Chapter 3 - THE SIGNATURE THAT WASN'T MINE
The page shook in Dad's hand only because the ceiling fan was blowing across it.
His fingers were completely steady.
Mine were not.
I took the credit application and stared at the signature until the letters blurred.
It was a careful imitation.
The C leaned the way mine did.
The dot over the i sat too high.
The final a curled backward because whoever had copied it had been looking at my signature instead of writing from habit.
"I did not sign this."
Luis rubbed both hands over his face.
"I know how it looks."
Dad's head turned slowly.
"It looks forged."
"Nobody forged anything."
"Then why is your wife saying that is not her signature?"
Rosa stepped between them.
"Because she's confused and upset."
I looked at her.
"I'm not confused."
"Camila, you sign papers without reading them all the time."
"No, I don't."
"You signed things when Mateo was born."
"Hospital forms."
"Exactly."
Her tone was triumphant, as if that somehow explained a consumer loan for two hundred and eighty thousand pesos.
Dad looked at me.
"Take a photograph of every page."
Luis stepped forward.
"No."
Dad did not move.
"Why not?"
"Because that's private."
A stunned laugh escaped me.
"It has my name on it."
"It's part of a business thing."
"What business thing?"
Luis looked toward Ernesto.
Ernesto stared at the floor.
That silence frightened me.
"Dad?"
Ernesto flinched at the word even though I had not been speaking to him.
My father noticed.
"Ernesto, you know about this?"
"I know Luis was trying to consolidate some debts."
"With my identity?"
My voice cracked.
"Camila, it wasn't supposed to hurt you," Luis said quickly.
I turned on him.
"You used my identification."
"Because you had the income."
The sentence landed harder than a shout.
He seemed to realize it too late.
"I mean, the lender wanted proof of household income."
"Then why is the application only in my name?"
He said nothing.
Dad pointed at the form.
"And why does it list a bank account Camila doesn't recognize?"
I looked down again.
I had not even noticed that line.
The destination account ended in 4418.
Mine ended in 7302.
"Whose account is this?"
Luis stared at the wall.
Rosa answered.
"Mine."
The room seemed to tilt.
"You borrowed money in my name and sent it to your mother?"
"The loan wasn't approved," Luis snapped.
"So stop acting like we stole something."
Dad's eyes became very still.
"You attempted to obtain money using information belonging to my daughter."
"We were trying to keep the family afloat."
"Whose family?"
Luis looked at me.
"Ours."
"Then why didn't I know?"
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Rosa pushed past me into the bedroom and began pulling open drawers.
"This is ridiculous."
She tossed a blouse onto the bed.
"Take your clothes and go play victim at your father's house."
I moved toward her.
"Don't touch my things."
She picked up a framed photograph of Mateo and me.
"Everything in this room is under my roof."
Dad's voice cut through the space.
"Put the photograph down."
Rosa turned.
"Or what?"
"Or Camila documents that you are preventing her from retrieving personal property and we call someone neutral to supervise."
Rosa laughed.
"The police?"
"If necessary."
Her smile disappeared.
Luis looked alarmed.
"There is no reason to call anyone."
"Then give Camila her documents and keys."
"The car is registered to me."
"We can deal with ownership separately."
Dad pointed toward my passport copies.
"Right now, I want to know where the originals are."
Nobody answered.
Mateo began to fuss on the bed.
The sound snapped me into motion.
I picked him up and held him close.
His little body was warm and damp.
He pressed his face into my neck.
"It's okay, mi amor."
It was the first lie I had told him that night.
I looked around for his diaper bag.
It was not beside the crib.
"Where's Mateo's bag?"
Rosa shrugged.
"Laundry room."
I went there.
The bag sat on top of the washing machine.
It was empty.
No diapers.
No medicine.
No spare clothes.
No formula container.
I opened the cabinet.
Nothing.
"Rosa."
She came to the doorway.
"What?"
"Where are his things?"
"I moved them."
"Where?"
"Somewhere safe."
I stared at her.
"Give them to me."
"Not until you calm down."
I felt something inside me detach.
For months, every demand from Rosa had been disguised as concern.
She decided what time I cooked because she wanted structure.
