Eggs, Flies, and Faith

Lucca fell off a chair at lunch. Leifer’s cousin grabbed an egg and passed it over him. Holding the egg, still in its shell, she gently dragged it across his head, down both arms, over his belly, and along his legs. It soothed him. “Tranquilo,” she said. I think it took his mind off the fall. When she was finished, she cracked the egg and threw the yolk into the creek, transferring the bad energy from Lucca’s body into the water.

When Leif and Enzo were babies, if they had a rough night, Leifer would tell me something was scaring them. The next day, he’d take an egg from the fridge, let it come to room temperature, and then pass it over them before bed. He’d crack the shell and discard the yolk into a glass of water, believing it carried away whatever had unsettled them.

When the boys have a sore throat, Leifer tells me it’s from drinking cold water. I now understand this is a deeply held belief here at the base of the Huascarán mountains. I don’t question it—these traditions have kept generations alive in this place. The temperature swings throughout the day can be dramatic, and there’s no thermostat to soften the extremes. Here, all food and drinks are hot—not lukewarm and definitely not cold. If there’s no steam rising, it’s not fit to consume.

Nets are used to keep flies out, but we don’t have one at the entrance to our bedroom, and we’re not disciplined about closing the door. As a result, flies often take over the room. Leifer is at war with them. One night, I walked in to find the entire room filled with smoke. He had grabbed a small metal bucket, placed eucalyptus leaves and branches inside, and lit them on fire. He let it burn for about 20 minutes, hoping to drive the flies out. But they didn’t budge. If anything, it seemed to rally them. That night, we lay in bed, wondering if the boys would suffer from smoke inhalation. The burnt smell was unbearable, so we threw the windows open, but the flies remained unbothered.

The water has been coming and going for the past few days. When it’s on, we all rush to do the dishes, start the laundry, fill buckets, and flush toilets—you never know when it will disappear again. The day’s rhythm revolves around when the water returns. Sometimes, I lather my hands with soap, turn on the faucet, and realize we don’t have water. I have to walk outside to rinse off with water in one of our stored buckets. Every night, Leifer makes sure the buckets are out to catch the rain.

Here, you don’t have everything at all times, so when you do, you share. We buy a single liter of Coke at a time or a small package of eight Oreos—just enough for everyone to have one. There is no Costco here. Shopping is an adventure, with small stores scattered around, each selling different things. There’s no such thing as a one-stop shop, or a complete convenience store.

Enzo seems less secure around food, clinging to certain snacks like a security blanket—animal crackers and Cheetos. Leifer wants him to eat during meal times, but his whole body resists. It’s as if he can only handle so much change at once, cautiously navigating his way through this new life. While I process everything through writing, he processes it through careful food choices. When you’re as little as he is, you don’t have much control over your world, but you can control what you eat. He whined last night about being hungry. He tells me often that he’s hungry, yet food is always available to him. “If you were really hungry, you would have eaten dinner,” I tell him, trying to rationalize his behavior—or maybe just justify our own decision to be firmer with him. He cannot live on animal crackers and the occasional banana, I worry. This morning, Tía had sent us hot dogs, so I fried one up for him before school. He ate it happily—after already having Cheerios and eggs.

If we push through the discomfort, do we reach the other side? Or do we just get used to it? Every night, we go to sleep itchy. Every morning, we wake up itchy. I keep finding new bites, even in places covered by my clothes. The boys’ little bodies are covered in scabs and scratches from scratching at their bites. This morning, Lucca got hold of the cortisone cream. Now we can’t find it.

I worry about speaking out against a corrupt immigration system. I will always have my U.S. citizenship, but what repercussions could my husband face? In our application, I am described as a helpless, dependent mother who would crumble without her deported husband. Must I play that role in daily life to make our case seem genuine? I can’t—for the sake of my children. We cannot afford to crumble. What would my children learn from that?

I have to prepare myself for the possibility that my husband will be taken from us again. This is a test of our grit. But I also have to perform—act as if I am a fragile flower, wilting under the weight of this hardship—so that we may return home whole. If we don’t beg, plead, and admit we are nothing without the mercy of the U.S. government, we may never see the resolution we’re hoping for. Our voices get lost among the poor and those millions facing the same uncertainty. We don’t have lots of money, and without money, we have no power. The court of public opinion does not side with us.

I cling to the stories of my brothers-in-law, who all made it to the other side. It must be possible for us too, right?

An old friend told me adulthood wasn’t what she thought it would be. I could relate. We both believed that one day, we’d “make it” and our worries would melt away. How naïve. Where did that idea even come from?

And yet, I know I will look back on this time with fondness. The laughs, the hugs, the meals shared with Leifer’s family—those will prevail above all else. We were desperate for human connection and a safe harbor when we arrived, and we found it here. There is magic in this place, but you have to be all in. Resistance is futile—or at least, it won’t bring you any closer to peace. Panda’s words echo in my mind.