2018 

I  run from the rusted white truck, slamming the door behind me.

“Dahlia!” The girl stands at the other end of the gravel parking lot looking lost. “Dahlia! Over here!”

She turns to me and waves cautiously. 

My breath catches as I run closer. She’s beautiful. A long black braid falls neatly over her shoulder, a long form-fitting blue dress reaching her feet. Her copper skin and dark brown eyes make her undeniably Hispanic.

I pull my fingers through my wild blonde hair self consciously, wondering if my shorts and T-shirt are appropriate for the occasion. “It’s Dahlia, right?” I come to stand next to her.

She gives me a small nod.

“That’s such a pretty name! I’m Ava. It’s so exciting to meet you! You’re fifteen, aren’t you?”

She nods.

“That’s great! I’m fourteen, so we’re almost the same age. I’m so glad! We’ve never fostered someone my age before! I’m so sorry about your mom, of course. That must be hard.” Shoot. I realize the mistake immediately.

Dahlia stares down at the gravel. I hope her eyes aren’t tearing.

“Since you're with us now, though, we might as well make the most of it! Those are your foster parents,” I point to my parents at the other end of the driveway. They stand talking to a social worker, looking as if they will melt from the heat. “I don’t have any siblings, so that’s mostly why my family fosters. They want to adopt one of the kids someday. But you’re only here for a week, right? Until your aunt comes and picks you up?”

Another nod.

We stand in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. “Well, my parents must be close to done,” I say when the silence becomes unbearable. “Wanna get in the truck? Before we get a heat stroke or something?” 

Dahlia does not look slightly uncomfortable in the glare of the midsummer evening sun, but she nods obediently. My parents join us in the truck after a few minutes and my dad starts to drive.

“So how was your drive here?” I turn to Dahlia. “Long?”

She shrugs.

I sigh, turning back forward. I wish someone would say something. We drive in silence for a while, my mother’s posture as straight as a pencil, my dad lounging on his seat. 

“Welcome to Tucson, Arizona!” I say when we pass the city limit, before cringing at my voice’s volume.

After fifteen more minutes, we pull into my driveway. The house is typical for Tucson, mid-sized and tinted orange with a flat roof.

I hop out of the car, taking the house key, and swing open the front door. 

“Welcome home!” I call to Dahlia who stands behind me. “Your room is just down that hallway, the first door to the left. The bathroom is at the end of the hallway. Make yourself comfortable! Did you have dinner?”
Nod.

“ ’Kay! Lights out at nine-thirty, so you’ve got three hours to set everything up.”
She walks down the hallway and I grab a frozen dinner to heat up. 

My parents head straight to their bedroom, my mom adjusting her hair nervously.

This should be interesting. 

Leaving my dinner to heat up in the microwave, I wait until the bedroom door is slammed shut before creeping up to press my ear into the door frame.

“I don’t like the look of this, John. She’s here on DACA.” My mother’s voice is clipped.

A bed creaks as someone, most likely my dad, sits. “I know, Mary. I know.”

“We would never adopt a child like that.” My mom’s voice fades in and out. She must be pacing.

“Of course we wouldn’t.”

“Then why are we keeping her?” She asks it as more of a demand than a question. 

“You know that.”

“Right, I know. The money.” The bed creaks again as my mom sits. “But is it worth it?”

“You know we’re desperate, Mary. If I could get promoted, it would change, but with the office lowering my salary...We need the money.”

My mother sighs. “I just don’t like what happened to her mother.”

“Deported?” My dad asks. 

“Yes. They were unlawful, John. This isn’t like the minor misdemeanors the other’s parents were involved in. Think! Her mom could have sold drugs from Mexico here! They could have been terrorists! What does it say happened to her father?”

More flipping pages. “Nothing I can find. But she’s only here for a week, Mary.”

“Nothing?”

“Take a walk.”

“What?”

“Go take a walk. Calm down. Nothing tragic is going to happen in a week.”

My mother huffs angrily and stomps out the door. 

