FORGIVENESS

FORGIVENESS

It was the end of Andi Carter’s Freshman year at Indiana University. She’d chosen the campus because it was only two hours away from her hometown, close enough to visit family if she wanted, but far enough away that she didn’t have to worry about her parents popping in unannounced all the time. That, along with in-state tuition that wouldn’t leave her with a heavy loan debt when she graduated, made the option attractive. Her father, Herb, had driven up early that cool summer morning dressed in a flannel shirt and wearing a camo hat as if he were going hunting for whatever poor wildlife was in season. The building was surrounded by vans and trucks as parents and their kids marched in and out of the dorm carrying boxes and giving orders, so he’d had no difficulty making his way inside and up to his daughter’s room. He pounded on the door, waking her out of a deep slumber, and they joined the other families, stuffing the fridge, the computer, boxes of books, and three seasons worth of clothes, into his Dodge Caravan. When the room was empty, Herb climbed into his driver’s seat and Andi started up her dark blue 2003 Kia Spectra. Like always, Andi’s father would lead, and she would follow. As they traveled down State Road 37 heading South toward Salem, Andi reminisced about the day she’d gotten the car. No matter how much her father had argued against it, and it had been a lot, she’d insisted on buying it. “It won’t last till Christmas,” he’d warned, crossing his arms over his round belly, “much less the entire school year.” The memory made her grin. It always felt so good when she proved her father wrong. 

When they finally got to the small two-bedroom ranch that sat on the edge of a cul-de-sac in a subdivision of equally modest homes, Andi climbed out of the car, and giving the door a bump with her ass, rushed to the porch. She didn’t bother looking for her house key because she knew her mother, Violet, whom everyone called Vi, would have left the door unlocked, never even considering that something awful could happen to the people who lived in such a “nice” neighborhood. Andi twisted the doorknob, smirked to herself that she’d been right again, and breezed inside. “It’s just me Mom,” she’d called racing for the can. Two minutes later she strolled into the kitchen and was instantly assaulted by the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies. “Those for me?” she asked.

Her mother looked up and smiled. “I thought I heard the door,” she said transferring the warm gooey treats onto a cooling rack. 

“That’s right,” Andi replied. “it’s your friendly neighborhood axe murderer. I came to slice you up, but I’ll settle for a snack instead.”   She chuckled and folded a steaming cookie into quarters and jammed it in her mouth. When Andi had been a kid, she’d always wondered why people commented on how much she looked like her mother, but now as a young adult she could see it. They both were tall with a slender build, thick auburn curls, and similar facial features, but where Vi’s eyes were gray, Andi’s were a deep blue, like her paternal grandmother’s.

“Oh, you haven’t heard the latest,” her mother said, and started explaining that Andi’s dad had decided to make birdhouses to give as Christmas presents. 

“Since when did he become a carpenter?” Andi asked, genuinely puzzled.

“I think he’s bored,” Vi answered, scooping out dough and placing it on the cookie sheet before popping it into the oven. “I told him not to retire so early, but he didn’t listen, just like someone else I know.” Vi was quiet for a beat, then said in a serious tone. “There’s something else I need to tell you,”

“What is it?” Andi asked, feeling an unwelcome chill run up her spine. So much for hearth and home.

“You remember Carmella Rodriguez, don’t you?” Mrs. Carter asked.

Did she remember Carmella? That was like being asked if she remembered her favorite flavor of ice cream. Although the girls were two years apart, Carmella, who went by Carmi, had been Andi’s best friend.  They didn’t see each other in school because of being in different grades, but every afternoon, weekend, and summer they did everything together: swam in the public pool, skated at the town roller rink, and took turns staying at each other’s houses overnight where they lay awake talking about their favorite movies and books and planning huge futures that always included handsome husbands, beautiful children, and marvelous jobs. Carmi, who loved science, would be a doctor and Andi would practice law because she couldn’t keep her big mouth shut. “What about her?” Andi asked.

“She died. I hated to tell you like this, but I didn’t want you to hear it from anybody else. You know how ugly people can be about Hispanics.”

Andi would have said something, but she was too occupied replaying the last day she and her best friend had seen each other. Carmi had come knocking on the back door early, way too early, one bright June morning four years earlier. Vi had answered the door, and noting the child’s distress, rushed into her daughter’s bedroom calling harshly, “Andi, get up.” 

Being pulled out of a deep sleep like a rabbit being tugged out of its den, Andi opened her eyes slowly, and looked at her mother confused. “Mom,” she snapped, “what are you doing? There’s no school today. It’s summer, remember?”

“Carmi’s here,” Vi replied, “wanting to see you.”

“Tell her to come back later,” Andi yawned rolling over. 

Vi yanked the covers off her daughter. “That girl does whatever you say without even asking why. So, get up…” she commanded, slapping Andi’s behind, “and see why she’s here.”

