buenos aires
august 2005
Esme’s fingertips were cold as she paced around her house, but she hesitated to turn up the heat any higher—it would get too warm once everyone arrived. Perhaps another degree wouldn’t hurt. She could always open a window.
She’d been fully dressed for hours in what she hoped was the right outfit—a light blue sweater and brown slacks, the pearl studs Gustavo had given her as an anniversary gift years ago, a coordinating brooch pinned to her scarf. It was too early to start preparing lunch or merienda, but she put out a tray of medialunas, arranging them nervously. Did Ana prefer ham or cheese?
Rachel. Her granddaughter had been called Rachel all her life. Perhaps one day she would go by Ana, the name Lorena had given her. Esme chastised herself for thinking this: it didn’t help to jump ahead with such silly hopes. For now, she should just be grateful.
After all, it had taken Rosa’s granddaughter seven years after her DNA test to even acknowledge her grandmother—and then, for a long time, Patricia pushed Rosa to the side, treating her like some kind of shameful secret to be kept on the outskirts of her life.
“It has to be in her own time,” Rosa repeated. Indeed, over an excruciating amount of time, Patricia finally came around. It didn’t hurt that Rosa had gotten a dog.
And when Hilde was reunited with her adult grandson in recent years, Esme watched time melt the age from her friend’s face as she held the grown man in her arms. Through tears, Esme recognized the woman she’d met years ago—Hilde’s gold eye shadow, her youthful skin, her pretentious air at Café Tortoni. If only Alba had still been alive to see it. They’d been through so much loss, but every child they found was a wound healed; every completed search filled Esme’s heart as though the grandchild were her own.
Presente, presente, presente, the young people chanted now for the mothers of the desaparecidos when they gathered at press conferences or demonstrations. Young people like Mari and Matías, who were carrying on the grandmothers’ search armed with memory and truth, made the slow push through time toward justice, calling out the identity and presence of those who no longer had a voice of their own.
And here was Esme, mere months after first reading the transcript of a witness’s testimony that would lead to Mari traveling to New York, preparing to welcome her long-lost granddaughter into her home. Preparing to host a dinner with her beloved friends and family, to celebrate the restoration of identity of her very own granddaughter, Ana.
What difference did it make what the girl called herself? Gratitude was the only appropriate response.
By now, Esme had washed and dried every breakfast dish, put them all away, and wiped down the spotless counter twice. Matías had said ten o’clock, but flights could be unreliable.
In the four-tiered wire hanging basket near the kitchen window, Esme arranged the fruit by color: six red apples in the top basket, eight oranges in the next, four lemons and a bunch of bananas in the third, and finally, pears, limes, and green apples at the bottom. She studied the rainbow. It had been ten thousand four hundred and sixty-five days without Lorena. She could still see the light on her daughter’s face in the hallway that night when the junta broke in. When she lifted a hand to reposition an apple in the bottom basket, Esme could still feel the skin of Lorena’s cheek.
We’re coming back . . .
When Matías called from New York with the DNA test results, Esme had to dig through the letter holder on the wall to find the slip of paper on which she’d written Claudio’s phone number years ago. It was a lingering paranoia, but Esme still couldn’t bring herself to write his name in her gold-embossed address book, as though the junta might find it, even now, and come after her for it.
“Claudio,” she’d said into the receiver after a decrepit beep. “It’s Esme. We’ve found Lorena’s daughter, Ana. She’s in the United States, but she’s coming to Buenos Aires. I told you I would let you know.”
She hadn’t heard back from him yet. She wasn’t sure she ever would.
The doorbell rang now, followed by a knock. Esme startled. Her heart swelled as she moved through the foyer and reached for the door handle. Matías had already started to open the door from the other side. He forged in, beaming, and hugged her, his winter coat puffing up around them both. Over his shoulder, Esme recognized Mari’s curls. They brought in the smell of the wind, of travel. When Matías finally let her go, Esme embraced Mari and closed her eyes, for she wasn’t ready yet to see the person who would be standing behind Mari. Even with all the knowledge she had in her mind, Esme’s heart still needed proof.
Mari pulled away, smiling, face to face with Esme. Then she stepped aside.
“Hello,” said the girl, smiling Lorena’s smile.
I’m coming back, Mamá . . .
“Oh,” Esme said. She moved slowly toward her. When Esme embraced her, she thought her heart would explode. Her granddaughter. A part of Lorena was here, in Esme’s arms, pressed against the beating heart in her chest. Ana had come all the way here—home to Esme—and she was letting Esme hold on to her now. She was hugging her back.
Esme’s eyes welled and spilled over.
“Oh,” she said again.
Then she stood back and looked at the girl for a long time.
Ana.
The resemblance to Lorena was there, but it required time for Esme to validate what she saw. Her eyes traveled over the girl’s features. Her hair matched Lorena’s in color, though it was coarser in texture than Matías’s—he’d always had José’s silky locks—but it was only hair; it didn’t mean anything. The same couldn’t be said for the shape of her jaw or the natural curve of the lips, slightly downward at the corners. Esme couldn’t ignore the straightness of her brow bone. Her granddaughter had the face of her Lorena, but the features of someone else entirely. As with so many truths she’d first learned in her heart throughout the years, it was just a matter of time before the proof arrived for the rest of the world to see.