Sor Arabia offered to give Pablo and me a tour of the Centro. We were about to start out when a young guy appeared at the door of the office. Begging our pardon, he bowed to me and Pablo, but he had a problemita to report.
Sor Arabia flashed him an impatient look. “I will be only a minute,” she excused herself, walking over to hear what the little problem was.
Sor Arabia came back, sighing. The toilet in the nursery wing had been running all night. The young man had tried fixing it, but the whole bathroom had flooded. “Hipólito is one of our boys,” Sor Arabia confided, lowering her voice. “He has a big heart. Ay, God forgive me, but his head can’t hold a thought.” I guessed everything Hipólito repaired broke down worse than before. But what could be done? Trained handymen were so expensive. The plumber she’d called last time had charged like an American, by the hour.
“Let me take a look at it,” Pablo offered. He had picked up some plumbing experience from helping out his father and mine on construction jobs.
Sor Arabia shook her head. She could not allow such a thing! Pablo was a visitor! He would dirty his nice clothes! She went on with her refusals for a full minute. But I knew from Señora Robles’s Spanish lessons that this was the way a nice lady responded to a favor she was embarrassed to accept right away. I guess it applied even to nuns.
“It would be an honor,” Pablo insisted. Sor Arabia sighed, relenting at last. As she turned to Hipólito to lead the way, Pablo’s eyes met mine. Phew! I thought. He is exaggerating. Sometimes, listening to the way people talked here, with all this extra apologizing and complimenting, I felt like a rude visitor from another planet with my one-word sorrys and awesomes as the epitome of praise.
We walked down the hall to a set of double doors decorated with stickers of little chicks and bunny rabbits. Sor Arabia turned to us, a finger to her lips. We’d have to go through the nursery to get to the toilet. The little ones were taking their morning nap.
The nursery was a long, dark room lined with cribs, those high iron ones, painted white—the kind you always see in orphanages and hospitals in old movies. The shades had been drawn, but through tears in the fabric, bright gashes of light fell across the wood floor. The air smelled of talcum powder and of a strong cleanser trying to mask the odor of poop and urine—a combination that reminded me of when Nate was a baby. From all around us came the soft breathing sounds of the little sleepers and, once in a while, a wail or babble, the rustling of sheets.
As we walked by, I couldn’t help peeking. Some of the babies looked so tiny, others like they’d soon be walking around, stealing mangoes, wanting to play jacks. I peered closely at their faces. I don’t really know what I was looking for. A little version of myself whom I could reassure? Don’t worry, you’ll soon get a mom and dad, promise. Esperanza had said the younger the babies, the better chance they stood of being placed. It became harder for the older ones. Some stayed here until they were sixteen. Some even became the Centro’s handyman.
Crib after crib after crib, so many babies! I must have lagged behind, because when I next looked up, Sor Arabia and Hipólito and Pablo had disappeared. I was alone in the room. Ahead, a toddler had just raised himself up on two legs and was looking over the end of his crib at me. His eyes—at least I think it was a he—were those big, sad eyes you see on poster kids you can sponsor in Third World countries. His pouty mouth was turned down.
“It’s okay, little guy,” I whispered, approaching. I meant to plant a kiss on his sweet face.
That baby saw me coming close and let out a shriek. It was like hitting an alarm. All over the room, babies started bawling. I looked around, panicked. Which way to go? Where to hide to stop this avalanche of crying?
Sor Arabia came hurrying in from a door at the back of the room. “¡Ya, ya!” she said, clapping her hands. Instantly, the sound of crying decreased. She scooped up the unconsolable instigator and patted his little bottom. “What a baby you are, crying like that!”
“Do not worry,” Sor Arabia reassured me. “It is almost their wake-up time. Mariana, Socorro,” she called. A couple of girls about my age appeared, each carrying a basket full of baby bottles, which they began to distribute to the ones who could hold them. The tinier babies would have to be fed individually.
“Can I help?” I offered. I felt awful about messing up the babies’ nap time.
