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Mama was saying.
    â€œPapa!” I cried, but Mama patted me on the shoulder to be quiet.
    â€œWe’re fine. The money you send helps us, but things aren’t going so well. Maybe it’s time I come to Texas?” asked Mama.
    The phone made a beep and a mechanical voice said, “Dos minutos.”
    â€œPapa!” I yelled next to the telephone.
    â€œ Mija , don’t yell. I can hear you,” said Papa. “How is my baby girl?”
    â€œPapa, I’m not a baby anymore. Could we cometo Texas this summer after the crop is finished?” My mind was emptying. I could only think about seeing him again and I couldn’t remember all of the things I wanted to say, forgetting I was angry about his broken promises.
    â€œYes, soon my baby girl will be a woman. I promise we will see each other before your special birthday.”
    â€œMaybe I could come for a while and go to school? Even Grandma could come for a visit.”
    â€œNo, mija , I don’t know how yet. To save money, I’m always changing where I live. There is no address. But don’t forget, I know where you are. You are in my heart, so you are never far away. I love you, but put your Mama back on the phone.”
    â€œSoon, Papa. Make it very soon.”
    And then a click. It seemed like time was always running out.
    I didn’t tell Papa I loved him. It would be the first thing I said when we found him.
    The heat from the truck weighed me down. I tried to conjure more memories, but I was pulled into the present.
    I tried to fill my lungs with breath, but only got a shallow gulp. “It’s just so hot in here.”
    â€œI know. Have some water,” Mama said faintly.
    Drinking deeply, the lukewarm water splashed down my front. The prayer card melted into a pasty wet glob against my chest.
    â€œBe careful, we only have so much. The driver will give us a break when we get across. La migra will check the truck at the border.”
    Later, when the doors opened, Mama’s legs shook violently. I was convinced someone would hear her knees clicking like empty bottles. My mouth wished for more water, but Mama hadn’t even had any. Fresh air circulated around the trailer and I wondered how long it would be until we had the break Mama promised.
    â€œMangoes. We’re heading up to Houston,” said the voice in English. Mama lay on the pallet with her eyes tightly shut. My eyes felt dry, but I couldn’t seem to close them. I wanted to drink up the light for as long as possible before it disappeared.
    â€œLoad looks okay, but I have to look at your permits for the fruit,” said the other voice. And then the door closed and my air disappeared.
    Mama held me close and offered me water as my panic rose again. We prayed. I looked for roses in the darkness. I promised God I would go to church as often as possible.
    The truck lurched forward. I could feel it picking up speed.
    Mama leaned over to me and whispered, “We’re in Texas. How do you like it?”
    Her voice sounded rough. Her hands were shaking.
    I wiped the sweat from my forehead. “I’m hot. Is there any more water?”
    Mama’s voice sounded weak in the dark. “Why don’t you eat a mango?”
    No more fruit. The smell tried to overpower me and the nausea was returning.
    â€œI never want to eat another mango again. Ever.”
    Mama laughed a little. I could hear her voice getting raspy. She reached out in the dark and touched my forehead. “You’re funny. We’re almost out of water, and we have quite a ways to go. Why don’t you rest?”
    â€œMama, you drink some of the water. You haven’t had any.” Mama worked too hard and rested too little. Once, I found her in the orchard, leaning under a grapefruit tree with bleeding hands. She had worked so hard her legs just gave out, and she fell out of the tree, nearly breaking her back.
    â€œDon’t worry about me, mija