Читать книгу Mother Mother - Jessica O'Dwyer - Страница 12

FIVE

SAN FRANCISCO AND GUATEMALA

NOVEMBER 2002—ONE MONTH BEFORE THE SHUTDOWN

Candidates for the Clay directorship marched through the gallery like a black-clad parade. Curators from Kansas City, Fort Wayne, and Houston; assistant directors from Portland, Minneapolis, and Detroit. Julie recognized some from profiles in ArtNews, Art Forum, and the New York Times, but others were unknown, untested associates on her level, yearning to cross the yawning professional divide from mid-management to stratosphere. As they filed in, she lurked behind a sculpture or installation to scope them out, creative types like her but from someplace else and therefore more desirable: one sporting green-tinged bangs, another exotic leather oxfords, a third an emaciated body—her self-deprivation an implied statement of purpose.

Never before had Julie allowed herself to dream so big, but once she’d opened her mind to the idea of yes, she was seized by desire. She reminded herself she was worthy, deserving, and more than competent. She wrote affirmations on sticky notes and stuck them beside her computer, repeating the phrases, absorbing them into her subconscious. Wonderful things unfold before me. Everything works out for my highest good. I am enough.

She hoped Talbot might drop a hint about her chances, but he didn’t offer a morsel. He seemed to be avoiding her and everyone else, coming in late and going home early, leaving his office vacant for board members to conduct interviews. Was she even in the running? She was afraid to ask. Arranging their travel plans to Guatemala distracted her. Kate had said they needed to visit Juan right after DNA and Kate knew the system. “The Guatemalan government keeps track of who visits and who doesn’t,” she insisted. Julie was able to book two seats on a red-eye the Saturday before Thanksgiving, the last available anywhere because of the busy holiday.

The second week in November, Julie was at her desk when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to behold the face of Talbot’s assistant Doni.

“There’s a small, intimate dinner party at Talbot’s Sunday evening. The board president and his wife and two major donors. You’re invited.”

“Is it possible to reschedule? We leave for Guatemala Saturday.”

Doni raised her eyebrows. “Let me know by end of day today,” she said, withdrawing to return to the administrative offices.

Talbot, the board president, major donors. These important people wouldn’t be able to reschedule because the date was inconvenient. These important people were busy. Julie and Mark could go to Guatemala another time. Deal with it.

Pushing back her desk chair, she grabbed her yellow legal tablet and paper calendar and hurried to the conference room, carefully closing the door, not bothering to move to the table to sit down. She dialed Kate and explained her dilemma. “Are you out of your mind?” Kate asked.

“We’d fly first week of December,” Julie said. “Before the Christmas crush.”

“What’s to say they don’t jerk you around then? You reschedule and some other meeting comes up. You’ve worked there how long?”

“Twelve years.”

“And they don’t know what you can do by now?”

Julie didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure they did.

“If you want to risk losing Juan, be my guest,” Kate said.

Julie was dumbstruck. Of course, she didn’t want to risk losing Juan. How could Kate even say that? She didn’t want to sabotage the directorship, either.

“Listen, Julie. If the job is meant for you, you’ll get it.”

“Can’t the same be said for Juan? We’ll get him if we’re supposed to?”

Kate laughed cynically. “We’re talking about Guatemala. There are no guarantees.”

After hanging up, Julie paced the conference room floor for only a minute before dialing Mark’s number. In a rush, she told him about the invitation and Kate’s response. “We’re going,” he said without hesitation. “Screw the museum.”

“Really? Because I want to. Juan needs us.”

“The flights are booked. Period.”

The Saturday before Thanksgiving, they flew the red-eye to La Aurora Airport, Guatemala City as planned. Julie worried she hadn’t groveled enough in her apologetic email to the board president and his wife, but Mark waved away her fears. Tired from late nights over the microscope, he was fading as they boarded the aircraft and snoring before the end of the safety presentation.

Julie couldn’t sleep. In less than twelve hours, she’d meet her son. In less than twelve hours, she’d get to hold him in her arms and be his mother. They’d spent months pushing toward this moment, years if counting the fertility treatments. She could barely contain her excitement.

Mark, on the other hand? Julie almost laughed to see his head falling forward while he kept jerking it up, not waking. The poor man. She extricated one of the airline blankets from its plastic bag and placed it in a roll around his neck for support.

