Kidnapped!
Luisa Kay Reyes
©
Copyright 2018 by Luisa Kay Reyes
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When
we went to pay our rent to our always amiable and elegant classy
blonde Spanish landlady, we learned to our dismay that she had
recently passed away. Leaving her beloved son, who had unfortunately
taken after her husband’s no account ways, in charge of the
family’s affairs. And seeing this as a ripe opportunity to set
up a hard-partying bachelor pad, he informed us that we would be
promptly kicked out of our home in the neighborhood we all called La
Privada.
The
suddenness of discovering we were soon to be left without a place to
lay our heads, left us with a sinking feeling as we returned home
with a heavy weight on our shoulders to our enclave right in the
heart of Mexico City. It wasn’t the first place my mother,
brother, and I had ever called home. But for my brother and me it
was the only one that we could remember, since our previous living
quarters had been before we were old enough to form memories. And
the empty feeling left inside of us at the prospect of leaving our
childhood home, made everything seem so surreal.
All
of a sudden, as we glanced around our neighborhood, we took in the
sights with the realization that soon we would no longer be able to
claim them as our own. In one sense, we had always been the
outsiders in our cement enclave, since our mother was American of
German, British, Irish, and Scandinavian descent. And everything we
did, seemed to be a topic of interest to the entire neighborhood.
But, to us, everyone in La Privada were simply our neighbors.
With the family living below us including a grown daughter, who
unfortunately was mentally disabled. But who always knew who we were
by name and could most uncannily recall details about us, that we
ourselves, had often times forgotten.
And
beside them resided the family who started stealing our letters, once
they figured out our grandfather and grandmother would sometimes send
us almighty U.S. dollars in the mail. Forcing us to make sure and
rush down to check the mail deliveries before they beat us to the
draw and left us penniless. Somewhat notorious throughout the
neighborhood, since the father would get drunk and beat his wife on a
nightly basis, once even on mother’s day, as the mother’s
screams echoing throughout the entire Privada made undoubtedly
clear; the children were often times our main playmates. In spite of
them being older and ripping off the name brand labels off of the
inside of the collars of our clothing; all while pretending to give
us a hug.
Then
there was the mysterious unmarried older man who kept to himself.
And try as I could, I simply couldn’t recall a time when any of
us had ever actually spoken to him. Although, he lived but a few
dwellings down from us. There was also the older lady with twin
grandsons who would sometimes come visit her. But, by far and large,
the most adored member of our entire neighborhood was Señorita
Anita; the oldest lady in La
Privada and also the one
who had to climb up the most stairs to reach the front door of her
home. A feat which she accomplished effortlessly on a daily basis,
except for only once, that I ever saw. She often babysat for my
brother and me and we dearly loved her. And one day, as I spent the
sunny afternoon in her dimly lit home, she took the time to show me
in which of her flowerpots she had buried the multiple miscarriages
she had suffered during her youth.
With
it not being easy to find both an acceptable and an economical place
to live in Mexico City, my mother started doing some research. And
we soon learned, much to our astonishment, that our landlords were
not actually the true owners of our home. They had originally rented
it during the time when the bargain priced rent control rate was
established and in spite of the rule being that the fixed rate only
applied if the family actually lived in the home; they had
subsequently sublet it to us at a much higher price. When my mother
approached the true owners about the matter, they personally came
over and thanked my mother for her efforts. As they had been desiring
for years to get rid of whom we had once thought to be our landlords.
Nevertheless,
before long, my always resourceful mother did find us a nice new
place to live. Albeit, not in the heart of town like before, but in
the outer perimeter of our huge Mexico City metropolis. Complete
with the advantage of it being closer to the Southern Annex of our
prestigious German School. However, it did come with one rather
large inconvenience . . . there was no telephone service. This being
shortly before the advent of portable hand-held cell phones, the
telephone companies simply didn’t provide landlines to the
homes out in our remote neighborhood. And the only place where
anybody could make a call, was the single convenience store in the
area that had a landline.
So,
once a week, my mother would join the throng of those standing in the
long line that reached out to the door of the convenience store, to
call her father and mother in the USA for a few minutes and let them
know we were okay. It could only be for a few minutes, since it was
costly. And the store had a ten minute maximum time limit on any
telephone calls.
Then, one day, as
my brother and I lingered after school while waiting for our mother
to come get us. We noticed that the crowd of students waiting for
their rides home from school had long before thinned out. And while
it wasn’t the first time my brother and I were lingering about
waiting for our mother to come pick us up, this seemed even longer
than usual. We were kind of puzzled by it, but dismissed it as
simply one of those things. Thinking little of it. Until the mother
of one my school chums arrived in a bit of a flurry and told us not
to worry. That our mother had had to fly to the States due to
something with our grandmother. And we were supposed to go home with
her. It was a very considerate gesture on her part to tell us not to
worry, but right away I sensed something was severely awry. For she
had just told us that our mother had had “to fly” to the
States.
I
was a merely a little girl, but I knew my mother well. And she had a
terrible fear of flying. So much so, that when we made our biannual
trips to the U.S.A. from Mexico City, we had to endure the lengthy
journey via trains to the border and then via those dreadful
Greyhound buses from Laredo, Texas to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. If our
mother was terrified enough of boarding an airplane for us to be
subjected to those really scummy buses year after year, there was
nothing on this earth important enough for her to hop on a flight to
America. Not even if it had something to do with our grandmother.
