The Shimmering Road

by Hester Young

  “Yeah, you too.” She squints at me, having just worked out my intended destination. “You weren’t gonna use that bathroom, were you?”

  “Actually, I was . . .”

  “Ooh, nah, best not.” Her eyes glance over me, quickly assessing my neatly styled dark hair and Anthropologie sundress. “That’s not your kinda bathroom, trust me.” She jerks her finger at the road behind her. “Go another block down. There’s a McDonald’s.”

  I bristle at the implication, however well-intentioned. You think I’m some stuck-up white lady too good for a gas station bathroom?

  “This bathroom’s fine.”

  She shrugs, and I march over to the little concrete building, determined to show her how Not Like That I am. The door is heavy and sticks, but I tug it open. Release a blast of heat and stench so powerful I almost pass out.

  Oh, I think. Oh.

  The light switch doesn’t work, which might be a blessing or a hazard; in the dim room, I can’t fully see all sources of the stink. But as I glance at the contents of the toilet, I can surmise. No air-conditioning and some unmotivated employees mean that unflushed feces and urine have been left to slow-cook for hours, maybe days. And the floor is wet with mystery liquid—a plumbing problem? I don’t dare flush yet. I’ll just have to go on top of everything else.

  I plug my nose, still gagging, and squat-pee as quickly as I can. May this serve as proof, I think. You’re not the soft, entitled white woman that lady thought.

  My business done and white guilt temporarily exorcised, I reach for the toilet handle. Flush, and run like hell.

  • • •

  BY THE TIME WE REACH ARIZONA, the sun kisses the horizon, lighting up the sky in spectacular shades of orange and pink. We’re less than two hours from Tucson, but with night approaching and my lower back crying for relief, I’m ready for the first decent hotel we can find. Though disappointed, Noah stops at the first signs of civilization and hunts for lodging.

  We hunker down for the night at a battered motel in Willcox. I grab a handful of brochures from the hotel lobby, hoping to get a sense of what the state has to offer. From the flyers, Willcox’s big claims to fame are a cowboy museum and a cemetery that boasts the grave of Geronimo’s son. As I flip through brochures for the historic copper mines of Bisbee and the infamous OK Corral in Tombstone, I begin to wonder if southern Arizona is like some aging football star yearning for the good old days, or just a shrewd businessman ready to exploit the nation’s collective delusions about its past. And future, judging from the casino pamphlets.

  Back in our room, I fashion myself a pillow nest and sleepily suggest baby names for our daughter. “Beatrice,” I say. “Eleanor. Harriet.”

  Noah’s composing an e-mail to his assistant, Sharlene, only half paying attention. “Those are old-lady names,” he tells me.

  “No, they’re classic.” I try a new line. “Daisy. Rose. Poppy.”

  “I’m not a fan of flowers.”

  “What do you mean you’re not a fan of flowers? You’re a freaking landscaper, you love flowers. Lily? Holly?”

  He bangs off one final instruction to Sharlene and then looks up from his tablet. “I love beer, too, but I don’t want to name our daughter Guinness.”

  “Corona, then? Yuengling?” I’m too tired to be anything but silly now. “Or we could class it up with wine. Our daughter, Chardonnay. Or Merlot. Riesling? . . .”

  “Riesling is actually kind of pretty,” Noah says, and it’s the last thing I remember before I fall into a dreamless sleep.

  • • •

  THE NEXT MORNING, as we reach the limits of Tucson proper—which, at its outskirts, still mostly resembles desert—I spot a coyote limping alongside the road. I’ve never seen one before, and I’m taken aback by his beauty, part wolf, part fox, part dog, pressing forward through the desert’s rising sunlight. I pull over into the breakdown lane and slow our car to a stop.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Noah asks, looking up from a work e-mail on his phone.

  I point back at the coyote, now a short distance behind us on the road. He walks with an awkward little hop-skip, dragging his rear leg along without putting any weight on it.

  “He’s hurt,” I say. “Looks like maybe he got clipped by a car or something. You think he’ll be okay?”

  “Sure he will,” Noah says. “Takes a lot to kill a coyote. They’re tough. Wouldn’t last a day in the desert if they weren’t.”

