Beyond the Ties of Blood (49 page)

“As many children of disappeared, tortured, or traumatized parents must know, being the daughter of such a victim is not easy. Inevitably the surviving parent's needs come first, because she is too damaged to do what normal parents do, which is to put the needs of their children above their own. In the case of my daughter, to this has been added a recent discovery that has, I think, made many things difficult to repair—and to forgive.” Her voice broke. She took several sips of water before she was able to continue.

“This is not meant as a plea for reconciliation, whether at the level of the individual or the society. It is instead a reminder that truth does not, in and of itself, bring reconciliation. As a very wise and dear friend said to me one day,” she looked up to meet Tonia's eyes, “once something is known, it becomes truth and nothing more.

“As we begin to learn this truth, as we begin to live with the consequences of this truth, whether measured in plaques or in shattered lives, I hope we can learn to take responsibility for it. Not only so that, to use an already overused phrase, it should never happen again. But also in our attempts to account for the damage, hurt, and pain that, even as victims, we could not prevent ourselves from inflicting on those we love.”

For a split second all Eugenia heard was silence. Then thunderous applause as those present rose to their feet. She moved back toward the audience but hesitated in front of the first row. Through the mist that gathered before her, she tried to decide where to sit. Laura and Tonia stood together and, taking her hands, led her back to an empty seat that miraculously opened up between them.

When the mail arrived early the next afternoon, there was an official envelope addressed to Eugenia Aldunate Valenzuela and Laura Bronstein Aldunate. Embossed in the upper left-hand corner was the seal of the Ministry of Foreign Relations. Eugenia opened the envelope with shaky fingers and found a single, heavy sheet of paper, the same seal at the top, and the stamped signature of the Minister at the bottom. “Dear
Señora
Aldunate,” she read. “Your two petitions, for your own recertification of citizenship and for your daughter's recognition of citizenship, have been approved. You can pick up your papers at our downtown office, on Moneda two blocks from the Presidential Palace. Our hours are nine to one, and again from three to seven in the afternoon.” Eugenia looked at her watch. If she left now, she would miss the rush hour and get there in plenty of time.

Putting on a jacket, she walked out to Providencia, down the stairs at the Pedro de Valdivia station, and took the metro to the Moneda stop. By four o'clock she was in the correct line at the Ministry, and an hour later she had collected all the necessary papers, as well as the instructions on how to get her and Laura's identification cards.

As she emerged from the building with all the materials in two manila envelopes, it suddenly occurred to her that she might still catch Laura at the Committee offices if she swung by on her way home. Now that they had both been accepted as Chilean citizens, it was probably the best chance she would have to bring up the topic of the future with her daughter. And with Dean Henderson's deadline a little over a week away, she had the future on her mind.

Tonia opened the door before Eugenia had a chance to knock.

“Ay,
tía
, no matter how many times you do that, it still scares the living daylights out of me,” Eugenia complained, giving the other woman a tight hug.

“I just knew it was you,” Tonia laughed, “so why wait?” She drew back a bit, putting her hands on both of Eugenia's cheeks. “I'm so glad you came by, because it gives me the chance to tell you how beautiful the ceremony was yesterday. But this is not the reason you're here, is it?”

“No, it's not,” Eugenia said. “I'm here because earlier today I got some good news. Laura's and my petitions for Chilean citizenship have been accepted, and I'm on my way back from the Ministry. I decided to stop by and, if she's still here, I can give her the papers.”

“That's excellent news,” Tonia said. “Come in and sit down. I'll call Laura. She's still in the back doing some filing.”

As she settled into an armchair in the sitting room, Eugenia remembered the last time she had sat in the same chair. It had been nearly four months earlier, when she had come to ask Tonia to read Laura's urine. It felt more like four years.

“Mama?” Laura walked into the room. Eugenia stood, and the women kissed awkwardly before retreating to separate armchairs. Laura's hair was gathered in a single ponytail, the ubiquitous
copihues
glimmering in her ears. A light coat of dust, probably from the filing she was doing, covered the front of her brightly colored hand-knit sweater. Eugenia was once again impressed by how mature her daughter seemed.

“So Tonia said our petitions were accepted by Foreign Relations,” Laura said after a short silence.

“That's right,
hija
. Your documents are all in here,” Eugenia said, waving one of the manila envelopes in the air. “The only thing you still need to do is get your identity card, and there's a page of instructions in the packet. I already read mine and it's pretty easy, all you need is a couple of small photographs and the fee, which I'll be happy to pay for.”

Laura came over and took the envelope from her mother's hand. “Thanks,” she said. “I'm making a bit of money here now, but it's not a lot.” She sat back down and opened the envelope, nodding as she went through the contents. “Laura Bronstein Aldunate,” she said. “Shouldn't we change that now to Laura Aldunate Aldunate? I think that's what happens with children who don't know who their fathers are.” Her voice was firm, and she looked over at her mother with steady eyes.

Eugenia was silent for a moment. Of course. It hadn't even occurred to her, but Laura was right to ask. Did they need to go through the whole process again? “I don't know,” she said.

“You don't know what? If that's what is done for children without fathers? Of if that's what we should do now?” Laura's voice and expression remained calm.

“Legally, I guess you're right. But I'm wondering about
doña
Sara and
don
Samuel. How they would feel about a name change.”

