“INS?”
“Immigration and Naturalization Service. They keep track of people immigrating to the States,” Logan explains. “Luis de la Vega, Camila de la Vega, and Isabel de la Vega immigrated to the United States of America from Spain in April 2004.”
“Isabel de la Vega.” I repeat the name, hoping some kind of epiphany will strike me. “Wouldn’t it be Isabel Reyes, if my father’s name was Luis Reyes?”
He shakes his head. “I did a brief search on Spanish naming customs, not sure why. One of those Google search rabbit trails, I guess. But apparently in Spain, you’re given a Christian name, sometimes a middle one but not always, and then you have two surnames, your father’s surname first and your mother’s second, but when you introduce yourself in casual, informal settings, you use your Christian name and your father’s surname, the first one. So your full name, Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro, that comes from your father being Luis Garcia de la Vega Reyes and your mother being Camila Maria de la Vega Navarro. So according to that custom, you’d be Isabel de la Vega.”
I try to formulate a relevant thought, a coherent question. “Did you find anything about my parents or me before the accident?”
“Your father was a skilled metalsmith, specializing in fine gold jewelry. He brought you guys over here because of an opportunity to work for a custom jewelry shop here in the city. He’d worked for himself up until 2004, but then somehow he got in touch with a guy here and decided to move.” Logan twists the mug in circles on the Formica tabletop. “It really wasn’t hard to find your father. I had his passport ID, so I was able to find him pretty easily. Talked to some people back in Barcelona where you’re originally from. Your father’s business was suffering, I guess, through no fault of his own. So when he got the opportunity to come here, he did. You were fourteen when you came to the States, sixteen when the accident happened.”
I try to find something more to say, something intelligent, but I am numb and reeling and shocked and unable to think or process or feel. “So you were able to discover all this just . . . by making some phone calls?”
He shrugged. “Essentially. I mean, I guess I’m downplaying it all a bit. It was a lot of work. I must have made two or three hundred phone calls over the last few days, chased down hundreds of dead ends looking for someone with concrete information on you and your family. And even then, once you guys made it here, the trail sort of goes cold. Your father worked his ass off, seventy and eighty hours a week, and your mom was a maid in a hotel, worked similar hours. Quite a step down for you guys from the life you lived in Spain, is the impression I get. You went to a public high school, but I couldn’t track down anyone who actually knew you personally. A couple teachers who taught you, but again this is New York, and the classes are huge and it’s hard—if not impossible—for a teacher to recall any particular student, especially one from over ten years ago. You were quiet, kept to yourself, spoke fluent but accented English. Did your work, didn’t really stand out in any way. Decent grades, but not great. You were adjusting, I guess. No close friends.”
“Do I . . .” I have to pause to breathe and start over. “Do I have any family? In Spain, I mean.”
Logan shakes his head, his eyes sad. “No, I’m sorry. Your parents were both only children, and their parents died when you were young, when you guys still lived in Spain. I even tracked down where you guys lived here in the city, but the apartment building where you lived didn’t keep your stuff after your parents died. I mean, no one told them, right? So they put your stuff in storage for a while in case you came back, but your folks were dead and you were in a coma, and then you woke up not knowing who you were. So eventually they sold it or trashed it.”
“So really, I’m back to where I started. No family, no real identity. No belongings of my own.”
Logan sighs. “I guess so. I guess all that information doesn’t really do you any good, does it?” He sounds bitter.
I realize I’m being incredibly ungrateful. “Logan, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make light of what you’ve given me. I have my name. I know my parents’ names. That is a gift I shall never be able to repay.” I place my hands over his, around the coffee mug.
He shrugs, a gesture of dismissal. “No big deal.”