021: Connecting the Dots: Part II

The town’s bus depot was unknown territory for Molly. Mamá had always said. “If we need to go someplace far away, we’ll contract a private car.”

But that had never happened; they never went anywhere. When Molly had been 15, her school had an excursion to Chetumal and after begging her mother for weeks, she had finally been allowed to go. That day trip had done it; Molly knew that one day she would escape Mama’s loving but smothering presence and go to live in a city.

Sensing her daughter’s growing frustration Mamá developed a new strategy. Using Grandma’s death as an excuse, her mother started having spells of melancholy. At first Molly felt great sympathy; she had loved her grandmother too. But after five years of the moaning and groaning, Molly bore such resentment. It seemed as though her mother knew she wouldn’t be abandoned as long as she remained unwell and she continued to pine away.  Molly felt like she was drowning, but she stayed at home and cared for her grieving mother. What made Mamá so terrified of letting her daughter go?

Settling into a window seat halfway down the length of the coach, Molly wondered if Robert would somehow catch up with her. When he jumped on board just seconds before departure, she felt relief flood through every inch of her body and brain, He saw her waving and quickly moved to occupy the empty seat beside her.

She leaned her head on his shoulder and fell asleep. No words passed between the two; they had no need to talk.

In the morning, Molly and Robert arrived in Mérida. They could hardly make sense of the directions they’d been given, but by some fluke they realized that the hotel Robert had booked was located very close by the Registro Civil, the government depository of birth records. “We need to shower before going there,” Molly told Robert. Even though it was early, the 9 hour bus ride left them sweaty and rumpled.

Molly looked around her sparse room. She had never slept in any bed but her own. She had worried that Robert might book double accommodations but she was glad he hadn’t. While they were affectionate with one another, she had no romantic interest. Clean and fresh after her bath, Molly dressed with care. Today might be the most important day of her life. Maybe her questions would finally be answered.

Standing in line to request their birth certificates, Molly reflected that Robert looked as uneasy as she felt. He kept straightening his skirt front and glancing around. When their turn finally came, they gave their full names: Molly Anne Evans and Robert Michael Davies.

“You say you were born in Yucatán?” the civil servant asked.

“Yes, both of us have parents who immigrated to México from Belize.” Robert replied.

“Well I am sorry but there is no record of your births in this state; maybe you should look for more information at the Immigration office located on Avenida Colón.” The older woman added, “If your parents came into this country from somewhere else, there would be a record there.”

They decided to take a taxi and were surprised by the lush vegetation they found in the area surrounding the immigration office. This was like their home; they felt comforted by the profusion of bougainvillea, hibiscus and jasmine and the canopy of broad leafed trees. There were no other people waiting at the enquiries desk.

“No appointments are given on Tuesdays,” the bored security guard had told them.

Molly’s nerves were shot and she couldn’t keep her sobs of confusion, frustration and pain under wraps. She leaned against Robert as the now agitated guard looked on.

“Please sit here,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Three minutes later he returned with a senior official, Sr. Jesús Rámirez Ortíz who ushered the distraught pair inside to the waiting area. Robert summarized their predicament, and Sr. Rámirez requested that they once again give their full names. He asked them to wait and a female official asked if they wanted something to drink.

Molly and Robert gratefully finished their glasses of cool water, and waited. They watched as several other officers came in and out of the office of Sr. Rámirez. Several times they could hear him on the telephone, and they saw a lengthy fax document carried inside. Molly looked alarmed when she heard the group cry out:  “Well, that’s what happened!”

Sr. Rámirez quickly brought them into his office. A whole array of paperwork was spread out on his desk. “We have located your names in our system,” he said, “But the people who own these names are a woman and man in their 60s. These are their pictures from when they were granted political asylum in Mexico in 1982.

Both Molly and Robert nearly fainted when they looked at the faded black and white passport photos. “That is my mother’s picture!” Molly said.

Robert sprang from his seat. “And that man is my father!” he cried,

Sr. Rámirez watched the two with a trained eye. There’s a lot more to this story than I first imagined, he thought. He stood and addressed Molly and Robert formally. “Actually this woman cannot be your mother,” he said nodding at Molly. “Nor can this man be your father,” he told Robert. “They are Americans. He is a Franciscan priest and she is a Dominican nun.”

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