Delia's Crossing (Delia 1)

Good-bye, Delia, I could hear them think. Adiós pequeña muchacha. Vaya con Dios.

I got into the limousine. The driver, who had not introduced himself and who barely looked at me with any interest, closed the door. I moved quickly to the window, already feeling like someone being locked away from all she loved and knew. Mi abuela Anabela smiled and pressed her right hand to her heart. She nodded and looked up to mutter a prayer.

I put my fingers against the window, as if I could somehow still touch her.

“Don’t smudge up the windows,” the driver muttered sharply. I pulled my hand away instantly.

The limousine started away, its tires unhappy about the potholes deepened by last evening’s downpour. The broken street bounced and tossed the automobile as if it were a toy. The driver cursed under his breath and then accelerated, spitting up some dirt behind us, enough to create a cloud of dust, dust through which mi abuela Anabela grew smaller and smaller, until she was gone, and I was carried off and away, my tears as hot as tea streaming down my cheeks.

We drove on, the scenery turning into liquid and floating by as the road got better and the driver could accelerate even more. He didn’t speak or ask me any questions to pass the time. He listened to his radio as if he were all by himself. It was the way I felt. Why not him?

In a little more than one hour, I was traveling through places I had never been. Looking back, I saw nothing familiar. It was truly as if God had snapped his fingers, and poof, like magic, my life and my world were gone.

3

Nothing Familiar

At no point during my journey was my aunt there to greet me. Whatever her reasons for not coming to the funerals, I nevertheless kept anticipating her, envisioning her standing there with my two cousins, all of them anxious about meeting me. After all, I was as much a stranger to them as they were to me, but I hoped they were eager to help me recover from such a catastrophic blow. I imagined their eyes would be filled with pity, and they would overwhelm me with their kindness and warm welcome.

Perhaps my cousin Sophia, close to my age, would see me more as a sister than a cousin. Since we were close in age, maybe we were close to the same size. We would share so much. After all, I had been an only child and had no brothers and sisters, even though my parents had tried to have more children. I longed for such a sister, someone with whom I could trust my intimate thoughts and feelings and share the confusion and wonder that came with growing up. I would have so much to tell her about our Mexican heritage, and she would have tons to tell me about Palm Springs and the United States. Eventually, I would have to learn more English, of course. I knew some, but I was sure there were dozens of expressions that would confuse me at first. It would be necessary, but also it would be fun to learn them.

I also looked forward to hearing music and going to movies and parties like the ones I occasionally saw on television or heard about from people who had been in the States. They described working at fiestas with more food than could feed our village for a week. The people were dressed like royalty, with diamonds glittering and gold dangling from their necks and wrists. There was lots of live music. I was told that every party, no matter how small the reason, was like a Mexican wedding. There was such abundance. Dogs and cats in America ate better than people ate in most underdeveloped countries.

Thinking about entering such a world both frightened and excited me. How long would it take for me to get used to it? Would I ever get used to it? I would have so much compared to what I did have. How soon would I be able to send things to mi abuela Anabela? Would I indeed have a bedroom almost as big as our casa? And would there be a wardrobe of new clothing awaiting me in that bedroom?

I tried to shoo away all of these hopeful fantasies, feeling terribly guilty about imagining anything wonderful and good resulting from my parents’ unfortunate deaths, but it was hard not to think about all of it as I traveled from the limousine to the airplane and then another limousine.

I pretended that I had been in an airplane before, in order to bolster my own courage, but anyone could see both my fear and my wonder. The flight attendant kept looking at me, smiling, and asking me if I was all right. Maybe I looked as if I would throw up. My stomach was doing flip-flops. I was given the paperwork to show at customs in Houston, Texas, but the scrutinizing eyes made me so nervous I was sure I looked as if I were smuggling in something illegal. My bag was searched. I boarded my second flight, which was in a smaller plane. No one paid much attention to me this time, and the gentleman beside me slept almost the whole trip.

When we arrived at the Palm Springs airport, I saw my name on a big card being held by a stout-looking, somewhat gray-haired man in a uniform even more impressive than the one worn by the driver who had picked me up in Mexico. This man had gold epaulets on his shoulders and wore white gloves.

“Soy Delia Yebarra,” I said, approaching him. I looked past him, hoping to see my aunt and cousins waiting or sitting in the seats behind him.

“How many bags you got?” he asked gruffly.

I shook my head. I didn’t understand. Bags? Why did he want to know about bags?

“Bags, suitcases!” he practically screamed at me, and then pretended to hold one.

“Oh. Uno,” I said, holding up one finger.

“Good. C’mon,” he said, gesturing, and led me to the baggage carousels, where we waited for my small suitcase to come around.

He looked at me and squinted. He had big, pecan-brown eyes and a face that looked chiseled out of granite, the lines cut deeply and sharply around the corners of his mouth and at his eyes. He even had lines cut into his chin. I imagined his face suddenly shattering.

“No sabe usted hablar inglés?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Jesus, you don’t speak any English at all?”

“Poco,” I said, afraid to say I spoke or understood more. Whoever spoke to me would expect me then to understand. I thought about reciting some of the words I did know, but he grimaced and shook his head.

“Yeah, a little. Little good that will do you with Mrs. Dallas.”

I perked up at the sound of my aunt’s name and looked around again.

“Don’t worry. She ain’t here. No aquí,” he said. “Like she would come to an airport to greet anyone,” he muttered.