She opened the book she’d brought about Guatemalan politics. It focused on the history of an American corporate giant, United Fruit, in Guatemala, and the legacy of President Jacobo Arbenz in the 1950s. United Fruit exported bananas and seized acres of land to grow them. The socially progressive Arbenz planned to take back fallow land owned and unused by United Fruit and give it to landless Mayan peasants. Arbenz also threatened to raise United Fruit’s taxes, slashing company profits. The Eisenhower White House smelled communism. In 1954, Arbenz was deposed in a military coup orchestrated by Guatemalan conservatives and the CIA.

A period photo showed the disgraced former president stripped to white boxer shorts and presented to international photographers before being exiled from the country. A reign of dictators followed, with a policy called scorched earth. Civil war raged between the Guatemalan army and guerrillas for thirty-six years. Two hundred thousand people were killed: innocent farmers, women, children. Six hundred villages were destroyed. Peace Accords finally were signed in 1996.

There was so much to take in. Too much. Julie closed her book as a flight attendant moved down the aisle selling refreshments. Julie swiped her credit card and purchased tapas. Tearing open a bag of crackers, she dipped into a wedge of packaged cheese and munched on black olives. She couldn’t believe the power a private corporation was able to wield over Guatemala. United Fruit’s corporate greed led to political decisions by the United States that damaged Guatemala irrevocably. The civil war ended, but the country continued to struggle with its legacy. At that time, Guatemala had one of the highest murder rates in the world, consistently among the top five, and one of the highest rates of femicide, also among the top five, with women crushed into submission by abusive systems and partners. Drug traffickers and gangs ruled urban neighborhoods as well as remote areas, where they controlled roadways and airstrips. Impunity was the rule, not the exception. Crimes rarely were prosecuted.

Julie stuffed the snack packaging into the box and pushed up her window shade. They were getting closer. Below was a large lake, surrounded by mountains she knew were volcanoes. Guatemala had an impressive number of them. She’d seen numbers ranging from thirty to almost forty. The densest concentration of volcanoes in Central America.

The captain’s voice crackled over the speaker and announced they were beginning their descent into Guatemala City. Mark stretched and yawned. “Catch any sleep?”

She held up the book to show the cover. “Brushing up on my Guatemalan history.”

They’d passed over the lake and trees gave way to low buildings sprawling for miles, condensing into a core of high rises clustered in the city center. The capital was the largest urban area in Central America, home to some two million of Guatemala’s fifteen million inhabitants. Julie pointed her camera out the window, shaking off thoughts of the museum dinner party she was missing. She’d made her decision and needed to live with it.

They followed the crowd through the terminal toward passport control, and although Julie should have been worn out from no sleep, she felt energized. Nearly everyone around her was Guatemalan. Young, old, male, female: these were Juan’s countrymen, his people. She felt pulled toward them and wanted to proclaim their purpose: We’re meeting our son! Everyone! Today’s the day.

Occasionally Julie glimpsed other white faces, heads of light-colored hair—missionaries in scripture-bearing t-shirts, a high school girls’ soccer team—but they felt oddly separate, visitors to the country. Julie and Mark would forever have a connection.

La Aurora Airport was due for an upgrade, shabby and a little cramped, with kiosks to change money and buy phone cards. Julie had been expecting it, especially after spending the past few hours reading about the country’s bleak history. After passing through passport control, they went to the luggage carousel to claim their three enormous suitcases packed with diapers, formula, vitamins, and clothes. Kate had given them a long list of supplies to bring for Juan’s niñera or nanny to use while she cared for Juan. He’d stay with her until the adoption was final.

Outside, the terminal smelled like diesel fuel and gasoline, car exhaust without emission controls. Crowds of people pressed against barricades, with families calling out, private drivers holding signs, and children selling baskets of chewing gum and hacky sacks. Mark spotted the shuttle with the Marriott logo and the driver loaded them in.

“The book said seventy percent of Guatemalans live below the poverty line,” Julie told Mark as the shuttle made its way through the city streets.

Mark looked out the window. “Doesn’t seem too bad,” he said, and it was true. Expensive cars driving on the tree-lined boulevard of the Zona Viva, joggers dressed in chic gear, office towers sheathed in glass. And the hotel itself was magnificent, with a sweeping central staircase and smartly attired staff.

They arrived at eleven; Berta, the niñera assigned to Juan, was due to arrive with him in an hour. The nursery, called an hogar, housed twenty children being adopted by Americans, who paid Kate a monthly fee for food and care. Mark and Julie were allowed to keep the baby for five days after they promised not to leave the hotel with him under any circumstances. “We can’t go to a restaurant?” Julie had asked.

