she'd kept this from me my whole life. I also had the beginnings of a niggling voice in my head that asked, "If I came from someone who could do those things, what did that mean I was capable of?" Just two years later, I was forced to answer that question, and it wasn't an answer I wanted.
My mother managed to run from my father just a few days after my second birthday. She paid a coyote—a smuggler—to get us over the border, where she knew good old dad couldn't get to us. Then she kept me safe and out of his sights until that horrible day when the INS found her.
Now, as I stand in Jefe 's den, everything my mother told me about my father comes crashing down around me. I realize that I've been running from him, desperately trying to keep him from finding me for so long that he's reached the status of a mythical monster for me. I almost expect him to have horns and a spiked tail.
Instead, the door to the room opens and a well-armed bodyguard enters, sporting a bulletproof vest over his dress shirt. Following right behind him is a good-looking man in his early fifties, hair perfect, suit pressed and fitted precisely. He strides inside, glancing at Jefe , who steps forward with his hand extended. But Miguel, my father, barely acknowledges him and makes no effort to shake his hand. Instead, he focuses in on me and walks until we're just an arm's length apart.
I look at him, and for some reason, I'm surprised as much as anything. There are no horns, no flaming eyes or foaming lips. Instead, there is a familiarity. Not one particular thing, but a definite sense of having seen this face before, watched those eyes before. And I realize it's because I've looked at it every day of my own life. I look just like him, and it's akin to having a mirror placed in front of me, but a mirror that travels through time, showing you yourself decades hence.
For a moment, we're both silent, and I wonder what he's thinking as he looks at me. I see his eyes mist up, and the corners of his mouth draw tight.
"Juan Miguel," he says in a thick voice. " Mi corazon ." He puts his hands on my shoulders and then pulls me to him and hugs me hard. I'm frozen, both in fear and shock. I stand like a mannequin, arms at my sides, at a loss for what to say to this man without whom I wouldn't exist.
Miguel pulls away but keeps his hands on my shoulders. "Let me look at you," he whispers as his eyes run over me from head to toe. He steps to the side to see the back of my neck. As he touches the RH tattoo and then my arms, he says, "Don’t worry, mijo. I have doctors who can take this filth off of you." He shoots a look of disgust at Jefe , who shrugs.
He gives me the once over again then stops, his eyes suddenly hard and his grip on my shoulders nearly painful. He drops one of his hands, moving it inside the edge of his jacket lapel.
"What the hell is this on my son's ankle?" he spits out.
His guard and another who entered after him both stand up straighter and maneuver so that none of Jefe 's men are at their backs. They're smooth and the whole thing is seamless, but I notice things like that. When you've lived in prison for years, you recognize combat maneuvers though they seem like random movements to civilians.
"What do you mean?" Jefe answers, craning his neck to see my ankle.
"This fucking cuff courtesy of the 4 policía ," Miguel hisses, pointing at my leg.
"Oh, Señor Ybarra, my men were supposed to take that off, I'm very sorry. We'll get the tool to remove it right away. It'll only take a moment."
I'm surprised because Jefe actually seems afraid of Miguel. I didn't think Jefe was scared of anyone. But I guess there's badass and then there's my father. I still have no idea what I'm supposed to do about any of this, so I just stand, my father's hand on my shoulder while he glares at Jefe .
" I will remove my son's cuff," Miguel answers.
Then, with no warning whatsoever, no tell, no blink of his eyes, no twitch of his fingers, in one
My mother managed to run from my father just a few days after my second birthday. She paid a coyote—a smuggler—to get us over the border, where she knew good old dad couldn't get to us. Then she kept me safe and out of his sights until that horrible day when the INS found her.
Now, as I stand in Jefe 's den, everything my mother told me about my father comes crashing down around me. I realize that I've been running from him, desperately trying to keep him from finding me for so long that he's reached the status of a mythical monster for me. I almost expect him to have horns and a spiked tail.
Instead, the door to the room opens and a well-armed bodyguard enters, sporting a bulletproof vest over his dress shirt. Following right behind him is a good-looking man in his early fifties, hair perfect, suit pressed and fitted precisely. He strides inside, glancing at Jefe , who steps forward with his hand extended. But Miguel, my father, barely acknowledges him and makes no effort to shake his hand. Instead, he focuses in on me and walks until we're just an arm's length apart.
I look at him, and for some reason, I'm surprised as much as anything. There are no horns, no flaming eyes or foaming lips. Instead, there is a familiarity. Not one particular thing, but a definite sense of having seen this face before, watched those eyes before. And I realize it's because I've looked at it every day of my own life. I look just like him, and it's akin to having a mirror placed in front of me, but a mirror that travels through time, showing you yourself decades hence.
For a moment, we're both silent, and I wonder what he's thinking as he looks at me. I see his eyes mist up, and the corners of his mouth draw tight.
"Juan Miguel," he says in a thick voice. " Mi corazon ." He puts his hands on my shoulders and then pulls me to him and hugs me hard. I'm frozen, both in fear and shock. I stand like a mannequin, arms at my sides, at a loss for what to say to this man without whom I wouldn't exist.
Miguel pulls away but keeps his hands on my shoulders. "Let me look at you," he whispers as his eyes run over me from head to toe. He steps to the side to see the back of my neck. As he touches the RH tattoo and then my arms, he says, "Don’t worry, mijo. I have doctors who can take this filth off of you." He shoots a look of disgust at Jefe , who shrugs.
He gives me the once over again then stops, his eyes suddenly hard and his grip on my shoulders nearly painful. He drops one of his hands, moving it inside the edge of his jacket lapel.
"What the hell is this on my son's ankle?" he spits out.
His guard and another who entered after him both stand up straighter and maneuver so that none of Jefe 's men are at their backs. They're smooth and the whole thing is seamless, but I notice things like that. When you've lived in prison for years, you recognize combat maneuvers though they seem like random movements to civilians.
"What do you mean?" Jefe answers, craning his neck to see my ankle.
"This fucking cuff courtesy of the 4 policía ," Miguel hisses, pointing at my leg.
"Oh, Señor Ybarra, my men were supposed to take that off, I'm very sorry. We'll get the tool to remove it right away. It'll only take a moment."
I'm surprised because Jefe actually seems afraid of Miguel. I didn't think Jefe was scared of anyone. But I guess there's badass and then there's my father. I still have no idea what I'm supposed to do about any of this, so I just stand, my father's hand on my shoulder while he glares at Jefe .
" I will remove my son's cuff," Miguel answers.
Then, with no warning whatsoever, no tell, no blink of his eyes, no twitch of his fingers, in one
Similar Books