The clock beside my bed reads 11 PM when He starts. I know I should have expected it, with the fighting and stress, but I can never bear the sound.

Quietly, I slip out of bed and walk toward our television room. The house is eerily quiet, my footsteps too loud, Him even louder. I hesitate at the door, the metal of the door handle cold against my touch.

“Stop,” A voice hisses from behind me.

I spin to face it. “Mom!” I can barely see her in the dark. “What are you doing?”

“You have been so argumentative lately. I am stopping it now before it starts.”

“But mom!”

“I will not hear any of it.”

“It’s-”

“Go to your room.”

“It’s bad for him!” I have to talk over her to be heard. “Even the pastor said-”

“Do not use the church to disobey your mother!” 

“But he could hurt us! He nearly has before! More than once.”

“Your room. Now.” 

I leave. I know when it is too dangerous to argue.

Dahlia’s first day with us passes smoothly without incident. She spends much of her time in her room organizing her belongings and reading and takes her meals with us quietly.

After dinner, my father disappears into the television room. 

A knot tightens around my stomach.

I try to ignore Him. I run to my room and slam the door. I take out my book and read, but the words blur in front of me. Through the closed door, I can hear my father belting out song lyrics. 

I slam the book shut and turn on my music, hoping to drown out his. After just under thirty seconds, my mother bangs my door open. “What is that sound?”

“My music.”

“Turn it off!”

She leaves before I can argue. I turn on my phone, plug my headphones in, and start to watch the first episode of a movie I would later remember nothing of.

Smash! The crash reverberates through the house, the walls nearly shaking with its intensity. I slam my phone down onto my bed and walk into the hallway. Tonight, I do not hesitate before storming into the television room.

“Ava!” My father’s voice is full of drunk excitement. 

“My God, dad. What are you doing?” I scan the room. “There’s beer cans everywhere! How much have you drunk?” The room is littered. Beer cans and crates dot the room, stains on every open surface. I resist the urge to hold my breath. It is hard to breathe through the heavy scent of alcohol.

My father ignores me and turns back to the television where a young man who looks like he desperately needs a bath and shave is kissing a microphone. 

“Daaa di dee doo,” my dad sings along, the words imperceptible through his drunk accent, clutching a glass of wine to his chest.

I jump forward to smack the glass out of his hand. The gray-blue carpet cushions its fall, but wine spills like blood onto the floor. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to yourself? This room? You complain about money? This is why.” I’m shouting.

“Ava, that is enough.” My mother’s hand pulls me away from my father. 

A wine bottle flies past where my head had just been and bangs loudly against the wall.

My dad turns back to the television.

“Out. Now.” I am too stunned to disobey.

After the door shuts behind us, I turn to my mother.

“He could have killed me.”

She laughs.

“The wine bottle. If you hadn’t pulled me away, it would have crashed into my head. It would give me a concussion at the very best.”

“Please, Ava. Stop exaggerating.”

“Why does he do it?” I grab her hand. “How do you let him?”

She yanks the hand from my grasp. “Stop it, Ava. This is what I was talking about last night! Your father had a hard day at work. He deserves a break.”

“This,” I point to the closed door. “is not a break! And it’s the weekend! Dad only went into the station for half the day!”

Fire flashes through her eyes. “You may not undermine your father’s work as a police officer! He keeps us all safe.”

“But-”

“That is it! Out!” 

“But-”

“Out!” She pushes me back hard enough to make my eyes tear.

I spin on my heel and run down the hallway, out the back door, through my backyard, into the wash. I know I should be worried about snakes and scorpions, but the darkness comforts me. I run from the yellow glow of the house lights to rest behind a large Palo Verde tree some distance from my home. The green bark is rough against my skin, low branches stabbing my arms, but I am too angry to notice.

I stare up at the clouded sky and kick at the gravel soil.

I hear footsteps crunching across the gavel towards me and look up. Dahlia comes to sit beside me, leaning against the Palo Verde.

I sigh. “You heard us, didn’t you?”