Giving a deep sigh, Andi kicked off her blanket and sat up, stretching herself awake. She ran into the bathroom to pull on a pair of cutoffs and a T-shirt then shuffled into the kitchen. Rubbing her eyes as she walked into the room, she muttered, “Mom says you want to see me like, immediately. What’s up?”

To Andi’s surprise, Carmi, her course black hair sticking out in all directions, grabbed Andi’s hand urgently and breathed, “I need to talk to you.”

More awake now, Andi noted that her friend’s face was blotchy, and her eyes swollen and red as if she’d accidentally mistaken her mother’s mace for perfume, again.  Sometimes it was hard to remember that her best friend, who was the size of a ten-year-old, wasn’t a child anymore. “So, talk,” Andi answered.

“Not here,” the girl hissed, motioning to Vi. “It’s private. “

Andi called, “Mom, I’m going to show Carmi my new dress,” grabbed her friend’s hand and dragged the girl down the hall and into her bedroom.   “Ok,” she demanded closing the door, “spill it.”

Carmi went quiet, as if scrolling through her mind for the best way to word her reply, then said, “My family is leaving today, and we won’t be back…ever.”  Then, she lowered her espresso eyes and studied a ball of lint that clung to Andy’s powder pink blanket like an infant possum clinging to its mother.

Stunned, Andi looked out her bedroom window and watched the early morning breeze tickle a branch on the wild cherry tree in her backyard. Fighting hard to keep her emotions in check, she let out a deep sigh. “Who’s we?” she asked carefully.

“All of us,” Carmi answered. “Mommy, Papi, Roberto, Jose, and me”.  She perched on the edge of Andi’s bed, as if she wanted to be ready to run. 

“When?”

“This morning as soon as I get back. They started loading the “Woody” before the sun came up.”

Even though she was devastated, hearing Carmi refer to her grandfather’s fifty-year-old Buick station wagon as a Woody, alerted Andi to the smile that was tugging at the corners of her mouth, demanding to be let out.  She knew that the term came from a song named “Surf City” by the Beach Boys, a band that her mother listened to, and often sang along with, when she was cleaning house on the weekends. It had been popular back in the 1960s when Carmi’s grandfather was young. Then remembering that this was a solemn situation, Andi forced her thoughts back on track. “Well, where are you going?” she asked, her throat closing until the words came out as a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Carmi replied, twisting her right hand with her left like she was trying to take it off.

“But you’ll text me when you get there, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you’ll call or email me,” Andi commanded, unwilling to give up without eliciting a promise.

“Andi…no.”

“No? So, what, you all are just blowing town like you never even lived here?” Andi accused. She crossed her arms and turned away, unable to even look at the girl. Carmi had called herself Andi’s best friend, but apparently, she’d been lying.

“Andi don’t act that way,” Carmi pleaded. “You know I would stay in touch if I could, but I just can’t.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Andi spit. “I’m starting high school next year and I would have been embarrassed to be seen with a middle-school kid tagging-along behind me like a shadow, anyway. In fact,” she sneered, “I was gonna tell you that our friendship was over the next time I saw you. So, thanks for saving me the trouble. Now, I think it’s time for you to go. I’ve got plans today with some new friends. We’re going shopping for something cool to wear,” she finished looking at Carmi’s floral shorts and lacy top disparagingly.

“Andi please…” Carmi begged, struggling not to start crying again.

Andi turned and looked her ex-best friend in the eye, blinked slowly and asked, “Are you still here?”

Struggling to breathe, Carmi got up from the bed, opened the door, and ran down the hall. “Carmi what’s wrong?” Vi asked as the child sped past her and flew out the back door. A couple of minutes later, Andi stalked into the kitchen and started opening cupboards pulling out a bowl and a box of Count Chocula. “What was that about?” her mother asked. When Andi didn’t answer, she said more loudly, “Andrea Rene’ Carter, what is going on between you two?” 

Andi poured some milk over her cereal, grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer, and replied coldly as she headed into the living room to watch TV. “Carmi’s moving.”

Now as mother and child eyed one another, a dull silence infiltrated the room.  Vi knew that even though her daughter never again uttered Carmi’s name, she’d mourned the loss almost as deeply as one might grieve a death. It had turned out okay, though. She’d started school, made new friends, and fallen head over heels for a couple of guys, like any normal teen, but still Vi imagined that the loss had left a void that could never be filled. She stacked some warm cookies on a blue willow plate and poured cold milk into a glass that was decorated with dancing bears and had once held grape jelly. “Let’s sit at the table,” she told her daughter.

“C’mon, Mom,” Carmi chided. “I’m too old to be assuaged with milk and cookies.”

“No, you’re not,” Vi smiled, sitting down and patting the chair beside her. “No one is. C’mon now. There’s something else I need to tell you.”

Expelling a large burst of air, Andi plopped down in the chair, which made her feel better because she wasn’t supposed to do it, grabbed a cookie, and took a bite. “Get on with it,” she pantomimed with a shrug.

