They weren’t the only ones. They knew of other couples and unmarried women who’d done likewise. They didn’t associate with them for fear their children might join forces and return en masse to the place they’d been torn from, but they were grateful they’d led them to the nuns. Now and then they called to remind them of their gratitude, and to update them and ask after certain habits their children had developed, habits they hadn’t taught them and which didn’t seem to be of these parts. They also called to tell them about their daughter’s situation. They wanted to warn them in case the investigators also showed up at their door unannounced with news of families they had thought were dead.
He wonders if the nuns had known all along that the woman on her way to his house wasn’t dead. He wonders if, when the time comes to point fingers, the nuns will also have to take the stand and admit some responsibility. His wife wonders if the heart of the girl she raised as her own will gravitate toward her other mother once she’s in front of her, and if that thing exists which the biological mother knows as the call of kin, and which is the only hope in her heart as she flies over the Atlantic, unable to sleep or eat or stop thinking about how depression must be an illness of big, cold cities and how maybe her daughter could be cured if only she were to leave that place and live under the sun, how maybe this was her body’s way of telling her she was in a place that wasn’t her own, a sign she ought to go home with her.
7
The daughter isn’t waiting at the airport. Neither are her adoptive parents. This isn’t unexpected: she’d been warned that her flight’s arrival time was inconvenient for everyone.
Had the boys who were raised as the girl’s brothers been children of hers, they would have shown up regardless of such a slight inconvenience. They’d have hugged her and welcomed her with flowers. Or maybe they wouldn’t even have waited for her to fly there but instead fetched her from her country and taken the opportunity to meet their sisters and explore that land, as had many lost children once they were finally found. They’d have shown up, too, had their adoptive parents or the girl they’d been raised to call sister said please and given them the flight details. But instead, they’d been asked not to interfere or meet her ahead of schedule or ask the airline for the flight details, or collect her of their own accord.
The person waiting at the terminal exit was the local investigator, a young woman who held a small sign with her and the interpreter’s names on it and immediately removed her scarf and gave it to her because she figured the poor woman would freeze in what she was wearing. She said that as soon as they got to the house where they’d be staying, she’d find her some more clothes to get her through the coming days.
This was unexpected. She’d been told that on reaching the terminal she should take a taxi to an address on a piece of paper. The person who met her at her final destination would either pay for the taxi or reimburse her a few days later. The investigator had had travel plans scheduled for that date. They hadn’t wanted her to reschedule at the last minute. But she’d done so gladly. It was no bother, she said. If she and the interpreter wanted, they could even stay at her house. It wasn’t as big or as comfortable as the one arranged for her, but it’d be at their disposal around the clock, whenever they might need it. It’d be her pleasure to host them.
The daughter didn’t feel the same. She wanted to get through it all as quickly as possible and spend no longer with her than necessary. This brought the adoptive mother some relief. She was also relieved when the biological mother told her she wouldn’t be suing her or her husband. She was grateful to them for having loved her daughter all those years. They brought out photo albums of her as a child and teenager. Inside them were Mother’s Day cards she’d made. Not one addressed to the mother she believed was dead. They weren’t in the habit of writing to the deceased. What’s more, the girl didn’t write much. One, two lines at most. She’d never gotten the hang of it. When she did write, it was because she was made to at school. She might have taken after her father in that respect. He didn’t like writing either. Not even when she went looking for him to say that their girl had been located, and that the organization founded by the priest had offered to send her letters from them at no cost, had he agreed to write. He wouldn’t dictate anything either. He asked her to let things be, not to insist or bother the girl. Wherever she was, she had her own life now. No sense spoiling it with stories of a war she could never imagine or understand and that they ought to set about forgetting. It was in the past. Best not dwell on land they’d already left behind.
She insisted. At least a card, she said. The girl would be glad to get it even if she didn’t understand what it said. Someone could translate it for her. It wasn’t hard. He had lovely handwriting. Not lovely in the way schoolteachers would have kids write, but far better than her own. Her daughter’s writing was more on the rounded side. Crisp. Better than any of her other daughters’. The adoptive mother said it was thanks to the teaching method they used in that country and to the notebooks they practiced in as kids. She didn’t think it was anything special. In fact, they’d scolded the girl for it all her life. For her numbers, too. She disliked, above all, how she drew her fives.
The husband didn’t mind her handwriting, but he did mind her tardiness. In fact, he was minding it right then, though her adoptive mother welcomed it, because it somehow suggested she wasn’t particularly interested in this new mother and didn’t love her more than she loved them. He said that in all their years together, he’d never been able to get her to be punctual. He apologized for the fact that his daughter hadn’t arrived yet. He offered her, the interpreter, and the investigator something else to drink. The adoptive mother suggested rescheduling the meeting. She said her daughter might need more time to wrap her head around things and steady herself for the meeting. Though she may come off as cold, she was a very emotional girl. They had to understand where she was coming from.
