by Michel Stone
His thoughts returned to the man he’d watched burn in the car in Acapulco. Perhaps he had been lost earlier that day and had become prey to a thug, and that had been his only crime. Héctor sighed, realizing he was thirsty, and looked about the room for a cup, though none was to be found.
Some events in life were destined to remain mysteries, but resigning oneself to that acknowledgment proved difficult. He’d never know why a man had been chained and burned in the hills of Acapulco, but Héctor knew the vision would haunt him all his days. He’d never understand why a gang would find necessary or take pleasure in killing teenagers in Honduras. He’d never comprehend why walking around the city of Matamoros, a place rich with history and in such proximity to the great Estados Unidos, must be dangerous and filled with ruffians intent on robbing, or worse. He’d likely never discover answers to many, many questions that plagued him, and his prayer, among a long list of prayers, was that God would release him from his intrigue and worry about such inequities.
But even as he pondered these things, he knew that every man had his price, every man harbored some potent desire or insurmountable weakness so powerful that no explanation or teaching or begging could sway him. How could anyone stack in boxes living birds, bright and beautiful creatures from God, like bundles of sticks for the cook fire? Though he’d not packed the parrots into the boxes with his own hands, he’d delivered them. He’d played a part in the process that surely would lead to the demise of many of those lovely birds, gorgeous beings whose only fault had been to fly into hidden nets set for them in fruiting trees that supplied their sustenance.
Any man could possess a trace of evil, he decided, but he hoped a man’s acknowledgment of his wrongdoings and feelings of guilt over his evil acts could lead to his redemption. What if a man perpetrated one evil as a result of a worse evil done to him? Was committing a sinful act excusable if the deed was done for a higher cause, a greater good?
He’d beseech God to let those parrots live and thrive wherever they arrived, and he hoped God would understand why he had participated in such corruption as their illegal trafficking. Finding Alejandra trumped everything. Yes, Héctor, too, had his price.
Chapter 33
Lilia
The familiar sound of a goat pulling a trash cart woke Lilia from her sleep, and she rose on one elbow to watch the goat, a large brown-and-white male, through the frame of her window. The damp cloth Rosa had draped across her brow earlier that afternoon had slipped from her head to her pillow, and she tossed it to the table beside the bed. The old man guiding the trash cart whistled a tune vaguely recognizable to Lilia as he passed, though otherwise he could have been asleep, his eyes closed and the loose reins resting in his lap. A trace of the stench from the cart, the goat, and maybe even the old man caught on the breeze and wafted to Lilia, and she was glad her nausea had subsided. She watched them until they were beyond her field of vision, and still she watched until she could no longer hear the man’s tune or the clip clip clip of the goat’s dainty hooves and the rickety cart’s wheels grinding down the bumpy lane.
Never had she longed to go someplace, anyplace, as she did now. She would happily climb into the cart beside the old garbage man, enduring the scent of goat flatulence and rotting cabbages, if only to leave this bed, this house, and feel the breeze and the sunshine on her face. At her request Rosa had put a calendar beside Lilia’s bed, and many times a day Lilia would lift the calendar and count the days until her due date. Lilia knew well that she’d likely deliver before the full term, but each day she ticked off the calendar meant one more day the baby had developed and strengthened in her womb.
She had not had a fever for several days now, and Rosa had told her if she could keep the baby inside for just three more days, it should have a decent chance of survival. While “decent chance of survival” was far less appealing than “fat, healthy, and thriving,” Lilia had tried to adjust her outlook and hopes to realistic expectations.
Rosa and Fernando were in the front courtyard visiting with the widow from down the lane. The woman had stopped by that morning to say she’d return later in the afternoon with pork stew for their dinner, and Lilia could hear the faint sounds of the women’s chatter.