“The food’s safer at the hotel,” Kate said. Besides, Juan wasn’t legally theirs. They shouldn’t take any risks.

While Mark checked in, Julie surveyed the lobby. On every couch was the same tableau: white people cuddling brown babies, flanked with children of varying shades. For a second, she wondered what Guatemalans thought of the scene, but her emotions squashed the thought. She wanted to be there too, cuddling her baby, never letting him go. Soon. Soon. In less than an hour. Juan was three months old now. She didn’t want to miss another minute.

They were so fortunate. In a few weeks, adoptions would close completely. Julie visualized a door slamming and dust flying underneath, the pathway to adoption sealed off.

After freshening up, they commandeered a small mauve couch tucked under the sweeping staircase beside a potted palm tree and kept their eyes on the revolving front door. Taxis drove up, shuttles unloaded, telephones rang, a group of men in dark suits passed. Finally, a middle-aged woman in a blue uniform dress and white apron appeared, holding a bundle of blue blankets.

“That’s them,” Julie exclaimed, recognizing Berta from the photo Kate had sent. Julie stood up. Everything around her evaporated. Berta placed Juan in her arms. Julie was one with her son, their own universe. Finally. She was a mother.

For someone so small, he felt heavy, substantial. Maybe twelve pounds? His hair was black and thick, his eyes wide open with long straight lashes, looking past Julie and Mark beside her, searching for Berta, sitting on a chair. Julie breathed in the smell of a soap she didn’t recognize, touched his smooth forehead. His fingers were curved, nearly transparent, heartbreaking in their perfection. He was breathtakingly gorgeous.

“Is he hungry?” Julie asked in Spanish, sitting beside Berta.

“Always.” Berta handed her a bottle and Julie shifted Juan to one side and pressed it gently into his mouth. He turned his head away and wailed. “Except when I’m feeding him,” Julie said self-consciously.

Mark patted Juan through the blue blanket, then swiped at his own cheek with the back of his hand.

“You’re crying,” Julie said.

“You, too,” he said.

Berta told them Juan’s schedule: naps morning and afternoon, bedtime at seven. He slept through the night in his own crib. He took bottles of regular formula, nothing solid yet. Of the twenty children in the hogar, she added, Juan was the baby most calm and sweet.

Julie and Mark had read horror stories from other Guate Parents about first visits: screaming babies, sleepless nights, miles logged pacing up and down the hotel hallways.

But it turned out Berta was right. Juan was a calm and sweet baby. He slept between them in their king-sized bed, and Julie marveled at the feeling of that warm, solid little being beside her, his quick breath. She was overwhelmed by him, the fact of him, his being her son. When he was awake, she never put him down. He preferred to be carried in the Snugli, close enough that their hearts beat together. Mothering was more physical than Julie had imagined: up and down, in and out, lifting and carrying him. Good thing her arms were strong from shuttling artists’ portfolios, paintings, and framed prints.

They spent their days by the pool, meeting and talking with other waiting adoptive parents whose cases would be grandfathered in after the shutdown. Everybody was on Guate Parents and they recognized one another’s names and stories. “How old is your daughter?” and “You’re the one with three other kiddos,” and “Has anyone met Charla T., MSW, in person?”

They ate sandwiches together and drank lemonade in lounge chairs, cheered when paperwork advanced a step or someone got positive news. They heated infant formula in the restaurant microwave, changed diapers in the lobby restroom, and splashed in the pool. They told their babies their adoption stories, as simply as possible. “You were born in another lady’s tummy. You’re our forever child now.” They snapped a thousand photos. The other babies were cute, too, lovable in their own ways. But they weren’t Juan.

*

At 8:30 on Monday morning, Julie stood in front of the mirror in the Clay staff ladies’ room, stealthily dripping eye drops into her bloodshot eyes. Their flight home had sat on the tarmac for four unexplained hours in Guatemala City, causing them to miss their connection in Houston. They landed in San Francisco with just enough time for Julie to catch a taxi downtown and brush her teeth and change into her pleated black Issey Miyake dress before her interview with the board. Thank God she’d thought ahead to potential snafus and left her resume in her office.

“I am enough,” she said to the mirror as she wiped an errant eye drop from her cheek and clasped a necklace made from a chunk of blue resin around her neck. Statement necklaces were her signature, functioning both as wearable art and failsafe conversation starter. That, and her stylish short haircut. “Wonderful things unfold before me,” she said. “Everything works out for my highest good.”

