Rescue
My eyelids grew heavier and heavier, but I was too frightened to let myself fall asleep. Soon, I heard Señor Baker snoring. I was happy he had passed out, but all I could think about was what would happen to me the moment he woke. Gathering my courage, I moved in tiny increments until I was just about sitting up. Then I felt for the belt buckle. Twice he stopped snoring, and I froze, but he didn’t open his eyes.
Our sheer curtained windows did little to keep out the moonlight that streamed through like a giant flashlight. It helped me see what I was doing, but if he opened his eyes, he would see what I was doing, too, I thought. Please keep him asleep, I prayed.
My fingers trembled around the buckle, but I worked as carefully as I could until I managed to loosen the belt. I paused to see if he had felt it, if it had woken him. He grunted and moved, but he continued to snore. His lips were puffed out with the air he exhaled. I could still smell the whiskey on his breath, now combining with the sweat from his body. The odor nauseated me, and I had to keep swallowing to stop myself from gagging. Even a subdued gasp might wake him.
With as much care as mi abuela Anabela would take bandaging my small scrapes and cuts, I peeled the belt off my leg and carefully and slowly moved my leg away from his. He snorted again, and I paused and waited until his breathing was regular. Continuing to inch myself away, I finally slipped softly off the bed. I stood and waited to be sure he hadn’t heard or woken, and then I moved with the silent grace of a ghost, scooping up my clothing and my shoes and tiptoeing out of the bedroom.
I dressed in the dark in the living room as quickly as I could, all the while listening keenly for any sounds of his awakening. In this deep silence, even the creaking in the floor seemed loud enough to alert him. I had no idea where I would go or what I would do. I knew only that I had to get away.
When I opened the side door, it creaked so loudly I was sure it would wake him. I hesitated, listened, heard nothing, and then stepped out and closed the door behind me softly. The moonlight was now my friend. It lit the road and showed me the way. No longer tiptoeing or trying to be quiet, I shot out of the carport and started to run down the road. I had no idea whether I should go left or right. I just ran to my left, crying and praying as I charged forward. I ran and ran until my side felt as if a giant hand had grabbed me and was squeezing. The pain reached my chest, and I stopped, gasping.
When I gathered enough breath and strength to continue, I walked on. I saw houses now on both sides of the road. Their windows were lit. It wasn’t terribly late yet. I was sure people in their homes were still watching television or just talking together. I thought about stopping at one and asking for help, but what if they didn’t speak or understand enough Spanish? Did I know enough English to get them to understand? Would the sight of me frighten them so they would slam the door in my face? What would I ask them to do for me, anyway? Send me back to Mexico? Maybe they would call the police, and the police would do that. I was not a citizen here. From what I understood, that could mean I would be deported unless my aunt stepped in to stop it, and why would she now?
I wanted to return home, of course, but I was also concerned about how mi abuela Anabela would react if I was sent back by police. She might blame herself for my being in this situation. The rosy future I was supposed to begin would be gone and with it her hopes for me. She was happy she was doing what my parents had wanted, providing a better life for me. This was far from being a better life.
What should I do? What should I want?
For a few moments, I stood there submerged in so much indecision, confusion, and fear, I felt as if I had gone close to the edge of the world. One more step forward, and I would fall off and sink forever into the darkness below.
Suddenly, I was awash in light. I turned and saw a car approaching very quickly. The driver slowed down as he drew closer to me.
It’s surely Señor Baker, I thought. He woke up, saw I had left the house, and has come after me. It wil
l even be worse for me now.
I started to run. The driver sounded his horn, and I ran harder and faster until my legs weakened and I fell forward, catching myself with the palms of my hands but tumbling over twice and actually falling into a ditch. The car stopped. I moaned with the stinging pain in my palms and knees. As I struggled to stand, I saw the silhouette of the driver approaching. When he loomed over me, I screamed.
“Easy, easy,” Edward said, reaching toward me. “It’s okay. Bueno, bueno.”
He took my hand, but I didn’t move. I stared at him in the moonlight. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. Had Señor Baker called my aunt, and had she sent Edward to get me and bring me back to him? Could he have gotten here so quickly? Whom could I trust?
“C’mon.” He beckoned. “Come into my car. C’mon. I’ve come to help you. You’ll be all right.”
I stepped out of the ditch and slowly followed him to the car. He opened the door for me. I looked at him, still very confused and afraid.
“No quiero volver a Señor Baker,” I told him. I’d rather die than return.
“No Señor Baker,” he said. “No.” He smiled and nodded. “It’s okay,” he said again. “Bueno, bueno.”
I got into the car. He closed the door and hurried around to the driver’s side. After he got in, he put on the lights inside the car and turned my hands to look at my palms. He shook his head, looked at my knees, and said, “We’ll get you cleaned up.” He made gestures with his hands to explain. I said nothing. I was still feeling too numb and frightened.
He reached down between us on the seat and picked up a sheet of paper.
“Casto wrote this en español,” he told me, moving his hand over the paper, and then he began reading. His pronunciation was good enough for me to understand every word.
“I found out my mother had sent you off to live with Mr. Baker for a few weeks in one of our rented houses,” he began. “I was very upset to learn this, and she and I had a bad argument. I told her I was upset with her for not telling me and my sister the truth about you, too. She claimed she was preparing to do that but first wanted to make you presentable.
“I told her it was a terrible way to treat you, and she shouldn’t have sent you off with Mr. Baker. I know Mr. Baker. It was a very bad idea.”
He paused and in English said, “I’m not surprised to see you running away.” He saw I wasn’t sure what he meant, so he pointed to me and said, “You.” He made his fingers look like someone running and nodded. “Bueno,” he said.
“Señor Baker no es bueno,” he added, and I nodded. He pointed to the road in front of us. “A mi casa,” he said, put the paper down, and drove on.
He was taking me back. What would my aunt say? What would she do? She would be furious. Would she stop helping my grandmother?
“Don’t worry,” he said. He pointed to himself. “I inglés to you, and you espanõl to me. Comprende?”