by Hester Young
“Sorry to surprise you,” he says with his easy smile. “Just thought I’d say hello. What are you doing in these parts?”
I try to relax, to return his friendly smile, but all I can think is, Why is he here? Is he the one? How did he sneak up on me like that?
“I’m here to pick up clothes for Micky,” I say. The wrinkled dollar bill flutters in my hand.
“Ahh.” He breaks out his wallet and hands me a crisp dollar for the vending machine. “That was you with the laundry basket. You left the back door cracked, too.”
“Right.” So it was him. “I left for a little bit. I was going to come back.” I have no idea how to convincingly explain why I left or what I’ve been doing the past twenty minutes. Thankfully, Sanchez doesn’t ask. I purchase some chips, watch the bag drop down.
“Word of advice,” Sanchez says, bending down to retrieve my snack, “don’t leave that place unlocked. Not for any amount of time. You got a lot of curious people in the surrounding apartments, people who would love to see what’s inside. Out of respect to your sister, and Donna, too . . . you won’t let them in, right?”
“I’ll be more careful.” I wait, wondering if he’ll offer an explanation for his presence, tell me what he was looking for in Jasmine’s place, but he provides nothing more than a sympathetic face.
“I’m real sorry you had to go in there.” He lays a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not for the faint of heart.”
His touch makes my skin crawl. “Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m faint of heart.”
“Obviously not. You didn’t even turn on the air-conditioning.”
I stuff my tattered dollar back in my pocket, adjusting the envelope to make sure the pictures don’t get crushed. Sanchez glances at the envelope, and though his smile doesn’t change, I can feel his curiosity boring into me like a drill.
“You find something?”
“Just a few pictures. They’re not for me.”
Though his eyes widen, Sanchez doesn’t get to question me further. From across the grounds, a girl calls out his name in a high-pitched squeal. “Robby!”
He swears under his breath as Jasmine’s frenemy from the funeral, Serena, comes scampering toward us. I forgot that she lives here, too.
“Hey, cabrón.” She links elbows with Sanchez, gives him a cheeky smile. In a bikini top and very short cut-off jeans, she’s cute, but not gorgeous. Certainly no Jasmine. “Is Mac with you? That dude keeps turning up on my doorstep wanting to talk. He’s, like, stalking me or something.” Judging by her self-satisfied smirk, McCullough’s attention isn’t exactly unwelcome.
Sanchez edges away from her. “He’s not here.”
“No? Then where’s he at?”
“I don’t know. We’re partners, not Siamese twins.”
Serena giggles. “You might as well be attached.” There is something ugly in her smile, the kind of glee one sees in a child burning ants or pulling the legs from a spider. “You boys do a lot together, after all.”
Sanchez turns red. “Watch it,” he says, and I gather that there’s more to her little jab than meets the eye.
“I better go grab Micky’s clothes,” I murmur to no one in particular. “Catch you later.”
Thirteen
Noah greets me in the lobby of our hotel like a grateful princess being rescued from a tower. He’s a bit of a stress case. As he fills me in on the workman’s comp claim that has monopolized his morning, I can’t help remembering the relaxed, easygoing guy I fell in love with back in Louisiana. What happened to that man? Was he just some transitional, post-divorce version of Noah I’ll never see again?
“Are you really going to be able to move to Tucson?” I ask, handing him the sandwich I bought while out. “You’re so wrapped up in this company, hon. Can you honestly walk away?”
The question makes him squirm. “We can make it work,” he insists. “I could do two weeks here, two weeks there. Maybe if I kept an apartment in Sidalie—”
“Whoa, what?” This is a far cry from the drop-everything-and-move plan that he started with. “I know we both want to help Micky, but let’s not bite off more than we can chew. I’m not looking for a half-time dad, Noah.”
