“Found you?” Pablo questioned, eyebrows raised.
I nodded. “Soy adoptada. I am adopted.” I said it in English and Spanish, as if to confirm the fact in both languages.
A knowing smile spread across Pablo’s face. “Somos patriotas,” he said proudly.
Fellow patriots? Well, that was maybe stretching it. But it was reassuring how Pablo treated the news like it was nothing to get upset about. It made me want to keep talking. So I told him the little I knew. The orphanage in the capital my parents had visited about four months after Kate was born. The sickly baby they found there. The decision to adopt. The paperwork. The final okay. The bringing me back. How I’d tried keeping it a secret so as not to feel any different from Kate, or Nate, born seven years later.
I talked on and on—the words just seemed to flow out. Pablo kept nodding, listening without interrupting, as if he knew how important it was for me to get my story out.
When I was done, it was suddenly very quiet . . . as if we were both looking down at that empty box that had once held my secret.
Pablo knowing my story definitely brought us closer. If I could tell him my deep dark secret, then I could talk to him about anything. Well, almost anything. There are some things you just can’t gab to guys about—like PMS or your big butt. I did talk to Pablo about Em and how we were drifting apart.
“I want to forget that she blabbed. I really do,” I explained. “I mean, I even told her that it was over and done with, but my heart just doesn’t seem to want to come along with the rest of me, you know?”
Pablo nodded. He didn’t immediately offer advice or respond. I liked the way he was thoughtful about what people said. Like he was really thinking about it.
“Things of the heart you cannot rush,” he said quietly, as if he were speaking from personal experience. I wondered if Pablo did have a girlfriend back home, or maybe a whole slew of them. All those Beatles lyrics, I supposed. “When I was a little boy, summers with my grandparents, Abuelito and I used to plant a garden. I was so impatient for the crops to grow. I used to pull the tiny plants to see if the roots had sprouted.”
I had to laugh at the thought of Pablo surrounded by mounds of plucked would-have-been onions, potatoes, carrots. “Your granddad must have loved you!”
Pablo smiled wistfully. “Abuelito would say, ‘Things of the garden and things of the heart, you have to give them time, Pablito.’ Poor Abuelito. He never lived to see his country free. He died when I was a boy. A natural death,” Pablo added with relief. I guess in his country that was a rare thing.
This actually was the hardest thing to get used to with Pablo. How he would suddenly switch from being just your normal teenage guy to someone brooding and absent, someone I didn’t know.
“Earth to Pablo,” I sometimes teased him. “Come in!”
He was perplexed the first time. I guess this spaceship routine wasn’t done in his country. Sometimes Pablo would respond, shaking off whatever bad memory had overtaken him. But sometimes he was too far gone, and he would look at me from such a far distance, like he himself didn’t know how to get back to me.
Those times, I really wanted to comfort him. But I couldn’t yet seem to reach out and hold his hand. Things of the body. I guess you can’t rush them, either.
A few days after I talked with Pablo about her, Em caught up with me on our way to Algebra. “I really feel like you’re still mad at me. I mean, if you’re not going to be my best friend, would you please let me know?” She looked like she was about to cry.
“Oh, Em!” I put my arm around her. It was a relief to feel the ice breaking between us.
“We never really talk anymore,” Em wailed, her eyes brimming with tears. She seemed oblivious to the fact that we were standing in the hall, surrounded by wall-to-wall people hurrying to their next class. And two of them, Jake and Dylan, were heading in our direction.
“I know you’re like still totally upset about me telling about your adoption.”
“EM!!!” Like my New York cousins, Em thought making a scene showed a person was really being sincere.
“Hey there!” Jake and Dylan had swerved to join us. I thought for sure they would notice the high-tension wires threaded between Em and me. But they seemed totally clueless. Did Jake even remember what Em had told him about my being adopted? “What are you ladies up to this weekend?”
