For a couple of years afterward, they had taken Sunday drives up to Point Reyes in search of the gas station with the perfect barbecued oysters. But they hadn’t paid attention to the name of the road, and they disagreed about whether it had been north or south of Inverness. They’d stopped at countless oyster shacks and eaten hundreds of barbecued bivalves, but nothing had ever come close to that first perfect mouthful of vinegar, tomato, and sea. In a lifetime of misremembered accidents, affronts, and hurt feelings, each held a joyful memory of that day that was both precise and identical to the other’s. The last time they’d gone in search of their legendary feast had been the year Olivia started high school.
“Point Reyes! That’d be great! We can take our bikes and do the entire spit,” Arthur said as he came walking through the kitchen on his way to the laundry room, a pile of fetid bike shorts and Lycra T-shirts in his arms.
Elaine looked up at him, startled. “Oh, but what about the baby? I mean, what would Olivia do?”
“She and Luna could take a little hike while you and I bike,” he said.
Elaine’s voice was soft and almost wheedling. “That’s a wonderful idea, but why don’t I keep Olivia company. You bike and we’ll walk.”
Arthur looked at Elaine for a moment, his brow slightly wrinkled, as if he were trying to figure out what it meant that she was choosing to spend the day in her daughter’s company rather than his. Elaine smiled blandly back.
“Sure,” he said, after a moment. He adjusted the load of dirty laundry in his arms and walked back to the laundry room.
The road to the Point Reyes National Seashore ribboned over and through the lolling West Marin hills. To Olivia, sitting in the backseat next to Luna, the hills looked like a woman’s not-quite-spread legs and thighs, with patches of black oak nestled in the valleys like mats of mossy pubic hair. Fields dotted with the black and white spots of grazing dairy cows and draped in a gentle gray mist rolled by her window. She inhaled deeply, smelling the ocean’s sharp tang. The hills gave way to trees and then again to smooth brown mounds of waving grasses, and finally the road dead-ended in a little parking lot at the Tomales Bay trailhead.
Arthur leapt out of the car and wrestled his bike off the rack attached to the trunk. He clamped his bullet-shaped helmet onto his head and shrugged a neon green windbreaker over his taxicab-yellow top. He clomped in his bike shoes over to Elaine.
“Okay, I’ll bike back. We’ll meet in two hours in Point Reyes in front of that gourmet market.”
“Perfect.” Elaine gave him a kiss on his cheek. He mounted his bike and rode away.
Olivia strapped the Baby Björn to her chest, lifted Luna out of her car seat, and slipped her into the carrier. She adjusted the straps, and Luna kicked, delighted to be facing outward, looking at the world and, at the same time, snuggled tightly against her mother’s breasts and belly.
Elaine led the way through the gate and they began walking down the hill. The path wound through a valley with gentle slopes rising on either side. The ground was soft and sandy, and their shoes left sharp-edged prints in the dirt.
Olivia hiked carefully, placing each foot squarely so that she would not stumble and crush her tiny burden. She bent her head and pressed her lips against the top of Luna’s head, feeling the feathers of the baby’s soft hair and the delicate skin underneath. Olivia closed her eyes and willed herself to remember everything about the moment. The feel of Luna’s feet resting in either one of her palms. The heavy heat of the baby’s back pressed against her chest. The brush of her hair against Olivia’s mouth. And her soft velvet smell, with just the barest hint of sour musk, like apricots that had begun to rot on the tree, or sweet, thick cream at the moment before it turned.
“Coming?” Elaine called from farther down the path. Olivia inhaled once more, then began walking again, catching up to her mother. They strolled in silence for a while, watching the gulls drift by overhead, and stepping cautiously to avoid the snails creeping slowly across the path.
They came upon a sign and stopped. Elaine read it aloud.
“Beware of sharks and sneaker waves.”