His cheek twitches, and I know that I’ve hit a nerve. “You’re right.” He peels back the wrapper from his sandwich, checking the contents. “We’ll . . . figure it out.” It’s hardly a solution, but if he wants to sweep the matter under the rug for now, I’ll let him. I don’t have the energy for conflict.
We sit down in the lounge, and while Noah devours his sandwich, I tell him about Jasmine’s apartment, using many colorful adjectives and similes to describe the smell. “Just what I wanna hear while eatin’,” he says, suitably grossed out. He’s less impressed by what I consider to be the climax of the tale: my run-in with Sanchez.
“There are a lotta reasons he could’ve been there,” Noah points out. “He’s friends with McCullough. Maybe he was helpin’ the guy out, pickin’ up his stuff so McCullough didn’t have to go in.”
“Sanchez was searching the kitchen,” I say. “What would McCullough have left in the kitchen that he wanted back so badly?”
Noah shrugs. “Alcohol, an iPod? Who knows? But it could be perfectly legit.”
“You just don’t think Sanchez is sketchy.”
“No, I don’t. He seemed like a nice guy.” He pauses. “Did you get a look at Jasmine’s bathroom?”
“It’s not the one in my dream.”
“Good,” he says. “And how was the rest of your day?”
I check items off on my fingers. “Dropped Micky’s clothes off with Vonda, called a cleaning team to deal with Jasmine’s apartment, and I’ve got an agent showing us houses tomorrow morning.”
“How about the adoption lawyer?”
“Haven’t looked into it yet.” And I’m not sure it’s worth my time if Noah’s suddenly having doubts about moving.
“You know who could help with adoption stuff? Teresa King.”
“Teresa?” I scoff. “Come on. I know you think she’s some kind of all-powerful goddess, but—”
“Her husband is the CEO of an international adoption agency,” Noah says.
“Oh.”
“I’m guessin’ they have a few lawyers on staff.” He wipes his hands on his jeans. “She could probably recommend somebody.”
“Oh,” I say again. “I’ll call her, then.”
“I have a better idea,” Noah tells me. “We’ll drive over. You can see where your mom was workin’ all these years.”
I’m about to tell him that she was my mother, not my mom, and I don’t really care about the details of her life, personal or professional, but something stops me. I remember what Albert told me yesterday, that Donna tried to get custody of me all those years ago. Tried in her totally insufficient way, but tried nevertheless. I can’t be mad at Donna forever. Not when I’m about to have a daughter of my own.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
• • •
SONORA HOPE HAS a modest suite in an office park that also houses a podiatrist, a hypnotherapist, and an optician. No sooner have I parked the car than Noah’s phone begins to ring. He glances at the screen and sighs.
“It’s Cristina. I better take this.”
I make a face. Though Carmen’s sister is a very competent landscape designer as far as I can tell, she’s high maintenance and unfailingly rude to me.
“You don’t have to answer,” I say.
Noah closes his eyes. “If I don’t, she’ll suck Sharlene into all her drama, and you know what happens once the two of them get goin’.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Fine. I’ll leave you to it. Come find me when you’re off the phone.”
I’m not holding my breath on his turning up anytime soon. Cristina’s calls tend to be long rants that require inspi
rational athletic-coach-type speeches from Noah. It’s a semi-dysfunctional dynamic that, according to Noah, annoyed Carmen even more than it does me.
I follow signs to suite E, where the Sonora Hope offices are located. I never do make it inside, though, because on the side of the building, I spot Teresa leaning against a Dumpster with a cigarette in hand. She doesn’t notice me at first, just stands, morose, in her own little world. This is the first time that I’ve seen her in something other than a public-speaking capacity, and without an audience and a podium, she seems smaller. Fragile. Her hair is pulled back into a long ponytail with flyaway tendrils that frame her face, and she wears white capris, a flowery yellow tunic. In the bright sunshine, makeup can’t conceal her wrinkles, her age, and the smell of the Dumpster isn’t adding to her glamour either.
“Teresa.” I feel bad about interrupting what may be a rare private moment for her.
