The Shimmering Road

by Hester Young

  “All anyone could ask,” I say. “Now go get Micky. We’ve got to tell her.”

  It won’t be easy, I know. Newborns are hard. Micky, with everything she’s been through, will be even harder. But at least we have a chance. A chance to be reasonably-happy-with-the-occasional-road-bump ever after. That’s worth fighting for.

  I watch him go, hope taking root in my chest and spreading upward. This is not the life that I imagined for us when we first left Louisiana. But I think it’s the one we’re meant to have.

  Noah has been gone scarcely five minutes when I hear a polite knock, although the door to my room is open. A doctor?

  I glance over and spot a man standing in the doorway. Though there’s something familiar about the broad shoulders and receding hairline, it’s the pink collared shirt with its splashy hula-girl print that gives him away. I draw in a sharp breath.

  Quico.

  “Ms. Cates. I am so glad to see you are recovering.” His genial tone does not sound like it belongs to a man who covers up the murder of pregnant women or frames innocent Americans for drug possession. He looks like he should be barbecuing ribs in a backyard somewhere or scratching a large, good-natured dog behind the ears.

  I glance around my hospital bed, trying to locate a button that might call in the nurse, but Quico holds up a hand.

  “Please, no need to be alarmed. I want no trouble with you. I thought we might talk.” His speech is so careful, his accent so precise—not at all what I would’ve expected from this man with a penchant for tacky Hawaiian shirts.

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “No?” He arches an eyebrow. “How surprising. I imagined that you would have . . . questions for me.”

  “I don’t even know who you are.” It’s a lie, and we both know it.

  “How rude of me.” With a knowing smile, he offers me his hand. “Francisco Ortega. I’m the director of the Sonoran Office of Family Rights.”

  “The Office of Family Rights, huh?” I don’t take his hand. “Nice shirt.”

  He glances down at the hula girls and laughs. “I’ll tell my daughter you said so.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “I’m color-blind. She picks all my clothes.”

  The fact that he has children momentarily throws me, though it shouldn’t. “Why are you here?”

  “To apologize for my associates,” he says. “They’ve behaved badly.”

  “You mean Teresa and Marilena?”

  He nods. “Their actions don’t reflect well on me, I know. I want to assure you that I’m handling this problem.”

  “Handling it how?” I sit up a little straighter, try to maintain my dignity despite the too-short hospital gown. “Is Marilena going to turn up dead next?”

  He gives me a look of mild offense. “That is not how I deal with my problems, señora. What I’m going to do is much simpler. I will end this service that we provided and find some other way to help the families of the Sonoran state.”

  “You mean no more selling babies.”

  “It will disappoint a great many people, I’m afraid, but it seems prudent, in light of . . . these unfortunate incidents.”

  “Why are you here? What does this have to do with me?”

  “It has nothing to do with you. And yet, you’ve been quite curious about these matters, haven’t you?”

  “Curious?” I manage a thin laugh. “Sure, I’ll admit I had a few questions. But I think I’ve got the general gist of things now, thanks.”

  “In my country, we do not value curiosity as you Americans do.”

  “I gathered that. When you planted drugs on my boyfriend, that really drove the point home.”

  He only shrugs. “Your friend Albert told Teresa you intended to write an article about Lety’s death. And then—you showed up at Marilena’s hotel. One shouldn’t approach the hive and then complain of a sting. I had to act, Ms. Cates.”

  I still can’t discern his intentions. “You put an awful lot of energy into intimidating me. Are you afraid of me, Quico?”

  He settles into the chair beside the bed, the one that Noah just vacated, and regards me gravely. “I think you misunderstand. I’m afraid for you. You’re a bright woman, soon to have two young and vulnerable children. Your lover, he is free from jail. You have nothing to gain and everything to lose.”

  “What are you saying? You want me to turn a blind eye to everything that’s happened?” Anger eclipses my fear. I can’t forget the shower in room 2, the blood swelling beneath my hands as I realized my baby had been shot. “Lety is dead,” I tell him. “Her child never took a breath.”

