It had been five years since my mother died, but to me it might have been just five months. I could still see the children in the sedate outer room at Jackson Memorial awaiting their turn for chemotherapy. Mami’s dragged on for months, and her treatments were scheduled at regular intervals, so we became friendly with the other patients. The children there broke my heart.
Although no one would dream of being crass enough to ask about other patients’ conditions, somehow everyone knew everything about each other’s cancer. When someone missed a session, though, no one really wanted to know the details. It was never because they were improving: at that clinic, few were cured.
There was one little girl in particular, Elena Rojas. She must have been seven or eight years old at the time, but it was hard to be sure because of the toll chemotherapy had taken on her. She was a beautiful child, still, even with no hair and a bloated face, and the nurses all loved her. She was always upbeat and cheerful, and when I brought my mother to Jackson and didn’t see Elena, it took all my self-control not to pry, just to make sure nothing had happened to her.
In time I noticed that she was seldom brought in by the same person twice; I figured she came from a large family. But I was nosy, and one day I found out that the people bringing Elena for treatment weren’t relatives at all. They were workers from Florida Health and Rehabilitative Services. Elena was a foster child, her parents dead for several years. The nurse told me that from time to time, a relative would surface claiming to want to take Elena, but none of them carried through all the demands of the court and the little girl was always left in limbo. When Elena’s leukemia gradually worsened, her relatives’ perfunctory interest vanished.
My mother’s condition turned critical, and we had to spend more time in the hospital. I talked to the nurses a lot, and they told me that Elena’s situation wasn’t all that unusual—there were quite a few children like her, in the care of strangers and at the mercy of workers from the court system.
In my mother’s final weeks, she slipped in and out of consciousness so often that I took to wandering the hallways to distract myself. I visited the children, and I think they helped me through that time at least as much as I helped them. Soon my mother died, and almost out of habit, I continued coming to the floor and spending time with the kids. They made me a registered volunteer, in charge of twice-weekly story hours and paper doll duty.
After nearly three years, Elena died. I soon walked out and never returned. At the time I thought it was temporary burnout, but I was wrong. I simply couldn’t face the place without her there to keep me strong.
* * *
In the air I could still catch a faint trace of Lucia’s perfume. I studied Michelle’s picture at my desk. If I could help it, she wouldn’t end up like the kids in that waiting room. Here was my chance to make up for quitting on the others. I knew I was a little carried away with the notion—sue me, I’m Catholic. I believe in things like redemption. Common sense told me my chances of finding Michelle’s birth mother were slim to none, but I never cared much for common sense.
Leonardo knocked softly at the door. “Lupe? You okay in there?”
“I’m fine, Leonardo.” I put the picture in a manila envelope. “Just thinking about this new case, that’s all.”
Leonardo cracked the door enough to stick his head in. “Another referral from Stanley,” he said, smiling with the bliss of the innocent. “I love it! All his clients are really rich, and they all pay on time.”
“It certainly makes things easier,” I said. Leonardo took care of our billing and books, to a degree. I had an accountant come in once a month to unravel our small financial messes before they grew into disasters. I wasn’t hard on Leonardo, though. He gave it an honest effort.
I noticed Leonardo was still at the door, leaning in as though hesitant to come in all the way. “What’s up?” I finally asked.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said, coming in and sitting in one of my clients’ chairs. He had one of those metal springy things in his hand, which he flexed over and over to build up his forearms. “It’s about my friend Serenity.”
I really love Leonardo like a little brother, but some things about him irritate me. For instance, he has friends named after mental states. And he schemes. Recently he was caught up in selling high-energy, fat-burning fruit shakes out of our office kitchen. The place started to feel more like a health spa than an investigative agency.
Leonardo switched the springy thing to his other hand and started flexing. “She has an idea that I think you’ll like,” he said. “It’s only twice a week, and after hours. You probably wouldn’t even notice, but I wanted your approval.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” I said. I tried to think what was coming, given what I knew about the hippie, spaced-out Serenity: Mud baths and chanting? Tea leaves and séances? Herbal colonics? Oh, God, anything but that.
