by Hester Young
We sit there for a moment, not speaking, this strange thing looming between us. It occurs to me that awkward silence is not the reaction I would want from someone after revealing a long-held secret. “Carmen,” I say tentatively. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shrugs as though it doesn’t matter one way or another, and yet she begins to talk, the words spilling from her. “I was in my final year of college,” she says. “Noah’s landscaping business was kind of exploding, and we’d just gotten married. Neither one of us wanted kids, we were both clear about that, and then . . . I found out.”
“Why didn’t you tell him? Did you think . . . he wouldn’t have supported your decision?”
Carmen bites her lip. “We’d been fighting a lot. About me going to law school in Arizona.”
I remember what Noah said about long-distance marriages, how he didn’t recommend them. “That must have been hard.”
“They were offering me a full ride, a complete scholarship, and he wanted me to walk away. How could I do that? I was the first person in my family to go to college, and here the school was ready to pay for my degree. A law degree.” She shakes her head. “When the pregnancy happened, I didn’t know what he would want. But it didn’t matter. I knew what I wanted.” Her upturned chin relaxes somewhat when I don’t appear overtly shocked or appalled by this statement. “I guess I was scared,” she admits. “Scared that he’d use my pregnancy as an excuse to keep me in Texas. And then . . . I’d miss my chance.”
I try to imagine Noah using a child to control someone, squashing his partner’s professional ambitions to pursue his own. It doesn’t square with the man that I know, and yet I don’t discount Carmen’s version of events. The Noah that I know now may be quite unlike the twenty-one-year-old he was then. A person can change a lot in the course of a dozen years.
“You must have felt very alone,” I say. “Did you ever have regrets?”
“No,” she says. “Not really. I’ve never wanted to be a mother. I love my nieces and nephews, but that’s not the same. And my job is great. I’m good at it.”
I wait, sensing there’s more.
“I always wondered,” she acknowledges. “How life would be different if we’d had a kid. I mean, how could you not? Especially after Noah and I split up. It was just like, would we still be married? Would a kid have kept us together? Or maybe we’d have split up even sooner, I don’t know.”
“The road not taken.”
She stares at me for a second as if suddenly remembering who I am. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you.” Still, her own curiosity gets the better of her. “What did you mean when you said you ‘saw’ it? What did you see about me, exactly?”
I can’t tell her about the boy. That would be cruel, giving a gender, a face, to a possibility she walked away from so many years ago. Instead, I remember the boy’s words. She can’t forgive herself. She won’t let go. There was nothing accusatory in those words. No anger, just a statement of fact. I look at Carmen, watch as she nervously fingers her bracelet, and I can’t imagine the weight that she has been carrying all these years.
“I think what I saw was a message for you.”
She squints at me, skeptical but listening.
“The kid that you’ve been imagining all these years . . . you don’t have to punish yourself anymore. You can forgive yourself.”
“That’s it? Instant absolution?” She gives a low, shaky laugh. “Come on, how many Hail Marys should I say? I took a life. That’s a cardinal sin.”
“If Hail Marys are your thing, knock yourself out. But . . . you have your life, Carmen. You worked hard for it. And you can’t really live it if you’re always second-guessing one decision.”
She nods, thinking it over. “You really want your baby, don’t you?”
“Yes. I do.”
“And you lost a child.”
My hands ball up into fists. “This baby is not a replacement for Keegan,” I say. “It doesn’t work like that. Nothing will ever replace him, okay? There will never be a day I don’t miss him.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just meant . . . it’s hard to hate you. I mean, I do, kind of. But I don’t wish bad things on you. You’ve had enough.”
I wish that I could explain it to her. That my daughter is not a second chance but another chapter. “I didn’t even want another child,” I tell her. “I didn’t think I could handle it. I still don’t know if I can. But then here she is, and . . .” I rest my hands on my belly. “This is my baby. No matter how scared I am, I can’t help but love her. Maybe that’s hard for you to hear, but—”
“No,” she says. “Actually, that makes it easier.”