There were two pictures—icons, simplified to their essence. One, the shark, was all fang and jaw. The other was really two images in one. The first showed a man and a woman enjoying a picnic on the beach under an umbrella. In the next frame, a wave had reached out and snatched at them, upending the umbrella, and sending the woman tumbling off into the surf. The man reached out for her, helplessly.
They stared at the sign for a moment, and then, without speaking, continued along the path.
In another fifty yards, the valley opened up to the sea. The path ended at the beach. It was suddenly cooler, and Olivia hugged Luna to her body. She zipped her jacket around the two of them, and walked closer to the water’s edge, heedless of both sneaker waves and great whites. The water lapped at the toes of her boots, and Olivia stared at the ocean. She could see only a few hundred yards ahead of her. Beyond that, the sea wore a veil of mist and fog. Although she knew the Pacific went on and on for thousands of miles, she saw nothing but the nearest little edge of water. She contemplated walking into the ocean. She had not, since her trial and sentencing, been plagued by fantasies of escape—neither in the form of flight nor in that of suicide. It had never really occurred to her that she had a choice other than to go to prison. At the edge of the sea, for a brief moment, Olivia imagined taking Luna, sliding into the cold water, drifting off to a secret place hidden in the blanket of mist, and disappearing without a trace.
Elaine came up beside her and gently touched her. They stood there for a few minutes, Elaine’s hand warm on Olivia’s back. Then they headed up the path toward the car.
About halfway to the parking lot, Elaine suddenly stopped and motioned to Olivia. Olivia followed her mother’s pointed finger and gazed up the side of the hill banking the path, directly into the eyes of an elk. The elk stood impossibly still and stared at the human interlopers. Her fawn, its tiny white bottom snuggled tight against its mother, looked at the them curiously. Olivia and the elk stared at each other for a long while and then, with a flick of her ears, the elk led her baby up the slope and away.
Olivia turned to smile at Elaine and found her crying, tears streaming down her cheeks. Olivia opened her arms and embraced her mother. Luna wriggled, trapped happily between them, laughing at the game.
***
Prison was where Jorge was finally learning English. It was not particularly necessary; the guards at the Federal Corrections Center at Lompoc spoke enough Spanish to make their orders and insults understood, and the only inmates with whom Jorge associated were Mexicans, like himself. Nonetheless, he was slowly beginning to pick up bits and pieces of the language that had always eluded him when his only motivation for learning had been to make Olivia happy.
Life was by no means good or easy in the prison, but the pervasive misery was somehow more manageable than it had been when he had been in county jail. The uncertainty of his future had, then, been an excruciating element of his fear. Now he knew exactly how long he would be incarcerated—thirty-five months, less good-behavior credit if all went well and he could keep himself out of trouble. He knew, too, what would happen to him upon his release. His lawyer had explained that he would be transferred to INS custody and deported. The prospect of deportation, of leaving behind the country that had treated him, he believed, with a cruelty he could not have imagined before he had crossed the Rio Grande, filled him with nothing but relief.
Jorge had received one letter from home, written by his father. Juan Carlos had contained his anger, inquiring about his son’s well-being without once writing the true disappointment and fury Jorge knew he felt. Only when he wrote about the baby and their agreement to care for it in Olivia’s absence did something of his chilly disgust for his son come through on the page. Juan Carlos had always been a man who took full responsibility for his ch
ildren, and he instructed Jorge that this behavior was the least of what would be expected from him as well. Upon his release, Jorge would be expected to work with his father to support his child, and even once it was returned to Olivia, Juan Carlos would require that Jorge continue to send money and maintain contact, both for the child’s sake and for his entire family’s, who were sure to come to love it in the meantime.
Jorge had written a letter replete with apologies and assurances, filling four pages with the words he knew he should have written to Olivia, not to his father. He knew, however, that he never would write to Olivia what he was afraid she deserved to hear. He satisfied himself with making his regrets known to his parents. Jorge then put from his mind all thoughts of the baby whom he could not bring himself to expect with anything other than guilt and despair. Having failed its mother so completely, he imagined it would be only a matter of time before he did the same to the child.