Rosa had been insistent that Lilia call her when she needed to rise to relieve herself, and she’d put a pot beside Lilia’s bed for that purpose. Lilia was sick of the pot and sick of this room. With her fever gone she felt more clearheaded, and though the pressure in her pelvis was mighty, she felt more like herself than she had in weeks. She eased herself to a sitting position, lowering her feet to the floor, an incredible urge to urinate overtaking her as she shifted. She stood and lifted her arms above her head in a wonderful, liberating stretch, and decided she would make her way to the latrine behind the house. A few steps there and back would be refreshing for her and therefore for the baby.
She padded lightly across the floor, careful not to alert Rosa that she’d arisen. When she’d taken a few steps into the yard she lifted her swollen face to the sunshine, envisioning herself as some bloated creature emerging from a strange darkness. Never had warmth and light felt so life affirming. Lying about all day made her feel less than human, like a subterranean being destined to slog beneath the soil.
She heard Rosa bidding the widow woman goodbye, and Lilia knew she must linger no more and make her way to the toilet before Rosa caught her and scolded her. As she reached the latrine and pulled open the rusty tin door, warm water trickled down the insides of her legs. Feeling foolish for her inability to hold her urine, she eased the door shut behind her and emptied her bladder with great pleasure and relief. When she finished, she rose and slipped out the door, careful not to let it bang, then made her way toward the house. As she crossed the threshold, a surprise gush of water wet her legs anew, and the fear she’d suppressed at the latrine hit her square: The sac in which her baby floated had broken. This child would wait no longer in her dark, damp womb. Like her mama, this baby girl longed for sunlight.
Chapter 34
Héctor
MATAMOROS
Day 1
My dear Alejandra, I arrived at this inn in Matamoros this afternoon, nothing like the fancy inns of Acapulco—but clean and dry—with bed, water, and a toilet. Innkeeper is not talkative. Watches television. He has hands that have never labored in fields. He gave me this paper and loaned me this pen. Today I bled into a tiny needle that pulled my blood into a small glass vial. I’ve never thought of blood as I do now. Blood contains more than a man’s eyes can see, my Alejandra. Magic, power, and ties so deep run through our veins. I, a grown man, your papa, weep over such mysteries, meanings. I will never understand the invisible markers of such crucial bonds, but I know in my heart they exist for the scientists just like the signs along the road to Matamoros from Puerto Isadore, telling the bus drivers which highways connect to which other highways. I feel those blood ties as sure as I feel the pounding of them in my chest. And they will reunite us, my angel. And I tick away the days of waiting with documenting them here, for you to read when you are a grown-up girl and far smarter than your papa will ever be.
Day 2
I dreamed of your mama. Cannot recall the dream, except that she had the long hair and face she had when we were in school. I miss her so, but not the way I miss you. I wonder if you look like her. I hope. Today I will walk about this city and see the interesting places pictured in a book that sits beside the bed here. I’ll remember every detail to describe on this page, Alejandra, so you will know what your papa knew, what I felt, on the final few days of my suffering without you. When I get you back, I will never let you go again. God knows this, as I have told Him so every day for over three years.
