CHAPTER 30
Not long after, two men and two women came to talk to the boys. Chismoso, with his uncanny connections, knew ahead of time and tried to get his fellow residents excited.
“Think about it, gorgeous women visiting us,” the gossiper boasted. The result was that at least half the guys showered before their arrival.
Santiago supposed they were okay-looking, for old people. Certainly not the supermodels Chismoso had promised. Not that it made any difference to Santiago. He showered every morning, because he could, and because it occupied time.
“Hi, everyone.” One of the men addressed them in flawless but curt Spanish. “We are volunteers from the Ley Unido nonprofit organization.”
A new boy with pale skin and military-cut blond hair (the only blond currently there) raised his hand and spoke in English. “I no speak Spanish.”
The older woman of the two asked him a question in English to which he replied, “Russia.”
The same woman turned to the teens watching her and said in Spanish, “Who here understands Spanish?”
Everyone but five others raised their hands, the most non-Spanish speakers Santiago had encountered since his arrival. In true fashion, Chismoso explained those five’s life stories with a pointed finger. “He’s from Syria, those two are Brazilian, and the other two only speak indigenous languages.”
The woman waved aside the other five to join her and the Russian boy where she could talk to them privately, but how and in what language?
The man who had started the introduction continued his address to the Spanish speakers. “We’re mostly retired lawyers working as volunteers to make you aware of the options available to you as immigrants and refugees.”
“My family doesn’t have any money,” said Llorón, a new, whiny boy. Most of the boys murmured in agreement.
The speaker nodded. “The services we offer here at the center are completely free. For instance, we can help you get reunited with your family or put in group housing, where you can live more freely outside of the center until your immigration status is decided. We can also advise you on the programs you’re most likely to qualify for and help you fill out paperwork.”
Santiago shifted uneasily from his spot on the floor. All this for free?
“What do you guys get out of this? How do we know you’re not screwing us over?” Llorón now crossed his arms over his chest. Santiago noticed that even Chismoso didn’t voice his usual smart-mouth responses.
The other man stepped forward, this one with old-age spots on his face and looking more physically frail than the speaker, but with sharp eyes. “We do this because we’ve been in your situation. We’ve been separated from our families; we’ve risked our lives to leave our homes. We have been you.”
Silence filled the room. Whatever these people said, their clothes, their education, their mannerisms spoke differently.
“We’ll be here all next week, available to talk with each of you individually,” the first man continued.
Santiago slumped forward, hugging his knees inside his sweatshirt. Weeks had passed since his intake interview and nothing had happened. Other kids had come and gone in that time. He’d been forgotten, again, but so what? Sure the facility was lonely, cold, depressing, boring, uncomfortable, and—in his mind—completely pointless, considering all the resources they spent in housing him here instead of letting him take care of himself in the outside world.
Like he’d always done.
But, truthfully, he was fed and clothed with a roof over his head. He got to go to school. With Alegría gone, learning to read and write now offered a way to pass the endless time. He knew what to expect. In here no one hurt him. No one made him feel loved only to abandon him later.
Other than with Consuelo and Señor Dante, he talked to no one, and no one noticed him. Honestly, not the worst life he’d lived.
The volunteer lawyers each carried large briefcases when they returned on Monday. A new pregnant woman joined them; young and looking hugely out of place, she smiled.
“Con permiso, I got to pee.” And she dashed off without waiting for permission or even acknowledgment.
Santiago watched from his reading and sleeping spot in the corner as two frightened teenage boys burst out of the bathroom at the sight of a woman rushing into their private space. But not even the strictest guard dared tell a pregnant woman where she couldn’t pee.
A piece of toilet paper was stuck to her shoe when she exited, making a few of the boys snicker. Santiago marked the page with his finger and walked up to her.
“Hold still,” he said while pointing to the toilet paper behind her. He stepped on the trailing end and brushed it toward the wall with his flip-flop.
“You’re my savior.” She beamed at him.
He gave her a stiff nod and returned to his spot in the corner.
