Dead Storage

by Mary Feliz

  “Is that legal? I thought only noncitizens convicted of a felony were removed or deported.”

  Gabriela shook her head. “I am not sure. Rafi came through here in a rush that night. He was very upset about Mr. Xiang. And I was trying to get him to go to the hospital.” She sucked air in through her teeth and muttered a word I didn’t know. “He had been badly beaten.”

  I patted her hand. She took a sip of her tea and continued talking. “I’ve thought about it a lot since that night, wondering why Stephen wanted Rafi to leave and why he has not been in touch with us to follow up. I have to believe that he meant well. I think he was afraid the legal system might move too quickly. An ambitious assistant district attorney might be tempted to scare Rafi with a charge of first-degree murder. Then my dear sweet grandson could have been tricked into confessing to a lesser charge if he were told he would not go to jail. But what they might not tell Rafi was that if he confessed to a felony, he’d be fast-tracked for deportation without any chance to plead his case or prove he was a citizen.”

  I was scribbling notes as fast as I could, but stopped writing as soon as she finished talking. I looked up. Her face was lined with age, strain, and worry.

  “Could that be it, do you think?” she asked. “Could that be the reason Stephen told Rafi to go away? But why would Stephen not call to check on Rafi? I’ve tried his number but he doesn’t answer and doesn’t call back.”

  I took her hands in mine. “I’m absolutely sure Stephen will call as soon as he can,” I told her. And then I took a deep breath. I had to tell Gabriela about Stephen’s arrest, but she wouldn’t like the news any more than I’d enjoy telling it. I spoke quickly, trying to get the dreadful news out into the open all at once, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Stephen is in jail. He’s been charged with Mr. Xiang’s murder.”

  Gabriela clutched her chest. Her skin blanched and she began coughing again. I feared she was having a heart attack and I stood up quickly, but she patted the air and quickly got her breathing back under control. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m fine. I’m just so surprised. Stephen could not have killed Mr. Xiang. He wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  “I know. And we’re going to prove it. But first we have to document that Rafi is a citizen. If we can do that, Rafi can talk to the police about what happened that night and then they’ll release Stephen.”

  The tea kettle boiled and I made us both more tea. I let Gabriela sip quietly for a few moments while I opened the difficult seals on the cold medicine packets for her. “Why don’t you continue your story about your family,” I said as I handed her the tablets.

  “Rafael Ernesto told me that he and Rafi’s mother were married but I have never seen a marriage certificate from a church or from the government. My son disappeared before Rafi was born. His mother, Dani Moreno, was afraid of doctors and hospitals and refused all prenatal care. She went into premature labor here. Rafi was born too quickly to get her to a hospital and she recovered quickly, so I didn’t force her to go. She let me take the baby to the pediatrician for all his shots and checkups. The only reason Rafi does not have a birth certificate is because we never thought to request one. I do have his baptismal certificate, but the priest who signed it died many years ago. I have a photo of Rafi with Dani taken shortly after he was born. I sent the photo to my son at the last address we had for him, but it came back marked undeliverable.”

  “Do you have a birth certificate for your son? For Rafael Ernesto?”

  “I think so, in here.” Gabriela opened the top of a shoebox overflowing with photographs and documents. “But how will that help, if we can’t prove Rafi is his son?”

  “That’s for the lawyers to decide,” I told her. “But locating your birth certificate and Rafael’s couldn’t hurt.”

  “That picture of Rafi and his mother is in here, too, somewhere.” Gabriela began flipping through the pictures, pausing, smiling, and stroking the faces of each one, distracted and lost in time.

  I put my hand on her arm and nodded to the photos. “May I?”

  She pushed the box toward me and I quickly sorted the photos into four piles: photos with no people in them, photos with children and babies, photos of animals, and those with only adults.