“The reason the Rodríguezes had to leave so abruptly, and Carmi couldn’t contact you, was because they were illegal, and someone reported them to Homeland Security.”

“I figured her parents were immigrants because of their thick accents,” Andi replied, dipping an edge of a cookie into the milk, “but Carmi didn’t have to go. We would have let her stay with us if she’d bothered to ask.”

“Andi,” Mrs. Carter said gently, leaning forward and gently caressing her daughter’s face, “Carmi couldn’t stay. She was a Dreamer.”

Andi knew that Dreamers were children that were brought into the United States illegally at such a young age that American life was the only life they’d ever known. President Obama had believed they should be allowed to stay, but a lot of other people wanted to kick them out. Andi looked at her mother, shocked and ashamed. “Oh, Mom, I didn’t know. I feel awful. That last morning I told Carmi I didn’t want anything more to do with her, and now it’s too late to say I’m sorry.” 

As Andi’s eyes filled with tears, Mrs. Carter handed her a paper towel. “I’m sure she understood,” Vi said gently.

“So, what happened anyway?” Andi sniffled. “Did she have to live in a rat-infested hovel and catch some awful disease?”

“Actually, it happened when she was coming back to America,” Mrs. Carter answered. “A coyote brought a half dozen immigrants across the border, then ran off with their money, leaving them to fend for themselves. Apparently, Carmi got separated from the group and died in the desert.” As Andi laid her head down on her arms, sobbing, her mother stroked her hair.

Finally, Andi looked up and asked, “How did you find all of this out, anyway?”

Vi got up from the table and took another plate and glass from the cupboard. “Well,” she said, “after what happened to the Rodríguezes, I joined a secret organization that finds housing for migrants that don’t have anywhere to go. My contact down in Texas called and told me.”

“That’s how you advocate, by just asking people to keep you up on the latest gossip?” Andi asked, hating herself for sounding so contemptuous.

“That’s one way,” Vi answered, setting the dishes on the table. “The other is that I pledged to house someone in if she didn’t have anywhere else to go.” She walked to the fridge, got the milk, and brought it back to the table. “You see, a girl that was with Carmi’s group survived, but didn’t know anyone here. They asked if I would take her in, and I said, of course. So, if you’ll just turn around Andi, I’d like you to meet Rosa Garcia, a foreign exchange student that’s going to live here and attend community college.”

Frowning, Andi looked behind her and saw a lovely young woman standing there. No wonder the girl had evaded border patrol. She hadn’t even made any noise creeping up the hall. “Buenos días,” she said offering her hand.

 Andi stood up and took the proffered hand, then stopped. The slender form standing before her was more woman than girl, with a face carefully made up and every hair perfectly in place, but Andi recognized those dark espresso eyes immediately. “Carmi?” she gasped. “Oh my gosh…oh Carmi…” she sobbed pulling the young woman to her. “I thought…I mean…Mom said you were dead.”

“She was right. Carmi is dead,” the young woman said, hugging Andi back. “She died in the desert so that Rosa could be born. And with help from the advocates who got me papers, and your mother who has given me a new home, I will get a good education and become a citizen so we can be best friends forever.”

“But what about your fingerprints? Won’t they show up as a deportee’s when you apply for citizenship?”

“Probably not. I know of other people who came back, changed their names, and have never been found out. Apparently, the Estado Unidos doesn’t keep very good track of us; I guess Hispanics do look alike, after all.” 

“I’m so sorry for all the things I said,” Andi whispered, tearfully. “Can you ever forgive me?

“I’ll forgive you for being mean if you’ll forgive me for not telling you my big secret.”

“But what about your, I mean Carmi’s family? You’ll never see them again.”

“You never know,” Rosa replied, “burner phones and false papers are hot ticket items in Columbia.” The girls started laughing, then sat down to enjoy their cookies and milk while they caught up. 

“Wait,” Andi stated, the thought just occurring to her. “If you’re in my room, where will I sleep?”

“I’m sorry,” her mom chimed in. “I forgot to tell you. Schmidt’s had a big furniture sale and I bought a pair of twin beds.”

As the girls sat talking, Andi commented, “So Homeland Security deported you to Columbia? I didn’t know your family was from there.”

“We’re not,” Rosa replied, which cause all three women to hoot at the irony.

Note: On September 19, 2016 The New York Times ran an article written by Ron Nixon entitled “Flaws in Fingerprint Records Allowed Hundreds to Become U.S. Citizens” which stated that careless handling of the fingerprints of deportees by the Department of Homeland Security led to nearly 900 former deportees being able to attain citizenship by changing their names. This was possible because approximately 150,000 FBI fingerprint records either had not been digitized or weren’t entered into the Homeland Security database, and fingerprints taken by Homeland Security were not forwarded to the FBI. As to Vi’s advocacy group, can you keep a secret?