“Wait.” She grabbed his arm, which immediately caused him to cower, a defense mechanism he’d developed long ago at la malvada’s house. She let go quickly, maybe remembering the “no touching” rule, and rested her hands on her stomach. He didn’t move but avoided eye contact. “Why don’t you meet with me, and we can go over your case?”
“There’s nothing to go over,” he said.
“I disagree. Something can always be done, but you won’t know until you try.”
He didn’t want to say yes, didn’t want to agree. But his eyes finally met hers, hopeful and kind, and his mouth relented. “Fine.”
The room they entered was accessed from the main living room and might have once been a supply closet, just large enough for a small table and two chairs. It was stuffy from lack of ventilation but as a result, warmer than the regular area. She removed a couple of layers of clothes, and his perpetual goose bumps retreated into his arms.
“I’m Bárbara. I work part-time for Ley Unido, which, as you know, is a nonprofit organization that offers legal council to youths in immigration centers, without actual legal representation.”
Santiago blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means I can give you advice on your options and rights, and help with paperwork while you’re here, but I can’t be your lawyer if you decide you want one.”
What good is that then? he wanted to shout. I thought you said you wanted to help? Instead he maintained the impassive expression that months at the center had brought on. “So, what are my options?”
“I need to know more about you and your situation back home. You’re mexicano, I’m guessing by your accent? Tell me about your family. Why you came to this country. Who you have here. The more information you can give me, the more advice or options I’ll have for you.”
“I’ve already told the other guys everything.”
“What other guys?”
“The officers or whatever they are. The people who work here.”
“Ah, but you see, I don’t work here.” She smiled and reached out for his hand, which he pulled away before she could grasp it. She straightened up and continued, “Their job is to record everyone who comes in and get them out of here as soon as possible. My job is to offer you options that might let you stay in this country.”
He didn’t want to think too much about this. But hope suddenly sprouted inside before he could stop it. Darn hope, exactly what he dreaded.
He breathed deeply and told the story he’d told when he arrived. The carefully worded truth, and the internal truth that included two sisters. He made sure it matched with the first report in case the two ever crossed paths.
“Tell me about your abuela,” she said.
“I’d rather not.”
“How come?”
“She’s an evil person who hates me.”
“What makes you think she hated you?” Señora Bárbara spoke carefully, so as never to put words in his mouth.
Anger rose in him as he explained. “She always screamed at me or insulted me. And that was only when she couldn’t throw anything in my direction or hit me.” He crossed his arms tightly around his chest.
Señora Bárbara gave him a pitying look before quickly turning away to dab her eyes. “Sorry, baby hormones.”
Still, it took her several more minutes before she continued. “I’m not saying you’re doing that, but unfortunately a lot of kids say they’re being abused when they’re not. They think it evokes sympathy so the judge will grant them refugee status. In fact, I know of several kids who were abused, but there wasn’t any evidence. The court didn’t believe their mistreatment, and they were returned to their abusive relatives. We’re going to need more proof than your word.”
Proof? Was that all she wanted? He stood up and placed his current book on the table before taking off his sweatshirt and shirt. The room wasn’t as warm as he’d thought. Goose bumps rematerialized up and down his arms and along the sides of his visible ribs. The chill also highlighted the redness of his scars. He turned to show his front and back, too many to have been accidental. “I can tell you how I got each one. Some have faded, but I have more under my pants.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said as she scribbled in her notebook. “And no, I don’t need the details. It makes sense that you’d want to escape that. The good news is that the judge should definitely agree that’s not a safe environment for you. And she was your legal guardian?”
He pulled the shirt and then sweatshirt back on and curled the bottom ribbing under to hide his cold hands inside. “I don’t know if it was legal, but she’s the one who took over when Mami died.”
“Were you ever in foster care?”
“No, but she tried to get rid of me all the time. Sending me to live with different relatives.”
“How many times did this happen?”
He held out his hand to count off as he went through the list chronologically in his head. “Five times? After that there were no relatives left who would take me.”
She nodded as she continued scribbling. “Thank you for sharing all of this. I think you’re a great candidate to seek asylum.”