  We watch the creature continue along toward us against a backdrop of cacti and green-brown mountains. Even after all the wide, empty spaces of yesterday, the openness of the landscape amazes me. You can see for miles, winding roads, a cell tower, neighborhoods on the edge of the city popping up and rapidly thickening—all the ways that human beings encroach upon what should be uninhabitable land.

  The coyote glances over at our SUV, our gawking faces, assessing the danger we might pose. He’s unimpressed. Never missing a hop-skip, he limps past us, following the line of highway toward the city, determined and unafraid.

  He knows hunger, and he knows thirst. He doesn’t worry about needy nieces. He doesn’t dream of dying.

  Four

  Daniel Quijada is a burly Latino man with a goatee and hipster glasses. We find his cubicle in the back corner of the Child Protective Services office, an over-air-conditioned building stuffed with desks and fatigued social workers. Daniel’s on the phone, sipping a Diet Coke and rubbing his left temple with an expression that begs for death’s reprieve.

  “No, no, I get it, Sylvia,” he says, “I do.” He sighs. “He’s a tough kid, we knew that going in. I’m just—sorry to hear it’s not working out for you. I’ll see what I can do about finding him another placement, but quite honestly, I don’t have a lot of options right now.” He sets down his Diet Coke and selects a red roller-tip pen from his cup. “Of course, and I respect that. But I may need a few days to work something out. Let me get back to you, okay?”

  Listening to his end of the call, Noah and I exchange nervous glances. A foster parent with buyer’s remorse? Could this be us someday?

  Daniel hangs up the phone and scribbles notes onto a legal pad, nodding wearily in our direction. I can’t guess his age. The overweight baby face, thinning black hair, and stocky build could be an old thirty-five or a young fifty, and his desk offers no clues. His workspace is an impersonal testament to obsessive-compulsive disorder, with color-coded binders and alphabetized reference materials. Only a Costco-sized bottle of Tums provides any insight into his inner workings.

  “Hi!” I greet him brightly. “I’m Charlotte Cates, and this is Noah.” I don’t sit down because there are no extra chairs around his cubicle. “We’re here about Michaela Ramos.”

  “Sure, sure. Great to meet you both.” Daniel’s head bobs up and down, and he grabs a yellow folder from his desk. “We’ll just pop into one of the meeting rooms this way.” He takes off down the hall and turns into a windowless room with a table, cheap chairs, and glaring lights.

  “So. Micky Ramos. You are her . . .” He glances at his file. “Mom’s half sister?”

  I nod, although the words sound strange. I’ve never been someone’s sister before.

  “And you’re considering guardianship?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Noah says. “All the way from Texas. We thought we’d meet with Micky, see how things go, and . . . maybe we can adopt.”

  I give Noah the side-eye. A child is not some stray dog you play with once at an animal shelter and decide to take home.

  “Texas, that’s right.” Daniel rifles through his pages, probably trying to remember which of his many cases he’s supposed to be discussing. “You’re looking at an out-of-state placement.”

  Maybe it’s the way my aunt Suzie spoke about Child Protective Services, as if they stand around trying to pawn children off on any halfway-respectable adult w
ho will take them, but I expected a little more excitement from Daniel, a little more enthusiasm at the prospect of unloading Micky on us. Instead, he regards me with what looks like caution.

  “You haven’t met your niece before,” he states.

  “No,” I admit. “We’re here because she’s family.”

  “That’s admirable, it really is.” Daniel scratches his head. “And visits are a great way to start.”

  “So how long will this take?” Noah’s practically bouncing in his seat, and I know part of him is hoping we’ll return to Sidalie in a week or two with a plucky six-year-old in tow.

  “Look,” Daniel says, lifting his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “I’m going to be straight with you. Transferring guardianship to an out-of-state resident is a long process on both ends. Typically, it takes about six months to move a child from foster care to an out-of-state relative.”

  “Six months?” It’s even longer than I would’ve guessed. “So basically, as soon as she gets settled into her foster home, we’d uproot her?”