She gathered her travel clothes into her duffel and walked to her desk. Eames was slouched in his seat, hair gelled into spikes, checking his email. “How was the trip?”

“Fabulous. Juan is a gem. A really sweet boy.” Her voice softened and she re-squared her shoulders. “It’s good we went.”

“Word is you’re in the running.”

Julie startled, as if just remembering her nine o’clock interview appointment. She picked up her portfolio.“We’re rooting for you, Jules,” Eames said.

She hurried to the administration area. Doni was at her post, at the ready to screen visitors. She barely glanced up as Julie arrived, waving her into Talbot’s office. The board president sat in Talbot’s chair behind Talbot’s desk, with Talbot on one side and two board members—a man and a woman—on the other. The men rose slightly when Julie walked in. “Good morning,” the president said, settling back into his chair and gesturing toward the lone empty seat after everyone had shaken hands.

Julie’s throat went dry. The woman wore a lime-green, raw silk jacket over a black pencil skirt; Talbot his uniform black suit and purple tie; the other man a blue cashmere blazer and narrow loafers. Julie measured herself against the visual information, relieved she’d chosen the black Issey Miyake.

The president started in by asking her about vision. She talked about her loyalty to the Clay, the way she viewed the museum as something to be nurtured and tended. She’d dedicated herself to that mission for twelve years. Since she began, attendance numbers at openings had tripled, and museum membership was steady and climbing. She was careful to address each of them, shifting her gaze from one to the other. She sensed their understanding and felt her confidence rise.

The man in the blue cashmere blazer wanted to talk future expansion. Talbot had been brilliant in getting them this far, but they needed to go bigger. Technology had exploded in the Bay Area, and with the boom came young people with money, unprecedented amounts of money. The Clay needed to grab that audience and their pocketbooks.

Julie was startled. The paint was barely dry on the first expansion. A second expansion felt like a curveball.

“How do you sell these tech people on the Clay?” the man asked.

“No sales pitch is more effective than passion.” Julie hesitated, hoping she didn’t sound too woo-woo. “Share our vision. Show them the budget and a specific way they can help. Give them something to be part of.”

The board members bent their heads in unison and made marks on their notepads. The woman in the raw silk said there was something she’d been curious about for a long time: she wanted to know how someone judged an artwork as exceptional.

Technical merit was part of it, Julie said. Composition and where it fit historically.

But more than anything, she looked for the essence of the artist within the work. There were thousands of exquisite Renaissance paintings hanging in museums. So why did everyone cross the room to study only one, the Mona Lisa? Because inside the painting was a piece of Leonardo da Vinci.

The board members murmured and nodded. Julie had helped them see. The president thanked her for her time and promised to be in touch.

Just over half an hour, and her interview was finished.

*

The second week in December, Doni called Julie to tell her to come to Talbot’s office immediately. Julie jumped out of her chair, not bothering to close her open files. She’d heard nothing since her interview and the suspense had almost crushed her.

Talbot’s shirt collar was uncharacteristically unbuttoned—on his last day, he must have allowed himself one concession to casual dress—and without his purple tie he looked like a younger, more callow version of himself. The moving boxes were gone and the desk empty. Any trace of Talbot had been scoured. “I have bad news,” he said.

He wasn’t at liberty to disclose who they’d chosen, but Talbot was confident Julie would be pleased with their decision and helpful during the transition. The golf-ball-sized lump in Julie’s throat made it difficult for her to talk. It was a few seconds before she choked out, “I appreciate your going to bat for me.”

“You’re terrific,” Talbot said. “That much is true. Also true is we fielded some outstanding candidates. Tops in their field.”

She waited for him to say something else—about her dedication or talent, or how much he’d enjoyed their time together—but Talbot looked as dismayed as she felt. “We’ll introduce the new director at tonight’s reception. You and Mark will be there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Talbot stood and stepped around the desk, opening his arms for a hug. Their relationship had always been one of handshakes and distance, but in this case, an embrace seemed appropriate. She wrapped her arms loosely around him and squeezed.

“Count on me for anything,” he said. “I’m an email away.”

She walked past Doni’s desk with the golf-ball-sized lump still lodged in her throat and toward the office maze. Eames leaned out, his face a question mark. Julie shook her head.

“Idiots,” Eames said.

Dropping into her chair, she swiveled toward the office’s back wall. She’d never aspired to be a director of anything so not being one shouldn’t devastate her. It was a job, not life or death. She swiveled her chair to her bottom drawer for her purse with its packet of tissues. Inside was the Ziploc bag with its photo of Juan. She pulled it out gently and pressed him against her heart.

