Off the Rails Page 2

  Her throat closed up at the thought of seeing her mother again. It had been four years. Four long years since she’d paid a coyote to smuggle her into the United States. Four years since she’d been left for dead in the middle of the desert. Four years since she’d been sent back to Tijuana, where she’d worked around the clock to support her family—and waited for another opportunity to cross.

  Three weeks ago, her dream had come true. A friend had agreed to give her a ride to San Diego. Maria had stowed away in a cardboard box in the back of a van, where she’d fainted from lack of air. But she’d been overjoyed to wake up in the United States.

  Unfortunately, there had been no smooth sailing after that. She’d found a job in a hotel full of criminals and dark secrets. She’d reunited with Ian, a man she’d often fantasized about but never expected to see again. That hadn’t ended well, either.

  She took a deep breath and tried to push aside her heartache. Ian was like the American Dream: too good to be true. Not for her. Out of reach, off-limits, on the other side of an insurmountable wall. She was going back to Mezcala. Back to her mother, and her brother and sister. Back to the hardscrabble existence she’d left behind.

  After about twenty minutes, Sister Rosalina returned with a teenage girl. She was wearing a white blouse and a plaid, knee-length skirt. Her hair was very short and curly on top. She had a delicate build and fine features.

  “Sarai?” Maria said, rising to her feet. “It’s been so long, I hardly recognized you.”

  The girl greeted her with a warm hug. “Tía Mariposa. You look exactly the same.”

  Maria smiled at Armando’s daughter. She didn’t resemble him, despite the boyish haircut. “Are you finished with classes for the day?”

  “No, but I have an hour break.”

  “Can you show me your room?”

  Sister Rosalina waved them along. Sarai took Maria by the hand and led her to the dormitory. She shared a room with another girl. There were two single beds inside with a wooden desk between them. The space was tight, but private. As soon as they were behind closed doors, Sarai dropped the happy relative act. Her expression transformed from excited to gravely concerned.

  “Did my father send you?”

  “Yes.”

  The girl clutched Maria’s arm. “Is he alive?”

  Maria removed the envelope from her shoulder bag, wincing at the blood smears on the surface. “He was the last time I saw him.”

  “When?”

  “Five days ago, in San Diego.”

  “Injured?”

  Maria nodded.

  Sarai snatched the letter from Maria’s hands and started reading. She sat on the edge of the bed, as if her legs wouldn’t hold her. Her dark gaze scanned every line, absorbed every word. She fingered the necklace at her throat. It was a silver butterfly. She set aside the letter and took a deep breath. “How bad was his injury?”

  Maria didn’t think it was survivable. She was surprised he’d been able to get up and stagger away from the hotel. “It was life-threatening.”

  Tears formed in the girl’s eyes. She wiped them away impatiently. “Thank you for coming.”

  Maria hadn’t read the letter, out of respect for Armando. She had no idea if he’d said goodbye to his daughter, or apologized for his long absence, or given her some kind of instructions for the future. “Are you safe in this place?”

  “I think so.”

  “Do you have any other relatives?”

  “No one I can contact.”

  Maria wasn’t sure what that meant. Maybe Armando had advised her not to reach out to anyone connected to him. “What about your tuition?”

  “It’s paid until next summer, when I turn eighteen.”

  She was relieved by this news. “I’m Maria Santos, from Mezcala. It’s about four hours away. My mother has a shop near the zocalo. She sells handmade pottery. You can go there and ask for me if you need anything.”

  The girl sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I’ll be okay.”

  “You’re staying here?”

  “Sure,” she said, staring out the window. A line of students had formed outside of the cafeteria. They were chatting and laughing, like any group of teenage girls. Some had inventive hairstyles and sparkly accessories to dress up their uniforms.

  Maria wondered if Sarai fit in with her classmates. If she had close friendships and caring teachers to fill the void her parents left.

  Sarai turned back to Maria, assessing her anew. “Are you…were you his girlfriend?”

