Chapter Text
Mila had three memories of life before she and Mama and her baby brother came home.
The first memory was of Papa - he liked it when she called him that, but Mama didn't - shouting at Mama, hitting her over and over as she covered her face with her arms, until she was bleeding, as Mila watched in silent terror from her hiding spot behind the couch.
The second memory was of Papa kneeling in front of her and holding her arm tight, too tight, gently telling her that Mama had done something wrong so he needed to hurt Mila so Mama would know not to do it again, as Mama pleaded no, please, don't hurt her, and then he'd twisted her arm until she'd screamed.
The third memory was of the day they came home.
Mama bent down in front of her, her face tight and worried, the light putting the bruises around her eye and on her cheek into stark relief. "I have a very important job for you, Mila," she told her.
She gave Mila a paper that only a few minutes ago she had ripped out of one of her special library books, and written something on it with a pen from the drawer. She folded it up and put it into Mila's pocket.
"Now listen, Mila," Mama said, sitting down next to Mila on the floor and putting Mila's baby brother in her lap so he could sleep more. "Do you remember you wanted to go outside?"
Mila nodded.
"Today," Mama said, "you are going to go outside."
Outside, where the light came from, and the food, and the library books. But-
"Papa lets?" Mila asked.
Mama flinched. "It's going to be a secret," she explained.
Mila nodded. Mila knew about secrets. Like the one about crying. Mama wasn't supposed to cry, but Mama cried sometimes when Papa wasn't home, and she wasn't supposed to tell.
"Listen," Mama told her again. "You're going to go out the window. Then you will find someone, anyone, and give him or her the paper in your pocket. But not Papa. Do you understand? Give the paper to anyone you see, but not Papa. What are you going to do?"
"Give the paper to someone," Mila parroted.
"But not-" Mama prompted.
"Not Papa."
"Good."
Mama put Mila's baby brother on the floor, wrapped up in his blanket which was the only thing he was wearing except his cloth diaper. "Watch him for a minute, Mila."
Mila sat down next to him. She could watch him. She was a good big sister and it was her job to protect her baby brother.
Mama picked up one of her library books and climbed up on the couch. Then she climbed up onto the back of the couch, holding onto the wall for balance. Now she could almost reach the high window.
Mama hit the window with the book. Again, again, harder, harder-
SMASH!
The window shattered. Little pieces flew everywhere.
The baby jerked awake and started crying.
Mama jumped down from the crash and scooped him up to rock him. "Ssh, ssh, mi mariposita, it's all right, hush, hush..."
As the baby began to fall back asleep, Mama looked at Mila. "Were you scared?"
Mila shook her head gravely. She was a big girl. She never, ever cried.
Mama put the baby down again; he started to cry again but instead Mama picked up Mila and climbed up onto the couch again.
"Remember, give the paper to anyone, the first person you see," Mama told her just before pushing her out of the window.
Mila was small enough to fit through the window, but the edges were covered in sharp broken glass that pressed against her arms-
She gasped as she landed on the ground outside. "Mama!" It was bleeding. Her arm was bleeding, all covered in red. It hurt. But she wouldn't cry.
"I'm sorry," Mama said from inside. "Lo siento, lo siento, I know it hurts, I can't do anything about it, lo siento, mi bebé, just go give the paper to someone and it'll get better, all right?"
Mila stared back down at Mama inside the house, clutching her baby brother tight to her chest, her face tight and taut and terrified-
"Just go, Mila!" Mama cried. "Please!"
Mila went.
Outside was loud.
And it was bright.
And there were so many people.
The only people Mila had ever seen were Mama and Papa and her baby brother. Here there were so many more. None of them looked like Mama or Papa. Which one of them was she supposed to give the paper to?
Mila was scared. So she hid, which was what she usually did when she was scared.
She'd walked away from the house into a big place full of shouting people and tables full of things, and she hid under one of them, staring out at all the legs.
One pair of legs walked back and forth and back and forth right next to the table, humming.
Then it stopped humming. "What have we here?"
The person the legs belonged to bent down, and a face peered in at Mila.
The face was darker than Mama's, with lighter eyes and wrinkles. And the hair was all gray.
"Oh, pobre niñita," the old lady said. "Did you get lost? Where's your mamá?"
Mama was at home. Mama had told her to give the paper to a person who wasn't Papa. This lady wasn't Papa.
Mila silently came a little forward and took the paper out of her pocket.
"What's this?" the old lady asked, taking it from Mila's hand. She opened it up.
Her eyes got wider and wider as she read it. She stared down at Mila, then back at the paper, then looked wildly around.
"Isabela!" she shouted suddenly. "Isabela Madrigal!"
For a second Mila almost thought it was Mama who had come into the stall. But it wasn't. This lady was taller, and prettier, and happier. But she still looked a lot like Mama.
"What happened?" she asked the old lady. "What is it?"
"I found this little girl hiding under my table here. She had this." The old lady gave the lady who looked like Mama the paper.