She looks up, startled. The cigarette continues to burn in her hand, little more than a stub now. A chunk of ash falls from the tip to the concrete. “Hi,” she says. “Were you . . . looking for me?”
“Was just in the area and I had a question to run by you.” Explained thus, my presence sounds decidedly stupid. “I probably should’ve called.”
“No, it’s fine.” She blinks once. Suddenly seems to register my belly and then scrambles to stamp out her cigarette. “We’ll go inside. You shouldn’t be around smoke.”
“No, no,” I protest, not wanting to be a killjoy. “This is your break. One cigarette is not going to kill this baby. I smoked a couple myself before I knew I was pregnant.”
Teresa glances at me to see if I mean it and determines that I do. She pulls out a pack of Virginia Slims, her fingers jittery. “Some people go a little crazy when they see these,” she says, lifting one from the box. “My husband hates them.”
“We all need our little vices, right?”
She gives an exhausted laugh and roots around for her lighter. “We do indeed. So. Charlotte. What can I do for you?”
“It’s an issue with Micky, actually. Noah thought you might be able to help.”
“Me? Sure. How?” She looks genuinely eager to be of service, and I wonder if she has some kind of compulsive helping disorder, if she ever slows down enough to think about her own needs.
“I’m trying to track down a good adoption lawyer for Micky.” I don’t tell her that Noah and I may not be the ones doing the adopting. I want to preserve her good opinion of us. “The situation is a little complicated because Micky’s dad is Mexican, but I heard your husband heads an adoption agency.”
“Mexikids International.” She pauses to light her cigarette. “They have a great attorney working for them, Andrea Rincón. Give me your number, I’ll have her call you.” She whips out her cell phone and lets me program my number in. “Anything else you need?”
“That’s it,” I say. “Thank you so much.” I turn, about to leave, and then stop. “How are you, Teresa? How are you doing?”
“Me?” She takes a deep drag off her cigarette and exhales slowly. “Well. I would say I’m feeling . . . pretty fucked up, actually.”
Somehow I was not expecting this lovely, petite woman to drop an F-bomb. “Of course you are. Sorry. That was a stupid question.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not usually like this, I’ve just . . . hit my breaking point, I guess. The whole organization is going through some . . . difficult losses. Donna was the worst by far, but . . . not the only.”
“You mean the girl who killed herself?” I ask.
“Oh, God. You heard about her?” She doesn’t look happy to know the story is making the rounds.
“Albert mentioned it in passing.”
“Leticia.” She pronounces the name as only a native Spanish speaker could, smoothing the syllables softly: Leh-tee-see-ah. “They called her Lety. I didn’t know her personally—these days I’m so busy fund-raising, I don’t really get out in the field anymore. Maybe I’ve drifted too far from the actual work.” She stares at her cigarette. Brings it to her lips as if disgusted with herself. “You blame yourself, of course. Wonder if you could have prevented it . . .” She glances down, and I notice her toenail polish is chipped. “Some of our staff members were very fond of that girl.”
“Like Albert?”
“Like your mother. Lety was one of her favorites.” For a few seconds, I think Teresa might burst into tears, but she’s too cool for that. She swallows it down, powers through. “Bad things happen to our women sometimes, that’s just an unfortunate fact. But it’s especially hard when they’re young. Lety was only fifteen.”
“Jesus.” I want to ask why a fifteen-year-old would take her own life, but it seems callous, prying. “You’re certainly juggling a lot,” I say. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“You are doing something.” Teresa turns her head away to avoid blowing smoke in my face. “You’re taking Micky. Believe me, there is no better gift you could give your mother. She had no illusions about Jasmine, and if Micky ends up in a better situation with you and Noah . . . Well, that’s something at least. One good thing from all this.” She stops. “God, that sounds awful.”
“I understand. You don’t want to feel like their deaths were pointless.”