  “No,” Maria said, startled by the question. Armando was old enough to be her father. Although she didn’t fear him as much as other men, she’d never considered him in that context. He wasn’t handsome or charming.

  He wasn’t Ian.

  “I owed him a favor,” Maria said.

  Sarai accepted this answer.

  Maria picked up a pen from Sarai’s desk and wrote down the number for the pharmacy in Mezcala, which was the communications hub for the residents without phones. “You can leave a message for me here if there’s a problem. I’ll come back next month.”

  She studied the number, her face quiet. “Why?”

  “Because you are alone in the world.”

  Her expression didn’t change. “I’m used to that.”

  Maria felt a surge of sympathy for Sarai. She wasn’t sure what to say to this girl who felt lost and alone. Maria could relate. She hadn’t found her place in the world, either. After four years in Tijuana and three weeks in the United States, she was returning no better off than she’d left. She was downtrodden and exhausted. What more could she do?

  “Peace be with you,” she said, preparing to leave.

  Sarai mumbled the usual response, her voice trembling. Maybe the girl wanted the privacy to break down and cry. Maria slipped out, closing the door behind her. Then she exited the dormitory and traversed the cobblestone path, her heart as heavy as her footsteps. She covered her hair with the mantilla before she passed through the gate.

  There was no one outside waiting for her. No suspicious men lurked nearby. She continued to the transit station, which was about a mile away. It was a pleasant walk. The sights and sounds of her home state were comfortingly familiar.

  Here in Guerrero, everyone spoke Spanish or a local Indian dialect. She recognized the accents. She knew the food and the people. No effort was required to understand the conversations around her. She stopped to buy fresh elote from a street vendor on her way to the station. Biting into the sweet grilled corn flooded her mouth with flavor and her mind with memories.

  It was good to be back.

  It was not good to be back empty-handed, her heart filled with longing for a handsome gabacho, but that was life.

  The trip to Mezcala took another three hours. By the time she exited the bus at the zocalo, it was almost sunset. Everyone was going home after a long day of work. Maria kept her head down as she traversed the cobblestone streets of the town center. She wasn’t ready to socialize or answer intrusive questions.

  The pottery shop her mother owned was closed, so she continued home. They lived on the outskirts of Mezcala. It wasn’t a long walk, but she was tired, and the path alongside the road was muddy from summer rains. A hole in the toe of her stocking grew larger. She gave up on adjusting the fabric and shuffled along, bleary-eyed with fatigue. When a farmer drove by, hitting a water-filled pothole, Maria had to jump out of the way to avoid the splash.

  She shook her fist at him. All she needed was to arrive wet and bedraggled on top of everything else. Cursing under her breath, she hitched up her shoulder bag and kept walking. About a quarter mile down the road, the same truck had pulled over to fix a flat. Apparently the pothole had damaged his tire. Maria bid the driver buenas noches, cheered by the poetic justice.

  It was dusk when she reached her mother’s house. Delfina was pumping fresh water from the well, her puny arm flexing. She was frail and delicate, barely five feet tall. She’d bee
n diagnosed with Williams syndrome, a rare genetic disorder, about ten years ago.

  Delfina was special in more ways than one. She adored people of all ages and took great interest in their daily routines. The locals called her hadita, or little fairy, because of her small stature and pointy features. Maria had spoken with her only twice over the past four years because Delfina didn’t do well on the phone. She lived in the present, unconcerned with the past or the future. She also had poor eyesight, enhanced by thick glasses. Maria didn’t know if her sister would recognize her.

  As Maria approached the pump, Delfina set down the full bucket. Maria opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

  “¿Eres mi hermana?” Delfina asked. Are you my sister?

  Maria’s vision blurred with tears. “Sí.”

  “Mi hermana, mi hermana,” Delfina sang, rushing forward. She loved repeating things. She repeated it about ten more times as they embraced. Maria’s throat closed up and she couldn’t respond. She couldn’t do anything but sob in Delfina’s arms.