The lady who looked like Mama read it. Her face drained of color. She stared at Mila too.
Then she snatched up Mila and ran.
Mila was big, far too big to be carried. But this lady had just grabbed her and was running with her, through all the people, past all the interesting things Mila wished she could look at, shouting "Out of my way! Move!"
It was too loud. Mila scrunched her eyes shut tight and put her hands over her ears.
"Mama! Papa! Abuela!" the lady carrying her shrieked, and Mila opened her eyes to see the lady running into a big house, even bigger than the ones in the pictures in the library books for Mila, down a bright hallway, and into a kitchen.
"Mama! Papa! Abuela!" she shouted again, putting Mila down on the floor.
"Mija, what's wrong?" a new lady who also looked like Mama but with some gray in her hair asked, and that was funny, because she was talking to the lady who had carried her hair, but mija was what Mama called Mila sometimes. If mija was Mila, how could she be talking to someone else who wasn't Mila?
"Get - everyone-" the lady who had carried Mila here gasped, hands on her knees. "Everyone - here - now-"
Everyone was already coming, because they'd all heard her shout. Lots more people crowded into the kitchen, so Mila hid under the table.
"Isabela, what's wrong?" someone asked.
The lady who had brought her hair - Isabela - dragged Mila out from under the table. "Senora Castillo found this girl hiding under the table in her market stall. She gave this paper to her."
Isabela opened the paper, cleared her throat, and read:
"This is Mirabel Madrigal. I am locked inside Rafael Gonzalez's house. I have been trapped here for several years. This girl is my-" Here Isabela stuttered. "-my daughter. Please bring her and this note to my family and rescue me."
"Mi Dios," somebody said, but besides for that, there was silence.
"Mija," the lady with some gray in her hair sobbed, and ran out the door. Everyone else ran after her shouting, and suddenly there was no one left in the kitchen but Mila and an old woman and a boy.
"You stay here, Antonio," the old woman snapped as the boy tried to follow everyone else. "Wait for them."
"But Abuela!" he complained. "I wanna see Mirabel!"
Mirabel. That was Mama's name. Did these people know Mama?
"You can see her when they bring her back," Abuela ordered. "It might be dangerous." She stared into the distance for a moment.
Then she bent down slightly in front of Mirabel. "Hello, niñita," she said. "I am your abuela. What is your name?"
"Mirabel is her mother?" Antonio came around the table and sat down next to her. "Hello! My name is Antonio! I'm your cousin!" Turning to Abuela, he asked, "So Mirabel ran away to get married? So why is she locked inside somebody's house?"
"She didn't, Antonio," Abuela said quietly. "She...She'll explain everything later when we find her, I'm sure."
Satisfied with that explanation, Antonio nodded. "What's your name?" he asked Mila now.
Mila stared, unsure what to say. No one had ever asked her her name before.
"What does your....mama call you?" Abuela tried.
Mila knew the answer to that. "Mariposita," she answered promptly.
They stared at her for a moment, and then they both laughed.
"My mama calls me that too!" Antonio told her. "Hey! So you're not going to be a bisabuela when Dolores has her baby, Abuela! You already are one!"
"Si," Abuela said quietly. She asked Mila, "How old are you?"
Mila knew that, too. Mama had taught her numbers. She said that when she was older she would teach her letters, too. "Tres," she said, holding up three fingers.
"I'm nine," Antonio informed her.
"Three," Abuela whispered. "Mirabel's nineteen...." She trailed off, whispering to herself so quietly that Mila couldn't hear what she was saying. Mila wondered if she was praying. Mama did sometimes, but never when Papa was home.
"Come." Abuela took a deep breath. "Let us go - ay, little girl, you hurt your arm?"
Mila looked at her arm. It wasn't hurting nearly as bad as it had when she'd first cut it. It wasn't even bleeding anymore. And she still hadn't cried. Mama would be very proud of her.
Abuela went and found something called a "bandage" that she wrapped around Mila's arm while Antonio kept asking her what had happened to it. Then she sat Mila up on a chair and gave her food to eat. Most of it was strange to her, but Abuela told her she was allowed to eat as much of it as she wanted, looking worried. Then she picked up Mila and carried her outside, Antonio following.
Mila was sleepy now. She had only just met Abuela and Antonio, but she felt safe enough to snuggle into Abuela's shoulder and drift off to sleep as they waited outside the house. There was a warm safe feeling they had about them, that Mama had a little of and Papa never did.
She drifted off to sleep, Abuela humming the same song to her that Mama sang to Mila and her baby brother.
Since Mila was sleeping, and so young besides, she did not remember the rest of the family coming back, triumphant, with her Mama in their center. She did not remember the house glowing the second Mama stepped foot on the threshold. She did not remember the family crowding around her and her baby brother.
She remembered waking up briefly as Mama carried her to her own Mama's room, and her Mama telling her, "You saved us, Mila. You were so brave. Thank you."