Killing Sarai

13

Everything becomes quiet now. Maybe Izel left the room. Several seconds pass and still nothing, only the low static hum of the speakerphone itself. The American, although not famous for facial expressions, seems disappointed. He hangs the phone up, rolls the window down beside him and tosses it onto the highway. Then he makes a sharp U-turn and drives in the opposite direction.

“I take it you didn’t hear what you wanted to?” I ask carefully.

His right hand drops from the steering wheel and rests along the top of his leg.

“No,” he answers.

“You still doubt what I told you,” I say.

In my peripheral vision, I see him turn his head slightly to look at me. I’m not comfortable enough with him to meet his eyes when he instigates it. I never will be.

But he doesn’t answer.

A minute later, I say, “I’m not a whore. She was only trying to get to you in case you have any pity for me.”

Maybe I’m insulting his intelligence, just like Izel had at one point, but this is my way of defending myself from her accusation. I want him to know. And I don’t want him to think that way of me.

I go on, finally looking at him now that his eyes are back on the road again.

“But you never had any pity for me to begin with.”

Again, my attempt to engage him in conversation seems to go unnoticed and I give up and lay my head against the car window.

“I know you’re not a whore,” he says.

——

It’s been on rare occasion that I saw much of any other part of Mexico during the day, other than the compound. Javier wasn’t big on sight-seeing, or an early Sunday morning drive. I spent much of my life cooped up behind those fences, only leaving when Lydia and I were relocated with the other girls before other dangerous drug lords came to meet with Javier. It was Javier’s way of keeping us ‘safe’ in case a deal went bad. But we always traveled at night, so despite the predicament I’m in now, I find myself in mild awe as I look out the car window while the bright Mexican landscape flies by.

We’ve been driving for two hours.

“I’m hungry,” I say.

A few quiet seconds pass before he answers.

“I have nothing to eat in this car.”

“Well, can’t we stop somewhere?”

“No.”

If I could at least get him to stop answering my questions like that, I’d almost be satisfied.

“If you’re worried about me trying to run off,” I say, turning sideways to better see him, “then go to a drive-thru. I haven’t had anything to eat since early morning yesterday. Please....”

“There are no drive-thru’s here.”

“Where is here, anyway?” Suddenly, my hunger has taken the backseat. “At least tell me where I’ve spent the last nine years of my life.”

I saw one road sign several minutes back, but I didn’t recognize the name from anything I’ve seen on the maps I’ve poured over time and time again, mostly the maps in an American high school textbook from 1997.

“We are now five miles south of Nacozari de García.”

I sigh, frustrated with myself for not having any idea where that is, either.

“You’re less than two hours from the United States border,” he says and stuns me.

I whip around, turning fully on the seat, my back pressing against the car door.