  We were left with a pile of about ten photos of children and babies that might contain the picture of Rafi with his mother at the time of his birth. I returned the other three piles to the box and continued sorting the infant photos. One contained a young, proud, exhausted mother and an infant. I turned it over. On the back was inscribed Rafaelito y Dani, Mayo 25, 1999. ¡Enhorabuena por el bebé nuevo!

  “Where is Rafi’s mother now?” I asked, handing Gabriela the picture.

  “She was deported when Isabella was six months old. We stayed in touch for years but recently the letters have gone unanswered and no one that I know in Mexico has heard from her or knows where she has gone. It was painful for her to be separated from her children, especially when she was still nursing Isabella. How a mother can handle that, I do not know. Perhaps she couldn’t. The children do not ask anymore.”

  “Is Isabella and Sofía’s father still in the picture?”

  “‘In the picture’?”

  “Sorry. Is he still a part of their lives?”

  “Yes, of course. And he treats Rafi like his own son. But he is in the navy and is now deployed, so the children stay with me. He is a good man. I do not know why he and Dani did not marry. The girls are both citizens. They were born at El Camino Hospital and we made sure their paperwork was complete. When immigration started the process to deport Dani, the girls’ father was serving in the Middle East. He tried to get the navy to help with the paperwork, but everything happened so fast.” She tilted her head. “It is also possible that Dani and the father were not so happy anymore. I do not know. I did not live with them then. The girls and Rafi moved in with me after their mother was forced to leave. They all still feel the loss. I want to finish our talk before the little girls come home from school.”

  We both glanced at the clock. “May I make a copy of this photograph with my phone?” I asked.

  “Sí,” said Gabriela, resting her head on her hand and closing her eyes. “Whatever will help. Take the original if you need it. As long as I get it back.” She opened them again. “Can you help Rafi?”

  “I think so,” I said, as I centered the photograph in the frame of my camera app and snapped several pictures of the front and the back. I put away my phone and pulled one of my business cards from my wallet. I handed it to Gabriela. “Can you ask Rafi to phone me? Or he can e-mail or text if that’s easier. I’ll call the lawyer as soon as I get home and come see you tomorrow. Please tell the girls to make a list of anything they need from the store or anything they need me to do.”

  “You are too kind, Margarita. Too kind.”

  “I’ll let myself out. Would you like me to help you move to the couch before I go?”

  She shook her head and smiled, stifling a cough. I still thought she should go to the doctor, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to convince her to go if she didn’t want to.

  After I left, I scribbled a note to Alejandra asking her to check in on Gabriela when she returned from work. No matter what the time. I told her I thought Gabriela needed to see a doctor and seemed to have increasing trouble breathing.

  I dashed across the lawn and tucked the note into the frame of Alejandra’s screen door. It would have to suffice, for now.

  As I drove back across town, I spotted clusters of children wearing backpacks standing and waiting at various intersections, and I was glad that the Orchard View school day began and ended about half an hour later than the Mountain View district’s did.

  I picked up Brian at the middle school and we chatted in the car while we waited at the curb for the high school to get out. Brian spotted his brother first, coming toward us in a cluster of kids, staring at the ground and shuffling his feet. He glanced up and saw the car, then waved to his friends, one of whom patted
him on the back as he headed our way.

  “What’s wrong with David, Mom?”

  “I’m not sure anything is wrong,” I answered, though I knew Brian was right. “Maybe he had a bad day. We’ll let him tell us when he’s ready, okay?”

  David tossed his backpack and trumpet onto the back seat and climbed in after them.

  “Dude, what’s wrong?” Brian said. “You look like someone killed your best friend.”

  I was tempted to glare at Brian but instead I looked carefully over my shoulder and pulled away from the curb. Some adolescents seem to find automobiles invisible, and I wanted to be sure I could see and avoid anyone in close proximity.

  David grunted and kicked the back of the front seat. I wrinkled my forehead and scowled at him in the rearview mirror.

