SOL

Sol sat alone on a steel bench in the detention center that had been carved out of a women’s federal correctional facility. She did not know exactly where she was except that she was no longer there. This place was not far off from where she’d been kept for what she now knew had been sixteen years. She wasn’t happy. Relieved, yes. She felt the healing on its way like a far-off mare slowly trotting toward her. She was still imprisoned, just behind cleaner walls, under brighter lights, with less unkind jailers holding her hostage. She bit down on her lip waiting for them to bring My to her. As much as she wanted to be with him, she didn’t want him to live in this place either. He had earned his right to live free on the outside that was also on the inside of America. He had been born in the country’s dirt, not merely on its soil. Even if they sent her back to a distant and frightening unknown, he, at least, deserved freedom outside these walls. She heard her name being called and stood up quickly, hoping that she would see him finally.

I am not One. I am not Zero, Two, Three, or Four. I am Sol.

Solange is what Cara called me. No last name. I do not remember, or I do not know my father or his name.

“Solange! Solange!” I hear the agent yell as if I am not sitting there close by, alone. “Come with me.”

I follow. I don’t dare ask a question. I stand at a counter, my face staring at the face of another agent.

“Name?”

“Mine or his?”

“His.” She doesn’t look down when she types.

“My.” I cannot see the screen.

“What kind of name is that?”

I shrug.

“Is it M-y?”

I don’t answer. He is My. Because of Two and Three. I mean, Chiqui and Cocoa. They thought he would be a girl. They agreed on Marisol. For a boy they agreed on Mar-y-Sol. I only asked why there, why then.

“Miss? Miss? Is it M-y?” Under her breath I hear her say, “Only white people give their kids names like that.”

I say, “No matter.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t know.”

“There has to be a last name.”

I say, “You like ‘Smith’? You want ‘Smith’?”

She writes. Again, she barely whispers and shrugs her shoulders.

I hear her eyes say, You barely look twenty. Her mouth says, “Is this your real age? Thirty-one?”

I say again, “I don’t know.”

Her eyes say, “You had him when you were sixteen.” She counts wrong.

I say, “Thirty, more or less, not twenty.”

I hear her eyes roll. I see her say something I can’t hear.

She has no idea. I do not tell her where I have been. She wants to know only where I came from, so they can send me back.

“Are you sure he was born here?”

“Yes.”

“But they didn’t give you a birth certificate in the hospital.”

“No. Not in the hospital.” I do not explain. She is locked up like me because she has not heard. The others in here have. They know my story from television. I learn the same way. I know who Cocoa is now. She has family. Not like mine. Not like Chiqui and My. We are in here now and in there again.

“Father’s name?”

I don’t answer.

Again, her eyes say everything. Her body says a new thing. “Is my shift over?”

I stare. I almost cry.

“You have a last name for him?”

“Doctor’s name who saved My is ‘Lamar,’ ” I say.

“First name My. Last name L-a-m-a-r. Middle name?”

I sigh. “No.”

“Date of birth?”

I count backward to when I believe Four died. I mean Nihla. I add three months.

“May 21, 2012.”

“You seem pretty sure about a child with no birth certificate.”

I feel tears in my eyes.

“5-21-12,” she says slowly. “I’m gonna play those numbers.”

I feel tears on my face.

“That’s eighteen dollars and fifty cents. We’ll take it out of your commissary. People have been sending you money. You know, a lot of big-shot lawyers are trying to get you out of here, allow you to stay.”

My mouth makes a sound like it’s about to scream.

“The document will be ready in a few days. Your advocate will pick it up.”

I hear myself say, “What about My?”

“Your son? He’s waiting for you.”

“What about my sister?”

“You have a sister in here? Let me check.” She looks down at her screen. “She’s somewhere in this place. I guess you’ll all be going together.”

I do not ask where.