Em and I both shrugged. We were too into our talk to think about the weekend. Actually, mine was wide open. My parents were taking Nate to a game in Boston. On the way, Kate was being dropped off for an overnight with her best friend, who had moved to southern Vermont last summer. At first, Mom had insisted I go along with “the family,” but finally she had agreed to let me stay home. The Bolívars would be around if I needed anything. In fact, I had already offered to accompany Mrs. Bolívar to the mall on Saturday to help her shop for some nice nightgowns for Miss Billings.
“We’re getting together Saturday night to plan my campaign strategy,” Jake was saying. This past Monday, Jake had registered to run for class president. Elections would be held in late May for officers for the following year. Jake was the world’s nicest guy and every downtrodden person’s Robin Hood. But I didn’t think he’d stand a chance against Taylor Ward, all-around jock and ninth-grade heartthrob. I know, it sounds like every high school sitcom—the handsome, blond hunk; the skinny, intellectual-type guy. But like Ms. Morris says, clichés get to be clichés because they ring true. The most I could hope for Jake was a happy ending to his story: skinny guy doesn’t get the presidency, but he gets, I don’t know, a date with Jennifer Lopez.
“Sure, I’ll be there,” Em was saying. I noticed, kind of sadly, that she didn’t accept the invitation for both of us like she used to.
Of all things, “Auld Lang Syne” came through the loudspeakers. “You guys coming?” Dylan said. We were all in Algebra this last period.
“In a sec.” I knew we were going to be late for class, but Em and I needed to plan getting together for a talk. Hopefully, we’d make it to Algebra before Mr. Oliver reached what he called his “negative numbers.”
“So, when can you come over?” I asked. The hall had cleared. Even a normal voice now sounded loud.
I don’t think Em heard me. She was crying again. “It’s been awful lately. I’ve been feeling like life is just not worth it.” Her parents, who were always threatening to divorce each other, were really getting a divorce this time. She had gained five pounds. Her thighs were huge. Didn’t I think her thighs were huge? Meanwhile, her brother had been kicked out of his prep school, which was kind of unfair since the school was for problem kids. She was flunking Phys. Ed. Nobody flunked Yoga.
“Oh, Em,” I kept saying, sometimes in comfort, sometimes in exasperation at how Em got the truly major all mixed up with the definitely minor. Why, oh why, is it so easy to spot this in someone else? But as Em talked on, I realized that a lot had been happening in her life that I didn’t know about. I’d been holding on to my grudge, not seeing how much Em truly regretted what she’d done.
“I don’t blame you for hating my guts,” Em went on. I shook my head in protest, but Em wouldn’t be convinced. “I deserve it, I know. I have the biggest mouth. But I’m really, really, really sorry!” Em squeezed her eyes shut as if to stop the tears that spurted out of the corner of her eyes.
“Em, listen, it’s okay, really.” This time it was my heart talking. “Truly, you are MY ONE AND ONLY best friend!” I raised my voice several decibels. Maybe if I made a scene, she would believe me.
Em blinked, as if surprised at my outburst. “Really? You mean it?”
I brought my face right up to hers, till our foreheads touched. “I mean it, girlfriend,” I said emphatically, looking into her eyes.
“You sure you still love me?” Em was like a little kid sometimes. It was something else I both loved and sometimes found exasperating about my best friend.
“I never stopped,” I assured her. Not that I wasn’t also
hurt. But that was the thing about loving somebody, you hung in there with them during the hard parts. That’s what the love was for, the rest was easy.
“If I could only get mouth-reduction surgery like they do for big boobs.” Em sighed as we pulled apart. I loved it when Em’s sense of humor kicked in.
“So how about coming over this Saturday? My parents are going to be gone.”
Em nodded. “Maybe after we talk, we can go over to Jake’s—you want to?”
But I had been hatching another plan. “Actually, Em, I need your help with something.”
Curiosity lit up my friend’s eyes. “What?”
“I want to open The Box and I want you there, okay?”
Em’s mouth dropped—she looked totally shocked. “The Box? Really? But I mean, are you . . . do you really think you’re ready, Mil?”