A few hours later, both of them showered and polished, Mark stopped the car a block from the Clay. He never valeted, always parked in the public lot three blocks away. Julie didn’t complain; she was grateful he came. Mark cringed at crowds and hated small talk. He attended because it made her happy. That, and the free food and drink.

“Chin up,” he reminded Julie. “You’re the best at what you do, and everyone knows it.”

She flipped down the lighted visor mirror over the passenger seat and plucked a speck of mascara from underneath her bottom lashes. “They can’t forgive me for going to Guatemala,” she said. “How could we not meet Juan?”

“It was the right decision. End of story.”

She flipped up the visor. “I know.”

“It’s done. Don’t second-guess yourself.”

“How does it feel to always be right? You make these pronouncements and never back down.”

“Better than punishing myself.”

Julie sighed. “True.” She pecked him on the lips and put her hand on the door handle. “Meet you at the coat check.”

“You’re a champ,” he called after her as she stepped onto the curb. She merged into the stream of donors and artists alighting from taxis, limousines, and cars, the donors red-carpet ready in cocktail dresses and suits, the artists dressed down in immaculately clean, expensive tennis shoes and artfully disheveled hair.

Two searchlights set up on the Clay’s roof criss-crossed white beams in the night sky, and buoyant riffs of jazz saxophone wafted out from the lobby. Julie stepped into the dazzle inside. White-clothed tables topped with carved platters laden with shrimp and beef en brochette, vegetables arranged by color into modernist decoration, bouquets of white peonies blooming from vases shaped like Picasso-esque figures. White was the favorite color of a donor they’d been soliciting. Flowers this quarter were decreed white. She moved through snippets of conversation like turning a dial: vacations to Europe and studio visits and new restaurants and divorces and children off to university.

Her name being called broke through the static and she veered toward Talbot. Talbot with a woman wearing enormous, red-framed, circular glasses and a fitted black pantsuit. She was built like a runway model and towered over Julie.

“May I present our new director, Dr. Amelie Conrad,” he said. “From the Kentridge in New York.” The new director’s black hair was chopped into bangs like a thirties film star. The shade of her matte red lipstick matched her eyeglass frames. Her skin was as white as paper.

“Julie’s our ace curator,” Talbot said.

Dr. Conrad’s eyes behind gigantic red glasses appraised Julie, and even though Julie was dressed in her best— little black cocktail dress, statement silver and onyx necklace, and Stuart Weitzman high heels—that one glance reduced her to the category of a rube who’d crashed the party.

“Charmed,” the new director said.

“Would you mind escorting Dr. Conrad out for a bit of air? We’ll begin the introduction in ten.” Talbot was tightening up the knot on his purple tie, practically sweating. Julie had never seen him so nervous.

She led the way through the throngs in the Atrium and out the side door to the sculpture garden. The night was dry and chilly. She walked over to the Calder, the large, sheet metal sculpture protected by a low concrete wall. Its flat orange and blue paddles lifted and fell on invisible winds, like small sailboats on a lake. Usually when Julie directed guests to the Calder, they were impressed. But the new director came from the Kentridge, with ten times the status of the Clay. She didn’t glance at the Calder.

The new director grasped the lapels of her black suit jacket and pulled them tight. “Brrr. They said California was warm.”

“That’s SoCal,” Julie said.

The jazz combo was playing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” a standard at Clay events. Most major donors were over sixty, and bands chose a songbook they would recognize. Later, when the oldsters had gone home, a techno band would take the stage and the artists would dance.

“Smoke?” Dr. Conrad asked.

“Cigarettes?”

“Out here, you must think marijuana.” Dr. Conrad reached into a pocket and produced a pack of red Marlboros, along with her first smile. She inserted a cigarette between her red, matte lips and flipped open a lighter.

“No. No, thank you,” Julie said. Dr. Conrad lit up, her eyes opening widely behind her red glasses as she took a long draw. Julie hadn’t smelled cigarette smoke up close in years.

“Interesting necklace,” Dr. Conrad said. “Who makes it?”

Julie told her the artist’s name.

“You do what?” Dr. Conrad asked.

“Curator of emerging art.”

“For how long?”

Dr. Conrad exhaled a curl of smoke like a genie released from a bottle, and Julie had a sinking feeling she’d wasted the past twelve years of her life.