“Since they do not know you, perhaps it is better if we continue our tour,” Sor Arabia suggested, slipping her arm in mine and leading me out of the nursery. She explained that Pablo had discovered what was wrong with the toilet, and he and Hipólito were trying to fix it. What an angel that young man was! This was the second time today that Pablo had been praised as God’s gift to the world. I wondered if some of the macho stuff you hear about didn’t come from guys getting not just praised, but worshipped. Thank goodness Pablo didn’t seem to let all this gushing go to his head.
We walked down a long, echoing hallway into a side wing, peeking into bedrooms lined with cots instead of cribs. The older children slept here, Sor Arabia explained. Beyond lay the sisters’ quarters, tiny cell-like rooms much smaller than Happy’s walk-in closet. The walls were bare but for a crucifix and a peg with another blue skirt, another white blouse on a wire hanger. There seemed to be five nuns in all. Some older girls who had been residents stayed on as helpers. “We cannot pay them very much.” Sor Arabia sighed. “But we give them their food and clothes and a home.” What a life, I thought.
It wasn’t that the place was a dump or anything. Everything was clean, just old and run-down. The stucco walls were crumbling. In the backyard stood a rusty jungle gym and a basketball pole with no net on the hoop. The swing set had been patched up with pieces of rubber tires for the seats. I thought of all the stuff we’d see at the recycling center where we took our plastic and bottles once a month that could have equipped this place royally.
We were heading back toward the front of the building when I finally got the courage to ask. “Sor Arabia, have you ever heard of an orphanage that used to be in the capital, called La Cuna de la Madre Dolorosa?”
Sor Arabia stopped in her tracks. “Of course I know La Cuna. I myself worked there many years.”
“I’ve been trying to find the address...”
Sor Arabia shook her head sadly. “The building was burned to the ground by those criminales, God forgive them.”
I’d been hoping the building still existed, that I could at least walk the halls of the first place that had been home. “Was it at all like this place?” I wondered aloud.
“No, no, no.” Sor Arabia shook her head. “This is nothing to be compared. La Cuna was connected to our mother house, so it was like having the children in our own home. We had gardens with fruit trees and flowers and vegetales. Sor Corita had a green—how do you say, green hands?”
“Thumb,” I barely managed to get out. “Sister Corita, you said?”
“Sor Corita, yes, our mother superior. She died over ten years ago, God rest her soul.”
My face fell. Sor Corita was dead! The orphanage burned to the ground! The little I had of a past here was gone! I felt like Gretel in the forest, looking back only to find that her trail of crumbs has disappeared.
Sor Arabia was watching me closely now. “How do you know of La Cuna and Sor Corita?”
I looked at her, wondering where to begin, and I think that’s the first time she noticed my eyes. She did a little double take, as if it was dawning on her who I was, as if she already knew what I was starting to tell her. How I’d been adopted from La Cuna almost sixteen years ago by an American couple who had been in the country with the Peace Corps.
“¡Ay, Dios santo!” Sor Arabia said, raising her hands in wonder and praise. “Milagros!”
Was she remembering my name or was she saying it was a miracle that we had found each other? Either way, it seemed the same to me right then.
In the dining hall next to the kitchen, the children were just finishing up their cake. They sat at
long tables on benches, the older ones next to the younger ones, probably to help them cut what needed to be cut. Sor Arabia was full of news for Sor Teresita. This americana girl was one of their babies from La Cuna!
It struck me how differently people here dealt with the issue of privacy. Sor Arabia hadn’t even asked if I minded her announcing my story to the room. I mean, I hadn’t even told Esperanza.
I glanced toward her, and the way she looked away, I could tell she already knew about my adoption. Probably Mrs. Bolívar had told Dulce, who had told Esperanza. I doubted that Pablo had said anything. He knew how private I was about my story.
“Sit down, sit down,” Sor Teresita insisted. I had to have a piece of cake. And a “good” fork with no missing tines to eat it with. Both sisters were making such a fuss over me, like I was some returning hometown hero. The kids looked on. Maybe they were wondering which one among them would someday get to be as lucky as me. One little guy who’d been sitting several spaces down somehow wormed his way next to me. I thought he wanted to be close to my success story, until I saw him pinching off little bits of the cake I was ignoring.
