After Peaches (9 page)

“I don't know,” I whispered in English finally, looking at my shoes.“I don't know.”

Immediately, the nurse's eyes were on me. “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked, her voice gentle. She reminded me of Julie's mother. I closed my eyes. Julie's mother would wait patiently and listen. She would do her best to understand. With any luck, this nurse might do the same.

I took a deep breath and spoke in a voice so small that the nurse leaned closer to hear me.

“José works on a cherry farm,” I said; then I stopped. Papá squeezed my shoulder. I took another deep breath and continued slowly, so slowly that I imagined the nurse yelling at me to get on with the story. Suddenly, I was aware of how many other people were in the waiting room, people who had no trouble saying what they needed. This nurse could look after any one of them, and if I took too long with my story, she might.

But if I was going to tell it, I'd have to do it carefully, in my own time.

“My parents and I went to dere”—I winced at my mistake—“went to
th
e farm today. My parents
th
ink José is sick because he had to—” Panic rose in my throat. I didn't know the right words, and the nurse was waiting for me, and if I got it wrong… “He put someting on the trees to make them healty,” I said, forcing the words out faster and faster, ignoring all my mistakes. “My parents tink dat is why he is sick now. Dey say he needed someting to cover his mouth and his nose and his hands. On some farms, people wear someting on the face and the hands, but not here. And José did not complain. He did not want to come to the hospital. He needs to work.”

The nurse nodded and scribbled notes on paper, not looking up.

I screwed my eyes shut again, thinking frantically. My throat was dry, and my heart was racing. Did I make it clear that it was my parents, not José, who thought he got sick from spraying the plants? Would the nurse write it down that way?

“He must feel better soon,” I blurted, no longer caring how my English sounded. “He needs to work so dat his family can eat. In Mexico, he could not find a job. He wants his children to eat and to go to school. Analía wants to be a teacher and her brother wants to work in the city. José came to Canada so his children can do dose tings.” And suddenly, I realized something that I hadn't understood before, something that was true for my parents too. “He came so dey do not grow up and work on farms like he does.”

I finished speaking and opened my eyes, making a flood of tears stream down my face. I wiped them away fast because I wasn't a kid that cried. Not when we left our town, not when all our stuff got stolen and Papá got hurt, not when we had to live in Guatemala City for almost a year, and certainly not when stupid Robbie Zec made fun of me. I was tougher than that. That's what my brother, Ricardo, had always said: You've got to be tough.

But at the same time, I felt awful.
I'm sorry, Analía
.
I told all your secrets. I didn't know what else to do.

“Pesticide poisoning,” the doctor said. He was a thin man with square wire glasses, a white coat and an accent that wasn't Canadian. Maybe English was his second language too. He'd become a doctor anyway.

We were all standing around José's hospital bed, a tall one that made me feel tiny. I didn't understand what the doctor was talking about, and I was still clutching my notebook as if it could stop everything from flying apart.

I saw confusion on my parents' faces, and this time I didn't hesitate to ask a question.“I'm sorry,” I told the doctor in English. “I do not understand. Could you please explain?”

The words came out fine. I'd talked so much already that night that it was less scary to speak English with strangers. Every time I opened my mouth, my parents looked at me like I was some kind of hero.

“Pesticide poisoning,” the doctor said, “means that José was spraying the cherry trees with a special chemical to keep the insects away, but the chemical got into his lungs and onto his skin. Maybe he didn't have a good mask and gloves, or a place to wash after spraying the plants. The farmer should have provided all those things. That's the law, but some people don't pay attention to the law.”

I translated all this, and my parents and José asked me questions in Spanish. I turned those questions into English for the doctor. “Will he be able to go back to work soon? How long will he have to stay in the hospital?”

“We want to watch him for a few hours more,” said the doctor, “and then you can take him home. He shouldn't go back to work for a week or so though, and he certainly shouldn't do any more spraying.”

I froze. The
patrón
wasn't going to let José take a week off work at the height of cherry season. Could I pretend that the doctor hadn't said anything? Maybe the adults wouldn't notice?

The doctor, Papá, Mamá and José all looked back at me, waiting. I shifted from foot to foot and held my notebook tighter, and when I spoke, José scrunched up his eyes like I did sometimes when I was trying not to cry.

“Pack your things,” the
patrón
said to José when we arrived back at the farm. He was standing with his arms folded across his chest, like he was holding himself back from exploding. “I can't believe you dared show up here again. My phone has been ringing off the hook. What on earth did you tell them at the hospital? That I'm some mass murderer or something?” He spat on the ground and glared at José. “Farming's tough enough without workers like you. I've booked your ticket back to Mexico. You leave immediately.”