The party was under way and they’d turned off the searchlights out front. Years ago, when the Clay first started using searchlights—they were popular at Los Angeles openings, the influence of Hollywood—neighbors signed a petition complaining. The compromise was the lights stayed on only during arrivals. Julie remembered the entire back and forth. The moon remained bright, though. A white spotlight. She turned toward the museum, hoping to see Mark.

The band started playing “New York, New York,” the cue that Talbot would soon take the podium to make his introduction. The new director took her cigarette from her mouth and ground it into the low cement fence surrounding the Calder. “What should I do with this?” She held up the mashed butt.

There were no ash receptacles outside, not even a nearby trash can. Julie couldn’t allow the new director to throw the butt on the ground. That was a fire hazard, plus littering. Julie stretched out her palm and the new director pinched the butt between two fingers and deposited it.

Julie followed her toward the music, carrying the cigarette in her flat palm like a footman holding a pillow with Cinderella’s glass slipper. She lifted a shoulder and sniffed discreetly. Her skin smelled dusky, like cigarettes.

*

The door to adoption between the United States and Guatemala slammed shut on December 31, 2002. January 2003 passed. Juan remained in Guatemala. He was five months old. Guate Parents lit up:

The only correspondence we’ve had is sending two Cashier’s Checks for $15,000 each. Not a single receipt. Praise Jesus for tracking numbers and photocopies so we have proof.

—Hannah R.

We filed our Power of Attorney YESTERDAY. Agency lied about the Hague. Why wasn’t this information publicized????

—Amber, waiting on Ella

Very black depression. Like I’m watching a crystal vase about to fall off the edge of a table, knowing it will shatter.

—Julie C.

Julie thought about Juan while sitting in her office at the Clay, his warm body against hers, his soft breath when he was sleeping. She thought about him in the weekly ideas meetings, when she was required to present three new ways to increase audiences and improve outreach. She pictured him in orange floaties and a swim diaper at the baby pool at the Marriott, slapping down his hands on the water and grinning at the splash. Did Juan remember her? Was Berta still his special niñera? Julie called Kate every Friday during lunch, eating a sandwich at her desk while Eames and their co-workers went to one of the neighborhood cafés—“Where are we? What’s happening?”—and over the phone line, she could practically hear Kate shrug.

“Their country, their rules,” Kate said. “You can’t rush them.”

After hanging up, Julie logged onto Guate Parents to see if anyone else’s case had progressed:

Paying $150 a month for foster care! I’m a single mom and not made of money. In PGN since June 2002, now we’re at the back of the line??? Has anyone heard of Adoption Supervisors? Someone said they check on cases.

Adoption Supervisors good, but expensive. We paid $1K to find out no DNA.

We’d still be stuck if they didn’t harass our Guatemalan attorney. Worth it.

Nobody seemed to have hit on the right strategy, nobody had unlocked the secret to unraveling the system. Nobody had figured out how to finalize their adoption and get their baby out. It was maddening. Before Eames and the others returned, Julie power-walked around the block to get her heart rate up and improve her mood. She wasn’t going to lose Juan by not paying attention.

On March 3, Claire was scheduled to give birth to her first son, a boy they’d named Gunther. She’d invited Julie to be present, along with Mark, if not in the delivery room itself, then right outside, close by. Julie had never witnessed a birth and wanted to go, planned to leave after work on Friday. But as she was unlocking her car in the parking garage—the same parking garage where she’d lost Rowan—Julie shook uncontrollably and couldn’t stop. She slid onto the front seat and placed her head on the steering wheel, gasping.

She called Ethan with an excuse about a sudden onset of a virus she was afraid she might spread. She could barely hear Ethan’s reply because of party noises in the background. Gunther would be the first grandchild, and Ethan’s extended family had gathered in Fresno to celebrate.

“No problem,” Ethan said. “You can watch the video.”

She hung up, sadness weighing her down. Not for herself, for what she couldn’t do and didn’t have, because Juan had made her forget that. No, it was sadness for her son. There was no family celebration. No video. Had his birth mother even counted his fingers and toes? Julie imagined Karla had to distance herself from Juan, remain stoic to survive their separation. Had Karla even kissed him good-bye?

Julie rummaged in her purse for the Ziploc with photos from their visit. She stared at the images: Juan nestled in a Snugli against her chest. Juan on her lap by the pool. Juan and Mark on the couch in the hotel lobby.

“Somebody loves you now,” Julie whispered to her son’s photos. “Somebody loves you forever.”