  “Sorry, but can we talk about it later?” he said before plugging in his earbuds and staring out the car window.

  The lag between now and later turned out to be the time it took to drive three blocks. “A group of idiots stopped me when I was coming out of PE this afternoon,” David said in a barely audible grumble. “They said they’d make trouble if my mom didn’t back off.”

  I stared at David in the mirror, and without realizing it, jerked the steering wheel to the right. The car ran onto the rumble strip of noisy concrete separating the road from the unpaved shoulder. “Say what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Dude,” said Brian in a voice mixed with awe and fear.

  “Hang on, I’m pulling over at the next corner.”

  “Don’t,” David said. “Just drive. Let’s go home. I’ll tell you everything there.”

  I chewed my lip, wanting nothing more than to wrap my six-foot-tall son in a pale blue blanket, pull him onto my lap, and snuggle him until he felt better. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not now, and not at home. No matter what I did. So I looked at him in the mirror, made eye contact, nodded, and drove on.

  Brian seemed to sense that David wouldn’t say another word until we were back in our own space. He turned to look at David, but said nothing and turned away.

  After what seemed like more than an hour, we’d traveled the twenty minutes it took to get home.

  Munchkin and Belle greeted the boys with enthusiasm, which was probably exactly what David needed. He rubbed their ears to return their greeting, tossed his backpack and hoodie near the hooks we’d installed to hold their school things, and placed his trumpet gently on the floor next to them.

  He sat at the table with his head in his hands, refusing all offers of snacks made by an uncharacteristically helpful little brother.

  I made myself some coffee to give David time to collect himself. While it brewed and filled the kitchen with its comforting fragrance, I pulled tubs of frozen soup, rolls, and cookie dough from the freezer. Then I turned on the oven and filled a cookie sheet with lumps of chocolate-chip dough. The oven wasn’t completely up to temperature when I popped them in, but I’d had enough experience trying to speed up cookie baking that I knew it wouldn’t matter in the least.

  Brian held up a carton of milk. I nodded. He put it on the table next to my coffee cup and got out two glasses, filled them, and placed one in front of David. David, to his credit, took a sip and muttered, “Thanks,” to his brother.

  “Look,” Brian said. “I can go upstairs if you need to talk to Mom alone.”

  “You should hear this.” David sighed heavily and then repeated the words he’d said in the car. “I was coming out of PE and these jerks stopped me. Stood too close, you know? They told me . . . They said . . . Well, they used a whole bunch of words that no one should ever use for someone’s mom and told me that there’d be trouble unless I got you to back off.”

  “I’m so sorry, David.” I reached for his hand. He yanked it away, not ready for comfort, at least not from me.

  The coffee had finished brewing, so I filled my cup, added milk, then pulled the cookies from the oven, transferred them from pan to plate, and set it on a table in front of the boys.

  David grabbed one, dunked it in his milk, and took a large bite. He leaned back in the chair and relaxed his shoulders. “I wasn’t sure I should tell you about it. I thought you might, you know, lose it and lock me in my room forever, like Rapunzel or something.”

  He looked up and smiled, so I laughed. Brian looked worried, but David seemed relieved.

  “Of course not,” I told him. “Though I’ll have to come to school with you from now on. To every class—unless Dad thinks he should do it.”

  David panicked for a nanosecond before he realized I was kidding.

  “Did you tell anyone?” I asked.

  “My friends. There are band kids in almost all of my classes, and they’ll make sure I don’t have to go anywhere alone for a while. You saw they all walked me to the car.”

  I nodded. “Good idea. What about any teachers or someone in the office?”

  “I told the band teacher ’cause I had class right after and everyone wanted to know what happened. She said I shouldn’t worry and she’d take it from there. But I might have to talk to the principal or even the police tomorrow. She had me sit in her office and write down everything I could remember.”

  “Sounds like you did a great job,” I said. “And—”

  “And now we can forget about it, right? You’re not going to let those jerks keep you from helping Stephen, are you? I asked around about Rafi a bit, by the way. No one has seen him in a while.”