“He’s eating the señorita’s cake!” several voices cried out. One of the helping girls rushed toward him with a lifted hand.
“No, no,” I intervened. “I asked him to help me.” I thought of how Pablo had recently saved my hide by taking the rap for my inviting myself on this trip.
“Ay, Dios mío,” Sor Arabia said, suddenly remembering. “Pablo!” The little guy who’d eaten my cake volunteered to go fetch him. Perhaps he wanted to get back in the good graces of the sisters? Or perhaps he just wanted a chance to sit beside this other visitor and avail himself of another bit of cake?
Pablo came back with some not-so-good news for Sor Arabia. “Please,” Sor Arabia stopped him. “First you sit down and have your bizcochito .” Your little cake.
But Pablo insisted on reporting his findings first. I thought of how Nate always had to tell us his practice triumphs the minute he walked in the door. The running toilet was temporarily fixed but it needed . . . Pablo rattled off a bunch of different parts that had worn out.
As he spoke, Sor Arabia kept shaking her head at the expense that lay ahead—or so I thought. But when Pablo was done with his inventory, she sighed. The truth was that Pablo was un genio!
A genius?! I glanced over at Pablo, trying hard not to laugh. He smiled back, one eyebrow raised. Well? Didn’t I agree?
Finally, he laughed, letting me off the hook. “I’ll pick up the parts and come back later to fix it,” he told Sor Arabia.
“No, no, no!” She could not accept that. “It would be my pleasure,” Pablo insisted. Back and forth, for two rounds.
“This has been a day of milagritos,” Sor Arabia concluded. So many little miracles. “God sends us visitors to resolve our problems, and one of our children from La Cuna returns.”
Pablo glanced over at me like he wasn’t sure it was okay to be discussing this subject openly.
“I asked Sor Arabia about La Cuna,” I explained. “She was actually working at La Cuna when I was there.”
“I remember the day Sor Corita found you,” Sor Arabia said, smiling at the distant memory. The children had fallen silent, as if listening to a fairy tale. “I remember because it was the Feast of the Assumption, Sor Corita’s saint’s day— Corita Asunción was her full name. She had gotten up early to prepare the altar of the capilla for early mass—we had our own beautiful little chapel. When she heard a knock at the door, she was afraid to open. Imagine, with all the disappearances and raids going on. But the knocking grew desperate. I remember it woke us all up. We were ready to evacuate the children the back way, but then we heard a baby crying, and we knew there was a new orphan in the world. The minute Sor Corita opened the door, a car drove away. Someone had been waiting to see that the child would be saved.”
I felt a rush of sadness—for those parents, whoever they were, at that anguished moment; for that poor, clueless baby just beginning to sense their absence. But I couldn’t exactly cry in front of these kids and upset them. After all, they shared the same sad story . . . without my lucky ending—as of yet anyhow.
“That baby was so debilitated,” Sor Arabia continued. “We guessed the little creature had been living under some rough conditions. Maybe hidden, maybe abandoned to strangers, ¿quién sabe? We didn’t know who her parents were, where she was from—nada. But though that child had no history, she came with a name, Milagros. Every day she got a little stronger.”
“What about the box that came with me?” The coin, the two strands of hair braided together. I wanted to know whatever little thing Sor Arabia could tell me.
“Ay, ay,” Sor Arabia lamented. “My memory does not hold that much.”
“Maybe you remember how old I was? I mean, approximately?” The adoption papers gave August 15, the day I’d been found on the doorstep, as my birthday.
“You were so tiny”—Sor Arabia’s hands spread about a foot apart—“and so very weak. I want to say about four months. But I cannot be sure.”
The little guy, who was now squeezed in beside Pablo, looked at the space between Sor Arabia’s hands and then at me. “¡El diache!” he said. I hadn’t a clue what the word meant, but I knew he was impressed.
