Page 71 of A Me and You Thing
I milk the cows, and it feels as though it takes forever. I want to be out of here beforeTíaandTíoget home. My knowledge of how to milk a cow surprises me. I’ve been another person, living a foreign life. An alter ego took over for a while. Now my two separate personalities have combined and made me whole once again. All the new knowledge I’ve gained feels strange in my brain, as if it’s an invader.
I pick up the milk containers and march down the road.
And I wait for freedom to come to me.
It doesn’t take long. Diego is always on time, always reliable.
“Hola, Diego,” I holler.
He waves as usual. Everything is the same as always. There’s no reason for suspicion on his part.
I remove two sanitized containers and replace them with myleche—no, milk-filled containers—as usual. I quickly push the new containers into the bushes with my foot, out of Diego’s sightline from his side mirror. If I leave them on the road, they will act as a calling card of sorts, lettingTíaandTíoknow exactly how I escaped. I climb into the covered truck, grateful there’s no back door. The claustrophobia would drive me insane.
TíaandTío—I don’t know their real names—are on their own now and need to hire help. The free ride is over. I give the truck two pats, letting him know I’m done and he can go.
I watch as the house that held me captive slowly disappears from view. I’m not sad. I hope I never see it again in my lifetime.
I climb to the back of the truck and curl up in a little ball so no one will see me. I don’t know how many more stops Diego will make, but I’m positive there will be more. My head is still pounding, especially right behind my eyes. My hands feel strange, as though they’re trying to pull a hyperventilation lock up. I know I’m in shock at the sudden memory gain, but I don’t have time to lie around in bed for a day or two to recover. No, I won’t be able to relax until I’m home.
Home. If I close my eyes I can smell the salty sea air.Sawyer, Josie, Jordyn. I know they’ll be waiting for me. My breath turns shaky at the thought.
We make five more stops. No one notices me tucked into the back corner, hardly daring to breathe.
We drive for a long time, much longer than I’d imagined. The exact moment when we leave the bumpy dirt roads and switch to smooth paved roads, I know I have successfully escapedTíaandTío’sgrasp. My relief is short lived however. I’m not sure what I will do next.
The feeling of speed and curvy roads fills my heart with terror. There’s no rain today. I’m thankful for small mercies. I believe I’m on that same crazy road that was supposed to take us to Jinotega on the day of the accident, but I have no way of knowing for sure. But it makes sense thatTíaandTíoprobably lived outside of Jinotega, high in the mountains.
My legs are asleep and tingly when we finally stop. I hear someone greeting Diego.
“Ah, Diego.Muchas gracias. Siempre a tiempo.”
Yes, Diego is always on time. What happens now?
The man goes on. “Mi turno. Must get to Managuainmediatamente, eh?”
The milk is going to Managua right away. I need to be on that truck. If I can be on that truck, I’m home free.
The bus is my other option. I dread the idea. I simply can’t do it. Besides, I don’t want to be seen. IfTíaandTíostart looking for me, I don’t want to leave a trail for them to follow. Although I doubt they have the energy or the strength to search for me. But they could send someone after me, I suppose.
“My truckestácasi lleno.Toma una bebida, sí?”
“Ah,sí,” Diego says.
His truck is almost full. They’re going to have a drink before transferring the milk containers. My knowledge of Spanish feels strange in my brain, like a bacteria my white blood cells are attacking. It doesn’t belong. I take a deep breath, perhaps the first deep breath since I started this trip. I get to my feet and stretch my legs as the pins and needles slowly fade. I work my way around the large milk jugs, perfectly aligned in rows. I climb out of the truck, my heart racing, and surreptitiously glance around. The street is deserted. No one seems to be watching me. I believe I’m in Matagalpa. I’m not positive though.
Diego is parked next to another truck, larger than his, but filled with the same milk jugs. There are a few other trucks parked further away as well. I choose the one closest to Diego’s. They have to transfer milk jugs and I assume they’d park as close as possible to one another to make the job easier. I climb inside, praying it’s the right truck. I make my way to the back and again curl into a ball in the corner. If I’ve made the right choice, the next stop is Managua.
It’s only twenty minutes or so later when Diego and his friend return. They take the milk jugs from Diego’s truck and load them onto the truck I’m on. I remain hidden in the back, curled up in the tightest ball possible, until the truck drives away.
The relief that passes through me is intense. I know I’m not home free yet, but I’m on my way. I’m not happy that my new driver has just imbibed. Fear laces through me. I remind myself that beggars can’t be choosers, and pray that my trip will be a safe one.
I don’t sleep a wink for the entire drive down the mountain. My nerves, along with the close confines of the enclosed truck, cause me to drip with sweat. My head feels as though my heartbeat has relocated and taken root in my brain. The pain is almost blinding.
At least the truck is not completely enclosed. The air circulation is nice. They don’t like the milk to get overheated before it reaches the factory to be pasteurized.
After much thought, I pull my shirt up and remove my zippered pouch. I sling it over my shoulder, crossways across my chest, as though it’s my purse. When I need to get to my traveler’s checks, for whatever it is I do next, I’d rather not be lifting up my shirt and fumbling around while others watch.
When we reach Managua, I come out of hiding. I watch the throngs of people out on the streets, enjoying the night life. Darkness has fallen, but the area is well lit. Life is all around me. It’s such a welcome sight. I hear people talking and laughing. I see people shopping and sitting in restaurants to dine. I see vacationers carousing the streets. It feels so strange, yet so welcoming. The freedom to relax and enjoy yourself seems foreign. My life was stolen from me. The thought makes me incredibly sad.
