The Authentics

by Abdi Nazemian

  I guess Sheila’s trick worked when I was upset about little things, like a new zit, or not fitting into my favorite pair of jeans, or even having a fight with a former friend like Heidi, but it didn’t do much after seeing a contract with my name and the word adoption and my parents’ signatures on it in black ink. Adoption. They adopted me, which shouldn’t have been a big deal. Betty Powell was adopted and no one cared, but then again it had never been hidden from her. My parents had lied to me. Everything felt wrong, like I had suddenly discovered the Earth was round after fifteen years of my selfish parents telling me it was really an octagon.

  I finally glanced at my phone and read the text messages. It was Kurt.

  Kurt: My mom is binge-watching Shahs of Sunset. Thought U would appreciate.

  Kurt: Hope I didn’t freak U out or anything yesterday.

  Kurt: I’m assuming U R in the shower. If so, remember we R in a drought!!

  I should’ve responded, but I just didn’t have the energy to banter with Kurt about my complicated feelings about Shahs of Sunset, or about my even more complicated feelings about him. The truth was that all I could think about was my adoption, and there was only one person in the world I felt I could talk to about it. I picked up the phone and called my brother.

  “Hey, Daria, your brother’s in the shower,” Andrew said. They always answered each other’s phones and wore each other’s clothes and drove each other’s cars. That’s just the kind of couple they were.

  “Oh,” I said. “Remind him we’re in a drought.”

  “Amir, get out of the shower. We’re in a drought. And your sister’s on the phone,” Andrew shouted. “So guess how long it took your brother and me to put together a crib?”

  “Um, I don’t know,” I stammered.

  “Eight hours and counting. You would think an MBA and a PhD could handle crib building, but nope. Oh, there he is, in all his glory,” Andrew said, then quickly added, “Babe, dry yourself on the bath mat!”

  “I love it when you turn into your mother,” I could hear Amir say.

  “Bye, Daria, see you soon,” Andrew signed off.

  “Hey,” Amir said. “I miss you.” I hadn’t seen my brother in a few weeks. He had been so busy with baby prep: doctor’s appointments with his surrogate, building a nursery, taking CPR classes, learning how to install a car seat. The list seemed endless, and the exhaustion was evident in his voice.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “So what’s up?” he asked.

  I froze for a second, then finally I said, “What do you mean what’s up? Can’t I just be calling to see how you’re doing? To see if my niece has been born yet?”

  “Any day now,” Amir said. “And when she’s born, you’ll know, ’cause Sheila will Instagram it within seconds.”

  I managed a smile. I closed my eyes, and willed myself to just tell him everything. “The truth is,” I said, and then took another long pause. Tell him, I thought to myself, just tell him. But instead I said, “I’m just so annoyed at Sheila for sending out a save-the-date to my sweet sixteen . . .”

  “Oh yeah, I got that,” Amir said. “Listen, here’s the tea. You’ve only got two years and change before you’re out of the house. I know that’s a lifetime in teenage years, but trust me, it’s nothing. Just humor her, and it’ll all be over soon.”

  “Right,” I said. “Humor her. Thanks.”

  “I know it’s not the best advice, but hang in there, okay?” he said.

  I muttered a good-bye and hung up.

  Two years and change? I didn’t even know how I would make it through two more days. I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror Sheila had insisted on putting in my room when I turned thirteen. I’m sure a full-length mirror made Sheila happy, since she always looked perfect with her silky auburn hair, smooth skin, honey-colored eyes, and slamming body. For me, it was an instrument of torture, a cruel reminder of how when it came to me and my mother, the pomegranate fell very far from the tree. And now that I knew why, the mirror seemed even more cruel than ever before. It felt like I was growing wider, and that the zits on my face were grower redder, and that the hair on my head was growing frizzier, all in a matter of seconds. Was it possible that my body was turning on me? That I was going through my own metamorphosis, like in that book I read for school where some guy wakes up as an insect? I wished I could turn into an insect. Then I could fly away, or sting my mother for lying to me, or both.

