Chapter Four
Amid the social and political turmoil something more personal happened to distract me: I became pregnant in the spring of 1980. Almost as soon as I got the positive test results from the lab, I had a miscarriage. I was crushed. But a few months later I was pregnant again. My in-laws were ecstatic. I was finally going to do something worthwhile: I would have Federico's baby. I was the typical glowing mother-to-be. Except for some morning sickness during the first trimester, my pregnancy was problem-free. I was proud of my growing belly.
I kept my job teaching English at the Bank of America until the Christmas break. Then, during long afternoons at home, I taught myself to crochet and made little blankets out of granny squares. My proudest creation was a white doll-sized blanket with tiny satin ribbons woven through it. Then I ambitiously crocheted a cap to match. It came out impossibly small—it would've fit snugly over a large orange—and everyone who saw it laughed and said it would be much too little for the baby.
I faithfully kept my doctor's appointments and followed his advice to the letter: no drinking, no smoking, no salt, plenty of vitamins. But during the last two months of my pregnancy, sonograms showed that the baby had nearly stopped growing. Neither the pediatrician nor the obstetrician knew why. Maybe it was because the oxygen was very thin in La Paz, because of the altitude, and I wasn't getting enough oxygen to the baby. Maybe the placenta was too small. Anyway, they decided that as soon as the baby was due, it should be born—it was just too dangerous for it to remain inside.
So on a Friday night, April 10, 1981, Federico drove me to the hospital. I was hooked up to an intravenous drip to induce labor. By Saturday night I had been in labor all day and my water had burst, but there was still no dilation. My doctor frowned and shook his head, but said we would wait a while longer. By Sunday at noon, I had not eaten for two days and had been in labor for a day and a half. Dr. Teran announced that we couldn't wait any longer. I'd have to undergo a C-section.
"All those wasted Lamaze classes!" I squeezed Federico's hand and then was whisked to the operating room, where he wasn't allowed. There was a blur of green-clad nurses and doctors. I was awake but groggy. It all happened so fast. Within a few minutes, there was forceful tugging, then a hard push below the ribs. Then the scream of a newborn baby split the air.
"Es una nina!" someone said. The nurse stood beside me holding a tiny wrapped bundle, and I smiled up at the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen. It was a moment like no other. She tipped the scales at just five pounds, and had a perfectly round little head—just about the size of a large orange. (The cap I had crocheted fit.)
Hours later, when I could finally hold her for the first time, I knew I didn't have to worry anymore about what kind of mother I would be. Cradling her soft body against me and gazing into her serene face, her purplish veins visible through the translucent skin of her eyelids, I felt a fierce, protective love I'd never felt before. For the first time I could understand how a lioness or mother bear could kill or be killed to protect her young.
We named her Jane, after my mother. She was so tiny and needed feedings so often that for the first few weeks after we got home, we kept her beside our bed in a Moses basket. Before putting her down to sleep, I'd carry her in my arms and sing lullabies. The feel of her head heavy on my shoulder filled me with tenderness. I was awed that I'd been entrusted with the care of this fragile, helpless little being. I wanted to be the best mother I could be.
Jane grew rapidly and was—to me, anyway—infinitely precious and beautiful. As she grew, she was a happy and friendly toddler. She'd hold out her chubby arms to anyone, friend or stranger, human or animal. I started reading aloud to her when she was six months old, and her little green eyes would stare at the colorful pictures on the pages. At the same time I was careful not to spoil her or be overprotective. This child would grow up unafraid and independent. I devoured books and articles on raising children. I wanted to do everything right.
When Jane was five months old, I had gone on a long overdue visit home and spent three blissful months with my parents in Austin. When I'd gotten off the plane in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, laden with baby and luggage, the airport hostess asked, "Honey, could you use some help?" I was so glad to hear that familiar Texas twang that I almost hugged her. I was home.
On the ride home with my stepmother Nita and Daddy, I marveled at the tidy streets and the green manicured lawns of Austin. In my absence, the supermarkets had gone high-tech: now there were price scanners, some with human voices, and aisles and aisles of new products. A whole lexicon of catchwords had sprung up: what was a yuppie, a Pac-man? There was a bewildering alphabet of abbreviations I didn't know: what was a VCR, a PC, MTV? How did a microwave oven work? And what in heck was a Cabbage Patch doll? I was in culture shock for days, fascinated and a little overwhelmed by all the changes that had taken place in just three years.
I spent lazy days pulling weeds in the yard, with Jane in her ruffled sun rompers sitting on a blanket beside me. I spent lazy afternoons napping under the hum of the air conditioner. We arrived in August and stayed through Daddy's birthday on October 31. Federico joined us for the last two weeks of our stay. He had sold our Ford in La Paz for three times what we'd paid for it. We went on a shopping spree, buying clothes, a TV, a VCR, and a year's supply of everything from toothpaste to pantyhose. We had a long list of requests from friends and family in Bolivia. Our visit ended all too soon and in early November we were landing again in La Paz.
