Delia’s Crossing Read Online Free PDF

me the moment the news had arrived in Palm Springs, California. Again I wondered, was that good? Why had she decided so quickly?
    There was no longer any time to think about it. Mi abuela Anabela followed me out to hug me and say a prayer over me. She kissed me and made me promise to say my prayers every night, for myself, yes, but for my poor departed parents’ souls as well.
    “And for you,” I added.
    “ Sí, y para mí, ” she said, smiling. “You will do well, Delia. You have a heart big enough for many who need love. I am sorry I can give you nothing more than my prayers.”
    “It’s enough,” I said, holding back my tears.
    I looked at our house, our stubble of grass in front, and the old fountain. I was sure it wasn’t much of anything compared with where I was going, but it was all I knew as home. In this poor house, we had laughed and cried, eaten our meals, and slept through our dreams. We had celebrated our birthdays and holidays and talked into the night, with me mostly listening and my parents and grandmother remembering. It was through them that I had grown to know my extended family and my personal heritage, and now that was all being left behind.
    I might as well be shot into outer space, I thought when I turned to get into the limousine. Where I was going was just as far away as a distant planet, not in miles so much as in customs, language, and lifestyle. Without my ties to my family here, I would be like someone floating through space, untethered to anything, alone, hoping to land on a warm star.
    Grandmother Anabela kissed me and held me tightly for a moment, before she sighed deeply and let me go.
    “No more good-byes,” she said, and urged me to get into the limousine.
    I paused to look at our neighbors and friends. I could see the pity for me in their faces, even though I was getting into this expensive automobile and heading for the United States, a world of endless promise and wealth, from which so many norteños sent back remittances that were enough to make eyes bulge and put smiles on hungry faces of despair. The committees of los norteños sent back funds that helped restore our church and plaza, repair roads and sewers, and make our village more livable. The United States was a well of opportunity into which I would have the privilege of dipping my hands.
    And yet they didn’t envy me. They saw how lost and alone I was, and despite their own poverty and limited futures, they would not trade places with me. In fact, they stepped back into their doorways or into the shadows, as if to avoid being contaminated by the tragedy that had befallen me. Some wouldn’t even wave good-bye. Some wouldn’t even nod. They stared, and some crossed themselves and moved closer to their loved ones.
    Good-bye, Delia, I could hear them think. Adiós pequeña muchacha. Vaya con Dios.
    I got into the limousine. The driver, who had not introduced himself and who barely looked at me with any interest, closed the door. I moved quickly to the window, already feeling like someone being locked away from all she loved and knew. Mi abuela Anabela smiled and pressed her right hand to her heart. She nodded and looked up to mutter a prayer.
    I put my fingers against the window, as if I could somehow still touch her.
    “Don’t smudge up the windows,” the driver muttered sharply. I pulled my hand away instantly.
    The limousine started away, its tires unhappy about the potholes deepened by last evening’s downpour. The broken street bounced and tossed the automobile as if it were a toy. The driver cursed under his breath and then accelerated, spitting up some dirt behind us, enough to create a cloud of dust, dust through which mi abuela Anabela grew smaller and smaller, until she was gone, and I was carried off and away, my tears as hot as tea streaming down my cheeks.
    We drove on, the scenery turning into liquid and floating by as the road got better and the driver could accelerate even more. He didn’t speak