Without telling anyone, the missionary took a picture of the little girl when she wasn’t looking and posted it on all her social media pages.
“Are there any kind souls that would like to sponsor this little girl from a small village in the jungle, tens of hundreds of miles away from civilization? She doesn’t speak, and what the villagers call her we can’t pronounce, so you can name her whatever you want. #savingthepeople #convertdonthurt.” The picture of the little girl, with hair the color of bark, was posted.
Within minutes, a couple reached out to the missionary and arranged to support the little girl at $100 a month. So began, the missionary sending $20 worth of items to the little girl and affording to get her nails done every other week—a finder’s fee.
The little girl began to receive barrettes in the shape of comets, a comb to use in the shower she didn’t have, and fuzzy slippers shaped as bananas. Once she got a lipstick in Ruche de la Crème. She had never seen lipstick before and used it to draw a flower on her and the other little kids’ hands. Soon her home, where she stayed with the elders, was filling up with items, that only took up space.
When the missionary returned for her second trip, she spotted the little girl laughing with the elder with wrinkles like tree rings. They sat under an enormous tree that protected them.
“Hey there, little girl,” the missionary said, setting her bookbag down in front of them.
They just stared at her.
She heard that the village didn’t want to learn to speak English. They just kept talking their language that was so ancient dust came out of their mouths.
“I’m here to give you good news. I did something special for you. Tomorrow, you’ll be going to a new home. A real home,” she smiled and opened her bookbag, took out the Bible with the white stitching and opened it. There under the cover was a picture of the couple.
The little girl glanced at the elder. The elder glared at the picture being careful not to touch it. The tree leaned further in.
“Your new parents. See?” The missionary thought this would make the girl happy. She was alone in the village with a dead mother buried who knows where.
The picture was sweating. Tiny bubbles on their faces, making the woman’s right eye appear three times bigger than the left. Their light hair was shiny like the windows of the house they stood in front of.
“Well, I’ll leave this here with you. You can bring it with you when you leave with them tomorrow.” The missionary zipped up her bookbag and stood. “I know you don’t understand me. But this is the best thing that could’ve happened to you.”
*
The next morning, the couple arrived in all white. The woman had put her hair back with a hair tie the color of blood. The man’s sandals were the color of wild boars.
They surveyed all the little kids that stopped to observe them as they walked through the village. The kids staring at the man’s belt buckle that reflected the green of the jungle.
The missionary led them. Hurrying as though to catch a train. The couple locked arms and treaded carefully not to trip over any of the rocks in the dirt. The woman was happy to see that most of the women had their breasts covered.
*
“There she is!” The girl again was next to the elder under the same tree, but this time they were standing, and the girl was behind and off to the side of her.
When the couple noticed the little girl, the woman exhaled so deeply that the leaves at her feet swirled in pygmy twister.
She wanted to run to her, but a dog stopped and stood in front of them tilting his head side-to-side, scanning them both. He looked nothing like their dog at home, named after the husband’s Great Uncle, who was a direct descendent of James Buchanan.
They tried to walk around the dog, but he followed them as if they were in a dance. The missionary turned to them, “C’mon on!” Again, they tried to go around the dog. Again, he wouldn’t let them pass. That’s when the woman realized he was blind. White crystals just above his long snout.
“Stupid dog,” the husband said. “Just go get her and bring her to us!” he waved ahead to the missionary, but the missionary was stopped by hundreds of bullet ants eclipsing the ground. She couldn’t step over them, but when she tried to step around, they moved with her. Another dance. “I don’t know what’s going on, but bring me my daughter,” the woman said.
The trees, and plants, the beetles, and monkeys became still. The elder began to walk. Each step so light, she floated above the ground. She stopped on the other side of the ants, who all turned to her.
The woman let go of her husband and pointed to herself, “I can give her a better life. She can’t be left to live here.”
The elder studied her. Her cheeks soft and stretched. Her hair like strands of gray vines.
She shook her head.
“I am her mother,” said the elder.
“I am her mother,” said the medicine woman. “I am her mother,” said yet another.
“I am her mother,” from each blade of grass. “I am her mother,” from the birds in flight.
“I am her mother,” from the millions of insects sustaining life.
“I thought you all couldn’t understand,” the missionary said.
The little girl stepped from under the tree, stood next to the elder and embraced her hand. The cocoon of every standing woman enveloping her. The trees and the animals watching. The sun and moon as witnesses.
The dirt under her feet calming. The wind twisting around her. The elder’s hand warm in hers. The girl turned to the missionary and then the couple.
“I am home.”
Cyn Vargas tells stories that linger long after the last page. Her debut, On The Way, was celebrated as one of Book Scrolling’s Best Short Story Collections of All Time, earning rave reviews from Shelf Awareness and the Chicago Book Review. Her latest novel, Nothing’s Ever The Same, snagged a starred review from Booklist, calling it a “charming debut coming-of-age novel.” Cyn’s writing pops up in lit mags like Split Lip and Hypertext, where she also serves on the Board of Directors. An award-winning instructor, she was named Stories Matter Foundation’s 2022 Instructor of the Year. With an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia College Chicago and roots in El Salvador and Guatemala, Cyn blends her vibrant heritage into every story she tells. www.cynvargas.com