  He remains solemn. “Justice comes from a divine hand, señora. You and I, we’re only human. Leave it to our maker to punish the bad.”

  “But Marilena—”

  “Marilena made a reckless decision, and not one I endorsed.”

  “You knew. You knew what she did, and you did nothing. You knew about Teresa, too, didn’t you? That she killed Donna and Jasmine.”

  “I’ve always let Teresa handle her own affairs,” he says calmly. “It’s a good policy. Nonintervention. I suggest you practice it.”

  I’m quiet for a moment, working through my options. I could shout my story from the rooftops, write a fiery exposé, and maybe someone would listen. Maybe there would even be an investigation, a scandal, a little international brouhaha. Maybe dozens of children born in Mexico and illegally adopted by Americans would be torn from the families who raised them and returned to their country of origin, all the opportunities that came with their American citizenship abruptly rescinded.

  If I speak out, who will I help? More important, who will I hurt?

  “Teresa is dead,” Quico reminds me. “Your mother and your sister—they have been avenged. What can you hope to win now?”

  It’s a good question, and one I find that I can answer.

  “Two things,” I say slowly, still working through the details as I speak. “My silence isn’t free.”

  “And here I thought you were a woman of such high principles.” He clucks his tongue. “I don’t advise blackmail. Blackmail caused Lety all her trouble.”

  “I don’t want money. Just a couple favors. Nothing a man like you can’t handle.”

  He gives a low, benevolent chuckle. “What is it you want?”

  “Ruben Ramos,” I begin. “Micky’s father. I want him released from prison.”

  “Ruben Ramos,” he repeats. “I don’t know this name.”

  “He was arrested in Puerto Peñasco on some bogus sexual assault charges. There was some suspicion that he might be involved in Jasmine’s murder. Obviously, he wasn’t. I trust you have the judicial connections to clear his name?”

  “Sexual assault?” Quico gives me an amicable smile. “I think I can manage that. And your second request?”

  I take a deep breath and tell him what I want. He listens carefully and accepts my terms. Extends his hand as if to seal our deal.

  I stare down at his hand, the fine dark hairs on his knuckles, the thick gold wedding ring. Can I really make this dirty bargain? Is there any better choice?

  Quico cocks his head to one side, sensing my hesitation. “I’m a nice man, señora. A family man, not so different from yourself. Today, I can give you something that you want. Take this now, this offer. Better to get something you want than something you don’t.”

  I’m a fighter by nature, not the kind to sit idly by after witnessing such a flagrant abuse of power. But in this case, who would I be fighting for? I can’t get Lety back. Can’t resurrect my mother or my sister. Quico inhabits a world I’ll never understand, a world built upon corruption. He plays by different rules. Two small victories and the safety of my family—it’s more, I suspect, than some walk away from this man with.

  I swallow back the bitter taste in my
throat and put my hand in his. We shake.

  PART VII

  Tucson, Arizona

  December

  2012

  Thirty-Three

  The house is ready. The floor has been cleared of stuffed animals and burp rags, board books and baby gear. Any unpacked boxes have been stashed in closets or under beds, out of sight if not mind.

  And I may have overdone it with all the decorations.

  Balloons congregate on the living room ceiling, trailing their ribbons, and twisty orange and yellow streamers form trippy spiderwebs around the room. The fruity walls we haven’t yet repainted add yet another layer of color to this madness. A large sign that Noah and I penned hangs across the mantel: WELCOME, MICKY!

  Today is the day. Today Micky leaves Vonda’s loving care, and our family is complete.

  We’ve planned a modest little gathering to mark the occasion, invited the folks who have made our move to Arizona bearable. I’m no hero. With the exception of some deviled eggs that Noah proudly slopped together, all the food has been purchased. I’m too tired, too strung out on life with an infant to pass myself off as some domestic goddess. Since my book was released back in September, I’ve been swamped with publicity work, and then my daughter came, landing in our lives with all the subtlety of a grenade.