“Easier?”
Carmen’s voice is low and husky. “If I’d chosen to have a child with Noah, a child I didn’t really want . . . you wouldn’t be here right now. Waiting for a child you do want.” She looks up, and the lights of the bar reflect in her dark eyes. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Somehow, it all makes sense.”
Twenty-Five
I wake up the next morning to find Noah bent over his laptop, examining an accounting spreadsheet. “Been up since four,” he tells me, rubbing his screen-glazed eyes. “My sleep’s all off.”
I check the time, discover that Carmen’s already departed on an early flight. I don’t mention our encounter to Noah. Whatever we discussed last night was between her and me.
“So what’s the plan?” I yawn. “Are we heading back to Sidalie today?”
“Tomorrow,” he says, scrolling down an expense column. “We should have one more visit with Micky before we go. That Quico guy knows where she lives, and I don’t like it. We need to have a Stranger Danger talk with that kid.”
I don’t tell him that Vonda’s already been through all that with Micky. I want to encourage his fatherly instincts. Maybe they can make up for my own stiffness with my niece.
“I’ll call Vonda,” I suggest. “Micky’s got school today, but we could take her out for dinner.”
Noah doesn’t answer. An e-mail has just come in, something heavy-duty from the crease in his forehead.
“What is it?”
He doesn’t speak at first, just stares at his computer, frozen.
“Noah. You look shell-shocked. What happened?”
Finally, he gets up. Paces around our small hotel room. Takes a deep breath.
“An offer,” he says. “Pete Gantos made me an offer. He wants to buy the company.”
I don’t understand his slack-jawed reaction. “That’s great news, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t seem to hear me.
“Babe. Is he lowballing you? Were you hoping for more?”
“No,” he says, slowly emerging from his haze. “It’s a good offer. I just . . .” He sets his computer down on the bed and massages his temples. “I’ve spent my whole workin’ life buildin’ up the business, you know? And Pete . . . he’s got a lot to learn. I hand him the reins, he’ll run the place into the ground in a year.”
I don’t like the turn this is taking, the silent deliberation going on in his head. “So you’re not sure you want to sell?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hon.” Rescue this, Charlie, before it gets bad, I think. Talk him down. “You don’t really think you can effectively manage the business from Tucson, do you? Look how hard it’s been the last week or two. The company needs a hands-on owner.”
“Yeah. I can’t do that from Tucson.”
I wait, but he says nothing more. Panic flares up inside my chest as I realize what this could mean. Still, I keep my voice steady, try to extract an honest answer from him. “Are you having second thoughts about moving?”
He tugs on his fingers, cracking his knuckles. “We’re not locked into anything,” he says. “We haven’t done the home inspection yet. We could still cancel the contract fo
r the house.”
“That’s what you want? To cancel the contract and head back to Sidalie?” I know, as soon as the words leave my mouth, that I can’t do it. I can’t go back. “What about Micky? You were so gung-ho about adoption.”
“We could still adopt her. It would just take longer.”
I don’t respond. What is there left to say? We’re on the verge of several major life changes, and he’s getting cold feet.
“Fine,” he says, reading the disapproval in my silence. “I’ll sell the company if that’s what you want. You left behind some things to be with me, you want me to lose somethin’, too. Fair’s fair, I guess.”
I am not about to let him saddle me with that kind of lifelong resentment, the years of big bad Charlie made me give away my company sulks. “This isn’t a contest for who can be the biggest martyr, Noah. At some point, if neither of us is getting what we really want, maybe we aren’t meant to be together.”
He lets out a long sigh. “That’s not what I was sayin’. It’s just that I’ve been in Sidalie mosta my life. I like it there. It works for me, you know?”
“It hasn’t been working for me,” I say quietly.
“Because you haven’t given it a chance.”