I nodded, like I knew. But to be honest, I was in shock, too.
The box had been around for years before it became The Box.
It was made of this beautiful, dark wood—mahogany, Dad had said. A latch pulled down over an iron ring. One time, when we were little, curious Kate pointed to the dresser and asked Mom what was in the box. I remember Mom saying something like she kept some private papers and documents in there. That did the job. The contents sounded boring. Nothing for us to try to get into when she wasn’t looking.
One summer afternoon between third and fourth grade, when we were still living on Long Island, my parents came out to the driveway. I’d been riding my new bike up and down the street—the allowable block that was visible from our house. I don’t remember Kate being around, and Nate was napping. Now that I look back, my parents probably waited until the three of us could be alone together.
“Mil, honey.” It was Dad. “We’d like to talk to you, Mom and I, okay?”
From their faces, I could tell I was in for something important. Several things went through my mind. I had done something wrong. But what? I always tried to be good to make up for all the trouble I was having at school.
I followed them into the house, feeling like I was going to faint. I think I actually held my breath all the way to the kitchen. Everything seemed normal, in its place. But then my eye fell on the box sitting beside the lazy Susan on the table. It was a harmless enough thing, but it was so unusual to see it there that it could have been a gun or a bloody knife the way my knees began shaking.
I sat down at my usual place, Mom and Dad on the other side facing me. They each took one of my hands, smiling this emergency-room smile like bad news was coming. I must have looked ready to cry because Mom said, “Honey, it’s nothing to worry about. Remember how Dad and I have talked to you about getting you in an orphanage?”
I nodded warily. They had told me that I was adopted, but I didn’t really know what that meant. I had asked if Kate and Nate were also adopted, and Mom had explained that, no, children came to families in different ways. My brother and sister had come from her belly—which sounded much more disturbing.
“Anyhow,” Mom went on. “We just want to go over the whole story in case you have any questions. Okay?”
And then they told me a story I’d heard in bits and pieces before. I listened. I didn’t ask any questions. Even when they asked me if I had any questions. Really and truly, the only part I worried about was when they said they weren’t sure about my birth date. August 15 was just the date the orphanage had registered me. I thought they were trying to take away my birthday.
Dad was squeezing my hand. “Any more questions, honey?”
“You understand what we’ve told you?” Mom squeezed my other hand.
What wasn’t there to understand? Once upon a time, some parents who had been in the Peace Corps decided to stay an extra year in their host country. They worked at a school teaching English. Their first daughter was born. They called her Kate. One day, the mom visited an orphanage close to where they lived. There she met a beautiful baby who had been left at the doorstep. The mom couldn’t resist; she brought the dad over; they fell in love with this baby; they knew that baby was meant for them, and so they adopted this baby. Wonderful story. But it didn’t seem to have anything to do with me.
“You were just a tiny little thing.” Dad held his big hands about a foot apart, smiling proudly.
Mom smiled, too, like she was really looking at that baby, not just the empty space between Dad’s hands. “The sisters just adored you. Especially Sister Corita. She was the one who found the basket just outside the door. You were wrapped in a shawl with a little piece of paper pinned to your dress with your name on it. And this was also in the basket with you.” Mom nudged the box toward me.
“Beautiful wood, isn’t it?” Dad stroked the box. “Mahogany,” he pronounced. “Shall we open it?”
I eyed the box—which had suddenly been transformed into The Box, with scary capital letters. “What’s in it?”
“Nothing to worry about, honey,” Mom reassured me. “It’s just like a memory box, with some pictures and souvenirs and newspaper clippings. Plus, all your adoption papers and naturalization papers we put in there later. You want to look in it?”
I shook my head and pushed The Box back toward them.
“We don’t have to open it now,” Mom agreed. “Any time you’d like to look inside it or talk about it...”
“You okay, sweetie?” Dad was starting to worry.
“It’s a lot to take in, we know,” Mom added.