  “What are you going to do, Daria?” I asked my reflection. I squinted my eyes at my own image, shocked that I had spoken to myself. I hated when people talked to themselves in movies and on TV shows. I always felt that no one did that in real life. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I just didn’t know what it felt like to want to talk so badly about something, and have no one in the world you felt safe to talk about it with. Get some answers, my reflection seemed to say back to me.

  Answers. That’s what I needed. There were so many questions swirling around in my head: Who was Encarnación Vargas? Was my brother adopted too? How did they choose me? And if this woman named Encarnación was my biological mother, was there a chance that Baba was still my biological father?

  I built out a whole story that would allow me to keep Baba as my biological father. He had an affair with Encarnación but couldn’t tell Sheila. So he orchestrated the adoption of the child that resulted from the affair, and left the space above “birth father” blank in the contract. He was the only one in the family who knew that I was his, and only his. I knew this sounded like the plot of one of those old Bette Davis movies my brother loved, but it’s what I needed to believe.

  There were so many more questions, but I knew that they wouldn’t be answered by my parents. I knew that in order to get to the truth, I had to find Encarnación Vargas. I opened up my computer and went online.

  I remembered a paragraph in the contract that said I could contact my birth mother via a lawyer when I was eighteen. Given the circumstances, I didn’t feel I could wait another two years. I mean, society expects us to pick a college and a major and a career path by the time we’re nineteen, but how are we supposed to do that if we can’t even know who we are and where we come from until one year before?

  I searched online for stories of people who went through similar experiences. One adopted girl started a whole Facebook page dedicated to finding her birth mother, which seemed like a decent idea, except Sheila stalked my social media and would inevitably find out. Instead, I tried searching Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest, YouTube, and Tumblr, desperately trying to virtually locate Encarnación Vargas. I found one Encarnación Vargas, but she was a teenager, so it couldn’t have been her. The Encarnación Vargas I was looking for clearly did not have a very active social media profile. I tried the White Pages. There were two Encarnación Vargases, but one was the same teenager I found on Facebook. Immediately, I called the other, but the line had been disconnected.

  There was a knock on my door. “Daria,” Sheila called out softly. “I know you’re upset about the save-the-date, but if you see this venue, you might get excited about the party. How about we go see it together?”

  “I’m on the phone!” I yelled out.

  “Oh, okay,” Sheila said. “Well, we’re all watching a great Italian singing competition. Come join us when you’re done.”

  My mother gone, I typed Encarnación Vargas’s name into Google and scrolled through page after page. I found a hair salon in Spain called La Encarnación. I found pages about Vargas girls, sexy pinups photographed by a Peruvian named Alberto Vargas in the 1940s. I found out that Encarnación is a religious name signifying the incarnation on Christmas Day. And then, finally, I clicked on an image from a Los Angeles Times article from seventeen years ago, less than two weeks before I was born. The article was about the Local clothing factory in downtown Los Angeles. At the time, Local was just a start-up company, but now they had stores all over California. They made clothes out of sustainable ingredients like hem
p and recycled paper. There were two photos in the article. One was of two factory workers smiling side by side as they received massages at their sewing machines. The caption read: Maria Tejeda and Encarnación Vargas enjoy one of the perks of the job.

  There she was: Encarnación Vargas. I felt myself starting to sweat.

  I searched her face for some piece of myself. She did have my dark hair and my pug nose, but somehow it all sat better on her. She was, unlike me, beautiful. I read the article frantically for more information about her, but the article was all about Local’s founder and CEO, Seth Nijensen, a scruffy hipster in corduroy and horn-rimmed glasses photographed standing triumphantly in the middle of the bustling factory. The article talked about how Seth gave his factory workers massages, organic lunches, and English lessons as part of the job. Nowhere in the article was there another mention of Encarnación Vargas.

  I knew what I had to do. I threw on my shoes and marched out my door. On my way out, I could see Sheila, Baba, and Auntie Lida watching the Italian show on TV. “Where are you going?” Sheila said. “I thought we were going to see the venue.”

