chapter
34
“Please just leave us alone!”
I slammed the phone down, then, after thinking about it, I snatched the cord out of the wall.
My phone had been ringing nonstop. Either they were calling about doing an interview with me or trying to get information about Paco.
I’d only been home forty-eight hours and the barrage was driving me crazy. My story had made Fox News and the vitriol of those commentators made me seem like the worst person to walk the face of the earth.
Yesterday, a reporter had accosted Miguel on the way home, and the mama bear in me almost attacked. Luckily, Rosa was there. She’d been amazing at helping me stay under control. She’d cursed the reporter out in Spanish and English, then shielded us both until we ran inside. I had to figure out an alternative way to get them to school, because we couldn’t take too many more days like this.
“Mommy, I want to go outside and play,” Alejandro said.
I guess I should’ve been grateful. Up until an hour ago, Alejandro or Maria wouldn’t leave my side. “Sweetheart, we talked about this,” I replied. I’d had to explain to them about the reporters.
He walked over to the front window and looked outside at the reporters camped in front of our house.
“But whyyy?” he whined.
“Because we’re prisoners,” Miguel snapped, joining his brother at the window.
“We’re in jail like Mommy was,” Maria added.
All of this—the whole scenario—was hurting my heart. I was grateful to be home, but I still felt like a prisoner. I’d decided I was going to try and just talk to Paco, maybe convince him to give himself up. That way I wouldn’t have to live with the guilt of turning my eldest son in. The only problem was I had no idea how to find Paco. The number Miguel had called had been disconnected and I had no idea where he was staying.
I also had to check in with immigration officials once a week while my case made its way through the courts, but that was a small price to pay if it meant I no longer had to live in fear. Then again, it looked like I was still living in fear—fear of the unknown.
“Come here, kids,” I said, patting the sofa next to me. “Have a seat. Let me talk to you guys.”
Alejandro and Maria crawled around me. “I am so sorry you all are going through this.” I wrapped my arms around them and relished their scents as they snuggled closer.
“Is it true what people are saying?” Miguel asked. He hadn’t moved from the window, but he had turned to face me. “That we shouldn’t be here and that Paco is a killer?”
I reached out for Miguel’s hand. He paused, but then walked over and our fingers intertwined. “Sweetheart, don’t listen to what people say. What do I tell you guys?”
Maria chimed in, “Sticks and stones can break my bones but words—”
“But these words do hurt,” Miguel said, cutting her off. When he looked at me, he had tears in his eyes.
I pushed a loose thread of hair out of his face. “I understand that, son. And I can’t apologize enough for that. It doesn’t matter whether I belong here, the three of you do. It is where you were born, so this is your home. This is where you will always live.”
“But if they send you away, I want to come live with you,” Maria said, hugging me tighter.
I struggled to fight back the tears. I’d thought about this all night. If I was forced to go back to Hidalgo, I couldn’t take my children with me. My whole reason in coming to America had been to give them a better life. And I knew Rosa would step up to help me. I would just have to find a way to send her money to help raise them.
I couldn’t believe I was planning a life without my kids. The thought of being without my children made a sickening feeling rise in my stomach.
“What are the chances of you being deported?” Miguel asked. He now stood upright, his man-of-the-house demeanor taking over. Miguel was so much like his father, inquisitive and thought-provoking and determined.
“Miguel, you let me worry about that, okay?”
“No, Mom,” he replied with conviction. “This affects us all. So I think we should know what’s going on.”
I was about to protest when he continued. “You don’t want me to wake up tomorrow and you’re gone, and then we’re left trying to figure out what to do. We have to develop a plan.”
My thirteen-year-old was trying to come up with a plan in the event that I was deported. The tears I’d been fighting back trickled out. When I’d taken that long ride across the border all those years ago, I never imagined that one day I’d be here.
I took a deep breath, then explained to my son how their life would go on without me.
+ + +
It had taken some time, but I’d gotten the kids settled in bed. I peeked outside. The camera crews had left, though I was sure they’d return with daylight. I let the curtain fall closed as I slumped down onto the sofa.
“Oh, Julio, my life is such a mess,” I whispered. I wondered if he were here, what would he want us to do?
Then a thought struck me. If Julio were here, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. If my husband hadn’t died, my son wouldn’t be wanted for murder.
I was lost in thoughts of what if when I heard a light tapping on the back door. I sat up as the tapping got louder. I glanced over at the clock. It was just after midnight. If this was a dang reporter . . .
I walked over to the closet and retrieved Miguel’s baseball bat. I then headed into the kitchen.
“Who is it?” I hissed.
“It’s me, Ma.”
The sound of my oldest son’s voice made me swing the door open. My first reaction was relief. I wanted so desperately to take my son into my arms and just hold him. He looked worn down, like life on the streets had taken its toll. After a few seconds, I couldn’t resist the urge. I took him into my arms, all but yanked him into the house, and then I hugged him as if my life depended on it.
“Mi hijo,” I cried, plastering him with kisses.
Normally, he would’ve squirmed away, but it was as if he welcomed each kiss.
“Are you okay?” I asked, finally shutting the door and examining him from his head to the tips of his expensive tennis shoes.
He nodded. I peeked outside through the small window in the door.
“Don’t worry, Ma,” he said. “I made sure no one saw me.”
I exhaled in relief, and then my eyes asked the question my mouth couldn’t. And my son answered, “Mom, I didn’t shoot the little girl . . .” He paused and let his words hang in the air. Finally, he added, “But I know who did and I have no idea what to do.”
I wanted to tell him I knew what he should do—turn himself in. But I couldn’t get the words to come out.
I knew all about the no-snitching creed of gangs, but our situation was bound by a different set of rules. Paco faced prison or deportation. I’d fled Hidalgo to keep the gangs from claiming my son. And now they’d taken him anyway. This story, no matter what happened—would not have a happy ending.
“Son, just come on in. Rest. We can talk about this tomorrow,” I said.
My son’s shoulders sagged in relief.