By Victoria R. Ballesteros
If I close my eyes and remain still, I can hear the cactus grow. A low hum emanates from deep within the earth and makes its way to the outer ends of the succulent. The soil around me cracks as this unseen force thrusts upward like an invisible hand reaching for the sun. Its urgency reminds me of the rage with which a child is born–determined to enter the world, tearing open its mother just to exist–and I am frightened. Yet when I open my eyes to gaze upon the miraculous event, the cactus appears as before, unchanged.
There is not much else to do on these long days of waiting. At nightfall the temperatures drop and the evening sky changes from mauve to black. I shift my gaze to focus on the blanket of stars above me and dream of the faraway places they illuminate with their glow. Soon a slow, thoughtful rain begins to tiptoe its way across the soil, careful not to disturb any creature on this tranquil evening. I am grateful for the rain which for months has been scarce. Although the cacti can survive with little water, they were beginning to sadden me with their dry, thirsty moans.
Every morning for the past few weeks an old woman has descended from the top of the hill to visit the cactus patch above me. She appears on the horizon as if released by the dawn that has swept away the night. This is the part of the day that I look forward to most. The viejita comes to gather a piece of cactus for her morning meal, its rich nourishment reserved only for those who dare to approach the thorny exterior.
The journey downhill is a treacherous one. The woman is older than anyone I’ve seen, and fragile. She shuffles sideways down the pebbles and dirt, swinging her arms to maintain her balance, a green sweater pulled tightly over her bosom. Her long, thick skirt ends just where her nylon socks begin, as if tempting a forbidden sliver of bare leg to reveal itself. The woman’s gray hair is pulled into a bun, a few strands escaping to frame her weathered, beautiful face. Lined like a map of her life, she has earned the wrinkles that mark her countenance, and she wears her years with grace and calm.
The viejita removes a piece of nopal with a knife better suited for skinning an animal, an enormous object in the hands of such a small woman. Despite its size, she maneuvers the blade with a delicate touch and surgical precision. She gathers the cactus along with a few tunas, careful not to damage the fruit as she places it in the front pockets of her apron. She will cook it with her morning eggs to eat with beans and tortillas. I know this because she talks to herself in a soft voice. On most days she is praying to the Virgen de Guadalupe on behalf of another deceased loved one she has outlived. Her words bring me comfort and remind me of my own abuela who passed away so long ago.
I do not know if she sees me watching. Perhaps she doesn’t care that I am listening as she prays or tells stories of her long-ago deceased children. I prefer to believe she is talking for my benefit, that I alone am the audience for her stories.
“Raúl would have been forty-seven this summer,” she says. “He died at birth so long ago. But the years pass whether we want them to or not. Like water in the Rio Grande, rushing by without any care for those of us left behind.”
On a different day she speaks of another son.
“Juanito always got into trouble when the days were long like these, God bless his soul. He was only seven when the fever took him. Ay, these tunas will be delicious and sweet, so refreshing in this unbearable heat.”
Like me, the woman is alone in this world. Aside from the colonias higher up the hill, people are sparse in this area. Most of her children died young and her only comfort is that they will forever be youthful in the memories she plays in her mind like records on a Victrola. Her man left decades ago, al norte, to work. Like most, he sent a few dollars before disappearing forever. Like many, he began a new life with a young wife, a new set of children in a world of luxury compared to here.
There are other sounds I can hear as I wait. The wind picking itself up and whirling past, rushing off as if late to an important engagement. The warm, wet earth bubbling with moisture after a rain, then drying off and caking under the hot sun, a jigsaw puzzle of mud forming along the surface.
I listen to the heartbeats of those who pass on the dirt road at the bottom of the hill. The hearts of strangers that beat so fast they must be lovers heading for an afternoon together. In contrast, the old woman’s pulse conveys a calm that is achieved by the surrender of all expectations. At times her heart beats so slow that I worry it will stop altogether.