“Yeah.” Her hand brushes my belly. “Is this your first baby?” I think she’s searching for a happier topic of conversation, but that’s not what she has walked into.
“Second baby, actually. My son passed away last summer.”
“Oh, no,” she breathes. “I didn’t realize.”
It’s a conversation killer, my lost child, and I don’t dwell on the subject. “Do you have children?” I ask, wondering what the hell Cristina could possibly be blabbing to Noah about all this time.
“No. Jonathan, my husband, never wanted any. He’s always been very career-driven.”
“And you? Did you want children?”
“Oh . . .” She doesn’t actually answer my question. “I guess it’s worked out. I couldn’t have managed Sonora Hope if I had a family to worry about.”
“You guys must be quite the dynamic duo.” I smile.
“It’s a good partnership,” Teresa says dully. “We both work with needy families in Mexico. It’s nice to have . . . a common cause.” Her voice is devoid of warmth or affection, and I have the feeling that this marriage is dead. Has been dead for a while. No wonder she works so tirelessly for her charity. Perhaps Teresa’s passion has had nowhere else to go.
I draw back from the subject of her husband. “So what does Mexikids do, exactly? Just helps childless American families get babies, or—”
“No, they don’t typically deal with babies,” she says. “In Mexico, children have to be at least five to be eligible for adoption.”
“Oh.” I’m surprised. “So it’s all older kids?”
“Unless the Mexican Central Authority makes an exception.”
“Why would they do that?”
“If a child has health issues, a disability. Special needs that won’t be provided for if they remain in Mexico, basically.” She glances at me. “Are you considering an international adoption?” Although her tone remains polite, she looks a bit concerned that Noah and I might have plans to drag some third child into our makeshift family.
“No,” I say. “God, no. Hats off to people who can do it, but I’ve got my hands full.” I try to imagine the kind of parents who adopt older children, sick children, handicapped children from other countries, how huge their hearts—and bank accounts—must be. My old coworker Bianca adopted a little girl from China, and it cost her and her husband forty grand. Better than surrogacy, she told me when I expressed dismay at the price. That’ll set you back six figures. Until Bianca shared the details of their six-year baby ordeal, I’d never before considered the random good luck of my own fertility. It makes me sad to thi
nk of kind and capable parents like Vonda and Luis, unable to adopt from Mexico because of the cost.
“Well,” I say, now rethinking my decision to stand in a nicotine cloud, “I should probably go.”
Teresa turns abruptly toward me, her eyes glassy. “I loved your mother, you know. Maybe not the way she wanted to be loved. But I did love her.”
I’m not sure what exactly she’s confessing to here. “Were you and Donna involved?”
I expect her to take offense or commence evasive maneuvers, but to my surprise, she smiles wistfully. “No. I’m a nice little Catholic girl. Some things you just can’t change.” She fingers the cross around her neck. “Pam’s the only one who ever worried about that.”
So my mother did not die as the result of some sordid lesbian love triangle.
“But you do think Donna had—feelings for you?” I ask.
Teresa tilts her head to the side. “They weren’t for me. Not really. In my line of work, you get to be larger than life pretty quickly, and sometimes the people around you . . . well, they can’t distinguish between the person and the image.”
“Occupational hazard, I guess.”
“With fund-raising, it’s a gift, you know. People want to give us money. They make it easy. But personally?” She tosses her cigarette onto the pavement and crushes it carefully beneath the toe of her sandal. “I’ll never be the woman Donna thought I was. The woman everyone thinks I am. It’s hard to know that about yourself. I’m just this . . . fraud who can never measure up.”
She studies my reaction, appearing both exhilarated and frightened at having said this out loud.
“Imposter syndrome,” I murmur.
“What?”
“It happens to a lot of successful women.” I don’t tell her that when I was managing editor at Sophisticate we ran a whole series on the topic. “They think all their achievements are a result of luck. That they’ve conned people into believing they’re smarter or more talented than they really are.”