Jorge concentrated on learning English, getting by as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, and marking the days until he would be released and his time in America would fade to nothing more than a bitter memory.
***
Olivia self-surrendered on a Monday. Instead of having the federal marshals come and put her in handcuffs, she drove with Elaine, Arthur, and Luna to the women’s Federal Correctional Institution at Dublin. The prison’s barbed-wire fences cast long, spiky shadows over the parking lot, and as they crossed toward the gate, they walked deeper into the gloom. Olivia clutched Luna in her arms. She had dressed the baby as if for a party, in a pale-yellow dress with tiny white rabbits embroidered at the neck and along the ruffle. Izaya was waiting for them at the front gate, and he greeted Olivia with a short hug and a kiss to the top of Luna’s head. They walked through the gate together and down a path between the cyclone fences. Elaine and Arthur followed them into the prison, through a surprisingly small steel door.
Elaine could hear her daughter’s breath rasping in her lungs as they entered a narrow office. At one end of the cold, empty room was a window behind which a uniformed man stood. Olivia approached and whispered her name, and Elaine saw her daughter’s back begin to tremble. Within seconds, her entire body was shaking. Luna began to fret and whimper. Elaine, who had been standing back from her daughter and holding Arthur’s hand, rushed forward.
“Okay, okay, darling. Okay,” she mumbled in a monotone at once quiet and desperate. She threw her arms around Olivia, and the two women began to cry. Luna, sensing their panic and fear, joined in with an agonized wail. Arthur and Izaya looked at each other and then stepped forward. Arthur gently led Elaine to a bench across the room. Izaya took Olivia’s hand and, bending over her, began whispering into her ear.
As soon as Elaine found herself alone with Arthur, she calmed down. She leaned her head against his arm and willed her tears to stop. She looked across the room at where Olivia was now resting in Izaya’s arms, Luna fitted snuggly between them. Elaine could not hear Izaya’s words, but she watched as her daughter slowly calmed down, her breath becoming obviously more measured and slow. Finally, Olivia smiled, tremulously, and Izaya leaned his face to hers. His lips grazed Olivia’s and then clung for a breath of a second. And then almost before it had begun, the kiss was over, leaving Elaine to wonder if she had actually seen it.
“Mom,” Olivia called. Elaine walked over. Now she was trembling, and Olivia stood firm and tall.
“You’ll write as soon as you get back from Mexico?” Olivia said.
“Tomorrow. I’ll write tomorrow,” Elaine answered, doing her best to imitate her daughter’s measured tones.
“Okay.” Olivia reached her free arm around Elaine’s waist and squeezed. She leaned over and pressed her cheek against Elaine’s. Her skin felt overwarm, and Elaine pressed her lips to her daughter’s forehead, checking for a fever as though Olivia were still a little girl. Olivia let go of her mother and turned to Arthur. She kissed him briefly, almost briskly, and then held Luna out at arm’s length.
“Mama’s going bye-bye, Luna,” she said.
Luna kicked her fat little legs in their yellow terrycloth socks and smiled a wide toothless grin. “I’ll be back for you. Do you understand me? My baby girl. I will be back for you.” Tears rolled down Olivia’s face, but her voice was gentle and steady. She hugged the baby to her and inhaled deeply. She pushed her lips into Luna’s yielding cheek, burying her mouth in her silken neck. Then she handed Luna to Elaine and looked toward the door that the guard held open for her. She turned back to her mother and daughter.
“Good-bye,” she said, and stepped through the door.
***
The week before, Elaine had bought a plane ticket for León, a city not too distant from San Miguel, the town in which Jorge’s family lived. She had found the ticket on a travel website. On the same site she’d come across a list of San Miguel hotels. Her eye had been caught, inevitably, by a bed and breakfast called “Casa Luna.” She had emailed a reservation request, deciding after much thought that she would stay for five nights. That would give her enough time to meet Jorge’s family, to make sure they were set up to integrate the baby into their lives, and also to let the consulate know of Luna’s presence. Elaine wanted some representative of the United States to understand that Luna was to be a visitor in her Mexican grandparents’ home. She wanted there to be an official record of Olivia’s intention to return and reclaim her baby.
