Isabel,
I obtained these for you. They are brand-new copies of your original Spanish birth certificate, your U.S. social security card, and your certificate of naturalization. It is all you will need to obtain an ID card. Merely take these three pieces of identification to the DMV—Department of Motor Vehicles. Your boyfriend will know where one is.
Caleb
Your name is signed messily, theCcurling and looping, huge, almost entirely enclosing the other four letters, which are printed uppercase.
There is no explanation as to how you got them, no explanation as to why. Just the five sentences, your name, and my name.
Terse, brief, efficient.
And the wordboyfriend; I can almost feel the sarcasm, the vitriol. The letters of the word are darker, as if the hand holding the pen was gripping more tightly, pressing down harder upon the paper.
I open Logan’s laptop, type inDMV, and a list pops up. There is one not far from Logan’s home. I memorize the address, the intersection, the blocks intervening, memorize the route I will need to take. I want to do this myself. Logan would take me, and will be upset I did it alone. But this is for me to do.
Thank you, Caleb.
I don’t know why you saw fit to provide me with this information, but you did. And I am grateful.
I replace the items in the package, find my shoes. They are flats, like ballet slippers. Comfortable, plain. I am wearing tight-fitting blue jeans and a plain green V-neck T-shirt, a knitted white wool cardigan over it. Comfortable clothes. Simple. Plain cotton briefs, and a supportive but comfortable bra. My hair is messy, but it looks good this way. No makeup.
I am Isabel. I do not need Valentino shoes or Chanel dresses, or Carine Gilson lingerie.
Almost out the door, my hand on the knob, about to close it, the key Logan gave me in my pocket, I hesitate.
And then go back inside. Open the laptop, pull up Google. Let out a shaky, shuddery breath.
Type in three words:free pregnancy test.
A moment as the computer thinks, and then it brings up a list of options. One, Avail NYC, is near enough to the DMV that I can walk there as well. I click the link to go to the website. See that I have to make an appointment, so I follow the directions and make an online appointment for later today. Close the tab, lower the lid of the laptop with shaking hands. My heart is whacking painfully in my chest. It’s just a precaution, I tell myself. It’s not true. It can’t be.
I know better. I know when I’m lying to myself.
I leave Logan’s house, putting Cocoa in her room, setting the alarm, and locking the door behind me.
It is a much longer walk than it seemed when examining the map.
“One-oh-four!” a voice calls out.
A slip of paper in my hands read 104, so I stand up, move to the owner of the voice. A black woman. Short, thin, middle aged, hair cropped short and dusted with gray, large gold hoop earrings dangling from earlobes. No eye contact.
“Help you?”
“I need an ID card.”
“Not a driver’s license?”
“No. Just an ID.”
“Got the application done?” I hand over the application I filled out while I was waiting. “You’ll need to provide two forms of identification. Social security card, a utility bill, something like that.”
I place the three forms I have on the counter. The woman retrieves two at random, the social security card and the certificate of naturalization. Not at random, actually. She probably doesn’t read Spanish, and a document from a foreign country probably doesn’t count anyway.
Fingers clack on keys for a while and then a pink lacquered nail gestures. “Stand there for the photograph.” A moment of adjusting equipment. “One... two... three.” A bright flash.
More typing.
“Fourteen dollars, please.” I hand over the money order—Logan provided me with some cash, which I hadn’t intended to use, but . . . these seemed to be extenuating circumstances. “Here’s your temporary ID. Your card will arrive within two weeks.”