  “It can be tough,” Daniel acknowledges. “Micky will have to change schools, leave her friends, lose any consistency she has in her life right now. I’m not saying you shouldn’t seek custody of your niece, not saying that at all. But if you’re still in the decision-making phase, I want you to have all the facts.”

  I brace myself. “And the facts are?”

  “This child has been through a severe trauma,” Daniel says. “She’ll need a lot of support services.”

  “She still needs a home, though, right?” Noah stubbornly clings to his view of Micky as a sad, vagrant animal. “There’s no other relatives tryin’ to get custody? Her father didn’t suddenly turn up?”

  “No, no.” Daniel shakes his head. “Her father reportedly lives in Mexico. He’s never had any custodial rights, and so far we haven’t been able to locate him. That will become another issue down the line, if you choose to adopt. If you find him, he might willingly surrender his parental rights. Otherwise, you’ll have to get a court to terminate them.”

  I close my eyes, imagining all the paperwork and court dates we’ll have ahead of us, should we choose to go this route. “You said it could be six months to get guardianship. How long does it take to officially adopt?”

  Daniel licks his lips. “On average? For an out-of-state family, we’re looking at three, four years.”

  Noah lets out a low whistle. He thought our trip to Tucson was a simple extraction mission, not a multiyear legal obstacle course. I can see the doubt creeping in as he reevaluates the commitment he was so prepared to make.

  “I’m sorry,” Daniel says. “I just want to be honest about the process. A lot of caseworkers aren’t, and it’s the kids who suffer.” He tries for optimism. “All this is doable, really. Six to nine months from now, once you’ve cleared some hurdles, Micky could be joining you in Texas.”

  “Do you think that’s best for Micky?” I ask.

  “That’s really up to you two.” Daniel folds his hands. Despite his large frame, his fingers are long and slim, his nails neatly clipped. “You’ve got a baby coming. Before you both sign on for this, you need to make sure you’re ready to jump through a lot of hoops.” For the first time, I detect a note of compassion in Daniel’s voice, not for us, but for Micky. “I’d hate for you both to become a presence in this little girl’s life, and then . . . things don’t work out. Maybe you change your mind. I’ve seen that too many times.”

  “If we don’t step in, what happens?” Noah asks. “Who’s Micky with now?”

  “A great couple with a lot of experience fostering.” Daniel’s face warms with genuine enthusiasm. “The woman works as an aide at Micky’s school. I’ve dealt with her and her husband before. They’re amazing.”

  “Is there any chance that they would want to adopt?”

  “Very possibly,” Daniel replies, and I know what he’s thinking. Don’t mess up a good thing for this kid unless you’re all in.

  Noah drums on the table with his thumbs, and I can see the idea of strangers taking my niece doesn’t sit well with him. “I think we’re gettin’ ahead of ourselves, here,” he says. “We haven’t even met Micky yet, and I’d like to get a look at these folks she’s livin’ with. Maybe we should get to know her some before we all go makin’ up our minds.”

  “Of course.” Daniel stands up. “You have a supervised visit with the therapist in about half an hour. I can give you a lift to Micky’s foster home.”

  “We’re going to see where Micky lives?” I thought for sure we’d be in some claustrophobic therapist’s office.

  “It’s not standard procedure,” Daniel concedes, “but Micky’s had some hard meetings with the police psychologist, and the therapist felt that another office environment . . . well, it might not send the right message.”

  I hadn’t realized that investigators were questioning my niece, although it makes sense. She was present in the house that night. She might’ve heard something. I wonder what Daniel means by “hard meetings.” Did they bombard the poor child with questions? Push Micky to talk about frightening things?

  “Let’s go,” I say. “Let’s go meet her.”

  • • •

  THE DRIVING IN TUCSON is not especially cutthroat by East Coast standards, but Daniel operates his vehicle with the alarming intensity of a New York cabbie. I am simultaneously terrified and impressed by his abrupt lane switches, jerky stops, and who-are-you-kidding-that-light-was-red surges.

  “If you weren’t so sure about dyin’ in a shower, I might be real worried right now,” Noah whispers.