Nod.

“I just don’t get it! We’re not some crappy poor family whose parents are divorced and dad has a bad alcohol addiction. We’re white Christians!” I kick a stone into the air and watch it disappear into the dark. “See?” I sit up and turn to Dahlia again. “I can’t even say a swear word. I’m an f-ing white Christian! We’re middle class, my dad has a good job…” I slump back against the tree. “You probably don’t even get why I’m so worked up about this. I’m still so privileged. You must have gone through so much more.” I am surprised by how easy she is to talk to. Even if Dahlia does not speak, her presence is comforting, like a trusted older sister.

“I understand.” She is so quiet I have to move closer to hear. Her voice is sweeter than I had expected. Like a songbird.

She looks down to the ground, her dark hair, now loose, falling over her shoulders in waves. “My mama always wanted a man. She said it was for me, but I think she needed to be loved. I was never enough. The first time she found a boyfriend after we came to America, we were both so happy. I thought that maybe she would forget about papa, and that sad look in her eyes would leave.” Dahlia hesitates, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “But after just a week, I realized it wouldn’t work out. He drank so much. Not just at night, but during the day too.”

She stops for so long I am afraid she won’t continue. I reach out to hold her hand. “What happened?”

“I don’t even know. He just never came back after one night. My mom limped for a while afterward, but she never cried. The rest were even worse.”

“They beat her?”

Dahlia nods. “I remember one time--I must have only been four or five--I was cleaning bruises on her arm when she turned to me and looked straight into my eyes. ‘They are so many-’ I know she wanted to say a curse word, but she wouldn’t in front of me. ‘God-forsaken stupid men in this world, darling. I just wish...I wish I could find good ones. But if your mama fails you will choose well, won’t you, love?’ I don’t think I will ever fall in love. It seems so dangerous.”

“Yeah, I think the same thing sometimes. I don’t want to marry.” We stare up at the stars in silence for a while, our hands intertwined.

“My papa drank too.” Dahlia’s voice is nearly imperceptible over the small breeze. “Please don’t ask about that.”

I squeeze her hand for reassurance. “Do you want to go back inside?”

We walk back to the light together.

“It is like an invasion. They have completely overrun the Mexican border.”

The television screen changes to show the news anchor. “Again, this is special coverage on the US immigration crisis. You are watching top congress official-”

My father sighs. “I should go make dinner.”

“Shhh! Listen!” My mother shoots a look towards Dahlia at the other end of the room.

I bit my lip, put down my phone, and push myself further into the sofa where I sit with my parents.

“When Mexico sends its people, they are not sending their best. They’re not sending you.”

Dahlia reaches the last page in her book--I have counted her reading four novels since her arrival five days ago--and turns to the television. Over the past three days, Dahlia and I have not talked often, but are comfortable in each other's presence.

“They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems to us. They’re bringing drugs.”

My parents stare at the television as if hypnotized.

“They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists.”

Dahlia’s mouth drops open.

“They have completely overrun the Mexican police. This isn’t a group of innocent people. They’ve injured. They’ve attacked. And then they come here.”

The screen fades back to the news anchor. “Thank you for that insightful clip! And now we will turn to Mike Swift--”

Bang! Dahlia’s chair hits the carpet as she jumps up and runs from the room.

“That ungrateful girl!” My mother stands to follow.

“No, I will.” I run after Dahlia.

I find her outside sitting against the Palo Verde tree in the same position I had sat in, facing the desert.

“I just don’t understand!” Her voice is choked with tears. 

I sit down next to her.

“Do they know what happened to us? What being deported could mean?”

I put my arms around her. “Tell me.”

Dahlia sucks in a deep breath and rubs away her tears. “I left Mexico when I was three, but I still remember it. My papa came home drunk every evening. I don’t know where he was during the day, but it had to have been illegal. He beat up my mom every night. Sometimes I still hear her screams when I’m asleep.