Despite
my certainty that things weren’t anywhere close to being right,
my brother and I did as my friend’s mother told us. And before
long, we were safely at home in their comfortable apartment, complete
with a nice full-sized window view of the city. My friend was excited
to have us staying over in her home. And since she had a younger
sister, my younger brother soon felt quite at home with us youthful
school girls, as well.
Despite
my internal reservations about what was truly going on, the four of
us youngsters managed to spend a lovely afternoon playing and
laughing about things that took place at school. My friend seemed
surprised to find out that I actually brushed my hair. For, somehow,
by the time I got to school in the morning, it always looked messy.
Leading her to conclude that I didn’t know how to brush my
hair. I was surprised to learn of this detail. So when all three of
us girls stood in front of the window to where we could see our
reflections in it, I definitely joined my friends in brushing my
hair.
At
one point, as the late afternoon gave way to evening, I overheard my
friend’s grandmother, who lived across the way from my friend,
say that she always came over at five o’clock in the morning
during the school week to help get breakfast going and help get the
girls ready for school. It was a detail that I made a mental note
of. And as the evening yielded to night, my friend’s mother
told us to come in and talk to our mother on the phone.
My
brother and I took turns going into the small room where the
telephone was and spoke to our mother. My mother sounded nice and so
very sweet. Giving no indication that anything was the matter. But,
I did notice that somehow she still sounded distant and far away. I
just knew that something wasn’t quite right, but even she gave
no indication that the story about hopping on a plane to the USA was
anything but so. I desperately wanted to ask her what was really
happening, but everybody around us kept up the charade so well, that
I refrained from doing so. And, shortly after we spoke to our mother
on the corded telephone, all of us changed into our pajamas and got
ready for bed. Somehow, although I do not know how, my friend’s
mother even scrounged up something appropriate for my brother to
sleep in. And before long, I found myself alone on the couch in the
living room with the only sounds echoing throughout the still of my
friend’s apartment being those of my concerns pounding upon my
heart.
After
a while, I realized that my brother was still awake in his room in
the back of the hallway. Being an extroverted and sociable sort, he
was all jovial and content. And, perhaps thoughtlessly, I expressed
to him my concerns that I didn’t believe my mother had had “to
fly” anywhere. That somehow that just didn’t sound like
our mother and I felt something was terribly amiss. My brother
agreed with my deductions and wondered what we should do. I told him
that my friend’s grandmother would be coming over at five in
the morning and we should both stay up all night until she came.
That way we’d be awake if anything were to happen. He was up to
the challenge. And despite nothing to entertain us in the living
room, we devised ways to keep each other awake as we checked the
clock periodically to see if it had struck five, yet.
Exactly
on the dot, when five o’clock in the morning rolled around, the
door to my friend’s apartment opened to reveal my friend’s
grandmother marching in. She didn’t seem all that surprised to
see us up and about. And, focusing on the task at hand, my brother
and I joined her in the kitchen as she helped direct the maid in
getting breakfast ready.
We
managed to look presentable in the same clothes we had on the day
before and my brother and I joined my friend and her sister as her
mother proceeded to take us all to school. After school, unlike the
day before, my mother was right there waiting to pick us up. And as
soon as we got home, with all three of us being together safely and
soundly, my brother and I promptly fell fast asleep. It would seem
that my little girl fears were mistaken. Except for one thing, our
mother didn’t “fly’ to the States. She had in fact
been kidnapped the day before after dropping off my brother and me at
school.
As
it turned out, our former sublessors weren’t satisfied that we
had moved away within the time frame they’d allotted for us.
And, seeking revenge for the discovery of their circumventing the law
with regards to the rent control price; they decided to seek revenge
by kidnapping. Consequently, the kidnappers grabbed my mother as she
headed back home after seeing my brother and me safely to school.
And pushed her into the car while she was walking along the sidewalk.
With
a carefully laid out plan involving bribery, the kidnappers managed
to quickly get my mother thrown in jail. And, most fortuitously for
us all, our godmother and her father helped work to get my mother out
of jail. With her English student, who also happened to be a
judicial advisor to a government cabinet member, pulling some strings
higher up than those of the vengeful kidnappers. And, thankfully,
due their dedicated efforts, my mother was soon freed.
It
wasn’t much of a welcome home greeting that my brother and I
gave our mother, since we didn’t have the full knowledge of
what had transpired the day before. And we didn’t have any
“Welcome home!” banners nor festive balloons awaiting her
arrival back at home. But, feeling so very glad that our mother was
with us both safely and soundly, we realized there was no need to
stay awake until five o’clock in the morning and we promptly
fell asleep.
Luisa
Kay Reyes has had pieces featured in "The Raven Chronicles",
"Fire In Machines", "The Windmill", "Halcyon
Days", "Fellowship of the King", "Enchanted
Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine", the "Route - 7 -
Review", "The Foliate Oak", "The Eastern Iowa
Review", and other literary magazines. Her piece,
"Thank You", is the winner of the April 2017 memoir contest
of "The Dead Mule School Of Southern Literature". And
her Christmas poem was a first place winner in the 16th Annual Stark
County District Library Poetry Contest. Additionally, her essay "My
Border Crossing" received a Pushcart Prize nomination from the
Port Yonder Press.
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