I didn't know how much to translate, or how to tell them the bad news. “José,” I whispered, while the
patrón
shouted about unreliable workers and people ruining his good name. “He's not making any sense. He says you have to go back to Mexico
right now
. Can't you stay a few days until you're feeling better?”

I expected José to look shocked or angry. Instead he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He said nothing.

The
patrón
was shouting and waving his arms around, his face red as an overripe strawberry. He no longer looked like Santa Claus.“They don't even listen to me when I'm talking to them!” he bellowed. “Out! Now! You have fifteen minutes to get your things, and then I never want to see you again. Give your name at the bus station, head to Vancouver, get off at the airport and leave this country. You're finished here…you.”

I wondered if he even knew José's name.

The farmer stormed off, and the other adults turned to me. I translated quickly without looking anyone in the eye, and when I finished, we were all quiet. My parents looked at each other. Then Mamá hugged me tight, and my father talked to José in whispers. José shook his head. Papá frowned and whispered something else, but José crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head again.

Everything happened quickly after that. We jumped into the car and sped down the gravel road to the little building at the back of the orchard. José gathered his things as fast as he could. The other workers were already picking cherries, and we didn't have time to say good-bye.

The drive to the bus station was a silent one. And that silence felt all wrong. I had too many questions, and we weren't going to see José again for a long, long time. Maybe never. So why did Mamá put a finger to her lips and place a hand on my knee when I tried to talk? Why did no one speak?

CHAPTER 12
The Story

After all the silence in the car, the good-bye at the bus station was a gush of thank-yous and promises. José said he wasn't very good with pen and paper, but Analía would write us letters, and we'd always have a home in Mexico City.

We pretended that my parents and I might one day have enough money to visit Mexico again. We didn't pretend that José would ever return to Canada. The
patrón
had sworn he'd write a letter to the government saying that José was a troublemaker. And who would bring a troublemaker back to Canada?

“I'll be okay,” José said at the bus station, crouching down to hug me.“
No te preocupes.
Don't worry. Analía will write to you as often as she can, I'm sure, and you can write to us anytime. I gave your mother the street address and the e-mail.”

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I was supposed to arrive at the cherry farm, see that José was perfectly fine, and let Analía know that she'd been worried for nothing. I wasn't supposed to be saying good-bye to José a few weeks into July with a whole summer of picking left to go.

“Thank you for being such a good friend.” He hugged me again. “You and your English saved my life,
sabes
? Keep writing in that notebook of yours. The world needs people like you who can tell our stories.”

I nodded but said nothing. All my words, in any language, had left me again.

Papá, Mamá and I waved until the bus disappeared down the road.

“Now what?” I asked when we got back into the car.

“Now we find a campground and sleep for a few hours,” Papá said, “and later, we find another farm to work on. A good farm. I'm sure there are many. José had bad luck with that one.”

We camped on one of the brown hilltops that I'd wanted to see from the tops of the cherry trees. Most of the people camping there were away harvesting fruit, and the air was quiet, perfect for sleeping.

It was late afternoon before any of us had the energy to get up. Papá said he was going to take a shower while Mamá and I made supper. She didn't speak as she put the food on the table, and when I couldn't stand the quiet anymore, I blurted out one of the questions that had been bothering me all afternoon. “Why did the
patrón
get mad at José for getting sick? The doctor said it wasn't his fault, that he needed a better mask or something.”

Mamá finished opening a can of beans. “I know,” she said. “And the
patrón
knows that too, but he was afraid people would find out he didn't treat his workers properly. That's why he sent José back to Mexico, even though he wasn't allowed to.”

I stared at her.“He wasn't allowed to?”

“No, he wasn't,” she said. “When José came to Canada, both he and the
patrón
signed an agreement saying how long José would work here. The
patrón
broke that agreement by sending José away.”

“Why didn't you say anything?” I demanded.“Why did you—?”

“José knew,” Mamá said. “He knew the
patrón
was breaking the rules by sending him back to Mexico, but what could we do? Who would we complain to? We don't speak English well enough to help him,
mi amor
, and we couldn't make you fight with the
patrón
.”

I looked back at her, not knowing what to say.

“You did the most important thing, Rosario,” she said, placing a hand on mine.“You saved José's life, and he and his family will be forever grateful to you. You made us very proud.”