The Last Funeral

That day I lost three family members. No, I lost four. Actually, I lost my entire family.

My dad used to be a functioning alcoholic. He used to drink almost every day. Although he never missed work, occasionally, he would leave home for work still a little drunk or hung over. He was a construction worker. I miss him. He was a good dad. 

I was seven years old. My mom was getting ready to go to work. My sister Rosita was three years old, and my two-year-old sister Adriana was in her highchair. The new babysitter, Mariana was there too. We knew very little about her, but I think she was from Central America. 

Before my dad left for work, he played for a little while with my sister Rosita, and then he gave her a peach. Mariana was feeding my little sister Adriana. I remember it was a Saturday. My dad only worked half a day on Saturdays. My mom was a hairdresser; she used to work at a beauty salon. 

I also remember that Rosita was choking on the peach pit. My mom got scared right away. She kept screaming at Rosita and saying, “Spit it out, spit it out.” She even put her fingers inside Rosita’s mouth.

When she noticed that all her attempts were useless, she panicked and ran after my dad, who had left a minute before. Rosita’s face was purple by then. I kept hugging Rosita, not knowing what to do. Then she fainted and fell to the floor. 

A minute later, a man came to the house to let us know that a car had run over my mom. By the time the ambulance came, Rosita was dead, and they had to call for another ambulance. After they had taken my mom to the hospital, someone called my dad at work to let him know what had happened. 

Then, another tragedy occurred.

On his hurried way back home, my dad crashed his pick-up truck head-on against another car and died. Later, they said that my dad was driving drunk and that he had caused the accident.

I was at the hospital when they said that my mom had also died. I was with my mom’s friend, a woman that lived next door from our house. When we returned home, Mariana and my sister Adriana weren't there anymore. My neighbor said that the babysitter had kidnapped her. I never saw Adriana again.

I spent the next ten years at different foster homes. 

       

My mind was paralyzed and numb, the shock will never disappear. I kept waiting for something to happen, for somebody to return. It never felt real. I never shared my sad story with anyone. I didn't care about physical pain, my body and mind were disconnected. I was just a sleepwalking ghost.

The time I spent as a foster kid wasn't pleasant. Nobody really cared about me. Some of the foster parents were more interested in the money they received from the government than taking good care and sharing their love with the children. 

I bounced between foster parents while waiting to be adopted, and yet, that wasn't important either. During that times I consulted the meaning of 'foster' in the dictionary. It meant: to nurture, to strengthen, stimulate, cultivate. I found out that most foster parents ignored the meaning of that word.

I was seven years old when my family disintegrated and I became an orphan. Even surrounded by temporary family members I felt alone. When I needed affection or compassion, I received indifference and mistreatment. I was confused, but it was probably my fault because I never wanted to be part of another family.

Sometimes, I defended my 'temporary brothers' against all kinds of abuse, and most of the time, I would only worsen the situation. The day I turned eighteen, I didn't even say goodbye to my last foster parents. 

Five or six different houses and many parents, but I never had a home, and nobody could substitute my mom and dad. All I did was to survive.

I just buried the last vestige of my blood. I'm returning from my uncle's funeral. My dad's brother used to live near Fresno. The last time I saw him, we were in another cemetery. He was present at my family's funeral. He could have claimed me and adopted me, he could have taken care of me, but he never did. I don't know why. He never had any children, and that added up to my bad luck. He didn’t leave any cousins for me either.  

I have no roots attached to this Earth any longer. I'll be twenty years old next month, and I have no idea where I'm going. Options, I guess, I have many, what I lack is enthusiasm.

Riding the Greyhound bus feels lonely and sad, I’m returning to North Hollywood where I live. Every bus must have a million sad stories, but probably none as sad as mine. Every seat must have carried at some point, a lost soul or a soul in transition.

The bus is full, except for one seat. A beautiful girl is sitting by herself, and I ask her if I could sit there. She nods. I consider rude sitting next to her without starting a conversation. She's pretty and younger than me.

“Excuse me, can I ask where you’re going?"

“To North Hollywood, California,” she said.

“Oh, that’s great, me too. Do you live in North Hollywood?” I asked her with confidence, feeling a little connection.

“No, I live in Merced, California.”

“I don’t want to bother you, but I don’t want to be inside my thoughts right now. You see, I’m coming from a funeral, and I need a little distraction. Would you mind if we talk for a little bit?” I was probably looking for some compassion.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Who died, a relative or a friend?” 

“My uncle, my last living relative. I believe I’m alone in this world now. I don’t think I have anybody else. I'm sorry, I’m not trying to be depressing if you want I can stop this conversation,” I said.

“No, no, if you don’t mind, I don’t mind either, but I never imagine that could be possible, I mean, to be alone in this world.”

“I could tell you my story, but if I do, there wouldn’t be enough tissue paper on this bus to wipe our tears. I know it sounds 
dramatic. I better not continue, the subject is too somber. Let me change the subject. Your hair is very beautiful, it reminds me of a little sister I had many years ago.” then we both laughed, realizing that I had unconsciously returned to the same sad subject.

“All right, keep talking, but don’t make me cry. What happened to your little sister?” She asked.

“I lost her about thirteen years ago. She had the same color of your hair. It was a little wavy, like yours too. My mom used to cut her hair, that’s all I have left of her, a lock of hair, let me show you. I always keep it in my wallet. It’s one of the few possessions I have.” then I put my sister’s hair next to hers, and indeed, it looked very similar. She agreed too.

“Have you kept her hair all these thirteen years in your wallet?” she asked.

“Yes. Well, I’ve spent many years in foster homes, so I never separated myself from my most precious possessions. I also have pictures of mom and dad, and my two little sisters.” I proceeded to show her four individual pictures of my long lost family. She examined each one of them, but she kept looking for a few more seconds to Adriana's photo, my two-year-old sister.

“So, what happened to your little sister?” she asked, as she held Adriana’s picture close to my face, probably comparing us. By then, I noticed we had an audience. The two ladies in front of our seat, obviously listening to our conversation kept looking over their shoulders.

“You know, you look a little bit like my sister Adriana, you have her eyes and the same smile, and of course the same hair. How old are you?”

“I’m fifteen. Do I really look like your sister? You haven’t told me how you lost your sister.”

“Did you ever live in North Hollywood?” I asked her, considering the remote possibility.

“Yes, but when I was two years old we moved to Merced.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”  I asked her, feeling dizzy.

“My mom and I. Are you ever going to tell me how you lost your sister?”

“What’s your mom’s name?” I asked her, now almost fainting.

“Mariana.”

Later, she said that I fainted after she answered my last question.

At the Bakersfield station, the driver said that we had a fifteen-minute break. We sat in the cafeteria.

“You know, you never told me what happened to your little sister, are you going to tell me now?” she asked.

Then, feeling still dizzy and while drinking a glass of water, I told her the entire story. 

When the break was over, the two women from the bus came to tell us that the driver was waiting for us. One of them said to my new friend, “You know, I’m sure you are brother and sister. I bet you are Adriana.” And they left for the bus.

“Is that your name, Adriana?” I asked her.

“My mom told me that I was born in El Salvador, but I don’t know anything about my father. You really think it’s possible?”

“There’s only one way to find out. Can I have a lock of your hair?”

“DNA?” 

“Yes, Adriana. Can I call you Adriana?”

EDMUNDO BARRAZA 
Visalia, CA. 08-30-2012 

 http://www.edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com