The Book of Unknown Americans: A novel Read Online Free PDF

long. Filling out papers, hoping, praying, waiting. We had all of our dreams pinned on this place, but the pin was thin and delicate and it was too soon to tell whether it was stronger than it looked or whether, in the end, it wasn’t going to hold much of anything at all.
    As if he had read my mind, Arturo said, “She’ll be fine.”
    But I couldn’t tell if he was only trying to convince himself that it was true.
    “Say it again,” I said.
    “She’ll be fine.”
    And because I wanted to believe him—because I wanted more than anything for her to be fine and fine and eventually better than fine, for her to transform again into the girl she used to be, for this past year to have been nothing but a strange, cruel detour that we could move beyond and never venture down again—I nodded and watched the bus heave away.
    ARTURO LEFT FOR WORK not long after—he had his own bus to take, three of them, actually, all the way to the mushroom farm—which meant that I was alone in the apartment for the first time since we had arrived. I wasn’t used to being alone, here or anywhere, and the silence felt like an invasion. Usually in Pátzcuaro someone—either my mother or else one of my friends—stopped by in the morning. I would make café con leche and we would talk, sometimes for only a few minutes, sometimes for hours. And even on the days when no one came over, through the open windows of our house I could hear thenoise of our neighbors—a Juanes song from a nearby radio, a barking dog, the dull banging of a hammer, the ripple of voices, the hush of the breeze. Here, it was as if I was sealed into a noiseless box, and even when I opened a window, all I could hear was the rhythmic whisper of cars driving on the nearby road.
    I turned on the television for company and studied people’s mouths as they spoke in English, trying my best to replicate the sounds, even though I had no idea what they were saying. And they spoke so fast! I wasn’t sure if I was mouthing individual words or bunches of them strung together like grapes.
    After a while, I turned the television off and wandered into the kitchen. I pulled out my comal and thought, Maybe I’ll make something. Something to remind me of home. But I didn’t have any of the ingredients I needed, so I just stood there, staring at the flat cast-iron pan, feeling homesickness charge at me like a roaring wave, filling my nostrils and my ears, threatening to knock me down. I took a deep breath. I would do something else, then. I would go out. This was my life now, I told myself, and I was going to have to figure out how to spend my days. I had to learn how to outrun the wave. Or else I had to learn how to stand far enough inland that it would never approach me in the first place.
    I showered and dressed, parted my hair down the center and combed it back into a low ponytail. I dabbed candelilla wax on my lips from the small tin pot I had brought with us. I inspected myself in the mirror, pinching my cheeks to flush them and baring my teeth to make sure they were clean. Then I picked up my purse and headed toward the door.
    We needed more food, but the only place I knew where to get any was the gas station, and I didn’t want to go there again, so Istood outside on the balcony, my hands around the metal railing, and tried to think of something else. I looked up at the clear sky and listened to the low roar of cars and semi-trucks headed to places I didn’t know, driven by people I had never seen. I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. It’s the same sun that shone on us at home, I told myself. The same sun.
    Then, from below, I heard the rickety sound of wheels against the pavement. When I opened my eyes and looked down, I saw the boy from the gas station riding his skateboard, pushing himself up the slight incline to our parking lot where the gravel changed to asphalt. As quickly and as quietly as I could, I slipped back into the apartment. What was he