“My only clear memory from Mexico is of coming home from my rundown preschool one evening to hear my papa’s voice in the living room. I started to run into the room, but then I saw another man with him. I couldn’t see him clearly, but his long shadow was enough to make me afraid.

“ ‘I’ve given you long enough.’ He was talking to my papa in Spanish. ‘Give me the money!’

“ ‘Just one more day,’ my father was on the floor, pleading. ‘I can get it! One more day!’

“ ‘Fine! One day. But if not-’ The man drew a hand across his neck.

“My papa looked up to thank the man, and my eyes met his. I ducked behind the doorway. The other man stormed out a second later. As soon as he was gone, my papa marched towards me and grabbed my feet, swinging me upside down.

“ ‘What did you hear?’

“ ‘I don’t know.’ I hadn’t understood any of it.

“ ‘What. Did. You. Hear?’ He screamed it, shaking me.

“I couldn’t make out any words through my screams. He started beating me. I can’t remember how it felt, just the blood: on the floor, my head, everywhere. He kept shouting things, but I couldn’t hear them. 

“Slowly, I started to feel dizzy. The world spun around me. Just as I decided it was time to close my eyes and stop struggling, I saw mama walk through the door.

“She picked up a bread roller and ran at my papa, hitting him on the head with it. She yanked me out of his grasp and ran out the door with me. I passed out in her arms.”

Dahlia stops talking, burying her head in her hands.

“I’ve never told that to anyone before.”

“What happened next?”

“I woke up in a garage, sleeping on a bin of food. My mama told me it was her friend’s house, and that her friend wouldn’t mind us being there. I don’t know how long we spent in that place, days or weeks, but there was enough food and water stored for months. After a while, the friend found us.

“She was horrified, but when she saw my wounds, she told my mama everything.

“She said my papa had put posters up to find us everywhere, and that he had told his closest friends--her husband and my papa were very close--that he would shoot us on sight when he found us. I was pretending to sleep, so she didn’t know I could hear. She whispered to mama that we needed to leave, that her husband would find us here. When mama asked her where we could go, she said ‘to freedom.’ She gave us some food and water, and we set out to cross the border.”

“Did you make it?”

“Hardly. Mama snuck back home to steal money from papa, but she came back with only a few hundred pesos. I don’t know what she did to get a man to take us across the border. I was never brave enough to ask. When she came back with him, she lifted me into her arms and we left. The journey was harder than anything you can imagine. Each night I wondered if I could fall asleep and never wake. I didn’t even understand what ‘death’ was then. Every morning, mama would tell me it would be ‘just one more day’, but every day turned to evening without any change at all. 

“It must have been more than a week before we reached the border. We didn’t even know until the man told us. All he said then was, ‘I will leave you here.’

“Mama fell to cry and kiss the ground. When I asked her what was wrong, she took me into her arms and whispered into my ear, ‘We did it, love. We did it. We’re free. Papa can never hurt us now.’

“After the border, the journey grew hotter. Everywhere looked the same. There was no one to help us. We walked and walked. And walked. And walked.

“We ran out of food and water. I could hardly move, so mama carried me. All I can remember is the heat, the hunger, and the thirst.

“When a car finally passed us--they were off-roading, we were still miles from any human development--they were kind enough to stop and take us to the nearest hospital. By then, we were half-dead, starved, dehydrated, and sunburnt. My mama spoke some English, but I am sure the nurses and doctors knew where we had come from. They didn’t care. They wouldn’t let us die.

“In the hospital room next to us, there was a family with three children who had gotten in a car accident. Mama entertained them when the parents slept. The nurses noticed, and they brought us more and more children. They told mama that was how she would pay them for our care.

“When we were finally well enough to leave, one of the nurses recommended mama to a local school. Mama worked there as a teaching assistant.”

“But why did she leave?” I cringe at the unempathetic question. “I mean… Sorry… You don’t have to…”

Dahlia shakes her head. “She was pulled over coming back from school one day. She looked too Mexican, spoke too little English. They asked for her papers. When she had none, they gave her to border patrol. I’m protected under DACA because my aunt lives in America. I just hope papa doesn’t find ma…” Sobs rack through Dahlia’s body. I hug her tighter.

