“Of course you are,” Mr. Reardon said. “All your paperwork’s in order. At the moment. I checked.”
He smiled, but it was a dangerous smile. Jonah couldn’t quite understand what was going on, but maybe that was because he felt so dizzy all of a sudden. And so much of his brain was drowning in thoughts like, All those times I said the Pledge of Allegiance at school—doesn’t that count for anything? And the “National Anthem”—I try to sing it at baseball games; it’s not my fault my voice doesn’t go that high….
“Is Jonah—” Dad took a careful breath. “Is he a naturalized American citizen or native born?”
Mr. Reardon shrugged, still smiling.
“Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t…when it comes to the love we have for our son,” Mom said.
Jonah’s stomach began to churn, to match his spinning head. If Mom was going to get all sappy right here in front of Mr. Reardon, Jonah wouldn’t be able to take it. For a few seconds, he couldn’t even listen. When he forced himself to tune back in, Mom was saying, “But it might matter to Jonah someday. If he was born in another country, he might want to go back and visit; he might want to do projects about that country’s history for school….”
Mom’s voice cracked on the word school, and Jonah decided this was nothing like those times she tried to catch him or Katherine in a lie. Her voice never cracked then.
Mr. Reardon leaned closer. He laid his hands lightly on a closed laptop—the only object on his vast desk—and moved the right corner ever so slightly forward, as if that microscopic readjustment might align it perfectly with the borders of the desk.
“Let me give you a hypothetical,” Mr. Reardon said. “Let’s say there was an international baby-smuggling ring. Lots of poor people in developing countries have babies they can’t afford; lots of rich Americans want babies they can’t have. People get desperate, don’t they?”
Jonah saw his mother flinch. Mr. Reardon went on.
“It’s a bad mix, desperate rich people who want something that desperate poor people have. Laws are broken; rights are trampled; money changes hands illegally—”
“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Dad said coldly.
“I haven’t accused you of anything,” Mr. Reardon said. “Guilty conscience?”
Dad gaped at Mr. Reardon and lurched forward in his chair.
“Of course not,” he said. “Jonah was adopted through a reputable adoption agency—we had no contact with any smuggling rings! We—we didn’t pay anything! Except the regular adoption fee…but—but everyone pays that!”
Jonah had never before seen Dad so angry that he actually sputtered. He was usually the calmest person in the family, mild-mannered, like a Clark Kent without any secrets.
Mr. Reardon laughed, as if he thought Dad’s reaction was funny.
“We’re just talking hypotheticals, remember?”
Dad sat back, but Jonah could tell that it took great effort. Mom reached over and took Dad’s hand—Jonah could tell that they were both holding on so tightly that their knuckles turned white.
“So, hypothetically,” Mr. Reardon continued, “this smuggling ring gets greedy. They take too many risks; they get caught. They always do, in the end. It’s a big mess for all the governments involved, all the government agencies involved. Do you extradite the smugglers? Do you deport the babies? You probably should, shouldn’t you?” He was staring straight at Jonah now. “ Extradite and deport both mean ‘send back,’ by the way.”
Katherine gasped.
Jonah’s stomach was still churning, his head still spinning. But Katherine’s gasp was the last straw. He was sick of sitting here listening to Mr. Reardon bully his family with all these “hypotheticals,” all these simpers and smirks, cruel smiles and humorless laughs. He hated the way Mom and Dad were clutching each other, terrified, the way even Katherine had all the color drained from her face. If there was any way Jonah could hurry this along, a sick stomach and a whirling head weren’t going to stop him.
“Which country was it?” Jonah asked.
“Pardon?” Mr. Reardon asked.
“Which country?” Jonah repeated. “I see where you’re going with all this. Some smuggling ring brought me into the United States, the government busted up the smuggling ring, you gave me to a regular adoption agency, and then Mom and Dad got me. I’m really glad you didn’t send me back, if it was one of those countries where people live on five dollars a year. But it would be nice to know where I came from. Just so—just to know.”
Jonah was amazed at how calm his voice sounded. Really, who cares? He thought. He’d always known his DNA came from strangers; did it really matter if they were strangers from Bangladesh or Ethiopia or China instead of Kansas or Kentucky or Maine?
Jonah glanced down and caught a glimpse of his arm: pale skin, light brown hairs, an occasional freckle. Okay, he guessed he couldn’t be from Bangladesh or Ethiopia or China. Which poor country had people who looked like him?
It would be nice to know.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Reardon said. He didn’t sound sorry at all. “You’re asking me for information that I’m not authorized to provide.”
“Then—who would be?”
Mr. Reardon shrugged.
“Nobody.”
It doesn’t matter, Jonah told himself. I don’t care. But that wasn’t true. The room seemed to whirl around him—the room full of lies, Mr. Reardon’s lying words, Jonah’s lying thoughts. He shook his head dizzily. Mom reached out and placed her hand over his, just as she’d done with Dad.
Jonah didn’t shove it away.