Ayala had wanted to tell her. And had planned to after they'd finished eating their meal at Ernesto's house. But then Munoz and his goons showed up. The rest is history. But still, Ayala hoped to live to tell her about it.
There were similarities and differences, both in the circumstances of their childhood, and how each handled fallout. Both lost a parent at a tender age. Both marred by the wounds of their experiences.
Ayala couldn't remember a time when he didn't hate the sound of rushing water, but he still had one photograph, warped and faded with time that depicted a young Ayala at, age ten. It had been taken by his uncle who was excited to use a camera he had just bought. He had the photograph tucked in a shoebox with other old memories collecting dust. But no other memories collected were as important as the one in that picture. Because it was taken the day his mother died, not one hour before her death.
Ayala's father had always wanted to take them to the Rio Grande but getting from Nogales to the eastern side of the country without a car would take them a lifetime. He never figured it would happen, but a month before his eleventh birthday and to his family's surprise, his father got them there. His uncle married into money, and to show it off to the family, offered to take them in his new car.
Ayala's mother was sweet and kind, everything a mother should be. He had no bad memories from his childhood. He lived in a cluster of homes on the western side of Nogales, away from all the riffraff of downtown. They didn't have much. But nobody did and so it didn't seem to matter as much. Crime was minimal there, and aside from struggling to keep a chin above poverty, Ayala's family could be described in one simple word: happy.
His father wanted to take the family to a section of the river that was calm. His uncle, being one to live a bit more on the edge, and also the person driving, had opted for a bend in the river called The Devil's Hand because of the twisted shape of the enormous boulder jutting out from the riverbank.
The entire way to the river Ayala's uncle went on and on about The Devil's Hand. He said the boulder pinched the river tight. The following bend created a brief, intense section of rapids. His uncle thought it would be a great family photo.
He tested the camera, using Ayala as his first subject. The first of two photos taken that day was now tucked away in a shoebox buried in his bedroom closet. He'd thought about throwing it away, but each time he held it in his hand, he couldn't bring himself to do it.
After his uncle tested the camera and was satisfied he understood its function, he called the family together. He placed them between the enormous Devil's Knuckle and a smaller, but still quite large boulder on the other side. The gap between was littered with rocks of all shapes and sizes but was wide enough for Ayala, his parents, his new aunt-by-marriage, and his uncle, who'd managed to figure out how to set a timer on the camera and actually be in the picture himself.
Ayala remembered, as a young boy seeing his uncle dashing toward them along the slippery rocks, how truly amazing the technology was that allowed this moment to occur. The second picture taken that day did not capture Ayala's happy family in a neat row bookended by enormous boulders on each side. His father had whispered in his ear, telling him how much the boulders looked like the ones he envisioned in the childhood story, the one with the troll. Ayala also remembered the pained expression streaking across his father's face as he spoke the words. He had apologized later in life, and thankfully before his passing, to his father for not seeing what his father saw that day. His answer had been simply stated. We see what we need to see, when we need to see it. Ayala’s apology and his father’s forgiveness washed away the guilt of it, his father's voice still resonating its calming tones even these many years later.
What had been captured by the second photograph had, in fact, been the opposite of what the five family members had envisioned on the bank of the raging Rio Grande. Ayala's uncle lost his footing on a wet rock while sprinting to beat the ten-seconds he had to close the distance between the camera and the assembled group.
Traction-less loafers and wet rocks proved a deadly combination. His uncle's right foot shot out behind him just as he neared his family. Out of an instinctual counter move, Ayala's uncle shot out his left arm. Ayala's mother, who was beside him and holding his hand, took the unintentional left hook delivered by his uncle.
To this day, he wakes sometimes to the sensation of his mother's hand in his. He cherishes those fleeting moments because of the moment that created it.
Ayala's mother fell back, striking her head on a knot of stone protruding out of the giant boulder. She fell into the river. Ayala remembers the splash and rush that followed. Because he too was swallowed up into the tempestuous whitewater. His mother's grip had brought him on a similar path, but being much shorter, he missed the jutting rock that had rendered his mother unconscious.
He rode atop her lifeless body for a moment before the churn of the water upended him and separated him from his mother. He held onto her hand, but the grip of her fingers faded until they were no more. Unable to keep hold, his mother slipped away. Ayala never saw her again except for when they’d buried her after finding her body twenty-seven miles downriver from the small town of San Antonio del Bravo.
The violent water swallowed him only to spit him back out a second later. The air turned to cold froth and Ayala choked it down. Without knowing which way was up or down, and with a lungful of water, Miguel Ayala, boy of ten, had resigned himself to his impending death. As darkness edged its way into his periphery and as the Rio Grande roared, Ayala felt a tugging. It was distant at first. Becoming clearer as he broke the surface of the water again, but this time to the panicked eyes of his father who had jumped in to save him.
His father, a kind, thoughtful man became a man of action that day. He jumped in fully clothed to save them. He later told Ayala that he had tried to save his mother too. But she was too far downriver and was bleeding badly from the head. The water damaged his father's watch, grinding its gears to a halt the moment he jumped in. His father never got it fixed and chose to wear it every day as a reminder of what happened.
Ayala now wore that watch. Ayala found his uncle's old camera many years later and with it discovered the second photograph taken that day. And to this day, he kept it tucked inside his left breast pocket, believing the brightness of his gaudy Hawaiian shirts helped brighten the dark memory of the photo.
He wanted to share these things with Hatch and hoped someday to have that opportunity. But first, he had to survive the next few minutes. The crashing wave of her exhale receded, followed by a word of encouragement. "You can do this, Miguel." The rest was up to him.
He got to the door, another access pad with a red light just above the height of the doorknob and off to the right.
"Same as before," Hatch said in his ear. And same as before, the key card granted him access. He hesitated. Hatch's voice sounded in his ear. "You can do this, Miguel. Remember when you entered that house of a known drug dealer with members of the Mexican Special Forces? You faced fear then, and you can face it now."
Ayala took Hatch's words in stride as he stepped inside. Ahead of him, three steps led up to a landing where two armed security personnel stood, wearing dark black uniforms. They both had guns but kept them holstered on their waists. Each bore a tired expression.