She dropped the burrito onto her lap. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Family. He’d said family. The classification of living things. Kingdom, phylum, class, order. No, family.
She sprang up and lunged toward him, and he hugged her, really hugged her, laughing. She buried her face in his neck, and he didn’t ask her to move. He just held her.
“And hey,” he said, “we can raise him or her by the beach. We should go up there and check it out. Maybe it’s still possible for us all to get out of here.”
She nodded, her forehead and chin bobbing against the fold of his collarbone. His skin was slick with her tears—forgiving him. Forgiving herself.
Twenty-five
Out of the Bubble
With Jubilee
The April air gusted through the Bank of America parking lot. Joshua tugged open the heavy glass doors of the Social Services office tucked on the side of the bank’s brick building in downtown Pomona. He hadn’t expected to return as a grownup. The place was hidden. A person might never know it existed if he’d never had reason to visit. Joshua wished he never had reasons. Not as a kid. Not now. He’d made an appointment a few days earlier and stayed nervous all week. Bee didn’t know he was there.
His body clenched as he strode past the security guard and toward the check-in desk. “May I speak with Ms. McCall? She’s expecting me. Joshua Walker.”
The receptionist glanced up at him, another black face in the crowd, then pointed toward a pad of paper. “Sign in and have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Joshua nodded and signed his name, glancing into the playrooms beside the waiting area, colorful and vibrant. He’d played with that bead maze as a kid, pushing the green circles up the spiral rungs then letting them fall to the other side like wooden people on a roller coaster. He’d watched other children visiting their parents in those rooms, hoping his parents would come. They never did.
He turned away from the upbeat mural on the wall and sat across from a young pregnant woman. He felt irritated, his body buzzing with anxious energy.
He hadn’t seen Ms. McCall since a week after high school graduation when she’d given him a pen with the inscription “Oh, The Places You’ll Go” and hugged him, the off-to-college-boy, goodbye. Ms. McCall had been his childhood social worker. The only constant in his life. She took him away when no one wanted him. Placed him somewhere new. Fresh start, she’d always say. New beginning. Keep your chin up. You’re a bright boy with a good heart. You’ll go far. Joshua needed her guidance.
The pregnant woman stood and walked toward the bathroom. She looked six months along. Bee wasn’t quite as big. Though at five months, her belly was expanding steadily. Every night, he watched his wife as she lifted her nightgown and stood in front of the mirror, tracing circles across her middle. Sometimes she listened with the stethoscope Rosana gave her. Bee liked the whirring sound of the ocean inside her. She told Jayden that a fish was swimming inside her. Joshua’s own stomach flopped. What would Ms. McCall say? Was Olivia right? Had Joshua blown it? Could Olivia take Jayden away?
“Mr. Walker? Ms. McCall will see you now. Do you know where her office is?”
Like the back of his hand.
Shuffling down the fluorescent hallway, he felt like a boy again, holding Olivia’s hand, loving and hating her for always getting them into trouble. Social workers were like gods. Deciding fates. Coordinating lives. Matching families. Picking up pieces. Sometimes smashing those pieces to bits.
He still hadn’t decided what story he’d tell her. Would he change names to protect the innocent? If he told her the truth, he’d be giving up control of the situation.
Ms. McCall sat at her large desk, a petite woman but round, with skin darker than Joshua’s and amber braids pulled into a bun atop her head, decorated with a large red flower that matched the silky blouse beneath her blazer. Just as he’d remembered her. “Hey, Joshy. It’s been a long time,” she said, grinning. “How are you?”
“Doing well, thanks. I’m graduating with my BS in Human Services this semester, going into a marriage and family counseling master’s program in the fall.”
“I knew you’d make it. You’ve always been a shining one. I never had to worry about you. So what can I help you with? You mentioned a family situation on the phone.”
This was it. He had to break the bubble.
He steeled himself to tell her about Bee, but the words wouldn’t form. He couldn’t admit his predicament. It was too dangerous. What if she had connections with the Orange County social services agency? What if she knew whomever they assigned them? What if Olivia had already called? He couldn’t risk telling the whole truth and facing the repercussions. Better to keep the cards in his hand. Better not to become vulnerable. He’d had to trust her growing up, but social workers, like gods, could be fickle, and he couldn’t afford to lose. Instead he said, “Well, it’s not about me. I have a concern about a client situation I need some advice about.”
She raised her eyebrows slightly. Doubt flashed across her face before she smiled again. “Ask me anything, honey.”
“A client of mine is hoping to adopt from foster care. This client’s husband is already a legal guardian, and they’re about to put in the paperwork for adoption. Everything looks good as far as a stable home and income, all that.”
“Sounds promising,” she said, nodding and smiling. “So what’s the issue?”
He exhaled. “She, my uh, my client, has an, um . . .” What? Has a what? Say it. Tell her what she has. “A delusion.”
“A delusion?” Her smile vanished.
“Yeah. She went through a trauma and is coping by maintaining a complete denial.” He felt like he was betraying Bee by sitting there, talking about her like she was a patient.