  We end up in a neighborhood that feels blue-collar and relatively safe. No dingy apartment buildings, liquor stores, pawnshops, or bus stops with homeless people roasting on the bench as we’ve seen elsewhere throughout the city: just homey, somewhat worn-down residences.

  Daniel pulls up in front of a single-story brick ranch. The front yard is a dozen shades of brown and gray—a bit dismal to someone not accustomed to desert—but there are neatly placed flagstones leading up to the door and items that indicate children live inside. A boy’s bicycle dropped by a shrub. A jump rope. A set of pink plastic gardening tools.

  Noah and I exchange a quick glance, and he shrugs, forced to agree: All right, the house passes muster. His arms are crossed; he’s reserving judgment but still ready to assume the worst about Micky’s foster family, perhaps even hoping for some clear-cut incompetence or meanness on their part that might make our decision easy, our role of hallowed rescuers more obvious.

  I’ve heard mixed reviews on foster parents, heard stories ranging from low-class mercenary types who do it for the extra income to saintly couples who transform the lives of at-risk children. When Vonda Lopez answers the door, it’s clear that she falls into the latter category.

  Micky’s foster mother is a tall, thick woman in her fifties, and she answers the door barefoot. I know without asking that she’s the kind of woman who gives all-encompassing hugs and uses lots of mayonnaise. For a moment, I imagine what childhood with such a woman would be like—dance classes, hair braiding, idle threats of a butt whooping, Jell-O—and I envy Micky.

  That was not my childhood. Not even close.

  “Hey-a!” Vonda exchanges a quick hug with Daniel and turns to Noah and me. There’s nothing fake about her smile, her crinkly eyes. “So nice to meet you two! And you came all the way from Texas?” At the sight of my pregnant belly, she almost swoons. “Oh my goodness, look at you.” She reaches out and cradles my stomach in both her hands, her fingers finding the shape of the baby like a midwife. It’s a shockingly intimate gesture made all the more surprising by the fact that I’m okay with it.

  “Girl, right?” she says. “You’re carrying high.”

  “Yeah, a girl.” I smile shyly. “Do you have kids?”

  A boy of about ten appears in swim trunks
. Vonda hands him a towel and he dashes out the back door. She laughs, turns back to me. “I’ve got these guys, and that’s enough. Luis and I couldn’t have children of our own.”

  “How’d you choose to foster?” Noah asks.

  Vonda bends over and grabs a couple toys off the floor. “We were going to adopt a child from Mexico, actually,” she says. “That’s where Luis’s family came from, and there are plenty of kids across the border who need help. At the end of the day, though, it just costs too much. So here we are. Sometimes you pick your fate, sometimes your fate picks you.” She points to the door the boy just ran out of. “Micky’s out back with Bryce, if you want to go say hi. The therapist should be by in a few minutes.”

  “Maybe you could fill us in a little first,” Daniel suggests. “Anything we should know? How’s she been getting on?”

  Vonda considers this. “She’s very withdrawn. A lot of trouble sleeping. There have been nightmares, some bed-wetting. She’s jumpy, but no aggressive behavior yet.”

  I don’t like her use of “yet,” the lifetime of issues that lurks behind that word.

  Vonda puts a hand on my shoulder as if sensing my anxiety and gently urges me toward the glass door. “Come on. It’ll be better if you just get out there.”

  The yard is half sun, half shade, with no grass, just pale dirt and colorless gravel. Bryce, the boy in swim trunks, fills up a large water gun in a wading pool. Micky sits several feet away in the shady area, a green Popsicle melting in her hand. Her eyes follow us as we file out onto the patio, but she doesn’t engage us. Though the lighting is different and her clothing changed, I recognize the dark hair and small, chubby frame.

  My dream. The girl from my dream.

  “Micky, honey,” Vonda addresses her, “this is your auntie Charlotte I was telling you about. Your mama’s sister, remember?”

  Micky nods. Stares at me, then Noah. Puts the runny Popsicle to her lips.

  “Auntie Charlotte and Mr. Noah are going to stay outside with you a bit until Miss Emily gets here. You remember Miss Emily, right? She played toys with you the other day?”