“I’ve been giving it a chance for months.” His failure to recognize my efforts is the biggest insult of all. “I’ve been trying to fit into your life, Noah, I really have. But at the end of the day, it’s still your life, not mine. It’s the life you had with Carmen.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with that life!”
“It’s wrong for me!” Tears prick my eyes. “Why are you doing this? We had a plan. We were going to move here for Micky, to keep her life consistent. What’s changed?”
Noah draws in a breath, internally debating whether or not to say something before going for broke. “Did you ever think that maybe you’re usin’ Micky as an excuse to get outta Sidalie?”
“Wait . . . what?” If he’s trying to derail our argument, this accusation is certainly effective.
“You’ve been tellin’ me all along you weren’t sure about us takin’ her,” Noah says. “And I kept pushin’. But maybe you’re right. Maybe we’re not the ones.”
“What are you talking about? Micky loves you.”
“I’m only half the equation, Charlie.” He can’t look at me as he speaks. “Every time we’re with Micky, you get this wall around you. This spaced-out look like you wish you were somewhere else. That kid needs someone to show up for her, to show up big. And I don’t know if it’s you.”
I don’t know either. I’ve never known. I’ve relied on Noah’s confidence, Noah’s faith in me, to propel us forward, and now even Noah has his doubts. What does that say about me? If I can’t rise to the challenge of raising Micky, what kind of person am I? What kind of shriveled, damaged heart will I bestow upon my baby daughter? Has Keegan’s death left me too bereft to fully give myself to another? There are no words. I slip into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Turn on the shower. Slump to the bathroom floor and wonder what will happen when our daughter’s born.
I remember the vision I had of Noah and Micky in the new house, his putting her to bed, and begin to cry. Hot, ugly, wreck-your-face tears that just won’t stop.
I thought I knew where we were going. I thought we were going there together. But maybe the future is fluid, not fixed. Throw one pebble, and maybe you’ve transformed the surface, altered everything.
Maybe my path is one I’m meant to walk alone.
• • •
CURLED UP IN A BALL by the hotel pool, I almost ignore Pam’s call. Trying to sound normal on the phone with Vonda was hard enough. I’m not sure I can handle Pam’s probing questions and nose for trouble. But the prospect of wallowing in my own heartache proves worse. I pick up on the eighth ring, right before she gets kicked to voice mail.
“How’s it going?” Pam asks, immediately jumping to the one topic I’d rather avoid. “Any news with Noah?”
“He’s out,” I say. “They released him yesterday.”
“That’s great news. Glad you got things sorted.” Pam doesn’t guilt me for not telling her sooner. “I wish I could’ve pulled some strings, but I don’t have an in with Homeland Security. Those HSI guys, they do their own thing.”
“How about you?” I ask, shielding my face from the sun. In my scramble to leave the hotel room, I forgot to grab my sunglasses. Now, squinting myself into a headache, I regret my haste. “Did you do some digging on Marilena or Quico?”
“Did my best. You want to hear it?”
“Shoot.”
“So I’ve got a Francisco Ortega, fifty years old, losing a little hair on top. Works for the Sonoran Office of Family Rights. Sound like your man?”
“That’s him,” I confirm. “But what’s the Office of Family Rights? I thought he’d be a lawmaker or something.”
“Nope. Basically, his office deals with some pretty messed-up families and tries to figure out where to put the kids.”
“You mean like Child Protective Services?” I’m thinking of Yulissa, wondering what will happen to Lety’s sister if I don’t get involved.
“Yeah, it’s pretty much the same crap we’ve got here,” Pam assures me. “Reunification, placement with a relative or in a children’s home. They pass along some of the really hard-luck cases to American families. Your Quico guy, for example, works with a lot of disabled kids.”
I remember what Teresa said, that Americans can legally adopt young children from Mexico only if the kids are disabled or ill and unable to receive care in their own country. Finding homes for unwanted children does not seem like the sort of work that a murderer of pregnant teenage girls would gravitate toward. Could this man really be tied to Lety’s death?