If I’d really been about four months old in August, that would put my birthday in April. I’d be Kate’s same age, or older. (But still a grade behind her. Great!) April was also Pablo’s birthday—a Taurus, I remembered from Meredith and Em’s gossip sessions. Did Tauruses get along with Tauruses? Em would know. Needless to say, Em was into that stuff and had me half believing in it, too.
“And then one day a norteamericana came with a donation of clothes,” Sor Arabia went on with her history. “This americana had a little one who had outgrown them. That señora fell in love with all the children, but especially with Milagritos. She started coming every day and bringing her own baby along. The americana lady even brought her husband a few times. Then one day, it was decided. They would adopt Milagritos. It took three more months, so many documentos to draw up, as we had no papers for you. The day you finally left La Cuna for good, Sor Corita cried and cried. She was very upset with herself. She knew better than to get so attached to one child. But she had a special feeling for you. She had found you on her saint’s day. She died, as I told you, over ten years ago. May she rest in peace.”
“Qué descanse en paz,” Sor Teresita echoed, crossing herself.
The phrase must have been the equivalent of saying The End. The children began to stir and make noise. Several little girls tugged at Esperanza’s arm to come play with them.
“I have to attend to my guests,” Esperanza explained. Besides, five games of jacks was enough for one day!
“But you can’t go yet.” Sor Teresita pointed to Pablo’s plate. “You have to let Pablito finish his snack.”
Pablo looked down at the piece of cake that had been set before him. “I think I will have to pass, Sor Teresita,” he excused himself. At the mercado, he had filled up on fruits he had not been able to enjoy for eight months. “But I am sure it will not go to waste here.” He made the mistake of looking around for a taker. It caused a minor riot. The children tumbled across the table or lunged from the side. Before it was over, cake was smeared on a dozen hands.
“No manners! We will never have cake again,” Sor Teresita announced crossly, lining them up and marching them out of the room. They followed sheepishly, their little heads bowed. Sor Teresita was probably not a scolder by nature, and seeing her upset was, well, upsetting to them.
“If you would like to know anything else,” Sor Arabia was saying, “I am at your orders.”
There were dozens of things I could have asked. But right then, my heart felt full enough. I shook my head.
Sor Arabia bent down and traced a small cross on my forehead. “God continue his miracles.”
“Hi, honey!” Mom was on one extension. “Milly, how’s it going
?” Dad on the other. An international stereo phone call. Great! The line also had an echo. And it didn’t help that the only phone at the Bolívars’ was in the parlor, where the TV was kept on all the time with the trials of the Truth Commission. Riqui was sitting in front of it now. Out of courtesy, he had turned the volume down.
“Did you get my message?” I asked. I had called last night to let them know I’d gotten in safely, but their machine had kicked on. With Nate away at camp and Kate down with Grandma, my parents were probably getting some time out from being parents. I was glad for them, but it had worried me that they hadn’t called back. Were they already starting to forget about me?
“We did get your message, honey. We were out seeing that new film—oh dear, I’ve already forgotten the name. Honey, what was it called? Anyhow, it was late when we got back so we were afraid to call. We tried you this morning, but Dulce said you’d already gone out. Really keeping you busy, eh?”
(At least this is what I think Mom said—what with Dad remembering the movie’s name, and then mentioning something about calling the airline to see if my plane had gotten in safely, and all the static, I’m not 100 percent sure I caught everything Mom was saying.)
“Dulce said something about getting ready for a memorial. We’d love to send some flowers. Could you buy some in our name? We’ll wire you some more money if you need it.” Mom was always thinking of everything.
I’d heard about the memorial being planned for Tío Daniel. The family had been waiting for the Bolívars to come back from the United States so the whole family could be present. The trial of the murderers had been going on for months, and finally the officers involved had confessed and been sentenced. It was time to move on. The Bolívars had set out this morning to take care of last-minute details associated with the ceremony. They wanted to spare poor Dulce the painful preparations. The plaque to be unveiled by a delegation from the government had to be reviewed, the flowers for the memorial mass at the cathedral to be ordered. It was depressing to think that a funeral required as much attention to details as a wedding, and no happy ending to keep you going.