“Serenity wants to start up yoga and meditation classes in the front area, with just a few students. You can take the classes too. She won’t even charge you.”
Maybe it was all the lush tropical vegetation around the cottage, or the wild parrots squawking out back with their brilliant plumage coloring the trees. Something about the little place seemed to lend itself to this sort of flaky, California-style stuff. Well, at least meditation wouldn’t stain the carpets.
I rolled my eyes to the heavens at the idea of bringing in a client after hours to find a dozen Coconut Grove hippies with their legs wrapped around their shoulders. Leonardo took this for a resounding vote of approval.
“Great! I knew you’d say yes. I’m going to use our photocopier and paper to print up some fliers. Is that all right, too?”
* * *
The Bureau of Vital Statistics is in northwest Miami, sandwiched between the county jail and Cedars of Lebanon Hospital in a particularly dismal, squalid block. I hated going there, even though at midday the narrow streets teemed with people. I hadn’t had any trouble there in the past, but it was just a matter of time. We live with the constant presence of crime and danger every day in Miami, and most people try to beat the odds by staying away from places like Vital Statistics. For me it was another day on the job.
As usual, parking there was impossible, especially since I was driving the Mercedes. I drove around the block several times without getting lucky, so I resigned myself to flirting shamelessly with the building parking-lot attendant so he would allow me to park in the restricted area reserved for public servants. For the usual five-dollar toll, he promised to keep an eye on my car.
Inside the squat mustard building, I paused outside the dank, windowless records room and squared my shoulders for courage. I always theorized that Dade County bureaucrats made the room so depressing—and the wait for information and documents so long—intentionally, to keep all but the hardiest citizens from even trying.
Instead of taking a number and settling in for the interminable wait before my name was called, I went straight to the window marked “Funeral Directors and Officers of the Court.” I was neither, but my friend Mario Solis worked in that department. I knew he would take care of me.
Mario, a slightly potbellied man of about forty, had worked in county government since my days at White and Blanco. He was married with five children, but I could always tell he had a little crush on me.
His eyes lit up when he saw me, and he straightened his thick marine-blue tie. “Lupe! What a wonderful surprise!”
“Mario, you look great,” I said. “How’s Consuelo and the kids?” I asked innocently and enthusiastically as I discreetly air-kissed him. Consuelo was known as a world-class bitch.
“They’re fine. Thanks for asking.” I was relieved he made no move to pull out the album he kept in his desk, which chronicled his children’s every birthday and lost baby tooth in scrupulous detail. Mario was a good man, but if I were married to him I would have been adding vodka to my orange juice at breakfast every morning.
We smiled at each other for a moment, running out of small talk. Then I took out my legal pad. “Mario, I need something for a case, a birth certificate for a little girl born in Dade County July 11, 1991.”
That certainly broke the mood. “Lupe, you know I’m not supposed to give out that kind of information without an authorization,” Mario said, looking at the other clerks to see if they had heard. “I know I’ve helped you in the past, but they’ve been cracking down lately. We get so many requests from adoptive children looking for their real parents, and we’ve had some legal problems.”
I expected this, but I also knew how much Mario loved children. “Come on, Mario,” I said. “I need the certificate for medical reasons, to save a sick child. If my clients have to go through normal channels it might be too late.”
He didn’t seem entirely convinced; the irony, of course, is that I was telling the truth. But when I fixed him with a helpless pout, he leaned forward, the window between us filling with his oval head. “I’ll do what I can,” he whispered. “Meet me under the poinciana tree in the parking lot across from the jail. I have a break in a few minutes and I’ll bring the document, if it’s even on file here.”
I gave the information to Mario—covering my bases by asking for birth certificates of all white females born in the county three days before and after the July 11 date given to the Morenos by Betancourt—and left without another word. Mario always indulged his dramatic flair with me, once delivering a death certificate to me in the building lobby by slipping it into my purse after I pretended to trip and fall. I guessed his home life wasn’t exactly a thrill a minute.
So I waited for him under the poinciana tree. It wasn’t all boring; I had the good luck to be around when the jail performed its daily prisoner release. A young guy in standard gang-wear noticed me and, after nudging his buddies, wolf-whistled at me and started walking my way. I flashed my investigator’s ID, and he stopped, puzzled, and walked slowly away with a glance back at the jail.