Day 2 evening
This place is very different from our village, Alejandra! So many cars and people and businesses. And the noises are strange and various. At home we hear natural sounds—cocks crowing, doves cooing, the barks and snarls of dogs, the brays of donkeys, and endless tweets
and chirps and twitters from a thousand birds. We hear the fruit seller peddling his melons and oranges and strings of garlic, and if we listen we hear the sounds of seabirds in a great fiesta as the boats come in at the pier, and sometimes if the wind is active we hear the surf along the bay down the hill, Alejandra. And you will know all these sounds as well as you know your own voice. But in this city the strange sounds keep me awake. Somewhere nearby is the Gulf of Mexico. But I have not seen the ocean, only signs pointing the way. I did see the Río Bravo, which the gringos call the Rio Grande, and I thought of the fateful day your mama swam that river and lost you, not in the river but to a woman she entrusted with your care. If I were a blackbird I could fly just a few meters and land in a cottonwood tree in America. The book here says that is the name of the tree that grows along the riverbanks. Ah, but if I were such a bird I would not care if the limb on which I sat were rooted in Mexican or American soil. Unlike people, Alejandra, birds have no interest in such man-made lines and definitions of place. I saw a university building today. Perhaps one day you will go to university, Alejandra. I also learned that this city of Matamoros was not always called Matamoros. A long time past it was called Villa del Refugio, in honor of a patron saint, Our Lady of the Refuge of the Estuaries. I do not understand this changing of names, Alejandra. Perhaps when you are grown and educated at university you will explain to your old papa how a place known as one thing can then be called another thing. In 1826, the governor changed the name of the city to Matamoros, in honor of some war hero, Señor Matamoros. I have such dreams for you, my girl, that one day you will leave a mark on the world that a governor will change the name of his very town in honor of you. Perhaps one day we will travel to the city of Alejandra!
Day 3
Today I saw a man dying in the street. The terrible, disturbing image keeps rolling through my brain like the endless swells on the sea, and I can only write of the scene here knowing you will not read these words until you are a much bigger girl, Alejandra. I have seen too much of death lately, the death of strangers, but I will not tell about all that now. People tended to the man I saw today, but I am certain he was dead or close to passing over to the spirit world. I moved on and did not linger. I saw a monument to the former name of this city today, but the monument said the former name was San Juan de los Esteros Hermosos. I do not understand this unless the name has been changed more than once. Because yesterday I read that this place was once called Villa del Refugio. If a place is known by a name why do officials change the name? I wonder what travelers acquainted with the first place think when they try to return and no place answers to the name they used to know. I am glad people do not do this with their own names, Alejandra! How confusing life would be if I got home and your mama told me she is no longer Lilia but that she is Rebeca. I would wonder what mischief she had been up to.
Day 4
This waiting wears a blister in my soul the way cutting agave in the hot field thickens the skin of my thumb and palm. Maybe one day the blister inside my soul will callous over to something hard and tough, but my prayer is I will have you in my arms soon, and the blister will heal into nothing but a memory on this page. I will call your mama today, though I will likely only speak to Rosa, as your mama is flat on her back. She will be having your baby brother or sister soon, Alejandra. By the time you read these words that baby will likely be older than you are now. That notion seems strange to me as I sit in this room, the ink wet on this paper and the noises of the city street screeching and beeping and dinging and shouting through the barred window as if all the cars and people were inside this inn. Perhaps I will have long forgotten the details of this place by then, but I will never forget the wait, the agony of these years without you. The not knowing was the hardest, Alejandra.
Day 5
How does one stop the worry? I tried phoning our village, Alejandra, but I couldn’t connect with anyone. Armando didn’t answer. I worry about you, about your mama, your unborn sister or brother, and about Fernando, though currently he is the least of my worries. Your brother, a sturdy little fellow, always smiles and takes great pleasure in chasing little downy chicks for endless laughter, as if each time he sees a hatchling is his first time. Tomorrow I will go see Karolina at the orphanage, Alejandra. Tomorrow makes six days. I know that my blood is your blood, but what I don’t know, what I can hardly allow myself to think, to write here, what I don’t know is if the child whose blood Karolina has in her files—I cannot know—if that child is you. This thought makes everything inside me turn to wet sand. Oh, my Alejandra. This has to be you!
Day 6, morning
The noise here begins early, and I cannot sleep, knowing today is the day I have sought for more than three years. I have washed my face and brushed my teeth. I have eaten a banana I bought yesterday at the produce stand in the market along a street not so far from where I stay. I drank a cup of water. And I am waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting waiting waiting!
