Free After Peaches by Michelle Mulder

the insects away, but the chemical got into his lungs and onto his skin. Maybe he didn’t have a good mask and gloves, or a place to wash after spraying the plants. The farmer should have provided all those things. That’s the law, but some people don’t pay attention to the law.”
    I translated all this, and my parents and José asked me questions in Spanish. I turned those questions into English for the doctor. “Will he be able to go back to work soon? How long will he have to stay in the hospital?”
    â€œWe want to watch him for a few hours more,” said the doctor, “and then you can take him home. He shouldn’t go back to work for a week or so though, and he certainly shouldn’t do any more spraying.”
    I froze. The patrón wasn’t going to let José take a week off work at the height of cherry season. Could I pretend that the doctor hadn’t said anything? Maybe the adults wouldn’t notice?
    The doctor, Papá, Mamá and José all looked back at me, waiting. I shifted from foot to foot and held my notebook tighter, and when I spoke, José scrunched up his eyes like I did sometimes when I was trying not to cry.

    â€œPack your things,” the patrón said to José when we arrived back at the farm. He was standing with his arms folded across his chest, like he was holding himself back from exploding. “I can’t believe you dared show up here again. My phone has been ringing off the hook. What on earth did you tell them at the hospital? That I’m some mass murderer or something?” He spat on the ground and glared at José. “Farming’s tough enough without workers like you. I’ve booked your ticket back to Mexico. You leave immediately.”
    I didn’t know how much to translate, or how to tell them the bad news. “José,” I whispered, while the patrón shouted about unreliable workers and people ruining his good name. “He’s not making any sense. He says you have to go back to Mexico right now . Can’t you stay a few days until you’re feeling better?”
    I expected José to look shocked or angry. Instead he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He said nothing.
    The patrón was shouting and waving his arms around, his face red as an overripe strawberry. He no longer looked like Santa Claus.“They don’t even listen to me when I’m talking to them!” he bellowed. “Out! Now! You have fifteen minutes to get your things, and then I never want to see you again. Give your name at the bus station, head to Vancouver, get off at the airport and leave this country. You’re finished here…you.”
    I wondered if he even knew José’s name.
    The farmer stormed off, and the other adults turned to me. I translated quickly without looking anyone in the eye, and when I finished, we were all quiet. My parents looked at each other. Then Mamá hugged me tight, and my father talked to José in whispers. José shook his head. Papá frowned and whispered something else, but José crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head again.
    Everything happened quickly after that. We jumped into the car and sped down the gravel road to the little building at the back of the orchard. José gathered his things as fast as he could. The other workers were already picking cherries, and we didn’t have time to say good-bye.
    The drive to the bus station was a silent one. And that silence felt all wrong. I had too many questions, and we weren’t going to see José again for a long, long time. Maybe never. So why did Mamá put a finger to her lips and place a hand on my knee when I tried to talk? Why did no one speak?

CHAPTER 12
The Story
    After all the silence in the car, the good-bye at the bus station was a gush of thank-yous and promises. José said he wasn’t very good with pen and paper, but Analía would write us letters, and