  It’s been a lot to juggle, though in some respects, not as difficult as I’d feared. Though the media has been happy to consume my biography of Louisiana’s wealthy Deveau family, my own family drama has generated very little interest at all.

  There were a few news stories in the beginning, local coverage that focused mainly on Teresa’s desert showdown with a TPD veteran. Several journalists wrote profiles of Teresa’s life, mostly pieces of the tragic-fall-from-grace variety that suggested her challenging childhood had forever damaged her. Other articles examined the tenuous future of the Sonora Hope organization as a whole now that the reputation of its charismatic founder was forever tarnished. In the end, the two women Teresa killed warranted only a brief mention.

  Police never did nail down a motive for Donna and Jasmine’s murders, which made the story less attractive to national outlets. Believed to be a work-related dispute, some sources said. Others attributed the murders to drugs, mentioned Donna’s lifelong problems with addiction, theorized Teresa had been under the influence.

  Jasmine was nothing but a footnote in the whole affair. She wasn’t rich, didn’t have a bright future laid out before her or that shiny blond goodness that people like to see in victims. She was just another anonymous woman dead too soon.

  In some strange way, I came to value my sister’s life only when I saw how little anyone else did. Here was a young woman with few advantages, raised by a neglectful mother, pregnant herself at twenty and then abandoned by the baby’s father, and yet she’d kept on. She worked her crappy mall jobs, dutifully filled out the paperwork for public assistance, ensured that Micky had housing and clothes. There is something strangely heroic about carrying on when the world thinks that you are disposable. Jasmine wasn’t a good mother, by any stretch of the imagination, but whatever mistakes she made, she raised a great kid. I can forgive the rest.

  As I look around our tacky, decked-out living room, I wonder what Jasmine would’ve thought of all of this. Was she the type to get sentimental about holidays and special occasions, or would she have rolled her eyes at our handmade sign? I’ll never know.

  “She’s fallin’ asleep,” Noah says from behind me. “What do I do?”

  I turn to find him jiggling our daughter in his arms, his forehead creased with worry.

  “If she’s tired, let her snooze,” I tell him. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “But everyone’s gonna want to see her,” he frets. “And all the noise—it’ll wake her up.”

  “They’ve all seen a crying baby before. Just put her down in the bouncy seat. It’ll be fine.”

  The care he takes when he straps her in makes me smile—that look of concentration and concern, always afraid he’ll screw something up. You will, I want to tell him. We all do, over and over.

  For weeks, I couldn’t believe that we had survived that long, dark desert night at all. I’d awaken at dawn and watch the moon fade from the sky, moved to tears by the sight of another sunrise. Tash and mashath, Pam told me. The sun and moon. And then, if you’re lucky, the sun again.

  That was how I chose my daughter’s name.

  “Tasha,” I told Noah. “What about Tasha?”

  “Sweet and simple,” he said, before I could even explain the significance. “I like it.”

  She came in late September, two days before her due date, weighing a respectable seven pounds, seven ounces. Enduring the sting of a bark scorpion did absolutely nothing for my pain tolerance, as it turned out: I still hollered for that epidural.

  Tasha Palmer-Cates is now fully alert in her bouncy chair, despite her father’s prediction of sleep. She doesn’t resemble Keegan as a baby. She’s neither blond nor bright-eyed, but instead a small replica of her father: dark hair, dark eyes, and a face more square than round, which is accentuated by her rather flat head. I watch her small fingers grasp at the air before balling into a fist. Noah needn’t have worried about her napping. Tasha seems to know that guests are coming and wants to be part of the action.

  When Vonda arrives, our daughter breaks out an enormous gummy smile. What a ham.

  It’s a small crew that we’ve assembled, but a good one: Vonda and Luis, Daniel Quijada, Albert Mangusson, and Pam. Albert’s son has come along, and though he was initially unenthused to be dragged to some boring adult function, he has since paired up with Bryce, Vonda and Luis’s foster child, and the two boys are running around the backyard, whooping it up. It feels good, the sound of children playing in this house.