“That’s it? That’s all you found?”
“He does a lot of philanthropic work on the side, raising money for single mothers in poverty. That’s his association with Sonora Hope.”
“That doesn’t sound terribly threatening,” I admit.
“On paper, Francisco Ortega is an upstanding guy,” Pam says. “And he definitely didn’t kill Donna.”
“How do you know?”
“He was at a fund-raiser that night in Hermosillo.”
The doors to the pool area open, and I glance over, hopeful that Noah has come after me. Instead, a man with an earring hustles his two boys out to the other side of the pool.
“What about Marilena?” I ask, closing my eyes. “Did you get anything on her?”
“Harder to track,” Pam says. “She’s thirty-seven years old, been operating that hotel for about four years now. The building’s in her name. No sign of her for several years before that, but there wouldn’t be, not if she was living in Tirabichi. As far as I could find, she’s Sonora Hope’s poster child.”
“Could she have been in Tucson the night Donna and Jasmine were killed?”
“There’s nothing to suggest she was.”
I can’t conceal my frustration. “She and Quico can’t both be squeaky clean. Didn’t Donna ever say anything about her? Something off, something she didn’t like?”
“Are you kidding?” Pam snorts. “Donna loved that woman. Marilena was her ground soldier in Nogales. She brought a lot of women into the program.”
A splash. Something wet hits me in the face. My eyes flicker open, and I realize belatedly that I’m the victim of synchronized cannonballs. The boys peer up at me from the pool’s turquoise waters, grinning at their handiwork. Embarrassed, their father barks out a scolding.
I don’t know what to think. Could I have invented this whole thing in my head? Misinterpreted Quico’s exchange with the CBP officer and my conversation with Marilena in room 2? Neither one of them has shown any demonstrable signs of violence or ill intent. I’m still troubled by Quico’s visit to Micky, but if he knew Donna, p
erhaps he was just checking on her grandchild. My conspiracy theories hinge solely on a dream.
“Do you think I’m way off base here, Pam?”
Her voice is measured and smooth, an answer unto itself. “I have no doubt you guys ran into trouble at the border, that some dick running a little weed set you up. Whether Francisco Ortega was involved . . . well, we don’t have any evidence of that.”
I’m quiet, watching the boys attempt handstands in the shallow end.
“I might have something to make you feel better,” Pam says. “Something big.”
“What’s that?”
I can hear the grin in her voice, her teeth flashing like a Cheshire cat’s. “I’ll pick you up at three,” she says, “and you’ll see.”
• • •
MY EXCHANGE WITH NOAH is a frosty one.
“I’m going out with Pam this afternoon,” I tell him.
“Fine.” He doesn’t look up from his computer. “I’ll stay here and work.”
“I figured. I know how important your work is to you.”
He ignores the snipe.
“Vonda said we can take Micky to dinner at five thirty,” I say. “If I’m not showing up big enough for you two, then please, send me home early.”
I wait for him to tell me he was wrong, that everything he said earlier about my lack of warmth toward Micky was a mistake, or at least join the fight I’m picking. All I get is, “Five thirty, got it.” He continues messing with his computer, shutting me out, shutting me down, until I finally drift away in a cloud of my own dissatisfaction.
At precisely three o’clock, Pam shows up in her beat-up white Wrangler. I don’t recognize her at first. She’s wearing a baseball cap, the visor pushed low over her sunglasses, and a plain white tank top that shows off her tats and gym arms.
“That’s quite the getup,” I observe. “You working undercover today?”
It’s a joke, but Pam remains straight-faced. “Pretty much.”
Uh-oh, I think.
She drives us to a swanky-for-Tucson restaurant with a French name that she mispronounces, and I know even before we enter the establishment that she’s underdressed. Fashion cluelessness, it would appear, is something my mother’s partner has in common with my own. No wonder Donna admired Teresa—poise and grooming were in short supply at home.
