Return to Sender (3 page)

I am writing to tell you that we arrived safely. I hope by now you have returned to Carolina del Norte and will find this letter as well as the first one waiting for you.

We have not yet gotten our own telephone number, but you have the number of the
patrón
we left for you and I will write it down here, too: 802-555-2789.

Our journey to Vermont was not as long as our journey to this country. At first, the plan was to buy a used car and Tío Armando would drive us, a voyage of about three days. But Papá feared that the
policía
would pull us over and find out that there were four of us without papers, including one driver without a license, and two little American- citizen girls whom we had obviously kidnapped.

There was the added problem that Tío Felipe thought the police might be looking for him. No, Mamá, he did not do anything wrong. But the old lady he worked for had two little dogs, and part of Tío Felipe's job was to feed and walk them. Tío Felipe said those animals ate better than most of the people in Las Margaritas. Several weeks ago,
one of those little dogs disappeared, and the lady was sure that Tío Felipe had sold it, as those
perritos
are very valuable. But as Tío Felipe said when he told us the story, “Then why didn't I sell them both?”

But Tío Felipe could not defend himself because he does not know enough English. He did understand when this lady said the word
police.
So, after she went back inside her house, Tío Felipe ran off, arriving home in the middle of the morning. My sisters and I were not expecting anybody until the end of the day. We got so excited when we heard a key in the lock, thinking it was you, Mamá, returning home. We tried not to look too disappointed when it was only our uncle at the door.

After that, Tío Felipe was afraid to go out on the streets and be picked up for a theft he had never committed.

I offered to call the old lady, since my English is almost perfect now. I would explain how our uncle never even takes something out of the refrigerator that he has not bought himself without asking first.

But Tío Felipe shook his head. That
viejita
was not going to believe a Mexican. My uncle hadn't meant to hurt my feelings, but it made me feel the same left- out feelings as when the children at school called me names.

“I'll call her,” Ofie offered. “I'm American.”

“I'm American too,” Luby said. “I'll let her play with my doggie, Tío Fipe.” Luby held out this little stuffed puppy our uncle had bought her at the Wal- Mart.

Even Tío Felipe smiled, though his eyes were

sad.

(Later the same day—as I had to stop.

Sometimes I get so sad,

even if I'm just writing things down.)

Papá and my uncles decided we should travel by bus, just as for that first journey when we came from México. I was only four. So I do not know if I truly remember, Mamá, or if it is your stories that have become my memories.

I do remember how hard you cried when we left Las Margaritas. “I cried so much that for years I had no tears,” you once told me. I do not understand how that can be, Mamá. Since you left, I have cried and cried into my pillow so as not to upset Papá or my sisters over your absence, and every night there are fresh tears.

Those last moments in Las Margaritas, you told me you clung to Abuelita, and your sisters and younger brothers clung to you, and Abuelito looked down at the earth that could no longer feed his family. “My daughter,” he said in parting,

“if we do not meet again in this world, we will meet again in the next life.” This only made you cry harder.

You told me, or perhaps I remember that long bus ride for days and days until we reached the border with the United States. You had not known our own country of México was so vast and beautiful. Last year in geography class, I found Las Margaritas on the map at the very tip of México in the south, and with my finger I traced our route to the northern border at the very other end. What a long journey to make to a place that does not welcome us but instead sends us away!

Your face was pressed to the window of that bus, you told me, and so was mine. Sometimes when we passed a town and saw a child or an old person, we waved, and they waved back at us. Sometimes that made you sad, as it reminded you of your mother and father and the loved ones you left behind.

Those times when the sadness made you want to turn back, Papá would remind you that a new life was about to start for our family. We would be joining Tío Armando, who was already in Carolina del Norte and had sent money for our passage. Tío Felipe accompanied us, and sometimes, sad as you were, he could make you smile with his boasting: “I will come back a rich
man with a big car and throw a fiesta with piñatas full of dollars!” To think he was only fourteen and already beginning his life as a man, leaving school and his home to help support his family.

