“I know. But they’ll have to find it first. I’m not turning shit over. I have a no refund policy regardless of whether they agree with me or not. What’s theirs is mine, and what’s mine is my own.”
“Are you an only child too?”
“Yes.”
The way she said that…
“You weren’t always one.”
“No, I wasn’t. I had an older and a younger brother. My older brother was stabbed through the neck when he was twenty-five, and my younger brother was shot through the heart when he was nineteen.”
“And your parents know what you do?”
“Of course.”
“And they’re fine with it?”
“When my first career blew up, there weren’t too many other jobs for my skill set.”
“What did you do before this? Were you a spook?”
I’m joking, but she doesn’t crack a smile. She stares at me.
“For which country?”
“Italy, of course.” Her chin jerks back, and her nostrils flare.
“I’m Colombian. Why anyone would be proud of being anything besides that is beyond me.” I give her a lazy shrug.
“Your dossier said you were born here in the States.”
“By accident. There was an early snowstorm that shut down the city for like four days.MamáandPapáplanned to go back to Colombia in time for her to deliver there. Instead,TíaMargherita braved a blizzard to get from northern New Jersey to Queens to deliver me whenMamáwent into labor two weeks early.”
“Your aunt delivered you? At home?”
“She’s a midwife like Madeline.”
“Why try to leave in winter just to give birth in Colombia? You’d be Colombian through your parents, regardless.”
“For starters, it was summer down there which is always preferable to winter up here. We’re Latinos. We’re not designed for that cold weather bullshit. All of my family was born there. Even Pablo and Juan were despiteTíaMargherita andTíoLuis already living in Jersey. It’s just how it is. Or at least was. I don’t know whether my two cousins will want to fly to Colombia to have their babies.”
“Huh? You only have male cousins.”
“We don’t talk about in-laws. Once you’re a Diaz, you’re family. It doesn’t matter whether it’s by blood or by marriage. So, my cousins’ wives are my cousins. Period. Florencia, Pablo’s wife, is Colombian, so she’ll probably happily go down there since her mother still lives in Bogotá. I doubt Madeline, who’s American, or Anneliese, who’s German, will want to deliver babies in a country where they don’t fluently speak the language. It seems like an unnecessary complication when they’ll already be in pain.”
I shrug again. I hadn’t really given it much consideration until now. Though, as I stare at Vita, my mind jumps ahead of what common sense says I should be thinking. Would an Italian woman married to a Colombian be willing to give birth there?
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Yes.” She’s taken aback by my seemingly random question.
“Just wondering.”
“Are you worried I’ll understand whatever conversations you have with your family? They’ll inevitably either show up here or demand to see me somewhere else.”
“They won’t demand, but they will expect.”
“They won’t demand?”
