necks—graceful and arresting, rendered in metal, only eight inches tall yet amazingly evocative of the larger animal. Julie told Talbot, who eventually granted Patricia a solo exhibition. Confidence boosted, Patricia expanded her vision from parts of the animal to the whole horse. She conceptualized on a grander scale, constructing larger-than-life sculptures from steel, iron mesh, copper, slate, and sticks. Now, Patricia Westerman was on the pages of every art magazine, her sculptures collected worldwide.
Julie had thought Talbot was exaggerating when he said she knew the museum from bottom to top. But examining her contributions this way, objectively, she saw he was right. Her efforts to support the Clay had been relentless.
She’d compete for the director job. Because she deserved it.
THREE
BAY AREA, CALIFORNIA
OCTOBER 2002
Until they got DNA approval, they weren’t telling anyone about Juan Rolando. They’d learned their lesson. They’d even debated whether they should hang his picture on the fridge, agreeing to wait until after DNA. Kate promised to have the test done by late summer, early fall. Halloween at the latest.
Despite her caution, Julie couldn’t stop herself from prowling the aisles at Babies “R” Us after work, comparing cribs and bedding, car seats and bottles, making notes on what she planned to buy when they were sure Juan was theirs, when she wouldn’t have to hide or donate painful reminders of what might have been, in case they lost him.
On weekends, she and Mark hiked the trails around their house and biked the path at the Cove, the waterfront park with views of the Golden Gate Bridge. Julie dug out her high school Spanish CDs and enrolled in a three-night-a-week Adult Ed class in intermediate conversation. At Kate’s suggestion, they joined an online group of waiting families from around the United States who used Kate’s agency. The group was called Guate Parents. Members signed their posts with timelines, stacking up dates.
Paper ready 2/14/2002
Got DNA 2/28/2002
Moved into Family Court 3/16/2002
PGN 4/12/2002
PINK ??????????
—Sandra, mom to three homegrown, one Guatemalan princesa
PGN stood for Procuraduría General de la Nacíon, the bureaucracy that bestowed final Guatemalan approval on a case before passing it to the U.S. Embassy. And PINK, Julie learned, was the color of the paper on which the U.S. Embassy printed its final approval, the green light to get the baby’s medical exam and temporary Guatemalan passport necessary for travel.
At night over dinner, Julie kept Mark up to date with what she’d learned from the group by reading from the yellow legal tablet that now never left her side. “Sandra moved from DNA to PGN in two months. If we get DNA by Halloween, Juan’ll be home by Christmas.”
Mark nodded while Julie pondered the logistics. The new director would need to hit the ground running after Talbot left. Some of the work was doable from home, but much would need the director’s on-site attention. There’d be meetings with the board to discuss long-range goals, finances, and acquisitions, in addition to ideas meetings with staff, gallery personnel, conservators, maintenance people. Plus, many more evening and weekend events—cocktail parties at donors’ homes, speaking engagements, dinners with artists. And those were just the expected responsibilities. Talbot was wonderful, but he never reached out to community leaders the way he could have, the way Julie did. Julie believed everyone deserved access to art, just as she believed artists thrived in every neighborhood.
Luckily, she’d be the boss, and bosses made their own schedules. Either way, she’d need daycare. A provider for Juan she could trust. She jotted a new note: Find nanny.
And if she didn’t get the job? If that happened, she’d take advantage of the Clay’s family leave policy—twelve weeks. Then again, they might not be finished as quickly as Sandra, mom to three homegrown, one princesa. Amber, waiting on Ella, for example, had been in and out of PGN three times.
Submitted PGN 6/14/2001
Kicked out PGN 8/12/2001
Submitted PGN 9/3/2001
Kicked out PGN 10/2/2001
Submitted PGN 1/16/2002
STILL IN PGN
— Amber, waiting on Ella
The smallest clerical error—a misspelling or typo—got a file ejected from wherever it was in the process, leading to weeks or months of delay before a Guatemalan attorney corrected the error and put it back in the queue.
“No clerical error will trip us up,” Julie told Mark emphatically. With her color-coded schedules and flow charts that tracked future exhibitions three years in advance, Julie was a master of organization.
Mark smiled indulgently. “You got that right.”
Babies were what Guate Parents wanted, the younger the better. Not because of their own narcissistic need—we must have a baby!—but because the younger an infant, the more chance he had of forming a healthy attachment. Attachment meant touch and snuggles and hugs and trust. Lack of attachment meant the opposite.
Charla T., MSW, a behavioral therapist in the group, sounded alarms in her posts.
All: This is not your mother/sister/best friend’s toddler experience. Don’t compare! Think about it. Before our kids come to us, they’re born and separated from their natural mothers, and cared for by strangers for months or years. Then they come to us and the real fun begins. New language, food, smells, sounds. I’d scream, too, people!
—Charla T., MSW, Mom to a Guate kiddo in process, two foster-adopts
“I thought my life was hard,” Julie said often to Mark. “Not anymore.” After her father left, Julie’s mother kept Claire and Julie with her, even while drinking, even while suffering from lung pain, up until the very end when she died when Julie was fifteen and Claire only nine. Their aunt may have been chilly and reserved, but she respected her sister’s wishes and saved the girls from being thrown into the foster care system by taking them in herself.
Adoption from Guatemala felt to Julie like a roulette wheel, with an outcome unpredictable. For all the Guate Parents, the deadline of December 31, 2002 loomed like a chasm, ready to swallow their children whole. Panic reigned in the tone of every post:
The back of Taylor’s head is flat from lying in the crib. Anyone else see this? He needs to come home!
Trying to get a medical visa for our Doris, with club feet. Who was the attorney someone used that was good?
Gilma’s legs are covered with flea bites. Our girlie can’t stop itching. Foster family great except too many cats!
Agency promised we’re in PGN. Seven months later!
WE MUST GET OUT BEFORE THE SHUTDOWN!!!
For Julie, December 31 may as well have been doomsday. Adoptions would close, possibly leaving Juan in a legal limbo. She’d either be the new director, or not. Both outcomes were out of her control. She managed to stay composed in the office because she had to—people were watching—but at home, she let out her pent-up steam. She slammed the dishes Mark had left in the sink into the dishwasher and plucked up the dirty clothes he’d dropped on the floor and hurled them into the hamper that sat inches away.
“How many times do I have to ask you?” she said.
Mark raised his hands as if shielding himself from a projectile. His natural sloppiness never seemed to bother her before. She’d tolerated his untidiness for years. He demonstrated the way she should breathe, intensely with lungs filled, while Julie glowered, not trusting herself to speak.
“We might not even get him,” she said finally.
“We’ll get him.” Mark opened his arms toward her. “We’ll get him.”
“How