“Doesn’t seem too bad,” he said, and it was true. Expensive cars driving on the tree-lined boulevard of the Zona Viva, joggers dressed in chic gear, office towers sheathed in glass. And the hotel itself was magnificent, with a sweeping central staircase and smartly attired staff.
They arrived at eleven; Berta, the niñera assigned to Juan, was due to arrive with him in an hour. The nursery, called an hogar, housed twenty children being adopted by Americans, who paid Kate a monthly fee for food and care. Mark and Julie were allowed to keep the baby for five days after they promised not to leave the hotel with him under any circumstances. “We can’t go to a restaurant?” Julie had asked.
“The food’s safer at the hotel,” Kate said. Besides, Juan wasn’t legally theirs. They shouldn’t take any risks.
While Mark checked in, Julie surveyed the lobby. On every couch was the same tableau: white people cuddling brown babies, flanked with children of varying shades. For a second, she wondered what Guatemalans thought of the scene, but her emotions squashed the thought. She wanted to be there too, cuddling her baby, never letting him go. Soon. Soon. In less than an hour. Juan was three months old now. She didn’t want to miss another minute.
They were so fortunate. In a few weeks, adoptions would close completely. Julie visualized a door slamming and dust flying underneath, the pathway to adoption sealed off.
After freshening up, they commandeered a small mauve couch tucked under the sweeping staircase beside a potted palm tree and kept their eyes on the revolving front door. Taxis drove up, shuttles unloaded, telephones rang, a group of men in dark suits passed. Finally, a middle-aged woman in a blue uniform dress and white apron appeared, holding a bundle of blue blankets.
“That’s them,” Julie exclaimed, recognizing Berta from the photo Kate had sent. Julie stood up. Everything around her evaporated. Berta placed Juan in her arms. Julie was one with her son, their own universe. Finally. She was a mother.
For someone so small, he felt heavy, substantial. Maybe twelve pounds? His hair was black and thick, his eyes wide open with long straight lashes, looking past Julie and Mark beside her, searching for Berta, sitting on a chair. Julie breathed in the smell of a soap she didn’t recognize, touched his smooth forehead. His fingers were curved, nearly transparent, heartbreaking in their perfection. He was breathtakingly gorgeous.
“Is he hungry?” Julie asked in Spanish, sitting beside Berta.
“Always.” Berta handed her a bottle and Julie shifted Juan to one side and pressed it gently into his mouth. He turned his head away and wailed. “Except when I’m feeding him,” Julie said self-consciously.
Mark patted Juan through the blue blanket, then swiped at his own cheek with the back of his hand.
“You’re crying,” Julie said.
“You, too,” he said.
Berta told them Juan’s schedule: naps morning and afternoon, bedtime at seven. He slept through the night in his own crib. He took bottles of regular formula, nothing solid yet. Of the twenty children in the hogar, she added, Juan was the baby most calm and sweet.
Julie and Mark had read horror stories from other Guate Parents about first visits: screaming babies, sleepless nights, miles logged pacing up and down the hotel hallways.
But it turned out Berta was right. Juan was a calm and sweet baby. He slept between them in their king-sized bed, and Julie marveled at the feeling of that warm, solid little being beside her, his quick breath. She was overwhelmed by him, the fact of him, his being her son. When he was awake, she never put him down. He preferred to be carried in the Snugli, close enough that their hearts beat together. Mothering was more physical than Julie had imagined: up and down, in and out, lifting and carrying him. Good thing her arms were strong from shuttling artists’ portfolios, paintings, and framed prints.
They spent their days by the pool, meeting and talking with other waiting adoptive parents whose cases would be grandfathered in after the shutdown. Everybody was on Guate Parents and they recognized one another’s names and stories. “How old is your daughter?” and “You’re the one with three other kiddos,” and “Has anyone met Charla T., MSW, in person?”
They ate sandwiches together and drank lemonade in lounge chairs, cheered when paperwork advanced a step or someone got positive news. They heated infant formula in the restaurant microwave, changed diapers in the lobby restroom, and splashed in the pool. They told their babies their adoption stories, as simply as possible. “You were born in another lady’s tummy. You’re our forever child now.” They snapped a thousand photos. The other babies were cute, too, lovable in their own ways. But they weren’t Juan.
*
At 8:30 on Monday morning, Julie stood in front of the mirror in the Clay staff ladies’ room, stealthily dripping eye drops into her bloodshot eyes. Their flight home had sat on the tarmac for four unexplained hours in Guatemala City, causing them to miss their connection in Houston. They landed in San Francisco with just enough time for Julie to catch a taxi downtown and brush her teeth and change into her pleated black Issey Miyake dress before her interview with the board. Thank God she’d thought ahead to potential snafus and left her resume in her office.
“I am enough,” she said to the mirror as she wiped an errant eye drop from her cheek and clasped a necklace made from a chunk of blue resin around her neck. Statement necklaces were her signature, functioning both as wearable art and failsafe conversation starter. That, and her stylish short haircut. “Wonderful things unfold before me,” she said. “Everything works out for my highest good.”
She gathered her travel clothes into her duffel and walked to her desk. Eames was slouched in his seat, hair gelled into spikes, checking his email. “How was the trip?”
“Fabulous. Juan is a gem. A really sweet boy.” Her voice softened and she re-squared her shoulders. “It’s good we went.”
“Word is you’re in the running.”
Julie startled, as if just remembering her nine o’clock interview appointment. She picked up her portfolio.“We’re rooting for you, Jules,” Eames said.
She hurried to the administration area. Doni was at her post, at the ready to screen visitors. She barely glanced up as Julie arrived, waving her into Talbot’s office. The board president sat in Talbot’s chair behind Talbot’s desk, with Talbot on one side and two board members—a man and a woman—on the other. The men rose slightly when Julie walked in. “Good morning,” the president said, settling back into his chair and gesturing toward the lone empty seat after everyone had shaken hands.
Julie’s throat went dry. The woman wore a lime-green, raw silk jacket over a black pencil skirt; Talbot his uniform black suit and purple tie; the other man a blue cashmere blazer and narrow loafers. Julie measured herself against the visual information, relieved she’d chosen the black Issey Miyake.
The president started in by asking her about vision. She talked about her loyalty to the Clay, the way she viewed the museum as something to be nurtured and tended. She’d dedicated herself to that mission for twelve years. Since she began, attendance numbers at openings had tripled, and museum membership was steady and climbing. She was careful to address each of them, shifting her gaze from one to the other. She sensed their understanding and felt her confidence rise.
The man in the blue cashmere blazer wanted to talk future expansion. Talbot had been brilliant in getting them this far, but they needed to go bigger. Technology had exploded in the Bay Area, and with the boom came young people with money, unprecedented amounts of money. The Clay needed to grab that audience and their pocketbooks.
Julie was startled. The paint was barely dry on the first expansion. A second expansion felt like a curveball.
“How do you sell these tech people on the Clay?” the man asked.
“No sales pitch is more effective than passion.” Julie hesitated, hoping she didn’t sound too woo-woo. “Share our vision. Show them the budget and a specific way they can help. Give them something to