Julie skimmed the lines of the email. “They found the mother. She lives in Guatemala City. Kate’s lawyer went to her house to get her to sign off with permission.” Julie stared at Felix’s photo, trying to picture Ida Manuela holding him, and Ida Manuela’s father, Felix’s grandfather, giving the baby away.
“What do you think?” Mark asked, his expression neutral as if not wanting to sway Julie either way. “Is this our son?”
To see a digital image of a baby and believe him to be hers would have seemed preposterous to Julie even five minutes earlier. Yet deep inside her, something stirred. The connection she felt to Felix transcended logic. It felt magic. Out of the thousands of babies abandoned in the world, this little boy was meant for her. Felix’s face went blurry as Julie’s eyes filled with tears. She stood up, wrapping her arms around Mark.
“Hello, Mommy,” he said.
*
Julie created lists of activities to pass the time required for Felix to become their son. Friday night she cleared out the art supplies she’d stored for years in the spare bedroom closet—dull charcoal pencils, used drawing pads, and dried paints she couldn’t resurrect but for some reason held onto—and filled a bag for Goodwill. The hundreds of postcards publicizing exhibitions at cafés and galleries: into the recycling bin those went. Saturday, she did laundry and she and Mark hiked six miles. In between, they spackled and sanded and primed, and applied the first coat of paint in Felix’s new room. Still, she wanted it all to move faster.
Sunday morning, they drove down the 99 freeway to Fresno from their home in Redwood Glen to visit Julie’s sister, Claire. Out the window, the rolling hills of California’s Central Valley glowed like spun gold. As Mark drove, Julie glanced at the legal pad on her lap, listing the items they needed to buy. “A stroller costs almost as much as my first car,” she said.
Mark grunted. He hated spending money. They lived in a bungalow they’d bought from Mark’s parents before moving them into assisted living, a year before they both died. Real estate in their neighborhood had since been bought up by tech zillionaires so rich they felt poor by comparison. This, despite the fact that Mark worked as a pathologist at San Francisco General and Julie was a curator.
Mark held the steering wheel with one finger. This stretch of road was so flat and straight, the car almost drove itself. The cruise control was set to eighty. Acres of lettuce beds spread in every direction. Those stooped figures could be from Guatemala, Julie realized.
“Did Claire like the picture?” Mark asked.
“She didn’t say.” Julie’s sister usually responded to email instantly, efficient as she was. After Julie sent the picture? Silence.
“Maybe she didn’t see it yet,” Mark said.
Julie doubted that. She knew Claire wasn’t off at church on Sunday morning. And that computer of hers could open anything. No, it was more likely the usual: Claire being Claire. Withholding and, dare Julie say it, aloof.
“She’s young,” Julie said, as usual giving her sister the benefit of the doubt. “She hasn’t started the baby chase.”
Claire was six years younger than Julie, only thirty. Mark clicked on his blinker and swerved to the right lane to exit at downtown Fresno. “Once they realize how cute this little guy is, they’ll fall in love,” he said.
A few minutes later, Julie and Mark stood in the front hallway of Claire’s sprawling faux Tudor, Julie’s purse still on her shoulder, front door not yet closed. After a round of air kisses, Claire squinted at the printout of Felix’s photo. “Is he really that brown?” Claire said. “Oh Jeez. What I meant to say is, ‘I love his color!’”
Julie grabbed back the picture as Claire’s husband Ethan appeared from the kitchen down the hall.
“Shut the door, Claire, you’re air conditioning the neighborhood.” Ethan skirted around Mark and Julie, pulling the door shut himself. “He’s Mexican, right?”
“Guatemalan,” Mark said.
“Indigenous Guatemalans invented the concept of zero,” Julie said. “They used it when they built the pyramids at Tikal. The indigenous are called Mayans, in case you’re interested.”
Claire reached out to pat Julie’s head as if her older sister were a puppy panting for a treat. “I love how you come up with these arbitrary facts.” Claire turned toward her husband. “Isn’t the groundskeeper at the club Guatemalan?”
“A bunch of the guys are.” Ethan clapped Mark on the shoulder. “Big news, bro. You didn’t want to go American?”
“Not a lot of babies are available.” Mark shrugged. “You have to compete for them. Make photo binders. Write up a story.”
“You’re an MD-PhD for Chrissake. You guys aren’t top of the list?”
“Birth mothers here often want religious parents,” Mark said. “And in domestic adoption, the mother can get them back. That happened to one of our nurses.”
“How awful.” Claire’s hand flew to her mouth as she frowned at Julie.
“You got a picture?” Ethan asked.
Julie handed Ethan the printout and he stared at the photo, tipping his head from side to side as though weighing two options. “What’s his name?”
“Felix,” Julie said.
Ethan leaned into Mark and spoke in a stage whisper. “You might want to change that, buddy. Guaranteed, first day on the playground, he’ll be Felix the Cat. Don’t do that to a kid.”
Ethan passed the photo to Claire. “One of our drywallers has a kid looks like that. Miguel. No, José.”
Claire looked at the photo again, then returned it to Julie. “What about adopting from foster care?”
“We liked Guatemala,” Julie said. “I studied Spanish in high school, in case you forgot. Plus, the country is kind of in chaos. A lot of kids need families.”
“Aww. Our resident bleeding heart saving the world,” Claire said.
“Why do I come here?” Julie said to no one, to the room. “That’s what I ask myself every time we get in the car to drive to Fresno. Why?”
“Joking, Julie,” Claire said.
“Ladies, ladies.” Ethan stepped between them. “We menfolk are hungry. Let’s eat.”
Julie stalked down the hall after her sister. In the kitchen, bright copper pots hung from a rack over a central island and the mahogany cabinet fronts gleamed. Fans with blades like oars scissored in the white cottage cheese ceiling. Cheerful yellow curtains framed the windows. Condensed steam dripped down the glass, making it look molten. The house was an ice box, frigid. Whatever the season, Fresno was twenty degrees hotter or colder than Northern California, and Claire and Ethan burned fossil fuel summer and winter. Carbon footprint be damned, thought Julie.
The huge farmhouse table was set with hand-painted Italian plates and linen napkins. Claire bustled between the table and the giant fridge, setting out plates of artfully arranged cheeses and olives.
“I made Thai coleslaw,” Claire said. “Knowing how much you like foreign foods. Here. Taste.” She placed the bowl of coleslaw on the central island while Julie grabbed a fork from the drawer. A splash of rice wine vinegar and some chow mein noodles and now coleslaw’s foreign? Julie wasn’t sure how they grew up in the same family. Claire was a great cook, though. Julie had to give her that. With their mom sick so long with emphysema, and their father gone, Claire had practically raised herself. They both had.
Dropping the fork in the sink, Julie moved the bowl to the table while Claire sliced a loaf of olive bread on a cutting board. As she returned to the island to ferry the bread, Claire put