  Micky, our guest of honor, sits quietly on the sidelines, observing all the activity with a solemn expression. I don’t try to draw her into the group. Like a frightened wild animal, she’ll come when ready. And who could blame her for being nervous? On this day she is acquiring a new home, two new parents—foster parents on paper, but with more permanent designs on her—and an infant sister to boot.

  Part of me wonders if we’ve made a mistake in making a big deal of this, but then Micky comes up beside me, one finger in her mouth, and offers a shy smile. “Did you get me a cake?” she asks.

  “Chocolate,” I say, and her smile broadens.

  I can’t help but wish, in some impossible, aching way, that Keegan were here to share in this day. He and Micky would’ve made quite the pair, his exuberance and her gravity the perfect yin and yang. Instead, he will always be the missing piece, a child neither Noah nor my girls will ever know, though he forever shaped me as a mother.

  I make my rounds, catching up with guests, plying them with food, answering questions about Micky’s schooling and Tasha’s sleep cycles. Pam isn’t usually one for babies, but she’s feeling sentimental today. She lays Tasha down on her chest, the index finger on her right hand conspicuously missing as she cradles Tasha’s head. Tasha, Micky, and me—we are the pieces of Donna that remain. We are the family that she bequeathed to Pam.

  I’ll always have questions about Donna DeRossi, but after helping Pam clean out her condo last week, I have something more. In a drawer of old letters and important documents, I found three issues from my tenure at Sophisticate: February 2002, October 2005, March 2009. I knew their significance immediately—each masthead reflected a new promotion for me at the magazine. Associate editor. Features editor. Managing editor.

  It is bittersweet to know that, from her distant city in the desert, my mother was watching me make my way in the world, silently rooting for my success.

  Across the room, Tasha’s eyes have begun to droop. Pam strokes her head and speaks to her quietly, lulling my daughter to sleep with her words. “What a special day.” Vonda appears at my side and su
rveys the room with me. “We’ll miss Micky, but I’m so happy for her. For all of you.”

  “And your family?” I touch her wrist, eager for an update. “How’s Yulissa?”

  “Good!” Vonda breaks into a megawatt grin. “She’s good! We went to visit her again last week. Luis and I, we’re very optimistic. The papers are coming along at lightning speed, at least as far as this stuff goes. Mr. Ortega has really been a godsend.”

  Not exactly a godsend, I think, but I’m glad to hear that Quico is holding up his end of our deal. “And Yulissa still wants to leave Nogales?”

  “She’s been praying for it,” Vonda says. “Literally, praying. For years. Her sister, the one who died, was always talking about coming to the States. So when Luis and I showed up, she thought it was a sign, a gift from . . .” She trails off, too choked up to finish the thought. “She’s scared, of course. But she said her sister would be so proud.”

  I only hope Yulissa’s story has a happier ending than Lety’s. “It’s a big adjustment for a kid.”

  “Sure,” Vonda agrees. “I’ve seen plenty of kids over the years from all kinds of crazy home situations, and you really never know. But she’s a bright kid, Charlie. A nice kid. Nice goes farther in this world than a lot of people think.” She’s so hopeful, something in her shining when she speaks about this girl, and I think that maybe the bargain I made with Quico was a good one if it brings these two together.

  But I’ll always have my doubts. Never be sure that I made the right call.

  It’s almost time for Micky’s cake, but first I have to hunt down Albert’s son and Bryce, hustle everyone inside to participate. I dash onto the patio, calling their names.

  The boys burst out from behind a rock, and I shoo them toward the door with promises of dessert. I’m about to follow them in when I hear a noise coming from the hot tub, the sound of jets. I glance over and nearly have a conniption when I notice that the cover has been pulled back.

  Were the boys goofing around in here without permission? What were they thinking? Someone could’ve drowned!