I have stayed away from the orphanage the five days, never getting closer to the front door than a slow amble down the opposite side of the street. Six days is a day short of a full week, and the orphanage woman said DNA tests take a week. But my results may have arrived. Perhaps the results await opening among a stack of parcels just delivered. I hope my checking with her on the sixth day won’t seem rude or uncooperative on my part. Each day on my walks, Alejandra, I stare at the tall fence shielding from my eyes whatever lies beyond the boards and metal of the orphanage fence. Today I will go to the door.
Chapter 35
Karolina
The results had been back since yesterday, but because she had no way of contacting the man, Héctor, other than going to the inn she’d suggested to him, she’d chosen to wait for him to resurface, seeking his DNA results. She’d hoped, somehow, he’d fade away and she’d not have to look him in the eye, not have to have the conversation they were on the brink of having.
Cristina had been with Karolina in the front office when Héctor arrived, but Cristina had slipped out, retreating to her nursing duties in the back, leaving Karolina alone with him.
He sat expectantly, eyes wide, his nervous energy and anticipation permeating the room like heat waves from blacktop, almost visible, uncomfortable.
“So, yes, Héctor,” she began. “The results have come back. You timed your return here just right.” She offered a weak smile, trying to make anything about what she had to say to him pleasant.
He inched forward in his chair. “Yes?”
“The child we had here, Esther, or, rather, excuse me, Alejandra, as you know her. She and you share significant genetic markers.”
He stared at her with an unwavering expression, and she realized he didn’t understand. “She’s your daughter. The child we had here is your daughter.”
She anticipated an emotional reply, but his guttural reaction and the volume of tears pouring freely from his closed eyes brought an unexpected heaviness to Karolina’s heart. With his head bowed, the deluge fell into his lap, and he could not speak. He was powerless to do anything more than let the news wash over him. Karolina, moved by this man’s close proximity to her and his intense physical response, was uncertain if this were joyful weeping or desperate sobbing that significant, disappointing news would follow, as if he had detected as much in her tone or delivery.
Karolina knew she must continue, though looking at him now unsettled her, as if she were peering into the private opening of a long-sealed tomb. “I have more to tell you, of course. I’m not sure how to proceed, as this has never quite happened.” She paused, not only to give him time to comprehend this information but also to choose her wording with care. “I mean, one time we had a similar case as yours, a case in which a woman arrived, adamant she was a child’s long-absent mother.”
Héctor’s sobbing slowed and calmed, but still his nose dripped and he hiccupped, unable to steady his breath.
She continued, “We did the DNA testing on that woman, just as we did on you,
and the report came back that the two shared no DNA. The woman, upon hearing the undeniable truth, admitted she’d been a childhood friend of the girl’s dead father and she’d hoped to raise the girl as her own.”
Karolina realized she was talking too much. Héctor had raised his head, opened his tear-filled, confused eyes, and now studied her with the expression of a dog who has just been kicked by a child who only moments before had tossed him a bone streaked with juicy bits of meat.
“Your daughter was here. She’s no longer here. She’s safe. She’s well cared for, please rest assured about that. But she’s been adopted.”
“Adopted?” He seemed not to understand the word.
“Yes. She’s gone to live with a couple who’ve become her parents. They’ve had her for more than two years.”
“How? I don’t understand. What…what do you mean?” He ground his fists into his temples as if to crush the bewilderment budding in his brain.
“Mr. Santos, please. I can imagine the difficulty of this news,” Karolina said, struggling for soothing words.
“Alejandra has real parents. I am her parent! My wife is her mama. She has a brother and will soon have another brother or a sister. Where is she? I want my daughter,” he said, his confusion giving way to anger.
“Can you share with me the circumstances under which your daughter ended up here in our care?” Karolina needed to know as much as he could tell her before she shared much more about Alejandra with him.
He rubbed his eyes, nodding. “I was in America, working. My wife came to join me. She had a coyote who didn’t cross with babies, so he directed her to give Alejandra to a woman, another coyote. My wife crossed and waited on the other side, but the woman never came. We have not seen our daughter again.”