She would have agreed under other circumstances: had she not counted the days she had left in the city, had she not already waited years to see her, or had she not been forced to leave her baby’s side all that time ago. She wanted to explain to her daughter how everything had happened, to share the details, to answer any questions she had, and to be able to hug her. If it was all right by them, she’d rather wait in their living room for her to arrive, as she’d promised she would. But she also didn’t want to be a nuisance. If they needed to leave or get things done, she could wait outside. She didn’t mind the cold.
The adoptive father decides to show her around the house and tell her stories about their daughter’s childhood while they wait for her to arrive. The mother would rather not go with them. She doesn’t want to feel for the woman, lest she suddenly start crying and ask for her daughter back. She doesn’t want to have to say no, that the girl is her daughter and that by adopting her she saved her from death or an awful way of life. Nor does she want to hear the word purchase, even though the biological mother and her cohort believe it to be the proper term. She doesn’t want the woman to feel that her daughter was a product or try to reimburse her, even though it would be impossible. It’s obvious she has no money. She knows she’s only there because of a donation. Not even the winter clothes she’s wearing are hers. The coat and gloves belong to a woman from her village who spent the seventies in the south of a country where the cold was different. The design and material are from then and there. She can’t see any difference between other winter garments and her own because it’s the first time she’s worn any. The daughter, on the other hand, thinks her coat is tacky. It’s the first thing she sees and says when she walks in. The adoptive mother asks her not to mention it when her biological mother returns to the living room. She also asks her to be polite. The daughter greets them when they come into the room. She asks the investigator whether they’ve informed Madame that she hasn’t got any money for her, if that’s what she’s there for. The investigator calmly replies that she knows full well her mother isn’t after
money. The interpreter doesn’t translate. When she asks what her daughter has said, he replies that it’s just a formality, that she’s asking for details of their meeting. He says she’s nervous, even though she doesn’t look it to her. Her manner is as cold as her voice over the phone from the other side of the world. In any case, seeing her brings her joy. She bursts into tears. The daughter asks if she’s realized now, if that’s why she’s crying. The investigator tells her not to be so cruel. Her mother’s had a punishing life. The interpreter would like to intervene, to say some things he thinks the girl deserves to hear, but he stops himself. He tries to understand her. Though he’s often had to explain to searching parents that their children might react this way, he’s never seen it happen. Not even in the case of the girl whose mother deliberately abandoned her in another country and made no effort to contact her or get her back. The girl had been the one to lead her own investigation, when she grew up, and had gone all the way to her mother’s house to tell her she forgave her. She presumed circumstances had forced her to do what she’d done, that her age at the time had factored in her not seeing any other way out. She wasn’t interested in talking about it. She wanted only to meet any siblings she might have and, now and then, to spend some time with them.
The adoptive parents are embarrassed. They ask the interpreter to please apologize on their daughter’s behalf. He says he hasn’t translated any of what’s been said so far. They think she can sense what their daughter is saying. But she can’t. All she feels is the joy of seeing her, and the relief. She wants to hug her. She asks if she can, even though they told her beforehand that it might be best to wait until after she’d spoken with the girl and explained her reasoning and answered any questions she might have. She asks if they can get started at once. The daughter agrees. She sits opposite her. She says she’s listening.
It’s so nice to see you. You’re very beautiful.
The girl thinks she’s making fun of her. She’s never looked uglier.
She apologizes for not being able to be with her all this time, for not being able to imagine what was going to happen or prevent it from happening or get to her sooner.
She wants to tell her not to worry, that she wasn’t alone. She stops herself. Her adoptive father had told her to listen first, to let the woman and the interpreter speak, to hear the whole story. She’d been planning to do whatever she damn well pleased in the moment, maybe even tell the woman that now she’d seen her, she could go back where she came from, that she’d be fine, just as she had been all this time. But the apology seemed sincere. And unexpected.
She remains silent.
Seeing her now, she realizes how young she is. She asks how old she was when she had her and is surprised when they translate that she hadn’t yet turned sixteen. A child. At sixteen, she hadn’t even known how to wash her own clothes or make her own bed. She’d had two boyfriends, but neither had lasted longer than two weeks. One had been the cousin of her best friend from school. The other an exchange student in her class. She couldn’t imagine what it might have felt like to get pregnant back then. She couldn’t even picture it now. Children weren’t currently part of her plan. Not that she had a plan. Plans didn’t strike her as particularly useful. As soon as she drew one up, something came and spoiled it. For example, that day she’d planned to be someplace warm. The cold was bad for her. It made her sadder and more sluggish than she was the rest of the time. It made her think of everything that could go wrong.
They ask if there’s anything else she’d like to know. Her mother would be happy to answer any of her questions.
She wants to know why she abandoned her.
She didn’t.
Why did she leave her with the nuns?
She didn’t.
How did she end up with the nuns?