When she was a year old, I got pregnant again, and nine months later she had a baby brother, Michael. From the beginning there seemed to be a special closeness between them. In the hospital Jane gently laid her head against Michael's and grinned happily. I was alert to the possibility of sibling jealousy, but I never saw any signs of it. Michael was tiny at birth, too, but within six weeks he was robust and apple-cheeked.
When they were old enough, we started going on daily walks, Michael in a stroller and Jane toddling alongside. Our favorite destination was the foot of a nearby hill where a pool of water was usually teeming with tadpoles. Over the weeks we watched the tadpoles develop into frogs. I delighted in the children's sense of wonder at all the new things they were discovering.
Federico adored Jane and Michael. When he was home he would toss them into the air and cuddle them. But most of the time, they were already asleep by the time he got home from work at eight or nine. He didn't see much of me, either. He was content with his work, and I was occupied with raising two small children. It would've been a Herculean task without maids to help. Since we didn't have disposable diapers, one of the maids washed diapers and plastic pants every day, along with all the other clothes that a baby goes through. When both Jane and Michael were still in diapers things could get pretty hectic. Since I didn't have household chores to do, I could devote myself completely to taking care of the children.
Eventually, since I wasn't working, I got involved in other activities. Before Michael was born, I'd take Jane with me to the La Paz Community Church, where I'd play the piano in the big empty sanctuary while Jane crawled around on the floor. Sometimes I served as the substitute pianist in church, and a couple of times a week I'd help out in the church office answering the phone and typing the weekly bulletin. The ladies' auxiliary ran a thrift shop and once a week we'd sort and price used clothes.
But my favorite activity was the monthly book club. The La Paz Book Club meetings provided an opportunity for American, British and other English-speaking women to get together, eat home-baked goodies, and visit. We often had programs with speakers, after which we'd hear club members review the latest books. I’ve always loved to read. When I wasn't taking care of the kids, I was sitting on my bed with a book in one hand and a cup of café con leche in the other.
It was a pretty cushy life, all told, and I enjoyed it. But after a while it didn't seem quite real. It got so that the lives of the characters in the books seemed more real than my own. My life revolved around
my children, my books, and the all too rare letter from home.
When Michael was eight months old, I was offered a job with Food Aid International, a relief and development organization with an office in La Paz. I wasn't ready to go back to work—I thought the children were still too young. But Federico and my in-laws talked me into taking the job. After all, it paid the unheard-of salary of $500 U.S. per month. I'd be crazy, they said, to turn it down. So I took it.
I became the coordinator for a child sponsorship program called Caring for Children. Through funds from sponsors in the U.S., Caring for Children supplied needy children with school supplies, shoes, and medical care. Sometimes it sponsored development projects to benefit an entire community. It was my job to plan and coordinate the program. It was the most challenging, interesting, rewarding, and frustrating job I'd ever had.
Meanwhile, Federico and I were beginning to grow further and further apart. He had his Bolivian friends; mine were predominantly American. When we talked, it was either about his work (he talked, I listened), or about the kids (I talked, he listened). I craved affection and warmth and attention, but he was too deeply involved with his other interests to notice. One afternoon I got an anonymous phone call from someone who claimed that Federico was having an affair with the pretty daughter of his boss. When I asked him about it, Federico brushed it off, saying that it must have been one of the union members at the factory trying to make trouble for him. I chose to believe him.
By then we'd been in Bolivia for more than five years. Most of the American-Bolivian couples we knew when we'd first come to Bolivia had either split up or moved back to the United States. That we'd managed to stay together was no small feat in those times. But I felt increasingly isolated. I didn't remind Federico anymore that the two-year deadline for staying in Bolivia had long since passed. I knew that the more I complained, the more stubborn he would be. I decided to bide my time. One day he'd see for himself how bad things were and what a dead end it was, not only for me but for him, too.
The turning point came when Federico was taken hostage at the factory by union members. Amid much media coverage he was released unharmed two days later. It was that episode that prompted him to decide that it was time to go back to the United States.
It took a year of red tape for Federico to renew his resident's card. Finally all his documents were in order. We had a huge house sale and sold everything that wouldn't fit into our suitcases. Finally, we arrived in Austin. It was June 1985. My father set us up in a mobile home, rent-free, and Federico set about looking for work.
Things weren't as easy as we'd expected. The thrill of being home again quickly wore off as the hard realities of starting over set in.
By August our savings had dwindled so much that I took a job as a legal secretary to support us. Seven months later, in January, Federico was finally offered a job with a large clothing manufacturer. We had to relocate to its plant in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas.
So in January 1986 we moved to McAllen, a small city on the Mexican border. Federico was soon absorbed completely in his new job and I stayed home and took care of Jane and Michael, now three and four. Since I wasn't working, I had plenty of time to think. Up until then I'd been so busy struggling to work and raise children and deal with the everyday problems of simple survival that I'd put off facing up to the problems in our marriage. I'd thought that after the stresses of living in Bolivia were behind us, our marital problems would magically disappear. Instead it brought them into sharper focus. I took a close look at our marriage and saw how hollow it was. Federico and I were barely friends and only infrequent lovers. Our single common bond, and the only topic we could discuss without arguing, was the children.
