at me like a roaring wave, filling my nostrils and my ears, threatening to knock me down. I took a deep breath. I would do something else, then. I would go out. This was my life now, I told myself, and I was going to have to figure out how to spend my days. I had to learn how to outrun the wave. Or else I had to learn how to stand far enough inland that it would never approach me in the first place.
I showered and dressed, parted my hair down the center and combed it back into a low ponytail. I dabbed candelilla wax on my lips from the small tin pot I had brought with us. I inspected myself in the mirror, pinching my cheeks to flush them and baring my teeth to make sure they were clean. Then I picked up my purse and headed toward the door.
We needed more food, but the only place I knew where to get any was the gas station, and I didn’t want to go there again, so I stood outside on the balcony, my hands around the metal railing, and tried to think of something else. I looked up at the clear sky and listened to the low roar of cars and semi-trucks headed to places I didn’t know, driven by people I had never seen. I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. It’s the same sun that shone on us at home, I told myself. The same sun.
Then, from below, I heard the rickety sound of wheels against the pavement. When I opened my eyes and looked down, I saw the boy from the gas station riding his skateboard, pushing himself up the slight incline to our parking lot where the gravel changed to asphalt. As quickly and as quietly as I could, I slipped back into the apartment. What was he doing here? I snuck over to the front window to watch him. He stopped in the middle of the lot and stomped his foot against the tail of the board, flipping it up into his hand. He stood like that, calmly, and stared at our apartment door. Had he seen me? Had he recognized me? Had he come here because he was looking for us? But how had he known where we lived? Had he followed us that day, after the gas station? I was breathing fast. Calm down, Alma, I told myself. Maybe it’s only a coincidence. Maybe it’s not even the same boy. But when I curled around the side of the window again to peer at him, I was sure. I could see the tattoo, the navy blue ink of it, winding up his neck.
He didn’t move for at least five minutes. I kept expecting him to turn around, to look at the other apartments, but he only stood with his hand gripping the top of his skateboard and stared at our door. As if he were waiting for us. For Maribel.
At last, he spit on the ground and dropped the skateboard with a clatter. He turned around and pushed off, jumping the curb at the edge of the lot, and glided down to the gravel.
I took a deep breath. What had that been about? Was it only that he liked Maribel or was there something else?
When I was sure he was gone, I stepped back outside. At the end of the balcony, a man was standing with his arms crossed, looking grimly at the parking lot. As soon as he saw me, he raised his hand above his head and waved. I nodded, and he walked toward me.
“I was just coming to find you,” he said. “I’m the landlord. Fito Angelino at your service. I have your mailbox key.” He pulled a small brass key out of the chest pocket of his shirt and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, dropping it into my purse.
“You are okay?” Fito asked. He was slender and sinewy with a pointy gray goatee.
“Yes,” I said. “I just … I thought I saw someone.”
“You mean that boy? On his skateboard just now?” Fito shook his head. “Just a local troublemaker. Un alborotador. He’s always hanging around by the Shell station. The 7-Eleven, too. He lives in Capitol Oaks down the road.” Fito looked over his shoulder in the direction the boy had gone. “I don’t know what he was doing here.” When Fito turned back to me, he said brightly, “But don’t worry, Se?ora. He’s nothing to worry about.”
I nodded slowly, wanting to believe him.
“You’re going somewhere?” Fito asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You’re coming from somewhere, then?”
“No.”
“I see. You are confused.” Fito chuckled. “Fortunately for you, this is not a confusing area. You have Main Street and all the university students. You have Hockessin with all the gringos. Downtown Wilmington is where most of the blacks live, and Greenville is where all the rich white people stay. Elsmere and Newport are for the lower class. It’s all very simple.”
“And here?” I asked.
“Here is us! Venezuela, Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Colombia, México, Panamá, and Paraguay. We have it all.”
“All in this building?”
“You’ll fit right in,” Fito said.
He was jumpy and quick, all sharp angles and sudden movements. I didn’t know what to make of him. But there was a certain comfort that came with hearing someone speak Spanish, to understand and to be understood, to not have to wonder what I was missing.
“And don’t give a second thought to that boy,” he went on. “It’s safe here. Very safe.”
I realized that Fito was concerned that he’d scared me away and that if he had, he would lose out on the rent he would be getting from us.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said again. “Yes?”
“Nothing to worry about,” I said, testing the words on my tongue to see if they felt true.