  After a moment of blubbering, they broke apart and Delfina ran toward the cottage to alert their mother. Maria picked up the forgotten bucket and carried it to the front door. Her mother was standing at the kitchen stove, patting tortillas into the proper shape.

  Maria got choked up again at the sight of her mother. She was short and round and substantial. Womanly everywhere Maria was not. Embracing Delfina was like holding a hummingbird, but hugging her mother was like falling into a soft bed. It was the best comfort. The kitchen smelled delicious, adding to Maria’s pleasure. Next to the fresh tortillas, there were pots of beans and rice and shredded chicken. Maria’s stomach rumbled as her mother began a series of rapid-fire questions.

  Why didn’t you call? What happened to you in the U.S.? Are you hurt? Are you hungry? Did you get deported?

  “I’ll tell you after we eat,” she promised.

  “You look tired, m’ija.”

  “She is sad,” Delfina said.

  “These are happy tears,” Maria insisted.

  Delfina shook her head. She didn’t understand happy tears. Or maybe she understood more than Maria gave her credit for. There was a trace of sorrow beneath Maria’s joy. Leaving Ian hadn’t been any easier than leaving her family.

  “Where’s Hugo?” she asked, glancing around. Her little brother hadn’t come out to greet her, which was odd. He was desperate for news from the United States, and eager to go there as soon as he was old enough to risk the journey.

  Her mother didn’t answer. Now she looked sad.

  “Is he okay?”

  “Maybe we should discuss that after dinner as well.”

  “Tell me now.”

  Her mother removed the tortillas from the pan and turned down the heat. Then she sank into a chair. Her black hair had more gray than Maria remembered. The wiry mass had silver threads shot throughout, not just at her temples. “He ran away yesterday.”

  Maria sat across from her, stunned. “Where to?”

  “To the U.S. He left a note saying he would join you in San Diego.”

  Maria clapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t sent word to her mother that she was coming home because of an old family superstition. It was better to arrive unexpectedly than not to arrive as expected. She’d also felt uneasy, as if someone was watching her. She hadn’t been able to relax until after she delivered the letter.

  Delfina didn’t seem concerned about Hugo, but she never imagined bad things happening. She flitted around the kitchen, twirling her skirt.

  “How is he going to get there?” Maria asked. Her mother couldn’t afford to pay for a trip across the border. Smugglers charged thousands of dollars per customer.

  Her mother’s eyes watered and she didn’t answer.

  “La Bestia,” Delfina said, excited. “He’s riding La Bestia.”

  The Beast.

  Maria’s stomach dropped at this news. La Bestia was a train that took the poorest, most desperate travelers across Mexico. Immigrants from Central America rode it all the way to the United States. They climbed up the sides and sat on top because there was no other way to board. Every year there were dozens of crushing injuries and fatalities. Some passengers fell asleep and rolled off. Others got accidently jostled or attacked by bandits.

  Delfina didn’t remember, or perhaps she’d never been told, about the incident that would haunt Maria forever. It was the reason behind the family superstition. The one time her father had sent a message that he was coming home, he’d failed to arrive.

  Because he’d fallen from the train, to his death.

  Chapter 3

  Maria went to bed early and slept for fourteen hours straight.

  When she woke up in the morning, she felt much better. There was no place like home. No room more comfortable than hers, no food with better flavor than her mother’s. No town more peaceful. The air was warm and inviting, the pace of life less frenzied than San Diego or Tijuana.

  She didn’t know what they would do for money, other than making and selling more pottery. Bigger cities offered greater opportunities, but she wasn’t eager to hit the road again. She needed some time to recover from the horrors of the Hotel del Oro, and some distance from Ian, to let her heart heal.

  She lay in bed and stared at the beams across the ceiling, replaying their last conversation. He’d asked her to marry him. Well, he’d offered, anyway. It had sounded like something he’d blurted out on impulse and might regret later. She believed that he had feelings for her, and she knew he wanted her physically. He couldn’t hide his desire. But he hadn’t proposed marriage because he found her attractive. He’d done it to be nice. To save her from hardship.