I hear sounds that drift from the maquiladoras as well, carried by the wind as if to taunt me. I know the shrieking sound of despair. I’ve heard the tragic rhythm of dreams as they fall apart or are abandoned, never to be realized. Desperation has its own melody. I hear it in the women who have left their homes to work in the factories, the sorrow of those who have left behind their children and worse, their naïve illusions of happiness.
The wind also carries smells to waft over my resting place. The cold air moving through the canyon brings the scent of morning dew from a more verdant land. The scent of fresh herbs growing in a faraway garden – oregano, cilantro, yerba buena. The smell of nopales cooking on an open flame, prepared with a breakfast of eggs, salsa, beans and handmade flour tortillas. The lingering stench of trash burning in the colonias.
Oh, how these things sadden me, and I want to tell the old woman that I miss my mamá. I want to say to her that I too am lonely, so lonely that my soul feels drier than the harshest drought from all the weeping that I have done. I want to tell her that the cactus she eats is seasoned with the salty tears I shed every lonely night. I want to cry out to her in condemnation of my solitude. Instead, I wait. In silence.
Today the woman has laid out a blanket and is resting in the shade of the cactus patch which has grown as tall as any tree I’ve ever seen. This extended visit is a rare and welcome change. I curl up like a child to listen to her soothing voice tell stories of her past. But today she is different. She is draped in a heavy sorrow that hurts me and turns my stomach into a ball of gray emptiness. Her heart beats so slow I struggle to hear it. She looks up at the sky and speaks.
“Why, God, why? If you love me as one of your children, why have you given me a life of endless suffering? Catarina was only fifteen when you took her from me. She was all that I had left. It’s been forty years, forty long years and every passing day is a mockery of my faith. Why am I still here? Take me, Lord, take me already! I am tired. My heart and my soul are so tired.”
The old woman falls across the blanket, which is just above me. She is weeping and continues in a low voice. The beat of her heart continues to diminish.
“Where is the justice I’ve prayed for and never gotten? What has become of my little girl? Why do you torment me, Lord? Why did she have to go to the maquiladora, never to be seen again? How could you take her from me after everything I’ve endured? End my suffering, Lord. I have served you long enough. I beg you for mercy.”
My head begins to swirl.
My name is Catarina.
I remember now that I, too, worked in the maquiladora.
I close my eyes and search for memories. They are beyond my grasp, wiped clean so long ago. I reach and stretch to grab hold of something. Anything.
I see it now.
There is one memory that plays before me like a film on a screen.
I am fifteen years old, working at the maquiladora. My mamá has dropped me off and promised to be back for me at the usual time so that we can ride the bus home together. I am on the assembly line packing denim women’s wear that will be shipped to the north. There is a power outage. The factory has closed early, and everyone has left.
I am waiting for mamá.
My supervisor, Porfirio, is walking towards me.
I am scared.
Why is he doing this to me?
He raises his hand to strike me over the head with a pipe and I shout,“Mamá!”
Everything has gone dark. I am so cold.
He buries me under a patch of cactus.
I am waiting, waiting, waiting for mamá.
Mamá!
I call out to her as she rests above me, her heart slowing still.
It is me, Catarina. Don’t cry, mamá, I am here.
I never left you.
It won’t be long now, mamá.
Soon we will be together and we will leave this place as one.
We will never be alone again. Juanito and Rául are waiting for us.
We will sit at the top of the hill, and we will laugh and sing and hold each other.
There will be no more suffering.
Do you hear me, mamá?
I am here to take you home.
I waited, just like I said I would.
I never left you, mamá.
You can rest now, mamá.
We can rest now.
Victoria Ballesteros is a writer from Los Angeles. The daughter of Mexican immigrants, her stories reflect her bicultural upbringing and experiences. Her work has appeared or will soon in Your Impossible Voice, LatineLit, ¡Pa’Lante!, Acentos Review, and ¡Basta! anthology. She is enrolled in the creative writing program at UCLA extension.