I instinctively know to let them in. Without a word, I lead them out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my room. The little girl asks in a voice thin with confusion where they’re going and the old lady shushes her. Then the little girl cries out, “Mommy! I want my mommy!”
“Niña, shush!” Her grandma covers her mouth as if the cops outside might hear them. “Está bien. Está bien.”
The flashing lights from the police cars dance on the walls and I hear their radios. A dog barks and I think of Jews hiding in attics. My body rocks from the force of my heartbeat.
As they move into my bedroom, I look down on the little girl’s head. I hold back from brushing my hand over her French braid because she’s not mine to do so.
“Mommy, what’s wrong? What’s happening?” Pricila asked as her mother pulled her away from the kitchen sink.
“You have to go. Now!”
Nana’s hands were wet from washing the dishes. Pricila looked down at the drops they made on the floor.
Mommy pulled her close and held her tight. Then she pushed Pricila away. For a moment, her mother stared into her eyes. Her voice shook when she said, “Go, baby. Go with Nana, okay? I’ll catch up with you.”
And then that terrible bang happened and Nana pulled Pricila into the yard and they ran in the dark.
They made it to the house next door. Pricila sat at the table, pressed as tightly as she could against her nana. She tried not to look at anyone or wonder where her mommy had gone. She thought about Sleeping Beauty dancing with the animals dressed in the prince’s clothes. She thought about her friend Heaven, who brought blue glitter nail polish to school. She wondered if Mommy would still rent her a movie for getting 100s on her spelling tests last month.
“Señora Duran—”
“Por favor, señora, please call me Bettina,” Pricila’s nana said.
“Bettina,” the old lady continued, “are you sure you won’t have some posole?”
“No thank you. Coffee is fine.”
“Do you have anyplace to go?” the pretty blond lady asked.
Pricila peeked out. The blond lady didn’t talk like a princess but she looked like one with curly hair and big brown eyes. She had a deep, serious voice and when she caught Pricila looking at her, she smiled crookedly.
“He’ll find us,” Nana croaked. “He’s the one who did this. To get Pricila. He don’t want her. He want to punish my Gina.”
Pricila’s chest froze with fear as Nana started to cry. The old lady reached out and took her hand.
“Who will find you?” the pretty lady asked.
“El padre de la niña.”
The pretty lady frowned. The old lady, who Pricila guessed was her nana, then asked, “He called la migra on you?”
Pricila knew Nana was talking about her daddy. She hadn’t seen him in a long time. Mommy said she and Daddy were mad at each other. Even though she said Pricila hadn’t done anything, she knew they fought because of her.
“No, no,” Nana sniffled. “He is la migra.”
“Danielle, take Pricila to watch TV,” the old lady said.
Pricila held onto her nana tighter.
“We have some good movies,” the pretty lady said.
Pricila breathed in her nana’s smell but her nana started to push her away.
“Go, niña,” Nana said. “Let me talk to Señora Melendez, okay?”
Pricila shook her head, fighting to stay close to her nana. Her throat burned as she bit down to keep from crying. Another hand touched her back but then pulled away. Pricila could feel it hovering close.
The pretty lady named Danielle leaned in and whispered, “My nana doesn’t know this but...” She paused and Pricila couldn’t help but look into her brown eyes. “I have some chocolate ice cream hidden in the freezer. Would you like some?”
Mommy never let her have ice cream on a school night and only when they could afford it.
“Go on, niña,” Nana said. “I’ll be right here.”
Pressing her chin to her chest, Pricila slid off the chair. Danielle offered her hand and Pricila took it.
Today, 7:45 a.m.
My body tells me I’ve reached an age where I’ll be stiff after a night tossing and turning on my nana’s ancient couch. I kept thinking about nine-year-old Pricila Ruiz sleeping in my room.
Before I left for work, Nana gave me the rundown on the raid next door. Even though it was awkward — I’ve never really spent much time around kids — I was glad to have taken Pricila into the TV room last night so she didn’t have to relive the feds breaking down her front door.
My friend Jake, who got me this job, now sits next to me in Warren Ramsey’s office. I can see the empty lots that the city bought along Santa Ana Boulevard for a “gateway” to downtown. My Aunt Eloisa’s little craftsman bungalow was sold two years ago and then leveled, only to be fenced off. I see the ghost of that house when I drive by it and remember how she’d walk me to the depot to watch the trains.
Warren is the news editor and the one I have to convince to let me branch out from entering calendar items into the system and writing briefs published under my team leader’s byline. A story about last night’s raid might be a front-page clip and make this whole reporting thing worth it. I’ve never hustled so hard for so little money, but advertising got hit hard by the economy and this job is better than nothing.
ICE agents arrested Pricila Ruiz’s mother, Gina. The little girl’s nana, Bettina, claimed the arrest was set up by ICE agent Jim Westfall after Gina threatened to fax a copy of Pricila’s birth certificate to his wife’s office if he didn’t help her get a green card.
Gina had come to the U.S. on a student visa in 1996 to attend USC. Bettina came to the U.S. on a visitor’s visa to see Gina graduate magna cum laude and together they stayed. She was doing pretty well with an accounting job at Arthur Andersen that sponsored her work visa. But the company laid her off in 2001 and Gina couldn’t get another job with a company that would sponsor her green card. Pricila had just turned a year old.
Bettina said Westfall and his wife couldn’t have kids, but I didn’t tell Warren that. Westfall promised to marry Gina and streamline her citizenship process so they could be a family. But the divorce and the papers never came to pass and Gina ended it, making threats to force Westfall to at least fix her legal status. He disappeared from Pricila’s life and then Gina received a court order to leave the country. She texted Westfall his wife’s office fax number, as a reminder of what would happen if he didn’t help her. But then ICE agents busted down her door.
I try to catch my breath when I finish my pitch. Jake nods her head at me with approval. She says that my losing my advertising job is good for my karma. I think she likes it now that she makes more money than I do.
Warren sighs and then types something on his keyboard. “Don’t go toe-to-toe with this guy,” he says, and Jake’s knee starts bouncing. “Don’t go anywhere near him with this. Jim Westfall gets awards from anti-immigration groups — like the crazy kind — from all around the country.”