  Groaning, she rolled over in bed. If she’d been in the market for a husband to give her an easy life, she could have married a rich Mexican. There were eligible bachelors right here in Mezcala. Though none had ever set her blood on fire or made her pulse race like Ian.

  The way he’d touched her…

  Delfina burst into the room, interrupting Maria’s fantasy. “My sister is here,” she said several times in a singsong voice.

  Maria threw off the light blanket and rose from the bed. It was Hugo’s room now, free of the feminine decorations she remembered. There was a picture of him with a group of other teenage boys taped to the mirror. On the opposite wall, a poster of a curvy bikini model.

  She couldn’t believe her little brother was a teenager, old enough to like girls in bikinis. While she’d been away he’d become a young man, determined to ride La Bestia to the United States. “He’ll come back,” she said to Delfina, hopeful. “He’ll get scared of the pistoleros in the crowd and come back.”

  “Hugo does not get scared,” Delfina said.

  Maria frowned at her matter-of-fact answer. “He’s only fourteen. Of course he gets scared.”

  “He is fifteen. Mamá made a cake.”

  Fifteen? Oh no. She’d missed his birthday. Maria pulled on a pair of her brother’s cargo pants and a gray T-shirt, reconsidering Hugo’s nature. Delfina was right about him. He hadn’t scared easily, even as a little boy. He’d been stubborn back then too. “He’s small for his age.”

  “No,” Delfina said. “He grew tall like you.”

  Maria zipped up the pants, which hung loose on her hips but fit her long legs. Then she took down the photo of Hugo to study it. Sure enough, her brother stood half a head taller than the other boys. He was the spitting image of their father, with wavy dark hair and thick eyebrows. They both had his wolfish smile.

  She tucked the photo into her pocket and went to the kitchen for breakfast. Their mother was already at work. After eating some leftover eggs and tortillas, she headed out the door with Delfina. They stopped to take a dip in the Balsas River. There was a bathing area on the other side of a copse of thick willow trees, behind a large group of boulders.

  Delfina waded in the shallows while Maria scrubbed the grit from her hair and body. When she was finished, she fl
oated on the surface, staring up at the clear blue sky. She’d spent every spare moment in this river as a child. Although she missed living in Mezcala, she hadn’t missed going without indoor plumbing. There were no hot showers. They hauled pumped water from the well for cooking and washing.

  After a few minutes, she emerged refreshed. Delfina braided her wet hair, and they walked to town in damp clothes.

  When they arrived at the pottery shop, there was a dusty rental car outside. Maria’s pulse skyrocketed at the sight. Mezcala had its fair share of tourists, but they usually parked at their hotels and strolled around the cobblestone streets.

  Was someone looking for her?

  She hurried through the front door and stopped short as soon as she saw the man inside, talking to her mother. Even before he glanced over his shoulder, she knew him. She knew him with short hair and unfamiliar clothes. She knew him by the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips, his strong stance and electric presence.

  “Ian,” she breathed.

  Never shy, Delfina breezed by Maria and joined Ian at the front counter. She presented her hand to him in a coy gesture she must have seen in movies. Maria wasn’t sure how Ian would respond. Delfina was adorable, with her tiny frame and birdlike face, but she looked strange to outsiders. Hadita was the kindest term the townspeople used to refer to her. She’d also been called a dwarf and a troll.

  Ian didn’t recoil from Delfina or leave her hanging. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it without skipping a beat. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  Delfina giggled in delight. She didn’t speak English, let alone French, but she seemed to understand his meaning. So did their mother, who laughed.

  Ian returned his gaze to Maria, mouth quirking. He had a mustache, or just the hint of one. Dark stubble framed his upper lip. She stared at it, struck by a vivid memory of that mouth on hers as he stroked her to completion.