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No one in their right mind would voluntarily move here. To put it in the words of the British man in the apartment two doors down, the place is a shithole. You move here for the obscenely low rent and alleged lack of cockroaches. You tolerate the occasional rowdy neighbor and busted AC. Young people weren’t exactly uncommon but they were usually college students who would stay for a few months, have loud booming parties, and leave.
So seeing a young woman holding a baby bag with one hand and three infants with the other was a surprise, to say the least.
Well, holding is a nice word. Struggling would be more accurate. She had very few items actually on her besides the children. A large bag was slung over her shoulder in addition to the baby bag, and what little else remained of her possessions she had brought up earlier.
English was not her first language, and the last few months had been stressful enough trying to even find a place to stay and a job that was far below her education level. A mounting fear had grown in her that someone would somehow find that her efforts were not enough and take her children from her, her babies. So needless to say her heart leaped into her throat and began pounding when a woman who looked to be in her 70s started speaking English at her faster than she could translate.
“Oh, hello little one,” the older woman cooed gently at Pepa, the middle triplet, who was fussy and giving Alma the most grief. Wide green eyes stared curiously at her, “Do you need some help at all? I have four of my own, and they were handfuls at this age, I can’t imagine having three at once,”
Her hands reached out to take one of the children from Alma’s arms and she flinched back, shaking and fearful. This was it, this was the fear that someone would take one of her children from her. Quickly she gathered her children up as tightly as she could, shaking her head at the woman. Whatever she wanted, Alma could not possibly give it to her.
"Por favor. Son todo lo que me queda." She begged, her voice shaking and filled with tears. Before the woman could speak again, Alma rushed into the apartment, finally setting down the bags she was holding. As she sunk down on the couch, holding her babies, and felt for the first time in months that she wasn’t holding her breath. They had a home, though small, and they were safe within these four walls. Her children were in her arms, and they were alive.
The moment that sunk in, however, she was also able to finally reflect back on home. On fire and leaving her family behind, not knowing if they would get out (they did not), on Pedro kissing her and their children goodbye to try and beg off the armed militia following them. On Pedro’s body falling to the ground, bloody and broken, nearly cut in half. On being alone in the world where anyone could decide she wasn’t good enough and take her children away forever.
She couldn't cry. Not with the children around. They needed her to be strong for them, three babies who would never know their father.
Three babies who didn't even have cribs. Of course, they couldn't bring the cribs Pedro's father had spent weeks carving by hand. When the militia had invaded, they had only been able to pack the essentials, clothes, bottles, and carriers. The triplets hadn't even gotten to sleep in them, they'd been far too small and sick for the first two weeks, and when they finally got to come home, they'd only just been lulled to sleep in their mother's arms when the militia arrived.
Her best option was to sit and hold the children as they slept. She could watch them and make sure none of them rolled their way into concussion or death. She could deal with a lack of sleep, her babies couldn't. And so, that's how she spent her first night, watching her children sleep and trying not to think about Pedro or her home.
Now she was trying to soothe Bruno, the youngest and only boy of the triplets. He was also the clingiest of the three. It had been a scramble to put his sisters in their carriers to sleep before his crying woke them.
A quiet thud snapped Alma out of her sleep-deprived daze. A letter had been shoved through the mail slot. Weird, the mail had arrived earlier (all notices to file death certificates for Pedro, her parents, and siblings, which made her want to be sick). She glanced at her son, still in her arms. ‘’¿Esperabas una carta?’’ she asked Bruno teasingly. The infant gave a soft coo as if to say ‘’Don’t look at me’’.
Shifting the weight of her son to one arm, Alma made her way to pick up the letter. Definitely not an official letter, the word ‘’Neighbour’’ was written on the front in curly handwriting. She felt Bruno’s head tilt to look at the envelope with curious eyes. ‘’Simplemente te gusta saber lo que está sucediendo, ¿no Brunito?’’. Still, the baby had a point. This was abnormal.
Laying her son down in his carrier, Alma went to sit, inspecting the envelope. Nothing seemed amiss. Just a standard envelope. Except for that one curly word on the front. The more anxious part of her brain would say its a letter from authorities telling her she’s not doing good enough and that they’re coming to take away her children. The rational half countered that a letter like that would be typed and use her legal name. Better to bite the bullet and read it, just to quell that anxiety.
