Asylum

Oralia’s daughter sleeps upright with her back propped against the concrete wall. Her head rests upon a worn canvas bag. The seams are split and frayed, bound together with thick silver tape. Her black hair is dull and matted, falling to her shoulders in tangled knots. Even in her sleep, she scratches at her scalp and the skin around her neck and ears. Oralia doesn’t know if it’s lice, or fleabites, or both. The streetlight arched high above them casts a pale yellow halo over the dark alley where they’ve stopped for the night. She reaches out to wipe dirt from her daughter’s face and stops when she sees her own fingers, crusted with mud and dried blood.

            “Ashli,” she whispers. Her daughter’s eyelids flutter, yet they remain closed. A police siren wails in the distance and a bottle breaks somewhere down the street. The acrid smell of urine burns her nose. It’s warm in California, but she shivers because the cloak of darkness that conceals them also puts them in danger. There are others nearby, hidden in the shadows, forgotten creatures claiming the city’s darkest corners. 

Oralia flinches when she hears a cough and the rustling of newspaper a few feet away. She reaches into her faded knapsack. Two thousand miles ago, it was stuffed full. The bag is empty now, except for a set of papers and a Spanish-English dictionary. The spine of the dog-eared book is torn. The papers are now smudged with fingerprints. She attempts to smooth the crumpled pages bearing an eagle and a flag of the United States. Below this seal, there is one word stamped in heavy black ink. Approved.   

She remembers the exact date they left home, August 7^th, 2017. It is her birthday and also the day after her husband Manuel disappears. The bus leaving Honduras for Guatemala departs at midnight. Oralia hides in the shadows with Ashli until the last passenger climbs the stairs. As she steps onto the bus, she shields her daughter’s tiny body, bracing for the bullet that might pierce her from behind. No one is waiting for her at the bus depot and the accordion door slides shut. 

She misses Manuel. His coffee-colored eyes were bright and full of light. He sold beans and rice to the locals. They liked him, often stopping to say hello when they passed by his simple street-side grocery store. Each week, his business grew and he added more items to their inventory; hard candies and pan de coco that Oralia made in their small kitchen using her grandmother’s recipe. They speak of expanding their store and of having another child. 

But the Barrio appear. Two of them. They don’t carry guns and they do not dress differently from anyone else on the street, but when the front door opens, Manuel knows who they are. He shoves Ashli towards the back room. Their toddler stumbles forward and falls to the floor, letting out a cry of surprise. When he doesn’t turn to comfort her, Oralia knows, too. The men have come to collect taxes. This is part of life in their country. Everyone in town knows about the people who refuse to pay the gangs. Bloodied corpses with missing limbs are dumped alongside the roads outside of town, riddled with bullets or covered in stab wounds. 

At first, the two men stop by once a week, tapping on the window to let Manuel know they are outside. He hands them ten dollars and they leave without exchanging words. The weeks wear on. Now they come every three days. Manuel slips dollars into a hole in their pillow when they have it to spare. Oralia fastens the opening with a safety pin. They whisper at night. In America, they will open a big grocery store. 

Manuel and Oralia have no money to restock supplies. After they hand over the last of their earnings to the Barrio, Oralia sifts through old beans left in the sacks no one wants to buy. She boils them for a long time. They are still tough. She feeds Ashli first. Manuel insists that he isn’t hungry, but Oralia shushes him. She divides the remaining beans between their two plates. 

The Barrio come every day. Her husband explains that they have nothing to give. The two men take turns slapping his face. When they are done and they leave, Manuel fishes the money out of the pillow and hands it to Oralia. They have saved one hundred dollars. It is not enough, but they cannot stay. They will flee their home at the end of the week. 

The next day, Manuel leaves the house to buy her a small birthday present. Oralia insists--they need to save everything for their trip. He smiles at her and kisses the tip of her nose before setting out to the market. The day is long and Manuel does not return. As the sunlight fades on their house, she sits in the dark apartment. Oralia doesn’t call the police or tell her parents, or his parents. She knows he is dead, but she does not have time to grieve. She stuffs two bags with the belongings they can carry on their backs. She rouses Ashli from her bed and the girl holds a stuffed bear in her arms. Oralia tells her to leave it behind. They sneak out of the house, keeping to the shadows until they reach the bus depot. 

The bus drives them to Mexico. They live on the streets, begging for food. They are captured by police. They are thrown in jail. Rats steal the rancid food from their plates in the cell. A guard rapes Oralia. Ashli develops a tremor and then a fever that no one pays attention to until she collapses onto the stone floor. They wait for an eternity as their papers are reviewed and their lives are considered by a system of faceless individuals who do not know them or their story. 

A lifetime ago. 

“Ashli,” Oralia whispers now. She touches her daughter’s matted hair and as she does, a burst of color explodes in the air above their heads, followed by a thunderous boom. Her daughter jumps at the sound and cries out. She huddles flat against the ground like her mother taught her to do when there is gunfire. She covers her head with her arms. The heavens become a kaleidoscope of brilliant light. The noise is deafening. Two couples in fine clothing hurry by, blowing cardboard whistles. They see Oralia and her daughter on the ground and they slow down, wondering and debating. 

“Happy New Year,” the one man says, but they do not stop. The couples reach the end of the street and they hop into a taxi. Oralia crouches on the ground and pulls her daughter into a sitting position. The girl stares into the dark night, her eyes knitted together in confusion. 

           “Ashli, look!” Oralia says, pointing into the air as another firework lights the sky.   

“Dónde estamos?”

“America.”

“Lo hicimos?”

“Si. We did it.”

“Que día es?” 

“Say in English,” Oralia says. 

“What day it is?” Ashli asks. Her English is clipped. She glances at her mother for approval. Oralia nods and smiles trying to recall the words the man said to them a few moments ago. Ashli stands and raises her arms over her head as though she is trying to pull the twinkling lights to Earth and reclaim the darkness. 

“It is Happy New Life.”