“Is it really up to them?”

“You're right,
hija
. But when we found out about your father, even before we told you,
doña
Sara said that, for them, it changed nothing. They still felt that Manuel's memory was embedded in your heart.”

A curtain seemed to fall over Laura's eyes, and she put down the documents on the side table next to her chair. When she passed a hand over her forehead, the fingers were trembling slightly.

“Well,” Eugenia said, “I expect that you could petition for a name change at a later point if you wanted to. I could ask Ignacio if you'd like, I'm sure he can find out if he doesn't already know.”

Laura sat bent over, elbows on knees. “I'll think about it,” she said.

“
Hija
,” Eugenia ventured after another silence. “There's another reason I came by to talk to you. Now that we're both citizens, it seemed like a good time to think about our future plans. You now have the documentation you need to go back to school.”

Laura looked at the envelope sitting on the side table. She folded her hands in her lap, and her right thumb began to rub back and forth across the top of her left hand. Then she unfolded her hands, picked up the envelope and held it upright on her knees, as if the name on the front contained an answer to the question in the air between them.

“Joaquín has only one more year in high school,” she said finally. “We've been talking about getting our own apartment after he graduates. By then I'll be eighteen and legally independent. He wants to study Law, and if he scores highly enough on his aptitude test—”

“But Laurita,” Eugenia interrupted gently. “What about you? You need to think about graduating from high school. I'd hate for you to have to repeat yet another year.”

Laura's voice was steady but sharp. “I will not live apart from Joaquín.”

“But
hija
, you're not even seventeen!”

“I don't care. You're right that I need to go back to school, and I will. But I will not live apart from him. I want to go to a school near where we will live.”

Eugenia wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but it was not what her daughter said. As she got back on the subway on her way out to her mother's house, she wondered what to do next. Laura's “we,” she realized, no longer included her.

She thought of her mother, just now coming out of her depression. Since they'd gotten home yesterday after the ceremony, she had seemed so happy. She thanked Eugenia, over and over, for what she had said. She thought about Ignacio looking so much older, and the physical response she still felt when he hugged her after her presentation. And then there was the matter of her job in Boston.

That evening, after lingering over dinner with her mother and celebrating her newly recovered citizenship, she returned to her room. She took a shawl from the chair near the desk, wrapped it around her shoulders, and carried her second mug of coffee out onto the balcony. It was about ten o'clock, and stars glimmered in the clear late-August night. Off to one side she could see the Southern Cross, its glow dimmed by the lights from the city's multiplying buildings. Yet there it stubbornly remained, shimmering softly through the flashing of Santiago's night sky. Memories were like that, too, Eugenia thought. Even as everything changed around them, they shimmered on.

Before she came back to Chile, her memories had rooted her to the past, surrounding her in nostalgia and desire. She'd hoped that Laura, too, would feel connected, that they'd build a life together in the land where they were born. But now that she knew the truth, she had no idea what came next. With her citizenship she might now be able to find work, but she knew that other
retornados
, those who like her had returned from exile, were having a hard time. Did she go back to Boston, to her fragile university position, and take up where she'd left off? After talking to Laura earlier in the day, she knew that if she did, she would return alone. And then there was the question of her mother.

Eugenia thought of Ignacio, and the attraction that was still present between them at the ceremony the day before. The connection to Manuel, to human rights, had been the origin of a deep mutual passion. She remembered when he'd kissed her scars before they made love for the first time. But was she more than a vehicle for his redemption? And his connection to his family, so like all the other elite Chilean families she had known. She could never play the role of wife and mother they expected. In fact, she couldn't play any of the roles Chilean society offered her. Returned exile. Redeemed subversive. Wise matron of memory. Her roots that had so powerfully beckoned to her in exile now tied her up, drawing her down into a dark, subterranean place she did not recognize as her native land. Even at the farm, when she had run into Inocencio García early that first morning. Her mere presence had called up his ghosts too.

She went back into her room, sat down at the desk, and took out the new notebook with its half-completed essay “Math Lessons.” She wrote through the night. The next morning before breakfast, her eyes bleary from lack of sleep, she realized she was done.

She took a day to rest, and another to read her essay over slowly, stopping every now and then to savor the texture and color of the voice she saw reflected there. She thought back to the Guatemalan student who had come to her office a year and a half before. Now, she realized, she could easily answer the young woman's questions. Not that she'd been entirely wrong before. But personal experience meant nothing until you could look it straight in the eye.

She couldn't continue to do this, and certainly not write about it, or tell her students about it, if she remained in Chile. There was no work for her here, especially without the credentials that would establish her as an authority in the eyes of others. And as she had learned from her encounter with Ignacio's family and with Inocencio at the farm, most Chileans did not want to confront the past openly.

She called Carmichael College the next morning. “Dean Henderson,” she said after her call had been put through. “It's been very hard for me to reach a decision. Still, today I feel confident in saying that I wish to come back to the college and resume my teaching position. I can write the letter today and send it to you by courier service if you wish.”

“Professor Aldunate. Thanks so much for calling. And I'm so glad to know that you will be rejoining the faculty. Just send the letter to me by certified mail, even if it takes a few extra days. That will be fine.”

“Thank you, Dean Henderson. There is, however, one more thing I wanted to ask you.”