“What type of delusion is it? Erotomanic? Persecutory? Has schizophrenia been ruled out? Is she undergoing treatment?”
“She’s definitely not schizophrenic. I’m not sure there is a classification for her specific manifestation. She believes a baby doll is her daughter.”
“A baby doll? As in, a toy? She believes a toy is real?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. That’s a major issue, Joshy. If I were aware an adoptive parent had such a serious delusion, I certainly would not relinquish control of the child to that person. If I were assigned to the case, I would refer her to counseling, most likely once a week for whatever length of time necessary to work through the grief and trauma fueling that delusion.”
“But what if the doll was her type of treatment? Have you ever heard of Reborns? They’re a type of lifelike infant doll, and sometimes they’re used for therapy. They’ve had success treating female dementia patients with them because they remind the women of motherhood, a time when they were useful and needed. A time they could nurture.”
“Hmm . . .” She knitted her eyebrows. “But this client of yours believes the baby is alive? That crosses the line of treatment, doesn’t it? That’s a loss of grip on reality. I mean, if she could truly believe a doll was a living, breathing child, what would stop her from suddenly believing the foster child in question was a zebra or an alien? What would keep her from believing he was demon-possessed in need of drowning? Do you see what I’m getting at? A delusional person cannot be trusted with a child. I’d need to see a clear indication of recovery, of working through the trauma, of having a clear handle on what’s real and what’s not, in order to even consider placing a child with that person. I’m not saying it’s not possible to recover from something like that, but it would be difficult.”
She made Bee sound ugly.
“So your recommendation would be to halt the adoption process pending treatment and further evaluation?” He hated the official words coming out of his mouth. Hated them clinking on his tongue. He longed for softer words. Words filled with hope and promise. The kind not found in textbooks or
courtrooms.
“That’s right, hun. I’d give it time. Maybe look into alternate placement for the time being.” Alternate placement? What have you done, Joshy? You fool. You’re messing this up.
“But the husband is the legal guardian.” His voice came out high-pitched. His neck prickled. “Why would alternate placement be needed? He doesn’t have any issues to work through.”
“As long as they’re married, they’re considered one unit, honey. One family. Unless he’s applying for individual adoption of the child without the other party, he would most likely not be granted the placement until the home situation is deemed conducive to the child’s well-being. Living in a home with a mentally ill parent, even if the other parent is stable, could be detrimental to the child. Social Services needs to protect the child. Isn’t that the number one concern here? The child?”
He nodded. Under. Control. He reached for his inhaler, puffed it twice.
“Joshy, honey? Are you all right?” She pushed the Kleenex box closer.
Pull yourself together, Josh. “I’m sorry. I’m sad for the family.”
“This job can be so stressful. So overwhelming. You’ve got a good heart, Joshy. You always have. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing for your . . . client.”
“Thank you for your time, Ms. McCall.”
“Anytime. Let me know how it goes.”
“I will.”
He could tell her how it would go. The family would stay together. He wouldn’t let anyone smash the pieces. Wouldn’t let anyone play god with his life. Not anymore. He had promises to keep. Secrets to stifle. He had a baby to hide. A wife to protect. A boy to hold onto. A life. He had a life. He couldn’t let go.
He sat in the parking lot, shaking. He yelled into the rearview mirror, What the hell do I do now? He punched the steering wheel.
Grasping at straws, he pulled the scrap of paper from his wallet with Olivia’s phone number on it. She’d given him the number at her friend’s house and said call her as soon he’d figured out what he was gonna do. She’d be waiting, she’d said.
He dialed the number slowly, hands trembling. His fingers felt numb, corpse-like.
“Liv?” he asked, voice distant, like it didn’t belong to him.
“Yeah, Suga?” He could hear her coughing, muffled through the receiver, like she’d put her hand over the mouthpiece.
Tears blurred his eyes. He choked back a sob. “Please don’t call the court. Please don’t take Jayden away from me. Please. I’ve had him since he was a baby. I’ll make it better. I promise. Bianca will get better. But please give us a chance. I couldn’t live without him.”
She sighed, ending in a deep cough. “I know, Joshy. I know you do. But I had to think of Jayden.” She coughed again. “I already called the social worker, I’m sorry. That doll was just too weird. I had to call and tell them something.”
He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. He willed himself not to hear what she’d just said. He hung up the phone.
A social worker called Joshua a few days later, citing a concerned relative. She never mentioned Olivia or a baby doll. Maybe his sister hadn’t told the whole truth, just suggested the social workers pay a visit. Part of him wanted to call Olivia and thank her at least for that much, but he was still too angry. He could’ve handled it, but Olivia hadn’t trusted him. That was her problem. She gave him her son, but she still didn’t trust him, after all these years.