  I froze. I could feel my eyes welling with tears, and I willed those tears back inside. “I can’t,” I lied, my voice a little shaky. “I made plans with my friends.” Before my parents could react, I rushed out the door and closed it behind me. I wanted to cry, but the tears were gone now, buried too deep to be released.

  The Local factory was in downtown LA, which is where Angelenos live if they want to pretend they live in a mini-Manhattan. It’s got skyscrapers, and homeless people, and lots of trendy restaurants, and subway stops. I got out of the bus and lurked outside the entrance of the factory, finally sneaking in behind an oblivious woman on her cell phone. Inside, rows of women sewed garments in neat rows. I pulled up the Los Angeles Times article on my phone and scanned the rows of women for anyone resembling Encarnación Vargas. Each woman looked like she could have been Encarnación Vargas’s sister, or cousin, or aunt, or grandmother. But not a single one was her. One weathered lady caught my eye and gave me a half smile, revealing her crooked teeth. I approached her apprehensively. “Excuse me, do you happen to know Encarnación Vargas?” I asked.

  The woman shrugged and said, “No good English.”

  “Conoces a Encarnación Vargas?” I asked, in the Spanish that Lala had taught me.

  “Encarnación!” she said, and then went into a rapid Spanish monologue, most of which I understood, and the gist of which was, Encarnación used to work at the factory but left many years ago.

  “Do you have her phone number?” I asked in Spanish. She didn’t. “Or do you know where she lives?” The woman called out to her coworkers, asking if any of them knew where Encarnación lived now. A slew of answers came roaring back at us. Maybe she lived in Boyle Heights. Or West Adams. Or maybe she moved up north. Didn’t she go back to Mexico? No, she went to Riverside. And then, as if under a sudden spell, the women stopped their chatter and all silently went back to work.

  I turned around and found Seth Nijensen standing behind me, his hands in the pockets of his high-waisted corduroys, a loose-fitting T-shirt hanging on his lanky frame. He squinted at me through his horn-rimmed glasses, the hair of his beard bristling. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  He was superintimidating, for an aging hipster.

  “I, um, I’m looking for a woman named Encarnación Vargas,” I said. “She used to work here.”

  “Why are you looking for her?” he asked.

  “I just, um . . . am,” was all I could think of to say.

  “That’s not very specific,” he said, and then turned away from me.

  I rushed after him, thrusting my phone at him. “She’s the one on the right,” I said, and then added, “I think. I guess she could be the one on the left.”

  “You’ve never met her?” he asked.

  “Of course I have . . . ,” I stammered. “I mean, not in person, but, like, I just . . . I need to find her, okay? Can you help me? Please?”

  “Why?” he asked again.

  “Because . . . ,” I said. “Because . . .” And then I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears I had willed back inside me came out in a torrential downpour, like I was a water balloon that just popped. The female workers all stared at me, probably wanting to comfort me, but too afraid to leave their posts in front of their boss.

  Finally, awkwardly, Seth placed a hand on my shoulder. “Do you need a tissue?” he asked. I blubbered a yes, and he led me to his office.

  Seth’s glass-walled office overlooked the factory floor. From his perch, he could see everything that went on, like God watching us all from above. If God were a hipster, of course. I emptied his box of tissues, wiped my face, and blew my nose. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You must think I’m crazy.”

  “So tell me why you’re looking for a woman you’ve never met,” he said, puzzled.

  And then I realized something. “I have met her,” I said. “The day I was born.”

  Seth nodded and looked at me intently. “Listen,” he said. “I’d like to help you, but . . .”

  “Please help me.”

  “Like I said, I’d like to, but I don’t feel right giving out an employee’s information. This is a sensitive situation.”

  “A sensitive situation?” I repeated. “I just found out I’m adopted. It’s more than a sensitive situation. It’s everything.”

  “Isn’t there an agency you’re supposed to go through?” he asked.

