That’s how I end up surrounded by more than a half dozen of my female cousins and my two sisters, all in line for me to braid their hair. Their mothers, aunts and grandmother form a circle around me while all the guys, big and small, participate in the football game.
The girls take turns in the braiding seat while I field questions about my life and all that led me here.
I mention the name Gabriella Ruiz that showed up on my DNA matches last year as my third cousin—once removed. My grandmother says the name Ruiz is from her husband’s side, but that hisextended family spreads so far and wide over the southwestern states and across the border, she couldn’t pinpoint who Gabriella is with much accuracy but was certain she landed somewhere in Antonio’s distant family line.
“How did the detective get your original birth certificate without having to petition the court for it?” That question comes from Gustavo’s wife.
Chin ducked to my chest, I keep my eyes on the hair woven through my fingers and force a heavy swallow down my throat.
This is a part of the story I haven’t mentioned before…to anyone because there are still so many unanswered questions in the weeds of it all. The complexities of adoption paperwork, sealed records and the different states with their different laws can make anyone’s head spin.
Adoption records are sealed in Arizona—I knew this before I hired the detective. An adoptee, even if they’re a legal adult, must petition the court for a copy of their original birth certificate. Even then, the request will only be granted if specific stipulations are met. Without any imminent health concerns to justify a petition, what I found online persuaded me that my request would likely not be granted.
Without access to my original birth certificate, I knew the detective was a long shot. But, as I soon discovered, I wouldn’t need my original birth certificate after all. The truth is, the document the detective secured wasn’t my actual birth certificate, but rather a photocopy of the birth certificate form—the form that Cheyenne’s mother filled out.
A photocopy of a photo, to be exact.
A photo that shouldn’t have been taken to begin with.But it was.
A photo that shouldn’t have been hidden away in a file for twenty-two years.But it was.
Somebody inside that birthing center was my guardian angel that day and it’s not lost on me that I should count myself lucky and not ask too many questions. The detective’s words reverberate like a gong in my memory.“Questions could lead to answers and those answers could cost someone their career.”
Whether he was referring to his own career or that of someone who worked at the birthing center, I still don’t know.
Recalling the detective’s parting words, I stick to the big picture of the story so I don’t get trapped in the minutiae. “I don’t know all the specifics, but I think he was able to speak with someone who worked at the birthing center.” I glance at Cheyenne who exchanges a questioning look with Grandma Rosa at her side. “I guess you filled out some intake paperwork when you arrived that got filed away there. Between my amended birth certificate with my adoptive parents’ names on it and the alignment of my birth date and time on the birthing center’s paperwork…” I let my thought remain open-ended, shrugging my shoulders in nonchalance like the connection is obvious because intake paperwork should be standard.
Grandma Rosa places a hand on Cheyenne’s forearm and I sense some sort of realization in the action.
Cheyenne’s brows knit together as she says, “That birthing center isn’t in business anymore. I don’t understand how?—”
“We’re here,” a voice calls from the side gate, a welcome interruption. Everyone turns as a middle-aged Native American woman with long onyx hair approaches. A blond-haired, fair-skinned man at her side and two pre-teen boys a few steps behind.
Winona.
Everything I’ve learned about how Winona supported Cheyenne through her pregnancy, how she was the only person with her during the delivery, how she’s the only member of Cheyenne’s family who didn’t disown her—these two sisters, they’re the only family the other has.
Cheyenne and Winona swoop into a hug, soft words whispered between them that nobody else can hear. Heavy emotion permeates the way they cling to each other and the quiet sniffles muffled by their embrace.
“I’m Arthur.” The tall man with the strong British accent steps into my line of sight.
This is the man that sat in the waiting room and updated Miguel and his family during Cheyenne’s labor. I bypass a handshake and go in for a hug instead.
I meet his and Winona’s two boys, David and Dakota, who are fifteen and thirteen, respectively. They’re quick to run off and join the boys’ football game, leaving Arthur and I alone.
“I’m so sorry we’re late. Winona had a patient go into labor in the middle of the night.” His eyes roam my face. “You really do look like Miguel.”
I shake my head and laugh. My gaze drifts over to Winona and Cheyenne who are still deep in conversation, hands swiping tears away. Cheeks wet, Grandma Rosa joins in and pulls Winona down to kiss her cheek.
“I’m sure Winona is so tired. It’s really nice of you to drive all the way up here,” I say to Arthur, but my attention is transfixed on the three women several feet away.
“Are you kidding? We wouldn’t miss this. It was one of Winona’s midwives’ patients so she only had to be onsite in case there were any complications. She keeps a bed in her office at the birthing center for those nights.” I turn to meet his gaze. “She’s rested enough. Baby is happy and healthy.”
He gives me a smile that I’m quick to return, but my mind whirls. “She works at a birthing center? I thought doctors only delivered at hospitals.”
“Most still do but it’s not uncommon for doctors to operate independent birthing centers. She hated being inside a hospital all the time, but she didn’t want to give up delivering babies, so she opened her own practice.”
“That’s cool.” I hope I sound much more natural than I feel as I brace for my next question. “Cheyenne said you guys live in Phoenix?”
