Conrad exhaled a curl of smoke like a genie released from a bottle, and Julie had a sinking feeling she’d wasted the past twelve years of her life.
The party was under way and they’d turned off the searchlights out front. Years ago, when the Clay first started using searchlights—they were popular at Los Angeles openings, the influence of Hollywood—neighbors signed a petition complaining. The compromise was the lights stayed on only during arrivals. Julie remembered the entire back and forth. The moon remained bright, though. A white spotlight. She turned toward the museum, hoping to see Mark.
The band started playing “New York, New York,” the cue that Talbot would soon take the podium to make his introduction. The new director took her cigarette from her mouth and ground it into the low cement fence surrounding the Calder. “What should I do with this?” She held up the mashed butt.
There were no ash receptacles outside, not even a nearby trash can. Julie couldn’t allow the new director to throw the butt on the ground. That was a fire hazard, plus littering. Julie stretched out her palm and the new director pinched the butt between two fingers and deposited it.
Julie followed her toward the music, carrying the cigarette in her flat palm like a footman holding a pillow with Cinderella’s glass slipper. She lifted a shoulder and sniffed discreetly. Her skin smelled dusky, like cigarettes.
*
The door to adoption between the United States and Guatemala slammed shut on December 31, 2002. January 2003 passed. Juan remained in Guatemala. He was five months old. Guate Parents lit up:
The only correspondence we’ve had is sending two Cashier’s Checks for $15,000 each. Not a single receipt. Praise Jesus for tracking numbers and photocopies so we have proof.
—Hannah R.
We filed our Power of Attorney YESTERDAY. Agency lied about the Hague. Why wasn’t this information publicized????
—Amber, waiting on Ella
Very black depression. Like I’m watching a crystal vase about to fall off the edge of a table, knowing it will shatter.
—Julie C.
Julie thought about Juan while sitting in her office at the Clay, his warm body against hers, his soft breath when he was sleeping. She thought about him in the weekly ideas meetings, when she was required to present three new ways to increase audiences and improve outreach. She pictured him in orange floaties and a swim diaper at the baby pool at the Marriott, slapping down his hands on the water and grinning at the splash. Did Juan remember her? Was Berta still his special niñera? Julie called Kate every Friday during lunch, eating a sandwich at her desk while Eames and their co-workers went to one of the neighborhood cafés—“Where are we? What’s happening?”—and over the phone line, she could practically hear Kate shrug.
“Their country, their rules,” Kate said. “You can’t rush them.”
After hanging up, Julie logged onto Guate Parents to see if anyone else’s case had progressed:
Paying $150 a month for foster care! I’m a single mom and not made of money. In PGN since June 2002, now we’re at the back of the line??? Has anyone heard of Adoption Supervisors? Someone said they check on cases.
Adoption Supervisors good, but expensive. We paid $1K to find out no DNA.
We’d still be stuck if they didn’t harass our Guatemalan attorney. Worth it.
Nobody seemed to have hit on the right strategy, nobody had unlocked the secret to unraveling the system. Nobody had figured out how to finalize their adoption and get their baby out. It was maddening. Before Eames and the others returned, Julie power-walked around the block to get her heart rate up and improve her mood. She wasn’t going to lose Juan by not paying attention.
On March 3, Claire was scheduled to give birth to her first son, a boy they’d named Gunther. She’d invited Julie to be present, along with Mark, if not in the delivery room itself, then right outside, close by. Julie had never witnessed a birth and wanted to go, planned to leave after work on Friday. But as she was unlocking her car in the parking garage—the same parking garage where she’d lost Rowan—Julie shook uncontrollably and couldn’t stop. She slid onto the front seat and placed her head on the steering wheel, gasping.
She called Ethan with an excuse about a sudden onset of a virus she was afraid she might spread. She could barely hear Ethan’s reply because of party noises in the background. Gunther would be the first grandchild, and Ethan’s extended family had gathered in Fresno to celebrate.
“No problem,” Ethan said. “You can watch the video.”
She hung up, sadness weighing her down. Not for herself, for what she couldn’t do and didn’t have, because Juan had made her forget that. No, it was sadness for her son. There was no family celebration. No video. Had his birth mother even counted his fingers and toes? Julie imagined Karla had to distance herself from Juan, remain stoic to survive their separation. Had Karla even kissed him good-bye?
Julie rummaged in her purse for the Ziploc with photos from their visit. She stared at the images: Juan nestled in a Snugli against her chest. Juan on her lap by the pool. Juan and Mark on the couch in the hotel lobby.
“Somebody loves you now,” Julie whispered to her son’s photos. “Somebody loves you forever.”
SIX
SAN LORENZO CHAL
WESTERN HIGHLANDS, GUATEMALA
NOVEMBER 2010
My name is Rosalba Puzul Tuc. I am twenty-five years old. My Testimonial tells of my life and the lives of other indígena mothers. Our country robs us of power. Our country silences our voices.
They said you are a group of mothers and fathers from the United States. They said you have children born in Guatemala. My father, Chelo, lives in your country and I think it’s a good place. I hope that it is. This is why I tell you my story. I trust you will understand.
My translator is a missionary sister who lives here and knows me well, for many years. She speaks Spanish and English. My languages are Ixil and Spanish. I will speak slowly for her to translate. Thank you to her.
I was nine years old when I discovered my mother was not my real mother. Or that Rosalba wasn’t my real name. This is how my story begins.
In our family, everyone worked hard at many things. Carrying water, preparing tortillas, tending to animals, washing and cleaning. We were Maya Ixil, from the village of San Lorenzo Chal. Like most children in Chal, my little brother, Daniel, and I worked every day in the corn field. At this time, I was a girl of nine years and Daniel two years younger.
One afternoon, we came in from the field as usual, when the sun was finishing its trip across the sky. We got to our house, where Mamá sat on the edge of the bed with baby Isabel hugged tight. On this day, Mamá’s face looked different. Swollen and red. When she saw me, she wiped her eyes with Isabel’s sling and put down her head. I walked past them to the stove in the corner to stoke the fire and pat out the evening tortillas. Seeing Mamá’s face like that scared me and I didn’t like it. I was used to her being brave.
Papi came in after us with my older sisters, Marta and Yanira. When Papi moved, it was like wind blowing, strong and forceful. Behind him, Marta and Yanira were like breezes. Their faces were lighter than mine and their hair thinner. Papi hung his machete by the door and picked up baby Isabel to kiss her. Mamá didn’t lift her head.
I dished up the rice and beans and tortillas and we sat on our heels on the floor eating in silence. We never lit candles because the army might be watching. We stayed close in the blackness, like mice being hunted. Our eyes became good at seeing in the dark and the light.
After the meal was finished, I gathered the metal plates and put them in the pan. Papi waited until I knelt again before he started talking. “I’m going to los Estados,” he said.
Even without candles, I saw Mamá’s face was blank,