“Sometimes I wonder if I could have left too.” Dahlia starts again when she is able to speak through her tears. “No one wants me here. Your parents, that politician, your country.”

“I want you!”

“Thank you.” Dahlia wraps her arms around me.

“So have you ever met your aunt?” Dahlia and I sit on the front wall of my house, watching the cars pass by. A week has passed since her arrival, and her aunt is already fifteen minutes late.

Dahlia shakes her head. “I didn’t even know I had an aunt before the social workers picked me up.”

“I’ll miss you!” 

“Me too-” 

Crunch. Dahlia’s answer is cut short by the sound of tires on the gravel driveway.

The car breaks in front of my house, and I watch two women step out, one a social worker.

I hop off the wall with Dahlia, and we walk to the woman together

“Hello,” Dahlia’s voice is softer than I have ever heard it.

“Hi, darling! It’s so exciting to meet you!” Dahlia’s aunt kisses both her niece’s cheeks. “But before we start talking,” She pulls away and reaches into her purse dramatically, producing an iPhone. “I have a little surprise!”

“Can you hear me, Dahlia?” The voice crackles through the phone.

“Mama!” Dahlia grabs the device. “Are you okay?”

“I’m doing alright, love.”

“Did you get a phone?”

Dahlia’s mom laughs. “Never. I’m using the receptionist’s from the motel I’m staying at now.”

Dahlia smiles. “I miss you, mama.”

“And I miss you, sweetheart.”

“Ava.” My dad’s deep voice beckons me to the door of my house.

“What?” I walk over slowly, my eyes glued on Dahlia.

“Well, your mother and I were talking…” My dad speaks with great effort and thought I didn’t expect him to be capable of. “We wanted to say…”

“What is it?” What had I done wrong?

“I’m sorry.”

It takes me a minute to process. “You’re sorry?”

“I know it is a strange time to talk about this,” My mother breaks in. “We know we should have told you sooner. You will understand when you are older. It’s hard as a parent to know when your child has grown up. You are going to be very mature about what we tell you, okay?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m fourteen, mom.”

I can tell she wants to reprimand me for the eye roll, but she holds her tongue. “You know I had a very hard birth with you.”

I nod.

“Afterwards, the doctor told me there was an incredibly small chance I would be able to have children again, and if I did there would be complications in the birth. Your father and I were devastated. We had made so many plans for our future children.”

“You wanted a boy.” 

Neither of my parents respond for an awkward moment. 

“We wanted more children,” my mother tells me firmly. “But despite what the nurses told us, we kept trying.

“When you were five, a doctor informed me that the stress of wanting children was making me more susceptible to diseases and making the small chance we had of pregnancy impossible. Again, we were devastated.

“Your father started drinking. That’s why we started to foster. We do need the money, but I need to see a smile in your father’s eyes.”

“We were wrong.” My father looks directly at me for the first time. 

My mother nods in agreement. “We should have valued you, Ava, the child we had. Dahlia and her mom have proved that.”

“We’ve been talking about it for a while, but I’m trying to stop drinking.” 

“Really?” I wonder for a minute if my parents have been replaced by a different, more empathetic couple.

They nod.

“Thank you!” I embrace them both.

“Now go. Say goodbye.” My mom pushes me away.

I run to Dahlia. 

“You’ll keep trying to get a VISA, won’t you?” Dahlia is asking her mother.

“Always. And I’ll stay away from your papa. Don’t worry about me, love.”

“You’ll stay in touch, right?” I can’t help but interrupt.

Dahlia spins to me. “Sure.” She smiles. “I’ll send you long enough emails to make you start reading books.”

I groan good-naturedly and embrace her. “Well then. Goodbye! Write to you soon!”

She laughs. “You too.”

I reach for the phone “Good luck!”

Dahlia answers for her mother. “She’ll need it. But she won’t give up. Maybe things really could change.”