Border Lines

From the back of the truck I could hear the whistle of a distant train and smell fresh laid asphalt from nearby. “Where am I?” I said. “What am I doing here?” The dark silence was pierced by a deep voice inside the cab. “Shut up! Don’t say a word,” the voice said. This only served to startle me more than being alone in the darkness of the bed of the truck. The truck began to move slowly and then I heard the brakes grind to a halt. Overhead lights were blinding me as I heard a second voice, “What are your intentions?” The first voice seemed hesitant in his response, “Just a little vacation in this fine country.” “Have you anything to declare prior to crossing the border?” “No, Sir,” the first voice was a bit quicker in his second response. “What’s in the back of the truck?” the second voice said. “Just my luggage and safety,” my kidnapper responded. “Move on and enjoy your visit.” I felt the truck begin to inch forward and I saw the voice that was asking the questions. He was a tall person, in uniform. I had already gathered that we were either at the border of Mexico or Canada I wasn’t sure, judging from the looks of the border agent we were headed to Canada. Waiting a few minutes I finally spoke up, “Where are you taking me?” “I said, ‘Shut up!’” he responded. “You have no need to worry. I’m here to take care of you, to love you, and to help you escape that boring life you lead.” The truck was accelerating now and I tried to readjust myself so that the bumps didn’t hurt my side quite so much. The ropes which held my arms and legs hog-tied only tightened as I moved. Confusion was traveling through my mind. Why didn’t the border agent stop this mad man? He looked right at me. Why didn’t he search the back of the truck? The truck seemed to leave the smooth asphalt and was now traversing through bumpy roads. My guess is that we are on a dirt road. Every time he hit a bump my head jumped from the bed of the truck and struck it again. I could feel the tenderness of lumps forming on my scalp. I tried to lift my head to avoid the blows, but I seemed too weak to do much more than sleep. Finally the truck came to a halt and the man came around to the back of the truck. As he opened the cap of the truck he seemed to take on a gentler tone, “Come on, Sarah, we are home now.” “But, I’m not Sarah, my name is Jessica,” I said still feeling confused. “From now on you are Sarah. You can’t tell anyone your old name. You will be Sarah. Come now, the children have been waiting for their Mama for a long time.” “Children? Whoa, wait, you want me to be a mother? I don’t have children of my own and there happens to be a reason for that!” I said with the tiniest bit of confidence. “Just shut up and come on,” he said as he grabbed my arm and shoved me onto the porch of a small cabin. Kicking open the front door he hollered, “Hey, kids, Mama and I are home now.” Four children sat round a small fireplace, they looked at me with large, sad eyes when the biggest of the four children began to speak in another language. “Père, ce n'est pas la mère! Vous ne pouvez pas confondre les enfants comme ça!” “Hush, Rebekah, this is your Mother and you will love her as you love yourself!” “No,” Rebekah shouted not taking the time to speak in French, “you took our real Mama away, I will love no one as much as I loved her.” “Child, you are only twelve, you don’t know what the real world is like, and you can’t know who your real Mama is. I am your father; I will tell you who to love. Hush now, you are setting a bad example for your siblings.” Rebekah offered one final huff of exasperation before heading back to the fireplace where she kept a close eye on me as she took care of her siblings. And thus my life begins as Sarah Harris. I know nothing of myself. I’m just shattered glass upon an old country road somewhere in Canada.