She doesn’t know. They won’t explain. They won’t even tell her who the nuns were or which orphanage they worked in. The investigator confirms this. It’s part of the agreement they came to with the sisters in exchange for the information that led them to her. Her mother is telling the truth when she says she doesn’t know. They’ve been careful not to share any information with her so that she won’t go after them, making demands. She asks her to refrain from doing so, too, even though she could: her parents know who the nuns are and how to find them. She promises she won’t.
The interpreter explains that her daughter is asking about the investigation and that they’re telling her the same things they’d once told her. She seems interested now. She wants to know the story of her birth.
8
She had stayed in the mountains by order of the command post of the camp where her father was stationed. The commanders figured she was good at tracking and decoding, and might come in handy. They also figured that after spending fifteen days with them she knew too much about what they were doing to be allowed to leave. It wasn’t safe. If she were captured by soldiers, much of what they’d worked on for so long could be ruined and numerous lives and operations put at risk. She’d shown them she was brave and able to take the pressure, but there was no guarantee she’d keep her nerve. She was just a girl. If the soldiers escalated their interrogations or followed through on their threats, she was liable to break down at any moment. Until then, she’d been as lucky as she was strong, maybe even because she was a girl. In a few years or months, the soldiers might stop seeing her as one, or treating her that way. They’d begin to take notice of her and her journeys back and forth from the camps to the village. All they’d need to do was follow her, since there was no way of stopping her from wanting to see her father or from being able to find him, wherever he was. On top of that, she was his blind spot. She was the only reason he’d asked permission to leave the position he was assigned, and which he’d accepted without hesitation or discussion, even though it was clearly not the most suitable option for him or the best choice. Best if his weakness remained where she could be watched and controlled.
They asked him to convey this to her. They expected she’d eventually learn to follow orders, like her father had, but for now she wouldn’t understand or accept them from anyone else. In the following days, they’d get her clothing to weather the long treks and outdoor living, but for now she’d have to manage with what she had on, which hadn’t stopped her so far from keeping pace with the troops as they advanced along their secret routes. They did give her a black tarpaulin so she could sleep better on the ground, and so her father wouldn’t have to share his with her anymore.
That was all the gear she had for a few days. Instead of folding the tarpaulin in four like everyone else, she rolled it up and carried it around her neck or under her arm or around her waist, or anywhere else she could think of. It became a way of entertaining herself in her free time, and a reason for her brothers to scold her one day when they returned to the camp from their mission. They said she should stop being so childish and focus on what everyone else was doing. She said the same thing to them as she’d said to her dad: she didn’t want to be there. She wanted to go home to her mom, even if she hit her. The youngest of her brothers there explained that it wasn’t an option. He didn’t think anyone was there out of choice, but they hadn’t ducked the call either. Even her second brother was there, following orders, though he’d said he wanted no part in it. He wanted to be the man of the house—taking his father’s place so his mom wouldn’t have to work as hard to feed the littlest ones, and plowing the land and putting up with the soldiers’ harassment however often he had to. But his mother was the one who’d sent him up to the mountains, the one who’d told him that if he really wanted to help her and his siblings that was where he belonged. It was for her sake that he’d trained with the catechists and learned to hit the target—on the first try—by drilling with his dad. He was waiting, patiently, for the day to arrive when they’d be told it was all over and they could go back home and back to work. He’d never touch another gun. If he ever set off another explosion, it’d be while fishing. He wanted to live
on the farm named after a horse, catch crabs now and again, and swim in the ocean for hours on end. He’d have a boat and a net. But for the time being, he just had to worry about staying alive. She ought to do the same and stop fooling around, putting her dad in danger. Didn’t she love him? So much. She wouldn’t let anything happen to him on her account, so from then on she behaved just like everyone else, though she took out her black tarpaulin at night, unrolled it beside him, and hugged him as she slept, or at least until she started sleeping with the father of her daughter, who’s different from the father of the three other girls born after her first daughter, and from the father of her youngest.
The man she conceived her first daughter with was in charge of a handful of operations at the time. He was around ten years older than she was. She didn’t know his name or where he came from because back then, under those circumstances, not knowing a person’s real name or where they were from was a safety measure. He knew hers, though. He was there the day they decided she’d remain at the camp. She thinks he was responsible for her alias, which, incidentally, was French. She didn’t ask him how it had come about. Someone mentioned later that they knew of an actress with the same name. She doesn’t think that’s the reason—she doesn’t look like her one bit. It was probably because of a classmate or neighbor, or a girlfriend she actually looked like who’d gone by that name. Maybe he’d just heard it somewhere and liked it. He didn’t tell her. He didn’t see how this information could be of use to her. A name was just a name. In times of war, it served the same purpose as a number or a tattoo or a dog tag you wore around your neck: it was a way of identifying the dead.
This is what the baby girl was to him: a casualty. She was also a reason for him to get angry. He couldn’t believe she’d do that to him, not then. They were at war. He was a commander. They were supposed to set an example. It was strictly forbidden to have children on the front line. Hadn’t anyone told her? How could she have gotten pregnant?
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