She read my mail because she wanted to help.
She took my car because she wanted me to appreciate family.
Now she was withholding my baby's necessities because she wanted me to calm down.
The pattern suddenly looked so obvious that I hated myself for ever missing it.
Dad walked up behind me.
"Camila, start recording."
I pulled out my phone.
Rosa's face changed.
"You cannot record inside my home."
Dad did not argue law with her.
He simply said, "Then return the child's things."
Ernesto appeared behind Rosa holding a black backpack.
"They're in here."
Rosa spun around.
"What are you doing?"
"Ending this."
He handed me the bag.
Inside were diapers, Mateo's fever medicine, two bottles, wipes, three changes of clothes, and the missing envelope with his birth certificate.
I nearly cried from relief.
Then I saw my passport beneath the diapers.
My identification cards were there too.
Dad stared at Ernesto.
"Why were Camila's documents in that bag?"
Ernesto's face tightened.
"I don't know."
"You just knew where to find it."
"Rosa asked me to put the bag away."
"Why?"
"I didn't ask questions."
Dad's expression made clear exactly what he thought of that answer.
Rosa reached for the bag.
I pulled it against my chest.
"No."
It was one word.
It came out stronger than I expected.
Rosa stared at me.
"Excuse me?"
"No."
I took one step back.
"You don't get to touch my documents again."
Her lips parted.
For once, she had no immediate reply.
Luis stepped into the hallway.
"Camila, can we talk alone?"
"No."
"I'm your husband."
"Then you should be able to explain this in front of the people who watched you hide it."
His face flushed.
"I didn't hide anything."
"You knew about the application."
"Yes, because we needed money."
"You copied my signature."
"I filled out the form."
"That wasn't my question."
He looked away.
Dad said nothing.
The silence squeezed harder than any interrogation could have.
Finally Luis muttered, "I signed for you because you were at work."
My knees nearly gave way.
"You forged my signature because I was at work?"
"Don't call it forging."
"What would you call it?"
"Helping us."
My ankle hurt.
My head hurt.
But the sharpest pain came from realizing he actually believed I owed him gratitude.
"Did you submit it?"
He hesitated.
"Yes."
"Was it rejected?"
Another hesitation.
"Not exactly."
Dad's voice was quiet.
"What does not exactly mean?"
Luis looked at Rosa again.
That glance told me the truth would be worse.
"They asked for more documents."
"Which documents?"
"Proof of property."
I stared at him.
"I don't own property."
Rosa went very still.
Dad's eyes narrowed.
"Camila does."
I turned toward him.
"What?"
He exhaled through his nose.
"Your grandmother left you a small parcel outside Santiago."
I remembered the land vaguely.
A rocky piece of hillside with two pecan trees and an unfinished cinder-block structure.
Grandma had talked about it before she died.
I had assumed the inheritance paperwork was unfinished.
"I thought that was still in probate."
Dad looked at me.
"It cleared last year."
I felt sick.
"Why didn't I know?"
"Because the notice went to your old address after you moved."
His eyes shifted toward the stack of opened mail.
The answer hung in the room.
Rosa had been opening my mail.
Luis had access to my documents.
The lender wanted proof of property.
I looked at my husband.
"Did you use Grandma's land?"
He shook his head too quickly.
"No."
Dad stepped closer.
"Then you won't mind showing us the rest of the application."
Luis backed toward the living room.
"I don't have it."
"Where is it?"
"I said I don't have it."
Rosa suddenly pushed past him and hurried toward the kitchen.
Dad moved after her.
I followed as fast as my ankle allowed.
She reached the stove first.
A metal mixing bowl sat in the sink.
Inside it were torn papers.
One corner was already blackened.
Dad grabbed the faucet hose and soaked the pile before Rosa could strike the lighter in her hand.
The smell of wet ash filled the kitchen.
Rosa screamed at him.
"Get out of my house!"
Dad ignored her and lifted one half-burned page from the bowl.
Across the top, beneath a lender logo, were four words that made my skin turn cold.
PROPERTY GUARANTEE - SANTIAGO PARCEL.
At the bottom was another signature pretending to be mine.
May you like
And beside it was the date.
Three weeks earlier.