We arrived in the border town and found the smugglers that Tío Armando had recommended. “But where are the coyotes?” I kept asking. Papá had said
coyotes
would be crossing us to this country, and so I had expected animals dressed in clothes and speaking Spanish!

But they turned out to be men, not very kind ones, always barking at us as if
we
were animals. We were to carry only a small bag that would not slow us down or take up room in the van that would meet us on the other side. I remember you gave everything away to the poor beggars outside the cathedral where we stopped to pray before setting forth. Then the
coyotes
stuck us in a little room with dozens of others, waiting for darkness, to take us in small groups across the desert.

It was very dark. Sometimes I walked alongside you, but mostly you and Papá and Tío Felipe took turns carrying me. I could hear your heart beating so hard in your chest I was afraid it would burst out, and so I clung even tighter, like a bandage to keep it inside. That journey seemed to go on and on, for days. I remember the fear of serpents, the sharp rocks, the lights of
la migra.
And always, the terrible thirst… I am not sure
even this paper can hold such terrifying memories.

But we arrived safely, Mamá, and that is what I wish for you now after eight months and five days of traveling. I know Papá blames himself for letting you go back to México alone. But the passage was too expensive to think of taking any of us with you when the phone call came that Abuelita was dying. My sisters and I didn't even know that night when you put us to bed that by morning you would be gone. I still remember how after you tucked in my sisters, you lingered by my bedside. “Promise me,” you said, your voice so urgent that my sleepiness instantly faded away, “promise me you will always take care of your
hermanitas.
“

“Mamá, ¿qué pasa?”
I asked, sitting up. “What's wrong?” Luby was already snoring and Ofie complaining that we were making too much noise.

“Shhh,” you whispered to me, pointing over to my grumpy sister. “Nothing is wrong, my heart. But you will never forget me, ever?”

I shook my head adamantly. How could you even wonder about such a thing and why were you wondering now?

“Whenever you feel sad or lonely or confused, just pick up a pen and write me a letter,” you said, tucking my hair behind my ears.

“But why would I write you a letter if you are here, Mamá?” I had heard that Abuelita was sick, but neither you nor Papá had mentioned your going away.

You laughed the way people do when they are embarrassed at being caught making a mistake. “I mean … that it's good to write letters. When you write down your thoughts to anyone, you do not feel so alone.”

I nodded, relieved by your explanation. Soon after you tiptoed out, I fell asleep. But that night I had nightmares. We were crossing the desert again. There was a serpent wrapping itself around and around your body like a boa constrictor. Then a huge pen came writing across the land, drawing a big black borderline. I woke up, startled. The apartment was so quiet. I thought of getting up and finding you and Papá, but the peaceful breathing of my sisters drew me back to sleep.

Next morning, what a shock when Papá delivered the news! Now I understood why you had said the things you had, Mamá. My sisters cried and cried, but I had to stay strong for them and for Papá. Still, I bit my nails down so far that they bled. Papá kept reassuring us that the journey home was no problem, as you would be entering your birth land on an airplane, not on foot through a desert.

The danger came with your return after
Abuelita's death to be reunited with us. Papá had sent extra money so you could reenter the United States the safer way, through a reservation, disguised as the wife of an Indian chief, sitting in the front seat of his car.

You called before starting back, and we were so excited! For days afterward, we cleaned every corner of that apartment; even Ofie helped without complaining. We wanted everything to look perfect for your return. Finally, every surface twinkled and every package and can and box in the kitchen cabinets looked lined up with a ruler. And then, we waited and waited, and waited …

Papá could not notify the police because it was illegal for you to be trying to come in without permission in the first place. Finally, he decided to leave us with our uncles and retrace your steps. Tío Felipe tried to distract us with his songs and jokes, but this time it didn't work. Tío Armando took only local jobs so he could come home at the end of the day.

