Wherever the Jiménez family had gone, Sara knew it wouldn’t take long for the census office to track them down. There were only so many places to hide.
She tried to put them out of her mind. She’d done her best to help, and the situation was out of her hands. Sister Peg was right; she had a job to do. It was important, and she was good at it. That was what mattered most.
In the middle of the night, she awoke with the feeling that a powerful dream had ejected her from sleep. She rose and checked on Kate. She felt certain that her daughter had been in this dream, if peripherally; she had not been the focus—rather, a witness, almost a judge. Sara sat on the edge of her daughter’s cot and watched the night pass through her. The girl was deeply asleep, her lips slightly parted, her chest expanding and contracting with long, even breaths, filling the air with her unmistakable scent. At the Homeland, in the time before Sara had found her again, it was Kate’s smell that had given her the strength to go on. She’d kept a baby curl in an envelope, hidden away in her bunk, and each night she had taken it out and pressed it to her face. This act was, Sara knew, a form of prayer—not that Kate was still alive, because she’d believed absolutely that her daughter was dead, but that wherever she was, wherever her spirit had gone, it felt like home.
“Is everything okay?”
Hollis was standing behind her. Kate stirred, rolled over, and then was quiet again.
“Come back to bed,” he whispered.
“I can sleep in. I’m on second shift.”
Hollis said nothing.
“All right,” she said.
When dawn came, Sara was wide awake. Hollis told her to stay in bed, but she got up anyway; she wouldn’t return from the hospital until after dinner and wanted to take Kate to school. She was half-drunk with exhaustion, although this fact did not seem like a compromising influence on her judgment but a source of clarity. At the door of the school, she hugged her daughter tightly. It did not seem so long ago that Sara had needed to kneel to do this; now the crown of Kate’s head reached Sara’s chest.
“Mom?”
The hug had gone on for some time. “Sorry.” Sara released her. The other children were streaming past. She realized what she was feeling. She was happy; a weight had lifted from her heart. “Go on, kiddo,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”
The records office opened at nine o’clock. Sara waited on the steps in the dappled shade of a live oak. It was a pleasant summer morning; people were striding past. How quickly life could change, she thought.
When the clerk unlocked the door, Sara rose and followed the woman inside. She was older, with a pleasant, weathered face and a row of bright false teeth. She took her time situating herself behind the counter before looking Sara’s way, pretending to notice her for the first time.
“Can I help you?”
“I need to transfer a birthright.”
The clerk licked her fingers and removed a form from a slotted shelf, then placed it on the counter and dipped her quill in a bottle of ink. “Whose?”
“Mine.”
The woman’s pen halted over the paper. She raised her face with an expression of concern. “You seem young, honey. Are you sure?”
“Please, can we just do this?”
Sara sent the form to the census office with a note attached—Sorry! Found it after all!—and went to the hospital. The day passed quickly; Hollis was still awake when she got home. She waited until they were in bed to make her announcement.
“I want to have another child.”
He rose on his elbows and turned toward her. “Sara, we’ve been through this. You know we can’t.”
She kissed him, long and tenderly, then drew back to meet his eyes. “Actually,” she said, “that’s not exactly true.”
12
Ten moves, and Caleb had Peter completely boxed in. A feint with a rook, a knight cruelly sacrificed, and the enemy forces swarmed over him.
“How the heck did you do that?”
Peter didn’t really mind, though it would be nice to win once in a while. The last time he’d beaten Caleb, the boy had had a nasty cold and had dozed off midway through the game. Even then, Peter had barely eked out the victory.
“It’s easy. You think I’m on defense, but I’m not.”
“Laying a trap.”
The boy shrugged. “It’s like a trap in your head. I make you see the game the way I need you to.” He was setting up the pieces again; one victory was not enough for the night. “What did the soldier want?”
Caleb had a way of changing the subject so abruptly that sometimes Peter struggled to keep up. “It was about a job, actually.”
“What kind?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure.” He shrugged and looked at the board. “It’s not important. Don’t worry about it—I’m not going anywhere.”
They were listlessly moving pawns.