For years I'd been frustrated with our relationship. Then I'd felt guilty for not being more content. After all, Federico didn't drink, beat me up, or chase women, at least, not that I knew of. He wasn't a bad person. So we had communication problems. So we didn't have much in common. So he was critical and took me for granted. Wasn't that true of many marriages? But it seemed that no matter how hard I tried to make things better, it was never enough.
Yet, I argued with myself, marriage was a commitment. I'd promised eight years ago to stay with him, for better or worse. The fact it had gotten worse was no excuse to bail out. So I pushed away my feelings and went on being the dutiful wife.
One day in the summer of 1986 I read that the book editor of the local McAllen newspaper wanted readers to send in book reviews. I wrote one and sent it in. Susan Espinoza, the editor, called me about my review. Beginning with that first telephone conversation we became friends.
Susan was a redhead from New England. She was a Yale graduate who spent her childhood summers at her parents’ place in Maine. While she was working in Washington, D.C., she fell in love with one of her coworkers, a man from South Texas. They got married and, two children later, here she was, living in a modest house in the sweltering Rio Grande Valley. Susan was cheerful, funny, and outspoken, plus she liked books as much as I did. We became good friends.
She encouraged my writing, and when she went on vacation for three weeks, she asked me to take her place as book editor. The newspaper office—even in McAllen—was an exciting place, full of interesting characters. I'd always thought it would be exciting to be a reporter, and here I was rubbing elbows with them. Around this time I started taking ballet class again, too. It was exciting to be doing the things I loved again.
But Federico wasn't happy about it. He seemed to resent anything that took me away from him, although when I was there he didn't pay much attention to me. Maybe it was a cultural thing, one more thing we didn’t understand about each other.
Now that Federico had completed several months’ training as a manager, his employer announced they wanted to transfer him and his family to their factory in the Dominican Republic. Everything in me rebelled against going. The time had come to make a decision. Would I be the supportive wife and once again put aside what was important to me in order to follow him? Or would I be selfish and go after what made me happy? There was a "right" choice, which filled me with despair, and a "wrong" choice, which filled me with hope and joy. Finally, I decided I would tell Federico that I wanted to stay behind with the kids while he went to the Dominican Republic.
To my surprise, Federico saved me the trouble. He said we needed to have a talk. That evening, as soon as the kids were in bed, he faced me on the sofa and said, "I think I should go to the Dominican Republic by myself and you should stay here with the kids." Relief flooded through me. "We haven't been getting along for a long time, and I think we need to be apart and think things through. Besides, it would be better for Jane to finish her first semester in kindergarten here."
He went on, explaining how it would take all his concentration to learn his new job there, that his career was riding on it, and that he didn't need the fights and hassles with me to distract him.
When he finally finished, I told him I agreed. We calmly discussed what he would take with him and what I would keep, and how much money he would send us each month. Then we agreed that at Christmas we'd discuss what to do next, whether to part ways or reunite in the Dominican Republic. We both admitted that we were tired of the fighting and needed peace and quiet to think things through. It was all neatly and civilly decided.
But we didn't count on opposition from his company. It was against its policy to relocate an employee without his family. They gave him an ultimatum—he could either go to the D.R. with his wife and children or be fired. Rather than cause him to lose his job, I agreed to go with him. We'd stay long enough for him to establish his position there, and then separate as planned. It was a stunning blow when the company fired him anyway. Around that time they were laying off a lot of managers, and since Federico was relatively new and giving them some cause for unease he was expendable.
After that Federico changed his mind about the separation. He didn't want to go through with it after all. He hadn't meant wh
at he'd said earlier; he'd only been angry at me. For the first time in our relationship, he was the one doing the apologizing. He blamed himself for spending years too preoccupied with his job to pay attention to me, for being emotionally remote, and for other problems.
A few years earlier, it might have been a good starting point. But now it was too late. My mind was made up. I had to get away from him to think things through.
For the time being, though, we would have to call an uneasy truce. I couldn't very well kick Federico out in the street without a job. So I found another job as a legal secretary, the easiest job for me to get on short notice, and Federico was job hunting again. In addition to working as a secretary, I taught English to Mexican immigrants in the evenings. In my "spare" time, late into the night, I typed Federico's applications and resumes.
The atmosphere at home was tense. Federico was still trying to make amends, to bridge the gap between us. But I knew that if I weakened and gave in, in time everything would go back to the way it had been before. I put up an invisible shield, and nothing Federico said or did could penetrate it.
Until now. My thoughts swirled back to the present. I picked up the photographs of Federico and the children I'd taken out of the albums and slipped them into an envelope. Then I closed the albums and put them away. That night the silence seemed to echo off the walls.
Where Are My Children? The True Story of a Mother Who Risked Her Life to Rescue Her Kidnapped Children Page 4