An hour later I was just about to give up and try another tactic, when Mario appeared, clutching a manila envelope tightly to his chest. Looking warily at the traffic, he jogged across the street. He looked like he had put on a few pounds.
The exertion was apparently too much for him; he was winded and red when he reached me. “I could get fired for doing this, you know,” he panted. “My supervisor was in the room the whole time, and she almost caught me copying the microfiche. She could’ve asked to see the request form if she thought of it. Never again! Not even for you.”
Mario took out a handkerchief and wiped his face while I waited. This complaining was also part of our ritual. “If that woman caught me giving out confidential information about all those babies, she would have my ass! I must be crazy.”
I figured a little expression of gratitude wouldn’t hurt, so I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Mario, thank you,” I said. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all that for me, but remember: you’re helping an innocent little baby.”
He blushed with pleasure. “Now, Mario,” I went on, “you have to tell me how the county records birth certificates.”
The blush disappeared, and Mario looked around as though FBI agents might be watching us. “All live births have to be recorded within five days, by Florida statute 382.16,” he recited. “Usually the hospital does it automatically.”
“What about adoptions?”
Mario wiped his forehead again. The humidity was building to a typical midday sauna. “Adoptions are different. The baby’s biological mother’s name is listed along with the father’s, if there is one. After the adoption is finalized, the courts send us an amended birth certificate listing the new parents. Both documents look the same, so it’s impossible to tell the difference from just the documents. The original certificate goes into the sealed court records. After that it takes a court order to get to the information.”
I glanced at the parking lot, but I couldn’t see my car. Hopefully it wasn’t on its way to a strip-and-cut operation. “What about home births, Mario?”
“In those cases there’s usually a midwife or nurse practitioner. The law still requires all births to be recorded, and most people do it right away because everyone needs a birth certificate for government services. There are exceptions, though. Migrant workers sometimes don’t bother if they plan to go back to their country. But the vast majority of them want their children to be American.”
I jotted this down. I hadn’t thought that a mother might not want her child’s birth to be recorded.
Mario watched me write. “Hey, you’re not planning to do anything illegal with those documents, are you, Lupe?”
I ignored him, because I didn’t know the answer yet. “What about abandoned babies?”
“They’re registered as baby Jane or Joe until adoption if the birth parents can’t be found. There are cases of unregistered births, but not very often.”
Betancourt had brokered the adoption, and it was almost certainly illegal. I tried to think: Where would he be likely to find a baby?
Mario reached out and touched my arm. “Lupe, be straight with me. I’ll help if I can, but don’t take me for a total fool. What’s going on here?”
Mario, with his wife and houseful of kids, had the patience of five men, and I had finally worn him down. It made me feel sorry for him, for a second.
“You’re right, Mario, I haven’t told you everything.” I took a deep breath, the air soupy and warm, and told him about the Morenos and the birth certificate they gave me. “I want to see if this document was filed with Vital Statistics. Frankly, I don’t know if you have anything at all. My clients never checked with your department before coming to see me.”
It made me nervous, telling him so much. I needed Mario to feel he could trust me; otherwise he might pull the plug on his help—on this case, and maybe on all the others to come.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he said with an ironic smile. “Open the envelope and start looking.”
I should have known Mario wouldn’t cut out on me. What would he have left for excitement? I quickly ripped open the envelope and scanned the printout inside.
No Moreno was listed. I was astonished at the number of births in Dade County on a given date. No wonder Miami was overpopulated: in the summer of ’91, Jackson Memorial alone produced more than thirty babies a day, and that was just the females. I reminded myself that this list represented only registered births.
Mario watched me closely, and I could see he recognized the disappointment on my face. I read the printout again, thinking maybe I had missed Michelle the first time around. No luck, and no Moreno.
There was nothing left for me there. I got up from the grass and helped Mario to his feet. He had gained weight.
“Well, I’ve already run over my break time,” Mario said, wiping soil from his slacks.
I promised to stay in touch and gave him another kiss on the cheek. I never knew when I might need him again.