  “Whoa!” I said. “One question at a time.” The boys rolled their eyes. “I know, it sounds weird coming from me. What’s the record number of questions I’ve packed into one breath?”

  They laughed, which broke the tension and was all I could ask for. It also gave me a chance to do some quick thinking about how an adult should handle the situation.

  “I don’t think we should forget about it,” I said. “I’m going to let Paolo know what’s going on so he can have a chat with the police liaison officer for your school. The more people who know the better. Dad should know, too. Do you want to call him at work or should I? We can wait until he comes home tonight if you want, but no later.”

  “Let’s tell him together at dinner,” David said.

  “Perfect. I’m also going to call the principal now. If I can’t reach anyone, I’ll call again in the morning. I’m sure your band teacher followed through on her promise to you, but I need to call. It’s a mom thing,” I said, when David frowned.

  “Not worth fighting you on, you mean?” David said.

  “Right. Definitely not worth fighting me. Okay, I’ve got a ton of calls to make on Stephen’s behalf in addition to following up on this. Scoot upstairs and get your homework done. We’re supposed to get fresh snow in the mountains tonight and Dad said something about taking you boys skiing this weekend if the new product is launched by the end of the week.”

  The promise of a ski trip was enough to propel both boys to grab their backpacks in one hand, more cookies in the other, and head upstairs, followed by the dogs hoping for dropped crumbs.

  Of course I didn’t like the idea of anyone threatening either one of my kids. But I was proud of the way David had handled himself. I couldn’t remember if I’d told him that, but knew it wouldn’t hurt to tell him again. I promised myself I’d remember at dinner, but then I decided to be sure I told him before I forgot. I poked my head in his room and shouted his name until he heard me despite the music playing on his headphones. How anyone could study like that was beyond me, but it worked for David.

  “I’m proud of you,” I told him.

  “Thanks, Mom. I know,” he said. He sat a little taller in his chair and smiled before turning back to his keyboard. And that was worth it.

  The dogs followed me downstairs and I let them out to run in the field while I sat on the back steps with my phone.

  I called the principal and left a message saying that I’d like to talk to him as soon as possible, but that if I didn’t hear from him earlier, I
’d drop by his office in the morning.

  Then I called Forrest Doucett, making notes while I waited to connect with his office. After he answered, I caught him up on the progress we’d made and told him that Nell Bevans, the immigration lawyer he’d referred me to, had not yet returned my call. He put me on hold, or meant to, but I could hear him calling her name.

  “Hang on,” he said. “She’s right here.”

  Following some quick introductions, Nell asked me what information we had about Rafi. I told her about the photograph and said there was a baptismal certificate, but that the priest who’d signed it had died. I added that Rafi’s grandmother, Gabriela Maldonado, had birth certificates for herself and for Rafi’s father.

  “That should be enough to get what’s called a birth affidavit, and with that, we can get a birth certificate, which will open all the other doors for us,” she said.

  “What’s the first step?”

  “We need to go to the county clerk recorder’s office and ask them to do a search for a birth certificate. Then we wait a month for them to issue a ‘certificate of no record.’ Once we have that, we can go to the California Department of Public Health with a variety of secondary documents and ask them to issue the birth certificate.”

  “And how long does that take?” I tried to tamp down my panic, but my voice squeaked as I asked the question.

  “The schedule for appointments is pretty backed up, but once they issue the certificate, it shouldn’t take more than a month or two to get the paperwork.”

  “A month or two? But that means we won’t have proof of Rafi’s citizenship until April or May. That’s way too late. You know that Stephen’s in jail, right? We need to get him out of there, but he won’t say anything until he’s sure Rafi won’t be deported. He doesn’t want Rafi going anywhere near the police until he can prove he’s a legal citizen. Is there any way to speed up this process?”