Every night, Papá would call. “Have you heard anything?” he would always begin, and we'd ask him the same thing back. But no one could tell him anything about your whereabouts. By the time he returned, Papá was almost crazy with grief. Nights, after everyone had gone to bed, I would find him in the kitchen, sitting in the dark, his head in his hands.

“Papá, she will return.” I was the one now reassuring him.

“Espero que sí, mi'ja,”
he would say in an anguished voice. “I hope so, my daughter.”

As the months have gone by, he has calmed down, Mamá. Sometimes he hears me telling my sisters, “When Mamá comes back,” and a strange, pained look comes on his face. Like he half wants to believe it but can't let himself hope too much. If my sisters press him, he just says, “It is in God's hands.”

But I know you will return. That is why I write you. It is like the candle that Abuelita promised to keep lit at her altar until we returned. To light our way back to Las Margaritas. Or now to light your way to Vermont, to a farm owned by a crippled farmer and his kind wife, who seemed surprised when she picked us up at the bus station.

“I didn't know that there were children,” she said.

“¿Qué dice?”
my father asked. “What did she say?”

“I thought it was just going to be the three men,” the woman went on.

“They are my uncles and my father,” I explained. Luby clung to her little dog and to Ofie, who clung to Papá, afraid they would not be allowed to enter Vermont, even if they were Americans.

The woman must have seen our fear. Her face softened, but still she looked undecided.

“They will not bother,” my father said.

When I translated, the woman shook her head. “Bother? Are you kidding? You guys are lifesavers! Angels, really.”

“¿Qué dice?”
Papá asked again.

None of us three knew the word for lifesaver in Spanish. “It's like a candy,” Luby tried.

“She says we are angels,” Ofie offered in her know-it-all voice.

For the first time in a long while, Papá laughed.
“Sí, sí,”
he said, nodding at the lady.
“¡Somos ángeles mexicanos!”

Mexican angels, Mamá! How is that for being a special alien?

Soon we were piled in the lady's van with the windows tinted so you cannot see inside, but once inside, you can see out. Tío Armando and Tío Felipe sat in the backseat, and Papá and Luby and Ofie in the other backseat. And guess who rode in the front seat with the lady? Me!

We are now living in a house called a trailer beside the home of the farmer and his wife and their handsome son, who looks about the same age as Tío Felipe, and their daughter, Sara, who is so pretty and nice. (She says there is another son, who is away with relatives because he has not been feeling well.)

“This is your new home,” the farmer's wife said when she brought us here. But a home means being all together, so until you are back with us, Mamá, we will never feel at home, not in Carolina del Norte, not in México, not here.

Soon after we arrived, the daughter Sara came over with a big box of her “old” clothes that looked brand- new to me. But they were all far too big for us. “Grandma can alter them for you. She can sew like a barn on fire.”

My goodness! For a moment I wondered what kind of a strange grandmother would sew like that. But Sara explained she meant her grandmother could sew anything. Why didn't she just say that?

Along with other things at the bottom of the box there were some real pretty hair clips and a lip gloss and blush, which I got to keep. Sometimes there are advantages to being the oldest! Not that Papá will let me use makeup. Like I told you before, he has become even more strict now that you are not around to protect us.

When Sara was leaving, I asked her if she knew where I could mail a letter. I had the first one I wrote you because I didn't have a stamp or way to mail it on the road. And soon I will be done with this one, too. Sara said just bring it over to her mother, who could mail it when she went to town.

So, Mamá, I will say goodbye. As you can see, I followed your advice and I have written you not one but two long letters! And you were right. I have felt less alone as I write them. I think I will keep writing letters every day of my life.

Con amor
and with love,

Mari

P.S. Mamá, I am almost too upset to write! I will not be mailing you these letters. Instead, I am to keep them until you come back.

What happened was that Papá saw me writing and asked who I was writing to. When I said you, he got that pained, strange look on his face again, but he did not say anything.