Born: March 4, 1961 in Calabozo, Venezuela
Current Location: Unknown
The drive is still sitting on my nightstand, but the information is burned into my brain. Now that I know his name, I can’t stop thinking about who this man might be.
The Pritchards are the only family I’ve ever known—besides Gil. They adopted us when I was nine and pulled us out of a group home where we were regularly punished for speaking Spanish to one another.
Though Gil and I had vowed not to trust another adult for as long as we lived, after six months of constant love, acceptance, and support from Betsy, Steve, and their son, Austin, I gave in and started calling them Mom and Dad.
They’re my family. My parents. The only ones I’ve ever needed.
The one photo next to my computer is the very first picture we took together. It was our second day with them, and they insisted a photo of all five of us belonged on their wall.
So why can’t I stop thinking about Luis Rojas?
After I boot up my computer, I pull out my thinking putty—so very like the childhood toy that I used to stretch over the comics in the newspaper so it would pick up their images—and start squeezing it and rolling it around in my hands. It’s silly—needing something to help me focus—but it works. Plus, my hands are crazy strong now.
This one is purple and sparkles, and I let my eyes unfocus as the putty stretches and compresses between my fingers. I have an article on the latest trade agreement between Mexico and the United States due by 5:00 p.m., and I’m way behind.
Snapping my gaze to my monitor, I read over what I’ve already written.
The House of Representatives voted to adopt revisions to the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) on Monday. The bill passed with an overwhelming majority of 391 to 35, signaling a rare bipartisan effort to amend the agreement.
Debate on the House floor lasted under an hour, with only five representatives taking longer than their allotted five minutes.
I need at least another six paragraphs before my editor will call the story complete, and yesterday, every time I tried to research the history of NAFTA, my eyes crossed and the words on the screen stopped making any sense. Grief is a strange thing.
Gil and I weren’t even close. But the idea of him in the world reassured me.
Today, it’s not Gil stealing my focus. It’s Luis Rojas. My birth father. I switch over to Google and enter his name. There are thousands of results, so I start narrowing my search. Venezuela. But when I enter his home town, Calabozo, the first result contains a photo.
My own eyes stare back at me. He’s so serious in the picture, and as I read the article, I realize why. “Oh, my God.”
Luis Rojas has been jailed for the last six months in The Crypt, one of the most notorious prisons in Venezuela. At least, that’s what his youngest brother believed before he, too, went missing.
“Luis tried to expose the horrors of the Farías government’s human rights violations, and the secret police wish to silence him. But we will never be silenced. The Democrática Resistencia will fight for the rights of all Venezuelan people until our last breaths. They can torture him and lock him away in The Crypt, but he will never stop fighting for Venezuela!”
My father is a freedom fighter? I glance over at my editor’s office across the bullpen. My mind is spinning with everything I’m suddenly desperate to know about this man who shares half of my DNA. But then I stare back at the photo of my family. I can’t do anything until I talk to my parents. But once I do...I need to look into this.
Right after I finish my NAFTA story.
* * *
A little after6:00 p.m., I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and take the stairs down to the Post’s gym. Five years ago, I was on assignment in Darfur, and I had to run from a kill squad that was after my source. I made it all of a mile before I was so winded, I had an asthma attack. Luckily, a family saw my photographer and me and urged us to hide in their home. They saved our lives, and the day I arrived back in the States, I went right to the office and found the gym.
Now, I can run ten miles and barely break a sweat. Two years ago, I started lifting weights and studying Aikido. I lost twenty pounds, and I have abs most women would die for. Nothing seems to trim down my thighs or my ass, but I’m damn proud of my abs.
In the women’s locker room, I change into my workout gear, then get on the treadmill. Six miles later, I head for the free weights and spend an hour working my upper body.
The sweat and the burn help me feel alive, and after a quick shower, I head home. Back to my lonely apartment, my dinner of stale pizza and club soda, and a phone call I didn’t think I’d ever make.
* * *
“Hey, Dad,”I say when Steve Pritchard answers the phone.
“Dani? Is everything okay?”
I just talked to them yesterday, and while we’re close, I usually only call once a week at most. “Yeah. I just wanted to talk to you about something.” I get up to pace my living room, fearing if I sit still another minute, I’ll lose my nerve. “Um, right after Gil died, he sent me a letter. Well, scratch that. RightbeforeGil died, he sent me a letter, and I got it the day after the memorial.”
