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Show in my father's house/ 120 Now I worried that the border patrol would put the mothers in prison and send us to foster homes. When we rolled into the bright pool of light outside the border station, my heart thundered in my ears. But the border guard was friendly. He motioned at Margot, Corinne, and me. "Triplets?" he asked. A nervous shimmer passed through the car as the mothers smiled and laughed, somehow managing not to give an answer. He confiscated our oranges and at the last second, handed back one for each of us. "To keep you until breakfast," he smiled, teeth bright against, his dark face. "Vaya con Dios." We children never slept in motels or ate in restaurants. With no money for such luxuries, our people always depended on relatives and other 'Saints' when traveling. I inched around the drab room, with its speckled mirrors and faded red paisley curtains, over like a cat trying to find a comfortable, clean spot. But even the wallpaper was tinged with mildew and dirt. The drivers slept on the double bed, while the other mothers stretched out with us ten children on the musty carpet. I couldn't sleep. Whenever I drowsed I could hear voices and feel bodies of all the people that ever spent a night in that room. I wanted to bathe, but we only dressed and hit the road again before dawn. We played road games and sang songs for we all felt better, having slept. My mother's eyes sparkled now and |