The letter was written in the same curly handwriting as the one word on the envelope, on a notebook piece of paper. What was surprising was the short message being written in Spanish.
Hola vecino,
Siento por asustarte ayer. Usted parecía tener sus manos llenas con sus bolsos y sus bebés pequeños dulces, pensé que podría ayudar sosteniendo una bolsa o un bebé. Eso fue un error en mi extremo, no puedo imaginar lo mucho que te asusté.
Si alguna vez necesita ayuda con cualquier cosa, no dude en preguntar, estoy al lado.
Ruth.
P.S Por favor perdona cualquier error, estoy usando un diccionario de la biblioteca.
The language was rough and not particularly grammatically correct, and it was very stiff, but the effort of it brought tears to her eyes. It also allowed her to breathe a sigh of relief. All the older woman, Ruth, she now knew, was trying to do was to give her some help with the babies. She wasn't living at immediate risk of her neighbor breaking in and stealing her babies away. The lock on the door didn't seem to work and she'd settled for placing a chair under the handle. Not the most foolproof security and she'd have to get it fixed before the triplets started walking. Pepa was already a bit of an escape artist, who knows what she'll do when she has control of her own limbs.
—
For three days Alma sat up on the couch at night while her children slept, the lack of crib meaning there was no safe way to leave them unattended. When she was at work, she left them at the daycare her workplace provided, but at home, she couldn’t just leave them alone.
It was in this state that she opened the door (upon a second, louder knock) and found Ruth looking at her in concern, a large book in hand. If the older woman had an original intent to her visit, it was immediately sidetracked by the state her neighbor was in. The bags under her eyes were dark, which could be expected with three babies, but this went far beyond that. Add on the fact that she was swaying slightly where she stood (concerning considering she was holding a baby), and it painted a picture of a woman who had not had a good bout of sleep in a while.
Ruth gestured in a way that made it clear she was asking for permission to come in and, hesitantly, Alma allowed her to sit at the kitchen table. The book was then placed down, revealing the cover that stated in golden lettering Diccionario English-Spanish Español-Inglés. Ruth flipped through pages and grabbed a piece of paper, quickly scribbling down a sentence. Wearily, Alma clutched Bruno closer to her. It was a nice effort, surely, but it didn’t make her feel any more assured that what this woman had to say was going to be positive.
The slip of paper was flipped to be facing her, reading ‘Puedo ayudar con los babies? You need dormir.’ Alma understood what was being said, though she laughed a little at the way English cut in randomly. She held her hand out for the pen and corrected it, ‘Puedo ayudarte con los niños? Necesitas dormir.’
Alma slid the dictionary over to herself, looking for the right words. “I have no… um…” she searched harder, brow creasing in frustration, “crib. For mi niños. I can not dormir porque they will get hurt,”
From there their communication continued, though clunky. It took about three times longer than a normal conversation would; though by the end they had both picked up certain words in each other’s respective languages. Ruth offered a crib that had once belonged to her son, his children now too big for it. It was only one, but she promised it was large enough for all three of the triplets. It wasn’t the safest option but it was a better one than staying awake all night monitoring them.
Before she left, Ruth left an open invitation that she could drop the babies off any time, she was retired and had plenty of free time, and did it for other neighbors when their children were too young for school. Alma didn’t think she would take her up on that any time soon, she still didn’t know how much she could trust her and she didn’t love the idea of taking that much free help, but she would consider it.
—
Turns out, she would be forced to swallow her reservations sooner than she would like. Through some miracle, she’d somehow achieved citizenship in the months she had spent looking for anywhere that would take a refugee and three infants. However, this citizenship meant she would have to visit a civil registration office two miles away to file death certificates for Pedro, her parents, and her siblings. She could bring the triplets with her, though the walk might be a struggle, but it felt wrong to bring them when she was declaring their family dead.
To be fair, Ruth hadn’t lied when she mentioned other children. A little boy of around two or three was sitting on the couch watching some fast-paced children’s show, and an older one of about four was eating Cornflakes and scribbling in a coloring book. Judging by their shared features, they must be two of the grandchildren mentioned. Still, there was a difference between looking after small children and looking after three infants. Alma felt it was only right to mention some of her children’s more… inconvenient habits
‘’You should know, Pepa-’’. She paused to pat the ginger’s head, and upon coming up on a blank for the English term, mimed yanking on her own braid. The baby girl was unexpectedly strong when it came to hair pulling.