  “I’m supposed to wait until I’m eighteen,” I said. “The only other way to contact her would be through my parents, but they’re the ones who lied to me about this for my entire lifetime.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “If you found out you were adopted, wouldn’t you want to find your biological mother?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Don’t you like your parents, though?”

  Of course I liked them. But I was too angry with them right now to say so. “I’m an Iranian girl who just discovered that I was adopted,” I said. “And you know what the worst part is? My friends and I call ourselves the Authentics because that’s our thing. We’re supposed to be real. And now I find out that I’m not even Iranian. I’m Mexican! Not that there’s anything wrong with being Mexican.”

  “Some of your best friends are Mexican.” He smiled ruefully.

  “I’m proud of my heritage, okay? I love ancient Persian poets, and turmeric, and underground Iranian rap. So excuse me for wanting your help in locating my biological mother, but I would like to know who I really am, okay?”

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Um, fifteen,” I said, not understanding the relevance of the question.

  He stood up abruptly and shook my hand. “Listen, I have to go to a meeting.”

  “So that’s it?” I asked.

  “That’s it,” he said with a smile. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable giving out employee information. You don’t have to rush out, though.” I looked at him, confused. “Just do me a favor. Stay off my computer. It has confidential employment records. Okay?” He winked at me.

  “Um, yeah,” I said. Could he be saying what I thought he was saying?

  “Hey, by the way, what size do you wear?” he asked.

  “Medium, I guess,” I said. “Depending on how much rice I eat.”

  He opened a closet door and filled a bag with clothes, then handed it to me. “There you go,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said as I sifted through the bag. There were jeans inside, and leggings, and three supersoft T-shirts, and a beautiful green V-neck sweater. “This is really cool.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he said with a smile. “I’m just acquiring a new customer.”

  With that, he left his office. His computer was on, and I searched his hard drive for any mention of Encarnación Vargas. There was no phone number for her, but there was a forwarding address. As I printed it, I looked out at the workers down below. A few of them were staring up at me, no
doubt wondering what I was doing. I thought about what it would be like to run a company like this, to have a staff of workers waiting for your orders. Being in this office gave me the illusion of being in control, when in truth I had never felt more out of control.

  Chapter Seven

  I STOOD OUTSIDE ENCARNACIÓN VARGAS’S house for at least twenty minutes, just staring at it. I was trying to think through whether going inside was the right decision, but all the dogs barking up and down the block were making it hard for me to concentrate. It was like the dogs were annoyed with my indecision. The house was small, with chipping yellow paint, brown shingles on the roof, and grass that had seen better days. Strewn about the house were haphazardly placed Christmas lights, most of them clumped around the front door, on which hung a large, clearly homemade wreath made from twigs, apples, candy canes, and berries. On the lawn, a plastic Santa maneuvered his sleigh through the few sprigs of green grass, his plastic reindeer forging ahead to greener pastures. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a home. Down the block, a young couple were on their front porch, blasting old Motown music and dancing with each other. I took a breath and told myself it was now or never.

  I walked toward the house and raised my fist to knock, but felt momentarily paralyzed by fear. All I could focus on was the fact that my fingers were shaking. I squeezed my fingers tighter, willing them to calm down. By the time my courage caught up with my nerves, I knocked so hard that a few twigs fell off the wreath. I quickly crouched down to pick them up when I heard his voice.

  “Yo,” he said. The first thing I saw was his sneakers: customized Nikes, purple and black, very shiny, with the word “Rico” emblazoned inside the Nike logo. Then I glanced up and took him in. His baggy jeans. His oversized T-shirt. His honey-colored skin, square jaw, and shaved head. The tattoos covering his thick arms. From down where I was, he looked to be at least six feet tall, and he hovered over me like a giant. A very sexy giant.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m sorry. A few twigs fell from the wreath when I knocked.” I stood back up, awkwardly staring at the twigs in my hand. “I’ll put them back in. It’ll be good as new. I’m sorry. I’m, um, looking for Mrs. Vargas, by the way. Is she here, maybe? She lives here, right?” I was nervous enough to be looking for Encarnación Vargas, and the hotness of the guy in front of me was not helping.