On the morning of November 14, the day she was kidnapped, Linda Fuentes opened the door to my house and walked into the kitchen, where my family was having breakfast. As usual, I wasn’t ready. Linda and I had an ongoing argument: She said I was always late, and I said she got to my house early to bask in the adoration of my younger brother, Emiliano. But we had been best friends for fourteen years, so we could forgive each other anything. I heard her laughing and chatting with my mother and Emiliano until I was ready to go.
Our routine had been the same every morning for the past two years. We walked the six blocks from my house to Boulevard Pablo II, where we caught a bus that would take us to the Cathedral. From there I would catch another bus to the offices of this newspaper, and Linda walked three blocks to her job at a shoe store on Francisco Villa Avenue. Linda had dropped out of school and taken the job at the shoe store when her father was paralyzed in a construction accident. Her salary, along with a small income that her mother made from sewing, supported her parents and two younger sisters.
Linda always waited with me until my bus arrived. We stayed together as much as possible, partly because most abductions of women in Juárez occur downtown, and partly as protection against the comments of men driving or walking by. Every time a man said something offensive, Linda and I would whisper “puchi” to each other and laugh. I found an empty bus seat that morning—a small miracle—and when I looked out the window, I saw Linda jump up and down in excitement over my good luck. As the bus pulled away, she stuck her tongue out at me.
That was the last time I saw my best friend.
I worked all day at this newspaper. At seven p.m. I got a phone call from Linda’s mother. I knew as soon as I heard Mrs. Fuentes’s shaky voice that something terrible had happened. Linda got off work at four, and she had never been home later than six. If you are a daughter or a sister or a wife in Juárez, the one thing you always do if you are going to be late is call. And if your friend is one hour late and she hasn’t called home, your heart begins to break.
Mrs. Fuentes was hoping against hope that Linda and I had decided to go to the movies after I finished work. She knew we would never do that without calling our families first, but when you are worried, you grasp at straws. Mrs. Fuentes had already called the shoe store where Linda worked, and the owner told her that Linda left a few minutes after four that afternoon. She walked toward the bus station with plenty of time to catch the 4:30 bus that would get her home by six at the latest. Linda usually left with another employee from the store, but that day, she traveled those three blocks alone.
What do you do? Where do you go when your best friend has disappeared, and you know deep inside that the worst has happened? You pray for a miracle, but you act like a detective. I called the bus company and was assured that there were no accidents or other unusual occurrences on Linda’s route. When I got home, I asked a neighbor with a car to drive me downtown on the same streets the bus takes. We parked the car near the Cathedral and walked the blocks that Linda walked every day to her job. We showed Linda’s picture to store owners, to bus drivers, to street vendors. We drove to municipal police headquarters and were told that they had no jurisdiction to investigate missing girls. Later that night, I took Mrs. Fuentes to the State Police, and we were told to go home and wait. “Your daughter’s probably having a drink with a boy,” the officer in charge said, a smirk on his face. We drove to the General Hospital. She wasn’t there. A kind nurse checked with the other hospitals. Nothing.
That night, everyone who knew Linda gathered at her house. Everyone offered Linda’s parents and her sisters hope. We tried to be positive, but we couldn’t shake off what we knew: In ninety percent of Juárez’s missing-girl cases, their bodies are found a month or two later. We agreed to make flyers with Linda’s picture and personal details and decided where to post them. We made a list of all the government authorities, all the groups of mothers of missing daughters who we would contact. We went on Facebook and Twitter and asked for help. Mrs. Fuentes finally cried herself to sleep around six that morning.
It has been almost two months since Linda disappeared. Every week I accompany Mrs. Fuentes to the State Police headquarters and we inquire about Linda. We know what the answer to our questions will be, but we want to keep putting pressure on the police. We want them to know that someone cares. Mr. and Mrs. Fuentes have been called twice to the forensic offices to identify pieces of clothing found on the bodies of young women. I have seen their relief when the clothing is not Linda’s, and then, immediately, the return of the restless, gnawing grief that comes from not knowing what happened to your daughter.
I wake up each morning thinking that I hear Linda’s laughter in the kitchen. When I step into the bus that took us downtown every morning, I look for two seats. Sometimes I think I see her waiting for me with the ice-cream cones we treated ourselves with at the end of the day. But those brief moments of hope quickly disappear, and I feel even more alone, with a sense of her absence so real I can almost touch it.
Maybe in other cities in the world, a young woman can be one hour late and it isn’t a cause for worry. In Juárez, that is simply not possible. It is true that the number of Desaparecidas has greatly diminished over the years, so the number of killings and disappearances is now, as our public officials like to tell us, “comparable to other cities of similar size.” By “comparable” they mean, for example, that the number of disappearances last year was only sixty-four. And by November, when Linda disappeared, there had been only forty-six reported cases of missing girls.
But optimism at the “normal” number of disappearances will never comfort a best friend’s grief. The emptiness I feel can’t be filled with comparisons to other cities or with statistics. Linda, the friend who entered my house every morning without knocking, is missing. And the only way to lessen the pain is to look for her. To keep looking for her for as long as we promised our friendship would last.
I will keep looking for you, my dear friend, forever and ever.
Part I
Mexico
“You need to give up on the missing girls,” Felipe says.
Sara isn’t sure she heard him correctly. Although Felipe’s tone is not harsh, the index finger he points at her makes his words sound like a reprimand. He’s sitting behind his desk, covered in a disordered mess of envelopes and paper. Sara looks at her editor, Juana, who stands up and closes the glass door to the office.
“Look, Sara,” Felipe continues when Juana sits down. “You’ve done a great job with your column, but now it’s time to focus on the good stuff. This is not 2010, when twenty girls went missing every month. Juárez is prospering. Tourists are coming back to the shops, nightclubs are hopping again, Honeywell just opened a new assembly plant. We need to get on board and contribute to creating a positive image. Why don’t you write a weekly column on the new schools opening? The slums getting cleaned up?”
Sara feels Juana’s hand on her arm. Ever since her article on Linda’s disappearance, she’s written a weekly profile of one of the hundreds of girls who have gone missing. That column has been her fight and her comfort, the fulfillment of the promise she made to Linda to never stop looking for her. It cannot be taken away. Juana has always been Sara’s close friend and staunchest advocate, and her touch gives her strength.