‘’Bruno, he… holds’’. True to form, once removed from his carrier, the infant had gripped his mother’s finger as hard as a nine month old could.
She was searching for the words to describe Julieta (she would not settle at all if she couldn’t see her siblings near her) when Ruth piped up.
‘’Surely they can’t be too bad. I have four of my own, and nine grandchildren. I know what babies can be like.’’
Considering she was drawing another blank on how to word Julieta’s attachment issue, Alma decided to leave it be, crouching down to kiss her children goodbye.
''Nos vemos en unas horas. Te amo''
It may seem silly to tell non-comprehending infants she loves them before she leaves, but after having almost everything taken away from her, it was almost a comfort to know she told them. After all, there was always the fear that this would be the last time she saw them, and if that were the case she would never forgive herself for not saying she loved them one last time.
As it turns out, filing death certificates when one has only a basic knowledge of English was difficult. It was late in the evening by the time she got out, with copies of death certificates to be sent in the next couple of weeks. She'd learned the word for sorry not long after coming to the US and was making good use of it now that she was collecting her babies (who seemed to sense their mother was distressed and thankfully were cooperating).
"It's no problem, really. They're good children."
Of course, Alma already knew that. No one would ever be as perfect as her niños, even with their hair yanking, clinginess and fussiness.
"You've had a rough go of it"
Whether or not Ruth was referring to the day or Alma's life in general, Alma could not tell. But she supposed either would be accurate.
This babysitting became regular. It was a lot less stressful getting the triplets next door rather than to an office building a mile away. It was also comforting in a way, she knew Ruth and knew she took good care of the babies.
—
Her babies had been absolutely insufferable today. She loved them, really she did. But they made her loca sometimes. Having three children all teething at once could turn anyone into a madwoman.
Pepa would not stop biting on everything and anything, including Alma’s hair, basically any toy, her own hand, and anything else to relieve the painful feeling. Bruno was fussier and clingier than ever, rubbing his cheek against Alma constantly. Julieta meanwhile was having trouble sleeping, and had to be basically forced to eat anything.
Essentially, Alma was in hell. She felt honestly embarrassed each day when she dropped the kids off with Ruth, apologizing constantly for their behavior. Ruth assured it was fine, but Alma was on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the day that Pepa bit another child or Bruno screamed when he was put down or Julieta- well no she wasn’t really worried about Julieta. She was on edge constantly and it took very little to cause her to snap.
A passing remark, harmless really. It wasn’t an unfair assumption, a single mother with three children? It's more likely than what really happened. Still, it broke something unresolved and unhealed in Alma’s mind.
‘’You'd think their father would help’’
Fire. Fire and blood and gunshots that left her ears ringing. Vomiting on the ground as she watched the love of her life die a brutal death in front of her. One last kiss before he left. Looking down at the faces of her children and realizing they were all she had left. Running and running and hardly stopping for weeks.
Another few weeks, nearly three months in fact, spent held up at the border, in jail-like conditions, mercifully not being separated from her children even as she saw others around her separated from there's. She supposed it was because they were still breastfeeding at the time, though it wasn’t like they really had that kind of empathy. It was one of many miracles.
The miracle when they were finally registered and cleared. The miracle when her children were cleared for citizenship. The miracle when she was cleared months later, keeping her children only because of the mercy of her employer. The miracle of being alive.
“How dare you! Pedro did not leave us. He died for us. He was a good father and good man,” Her voice was filled with tears and she wasn’t really seeing the woman in front of her. It was like everything she had been holding back for the sake of her children was flooding out and even with all her strength, she was struggling to shut it back in.
Part of her knew she was using the older woman as a symbol, something to represent her feelings. Ruth wasn't Ruth anymore, she was a symbol of all those who would never know Pedro and how brave he was. How he calmly faced death to protect his family. How he looked at their children with so much love. They would assume he walked out on them.
And then there were arms around her legs. It had been so long since she had been hugged. She looked down through her tears and saw Julieta, nuzzled into her. Her daughter had taken her first unaided steps, just to comfort her. She took a little exhaling breath against her máma’s leg, and Alma dropped down to hug her. As long as she had her children, it would be okay.