He remembered Guanaco, his first friend in the facility, and how it wasn’t until he turned eighteen that anything changed. “So I won’t get sent back? I can stay here while I seek asylum?”
“I can’t say anything for sure.” She went through her notes. “Ideally, I’d like to get you into foster care.”
He looked at his hands, still wrapped in the hem of his sweatshirt. Something else to get his hopes up, something else to disappoint him. If he stayed here, at least he knew what to expect. Into the darkest corner of his mind he shoved the other reason: If he stayed here, María Dolores would know where to find him.
“Maybe foster care isn’t a good idea.”
Señora Bárbara reached out and took his hands out of his sweatshirt, not letting them go when he tried to pull away. “No one’s going to hurt you. Our foster care families are thoroughly screened, and they will welcome you into their homes. You’ll live the life of a normal adolescent.”
Instead of that of a detainee—or prisoner, since they were virtually the same in here. He could wear whatever he wanted, assuming he had options. Eat anything that was available. Wake up and go to bed anytime, until ordered otherwise. He could dance in the rain, when it happened in the desert.
“I’ll stay there until I’m eighteen?”
“Probably not. Foster care is temporary. Until your sister can take care of you.”
“She’s not coming.” Or else she would have gotten him when she came for Alegría. But would it have changed anything if she had? According to Chismoso, youths were only released to parents or tíos who could prove they were related. What proof would María Dolores have? He didn’t even know his own birth date.
Señora Bárbara took a few seconds before replying. “Even if it’s for a short amount of time, you’d be out of this place.”
She rubbed her hand over her baby belly.
Mami had done that too. He didn’t know how he knew—he’d been inside her belly—but instinctively he did.
Just as he knew Mami would hate seeing him in here, locked up, and unable to live a free life. For her, he’d do it.
“Por favor,” Santiago pleaded. “Tell me everything I need to do to get asylum and foster care and anything else that gets me out of here and not returned to México.”
He spent the rest of the morning with Señora Bárbara reading him information she brought and filling out forms. He missed school for the first time, and lunch. When Señora Bárbara pulled two protein bars from her pocket and handed him one (either she hadn’t been searched before entering or her pregnancy gave her special food privileges), he shook his head and instead asked how to spell adoptar for the foster care papers. Finally, she asked him to write a short autobiography in Spanish for the foster families to read.
“What should I say?”
“Whatever you think people should know about you.”
His mind went blank. He couldn’t think of anything someone would want to know about him. “Can you write it for me?”
She smiled and shook her head. “It’s important that it comes straight from you. Your words, your handwriting.”
A breath caught in his throat. He could write. Kind of. Señor Dante had taught him the basics and let him borrow a new book to read on Mondays and Thursdays when they had school. Some words like hola, gracias, and, even though it pained him to think about her, Alegría, he could write automatically, while others he had to sound out letter by letter to get them on the page. Between the books and practicing often, he could write. And maybe he could write his autobiography by himself.
But thinking up the words still troubled him.
“Mira.” Señora Bárbara interrupted his thoughts. “I have to pee again, and I’m not allowed to leave you here alone. Why don’t you work on the autobiography for a few days and give it to me by the end of the week?”
“You’re coming back?”
“Every day this week.” Señora Bárbara stacked the papers she’d collected from him. “In the meantime, I’ll start getting these filed.”
“How long before anything happens?”
“I’m getting the asylum forms in quickly, but it’s still going to take a long time. For foster care, I hope to have you in place in a couple of weeks.”
His eyes widened. A couple of weeks? That was nothing. “I’ll have the autobiography for you tomorrow.”
“Perfect. I want to clarify one thing, though.” Her smile faltered a bit, and when she replaced it, it seemed forced. “Leaving the facility doesn’t mean you can stay in this country forever. You’ll still have a court date, and it will be up to the judge to decide if you are granted asylum. It’s possible you might still return to México to live with your abuela.”
His shoulders dropped, and he swallowed in understanding as he followed her out of the room. That would be the worst-case scenario. He resolved, for Mami, to remain optimistic. No point in thinking or worrying about a different future.