Even though the social worker hadn’t yet made any specific allegations, the situation still wasn’t ideal. He needed a plan. On the phone, he did some damage control, telling the social worker how they planned to adopt Jayden and other respectable things about their lives he thought she’d like to hear. Bianca was an English major, he was becoming a counselor. They were going to San Diego a few days after her visit on a family vacation. That sort of thing. She seemed pleased, and when they got off the phone, he felt hopeful.
They still had a chance. He could fix this. He would fix this.
Twenty-six
Letter to Jubilee
Children are buried on the moors.
One mother I read about returned daily to search for her child.
She died searching.
One of her child’s murderers wrote to her from prison and claimed she could take her to the body.
What a cruel joke.
The body.
Buried.
One murderer was a woman. The devil’s wife.
The papers said that was worse than being the devil himself.
A woman should have known. A woman’s maternal instinct should have kept her from doing harm. What a potbelly of lies.
In prison, she wrote that her lover could’ve told her the earth was flat, the moon was made of green cheese and the sun rose in the west, and she would’ve believed him.
Darling, this is not a letter I should be writing to my daughter.
But someone has to tell you the truth.
Someone has to make you understand.
Here’s where a mother goes wrong. Here’s where a mother turns herself into a hole and swallows. Here’s where she turns herself into a whole prison and waits.
I didn’t listen to my mother.
Why should you listen to me?
I’m the aswang—the bruja who flies in the night and swigs the belly of pregnant women. I’m the fear of corpus, the fragment of night terrors. I’m alive, but you’re . . .
. . . in my arms.
The truth swills us both like brujas.
(I remember the devil’s wife.
I remember.)
Inside I’m crawling, baby girl. Crawl back to me. I’ll reclaim you the light.
(If you’re determined to make your way back to the earth, come back through me.)
I can’t ask you to forgive me. I can’t ask you that.
Twenty-seven
Free Bird
Before Jubilee
Gabe took Bianca to the Newport Channel Inn, a small blue-and-white motel three minutes from the beach. They’d stayed there once before when she was still at Holy Cross; they’d liked it because it was cheap and close to the ocean. They were in Newport to look at apartments, get leads on jobs, begin staking out a new life.
But first, they watched the water. They sat on the beach on a motel towel. Gabe steadied Bianca as she sank into the sand. Her loaded belly ballooned in front of her when she sat, squishing out, pressing against her sundress. She kicked off her chanclas and buried her toes.
They’d once run naked away from beach patrol along that strip of shore in the middle of night, carrying their clothes in a bundle, laughing hysterically. She couldn’t imagine running anywhere now. She was heavy. Carrying high. Abuela would’ve plucked a hair from her head and tied her wedding ring to it—if she could’ve gone home, if she’d had a wedding ring—and let it swing in front of her belly. If it swung side to side, it was a boy. If it swung around in circles, a girl. “Remember when we made up?” She nodded toward the pier. “Lana just born.”
“I remember. She was perfect. Small and wrinkly.” He paused. “When Katrina was in labor, she asked me to marry her.”
Bianca turned to him. He’d never mentioned that before. “What’d you tell her?”
“I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t stop thinking of you.”
Something inside Bianca ticked like a broken clock. “What am I supposed to say to that?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was scratchy.
“Fuck.” She buried her feet deeper into the sand.
“Fuck off?”
“No. Just fuck.” She stared at the water, letting his hand rest on her shoulders. “I spent too much time watching this ocean, trying to get over you. Trying to settle the family picture of you with Katrina and your baby in
my mind. Torturing myself. Figuring out the reasons you chose her over me. Trying to understand why God let her baby live but let mine go.”
“That wasn’t God, Bee. That was us.”
She pulled away from him. “That was a mean thing to say, Gabe.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your life,” he muttered under his breath.
They sat quietly for a few minutes before she spoke again. “At that stupid Christian college, I almost died too. Like my coward father. I almost died there. Then you called me. How cliché is that? You said you were coming to pick me up, so I hung up the phone and scrambled across the hallway to the Fontana girls’ dorm room.” She was laughing wryly, so sorry for herself she nearly couldn’t stand herself. “The girls across the hall reminded me of how I was in high school, remember? Latina cheerleaders. Clichés. But at least they didn’t know it. They were always awake, so I pounded on their door and screamed, ‘I have a date! Can you straighten my hair?’ My hair, Gabe. Not Nietzsche. My hair. You know Nietzsche said metaphor is a desire to be somewhere else? He meant it as a jeer, but he’s right. God, how right he is.”
She looked over at Gabe. He was smiling in a way she couldn’t tell if he was genuine or making fun. He was staring out into the ocean but still listening.
She kept talking. “After twenty minutes in their room with a round bristle brush and blow dryer, I raced back to my room, pulled on some tight jeans and a tighter sweater. I had a date. With you. My father wasn’t dead yet, and you were coming to get me. I rushed down the five flights of stairs to the sidewalk below and waited on the curb for your stupid green truck to pull up. Like old times. Like the years in high school when you’d flown around the corner to pick me up, and we’d ride together, music blaring. Lynyrd Skynyrd. You remember?”
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