35

LEILA WAS SURPRISED by how late into the morning she slept. It had been hard to fall asleep, with everything that weighed on her mind and heart. But once she did, her body welcomed the time to recover. Alejandra and her grandmother were not early risers, so the apartment was just coming to life when Leila rose. She showered and put on the new, ill-fitting restaurant uniform.

Alejandra met her in the apartment kitchen, wearing short-shorts and a loose tank top with a dim blue star and letters so faded that Leila could barely read Dallas Cowboys across the gray of the shirt.

“Is there a computer at the hotel we can use?” she asked Alejandra while they ate corn cakes and drank coffee with coarse sugar.

“We’re not supposed to, not for personal things.”

“Are there no exceptions?”

Alejandra considered for a moment. “Let’s go over a little early today. I can get you online before our shift.”

“Thank you. I have to tell my family where I am.”

“Is there anything they can do to help you?”

“I don’t know. But they’ll want to try if they know where I am.”

“I’ll write down our phone number here. We can’t call out to the United States, but they could call you here.”

“That would be wonderful. You’ve been so kind to me.”

Leila felt grateful to be eating a second breakfast on her second day in Cartagena. It was lucky. As badly as things had gone, it could have been worse. Alejandra’s grandmother’s kitchen couldn’t have been more different than yesterday’s clean, white kitchen in the rectory. Pots and dishes were everywhere. Various photographs and trinkets hung on the yellow walls. The pipes in the ceiling clattered as water washed through from the apartments above. The one similarity to yesterday was the ancient tin coffee kettle on the stove, emitting the same wonderful smell.

Leila felt Alejandra’s eyes on her as she sipped her coffee. She was examining her with curiosity and wonder.

“I’ve heard stories about people deported from the United States,” she said, “but you’re the first person I’ve met who actually has been. Are all the stories true?”

Leila sighed. “I’d heard the stories too and never really believed it. Living in the United States all those years, it was always in the back of my mind, but I never believed it could happen to me.”

She remembered everything, back to the day she left her home here in Cartagena. Once Manny gave her a new identity, she had been so trusting of the new life. She really became this new person. But she always should have been more cautious, knowing her danger. It was still tough to know exactly what had happened after her arrest, but her false identity didn’t seem to have been too tough for the authorities to unravel.

“Yeah,” she said, “now that I’ve been through it, I have to say the stories are true. It was awful. It happened so fast. I barely remember the time in the detention center. I must have been delirious, maybe even sedated. I do remember being afraid. Any of those guards might have tried to have their way with me, and there would have been nothing I could have done, no one I could have told. They said I waived my right to an attorney, which I can’t imagine having done unless I’d lost my head. They told me I had a right to a phone call, but I couldn’t remember the phone numbers and email wasn’t given as an option. So, I was completely alone and at the mercy of the people who just wanted me out of the country as fast as possible.”

“Why would anyone want you out of their country? Look at you. You’re beautiful.”

“I don’t even know what I can say. I was successful, too, until I made one little mistake. Then it was all over.”

“It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

How could she explain it to Alejandra, who had never been to the United States? She had never imagined before moving there how resentful some people were toward Hispanic immigrants. It took years before she felt like she could almost understand the root causes of those feelings. What she never gave enough thought to was the danger that arose from that prejudice.

“Most Americans are wonderful people, but there are a few who have such hatred. No, hatred’s not a nice thing to say. It’s fear. Some people there are so afraid of losing what they have, so they lash out against anyone who they think might take it from them. They perceive that Latinos want what they have. Maybe we do, but there’s enough prosperity in the United States for anyone who’s willing to work for it. One person’s success doesn’t take away another’s opportunity. The fear is persistent. The fear looks like hatred, but that’s not the heart of it.”

Even Samantha was only afraid. She was afraid of losing control—of her son’s destiny, of her career, of her fortune. It came out as prejudice and hatred, but it was rooted in fear. Realizing this made Leila feel a little less bitter toward her.

“There are frightened people everywhere. In the United States, it’s the frightened people who have all the power.” She didn’t want to dwell on it. She wanted to focus on what was ahead—getting as settled as possible and getting in touch with Manny and Ashford to devise a plan. What that plan would be she didn’t know. What path was there to getting reunited with her daughter? There had to be some way.

She tried not to worry about Samantha’s cruel offer and especially tried not to think about Paulo. It was yesterday’s nightmare that would hopefully just go away. Now, she was with caring people. She had a job and a fresh start. This part of town was far from Paulo’s jurisdiction.

Leila finished her breakfast and stood up. “I want to go buy some things before work. You know, makeup, shampoo, underwear . . . I have nothing. Thankfully, those Aussies tipped good last night. I’ll meet you back at the hotel this afternoon.”

The restaurant was empty when Leila arrived at Hotel Caribe that afternoon. Last night, the whole bayside of the restaurant had been open, with a nice breeze coming off the water. Now, the glass doors were shut and the drapes were pulled. It was a newer restaurant, catering to tourists, so air-conditioning was a must. It was being protected now from the hot afternoon. She sat in the shade of the awning, looking out toward the lapping shore of the bay until Alejandra arrived. She hopped up and followed her new friend in.

“Good,” said Alejandra, “the night manager hasn’t arrived yet, but I have a key. Let’s hurry so we don’t get in trouble.”

She logged on to the restaurant computer, then turned it over to Leila, who opened her email. There was only one, from Manny.

“Leila, do not email again from this account. Do not tell us where you are yet. You are in more danger than you know. Wherever you emailed from yesterday was not secure. A few hours after you wrote, Paulo Varga emailed me too. He knows you are there, and somehow he got into your email.”

As Leila read the words, her head swirled. She felt nauseous. It wasn’t possible, except that of course it was and she realized how careless she had been yesterday at the internet café. Reading Samantha’s email had shaken her up and she had left too quickly, forgetting to log out and leaving herself open to the very trick she had pulled to get online in the first place. That teenager with the flip phone must have gone over as soon as she walked out.

Stupid. Stupid.

She changed the password on her email account, then logged out and shut the browser. This place was surely not secure either.

How far would Paulo go to find her? How many places did he have eyes and ears?

“Are you okay?” Alejandra was watching her from a stool nearby.

Leila looked up at her. Those big brown eyes in a head too small for them accentuated the girl’s curiosity. Alejandra had been nothing but kind to her. How careful did she need to be? Was there no one she could trust?

“Yeah, it just all makes me so sad. I get overwhelmed.”

“I bet. Are you done?”

Leila nodded.

Alejandra stood up and reached for her arm. “Let’s take a short walk by the harbor. We have some time before our shift. The air will do you good.”

Leila took Alejandra’s arm and allowed herself to be led out of the restaurant.

So, not even email was safe. How horrible. She certainly couldn’t ask Manny and Ashford to call at Alejandra’s grandmother’s apartment. Paulo might end up calling instead. She was completely alone and isolated now. Would she ever see her daughter again?