The morning of her departure, she checked and rechecked the contents of her suitcases, her ticket, and their passports. She ran into the kitchen for some large Ziploc bags to stuff into the diaper bag to hold any clothes Luna soiled during the flight, and found Arthur standing in front of the freezer, dumping bags of frozen breast milk into the trash bin.
“What are you doing?” Elaine screamed, her shrill cry reverberating through the kitchen.
“What?” he said, turning around, a plastic baggie in his hand.
“You can’t throw that away!” She rushed to the trashcan and hauled out the bags that had already begun to defrost. She wiped the outsides clean and set them back upright in the freezer.
“Didn’t you already pack as much as you could fit?” Arthur asked. Elaine had filled a cooler with dry ice and breast milk, desperately hoping that the ice would keep the milk from defrosting. She had crammed as much as she could into the cooler, but she’d nonetheless left a freezer full of rock-hard baggies.
“Yes.”
“Then why are we saving the rest?”
“Because…” Elaine swiped away the tears that had begun to roll down her cheeks. “Because you don’t throw away breast milk, Arthur! You just don’t.”
He backed away from her and leaned on the counter.
“Why not?” he asked, gently.
“Didn’t you see her pumping with that god-awful machine? Didn’t you see how much time, how many hours, days, it took to get all this?” She waved at the stacks of frozen milk. “We can’t just throw it away.”
“Honey,” he said. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Elaine shoved the freezer shut and leaned back against it. “I’m being ridiculous?”
He shrugged. “Irrational, then. I mean, what are you planning to do with it? Make ice cream?” He laughed at his own joke.
Elaine pressed her back into the cool metal and crossed her arms in front of her chest. She dug her fingers into the soft flesh of her inner arm, hoping the pain would distract her enough to prevent her from reaching and slapping Arthur across the face.
“My daughter is in jail,” she said.
He didn’t reply.
“Olivia is in jail!” she shouted, and then snapped her lips shut around the words.
He walked over to her and touched her shoulder. She jerked away, but didn’t leave the fridge. He stood awkwardly in front of her.
“I know, Elaine,” he said. “I know.”
“No. You don
’t know. You don’t know anything about this. You don’t know how I feel. You don’t want to know.”
“I do. I do know.”
She laughed, grimly. “Oh please. She’s my daughter, Arthur. Mine.” Hot tears ran down her cheeks, and she swiped at the mucus dripping from her nose with the back of her hand. “No one else’s.”
He shook his head and made as if to touch her again. He stopped his hand before it reached her. He lowered it, awkwardly, and said, “This isn’t your fault.”
“What?”
“It’s not your fault. Olivia made her own choices. You had nothing to do with this.”
Elaine stared at him. “Do you think it helps me to hear that?”
“It should.”
“Should it? Why? Why should it help me to feel absolved from responsibility?”
He scowled. “Because I know you, and I know you’re probably feeling guilty. And you shouldn’t.”
The tears dried on Elaine’s face. “Oh, Arthur. Do you really think you know how I feel?”
In a single step he bridged the gap between them. “I do,” he said, and hugged her.
She stood stiffly in his embrace and then sighed. “How can you? How can you, when I don’t even know myself?” She said the words into the soft cloth of his T-shirt, and she was not entirely sure that he had heard.
Then she leaned back, out of his embrace. “Just don’t touch the milk,” she said.
***
Elaine arrived at the airport laden like a pack mule. In addition to her own small suitcase, she had an overflowing duffel bag filled with Luna’s clothes, toys, bottles, blankets, and all the bright plastic apparatuses of American babyhood. Luna sat in her car seat, which was itself nestled in a rolling stroller. Elaine dragged the cooler out of the trunk and let Arthur heave out her two oversized suitcases.
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