I knew I would start crying if I didn’t get out of there soon. I looked up, and instantly their eyes were on me like they were hungry for me to say anything. Say something, I told myself, make them feel better. But all I could come up with was, “Can I go out and play now?”
My parents looked at each other helplessly. “Sure, sweetie,” Dad said. “Of course you can,” Mom added. But I had to tug at their hands to get them to release mine.
I stood up, pushed in my chair like this had been some kind of formal session. I remember noticing my hands. They were covered with a rash again. Maybe they were itchy, I don’t know. I was too numb to feel anything.
Out in the driveway, I stared at my new bike for a while like I couldn’t figure out what it was for or how to use it. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Somehow it seemed like I would have to be a whole different person from now on.
Then I remembered what I’d said inside. Can I go out and play now? That’s right. Continue as before. Put this story back in The Box and push it away.
I got on that bike and pedaled furiously around the driveway and out into the street, where I was not allowed to go. Somehow, I knew that today, I would not get in trouble for breaking the rules. Looking back now, I can see that I had kept on pedaling ever since. Until the day when Pablo leaned toward me in the lunch room and with a simple question—click!—opened the lid.
Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Bolívar and I took the bus back from the mall. It dropped us off at the town center, half a block from where the Bolívars lived. I was going to walk home from there, but Mrs. Bolívar insisted that it was getting dark and a señorita should not be traveling by herself. So Pablo was enlisted to accompany me. It felt silly in our small town, where crime amounts to a car full of teenagers on a Saturday night bashing mailboxes or toilet-papering a girl’s front yard. But I kept reminding myself that these people had been living in a dictatorship with disappearances and horrible tortures. (Mr. Barstow had just finished a whole segment on current Latin American history that was giving me nightmares.)
Not that I minded Pablo’s company. Along with Nate, I had suddenly gotten an older brother and friend. More and more, I admit, there were pangs of not wanting it to stop there.
“So you’re my bodyguard?” I said, once we were beyond earshot of his mother.
“A body guard?”
I tried thinking of the Spanish word but drew a blank. “You protect me from danger,” I explained. “Like if a mugger comes, or say, I were famous, you’d keep the fans away.”
“Are you
looking for someone for this job?”
“Yeah, right! I’m in such danger in Ralston. No, what I need is a fairy godmother to wave her magic wand. . . .” I waved my hand. And then, it was like when you shake food into an aquarium and a bunch of little fish come zooming over to those flakes. All these wishes popped into my head, things I yearned for, like Grandma’s love and Kate’s understanding and Em not being such a big mouth—and other wishes, too, I didn’t even have words for yet, stirrings about my birth parents and Pablo and the stuff in books that’s just covered by “happily ever after.” But though my head was packed with them, I couldn’t think of a single wish to say out loud. I guess I didn’t want to sound like some whiney teenager who didn’t have her life together.
“¿Bueno?” Pablo was waiting. “What would you wish for, Milly?”
I thought of saying something sappy like world peace. But instead, I shrugged. “Nada, nada.” Not a thing. “But no use wasting a wish.” I held out an invisible package. “Why don’t you use it?”
I felt a little silly playing pretend with a grown-up guy. But Pablo didn’t miss a beat. He mimed taking my package, shaking it, and listening to the contents. Then he opened it up and drew out something between his thumb and forefinger.
“What is it?” I asked. I felt a little breathless. He had me almost believing that he’d found something in our invisible wish box.
He shook his head. “We cannot name it or it disappears.”
I felt like I’d opened a door that led to a place I’d never been before. I wanted him to say more. But I also wanted the magic to unfold in its own time, for the little roots to grow.
Since it was a warm spring evening, I suggested we take the long way home through the town’s old cemetery. It really is a pretty spot, with clumps of birches that were just starting to get that tinge of green. Some of the tombstones have quaint inscriptions. I mean, there are people buried there from before this place was the United States. In the summer, you’ll sometimes see tourists taking rubbings of them.