May We Be Forgiven

plan for this year.”
    “Good to know. So, about this upcoming holiday vacation, is there a plan? Something you’ve got in mind?”
    “Not really. If you can’t think of anything, we can always go to Disney World.”
    “How does a kid who has his own town in South Africa want to go to Disney World?”
    Nate is silent for a moment. “I’m human,” he finally offers. “You think the kids in Nateville don’t know Mickey Mouse? They wear Mickey Mouse T-shirts. All those clothes that we stuff in charity bins in the parking lot of the mall are sold—not given—to poor people in foreign countries.”
    “I had no idea.”
    “No one does, but that’s why whenever you see a documentary about impoverished parts of the world the kids are all wearing U. S. character or slogan T-shirts. Meanwhile, what about the boy, the orphan—can we take him with us?”
    “It’s certainly something to think about,” I say, stalling. I’ve never traveled with children, much less two children, much less two children and an orphan.
    “What’s his name?”
    “I don’t know,” I say.
    “How could you not know? Didn’t you go see him in the hospital?”
    “I stopped in and dropped off some gifts,” I say, wondering if I did at one point know his name and have since forgotten. I agree with Nate, it seems odd. “I’ll find out his name,” I say. “While I have you on the phone—do you want an update on your father?”
    “No,” says Nate.
    “Okay,” I say. I’m not going to force it on him, but I don’t exactly like being the only one sitting with information.
    “So—can we plan a conference call with Ash to talk about the trip?” Nate asks.
    “Of course. Should we Skype with Ash?” I ask, more softly.
    “Can’t,” Nate says. “Her school doesn’t allow video chat—they’re worried about predators and stuff.”
    “Okay, then, we’ll set up a regular call for later this week.”

    A few nights later, with both kids on the phone, I begin by saying, “The purpose of this call is to come up with a plan for the holidays.”
    “Something fun,” Nate says.
    “Like what?” I ask.
    “Roller-coaster rides,” Nate says.
    “Room service,” Ashley says. And then she adds, “Nowhere too hot, or too cold, and not entirely indoors.”
    I don’t know how, but we decide on Williamsburg—credit goes to Nate, who Googled his way through the conference call like a travel agent, sifting wants, needs, demands.
    “It’s historic, it has room service, and it’s near Busch Gardens Amusement Park and a water park called Great Wolf Lodge. If we wanted to, we could stay at Great Wolf in a room that’s, like, got bunk beds and a built-in log cabin. There’s also a go-cart track nearby.”
    I look up the place he’s talking about and am reminded that he’s a child. What we’re talking about looks like a bacterial nightmare, a summer camp run amok, a child’s fantasy—water slides and French fries. I feel the chlorine singeing my sinuses as I’m picturing sheets made of 100 percent polyester, chairs with vinyl-wrapped cushions. I think of my weekend visit with George, and by comparison even that looks better than this. I say nothing—some cards are best held tight.
    “Shall we take a vote?” Nate asks.
    “Sure,” I say.
    “All in favor of Williamsburg and the surrounding area?”
    “Yay,” we all say.
    And so it is decided—and as soon as it is decided, Nate starts gunning for me to take the orphan.
    As we’re about to hang up, the boy’s name comes back to me—it’s really the memory of George and some crappy comment he made about the boy’s mother crying out his name—“Ricky,” I say. “His name is either Ricky or Ricardo.”
    “And what do they call him?” Ash asks.
    “Ricky or Ricardo,” Nate says.
    “Nice,” Ashley says. “Let’s invite him.”

    I agree to call, even though I fear injecting our family further into the lives of these people who we’ve already harmed so profoundly. And then I think of Nate and Ashley and their youthful belief in the possibility of repair, and so it is with that that I push myself to make the call.
    “Is Christina Menendez there?” I say her name slowly—because in my head I’ve inexplicably started calling her Carmen Miranda and am convinced I’m going to actually say it to her face.
    “She no home,” the man says.
    I am about to ask if I can leave my name, but he hangs up.

    I try again in the evening. “Is Carmen there?” I