Mothers and Other Liars by Amy Bourret Page B

toward Ruby, pretzels himself into his chair. “I know her. We were in law school together at UNM. She’s a straight shooter and a good lawyer. She trounced me in moot court.”
    He picks up his yellow pad and starts scribbling. The scritch scritch of pen against paper fills the quiet of the room. Then he lays the pad on the table, leans forward, hands clasped at his knees. “It is possible, given the circumstances, that we can negotiate a deal for you, but…”
    The “but” swings through the air like a wrecking ball. There is always a “but” Ruby just doesn’t know which part of her this one will crush.
    “You understand what it will mean. We could try to fight for custody, prove the biological parents are somehow unfit, or argue best interests of the child.”
    Here it comes , Ruby thinks. Here comes the soul-obliterating “but.”
    “I think we have a good shot at avoiding jail time for you, but…you understand that if you come forward, you undoubtedly will lose custody of your daughter?”
    There. The words are spoken. Sometimes a person has to hear them out loud to make them real. And the surprising thing is that they don’t change the resolve that has come almost like a sense of peace. Ruby still knows, all the way down to her obliterated soul, that even if Lark hadn’t found the article, she has to do what is right. And at least he called Lark her daughter.
    She can’t manage words, answers him with just a nod.

TWENTY-THREE
    “Let’s go for a walk,” Ruby says to Lark.
    “But…” Lark has been bristling against Ruby’s need to keep her close, keep her indoors, these past few days.
    “It’s okay. Fresh air…”
    “Fresh perspective,” Lark says, finishing Nana’s saying.
    They head out on one of their favorite loops, up Artist Road, across Gonzalez, down Palace and back over to Artist Road. Clyde nudges between them, bounds off to investigate odors and chase critters, circles back and shoves between them again. The air is cool, God-washed, after a spectacular afternoon storm.
    Neither of them speaks as they walk through this older neighborhood. Lines of scarred adobe walls tease them with glimpses here and there, of gardens choked with poppies, colorful bottles on blue-trimmed windowsills, religious statuary. Ruby reaches out, squeezes Lark’s shoulder. She is answered with a flash of worried, scared eyes. Ruby forms practice sentences in her head as Lark scuffs her sneakers along the roadside, kicks at rocks. What words does a mother use to break her daughter’s heart?
    As the sun dips below the mountains, leaving a smear of rainbow sherbet in its wake, they reach the foot of Palace Avenue. They cross over to a little park beneath the rustic wooden cross planted on a hillside—Santa Fe’s version of the Hollywood sign. They sit in the grass, lean against the trunk of an ancient tree, Clyde blanketing their feet.
    Ruby pulls a dented tin bowl and a couple of bottles of water from her backpack, fills the bowl for Clyde, tosses the other bottle to Lark. She peels a juice-heavy orange, pries the segments apart with her fingers, hands Lark the little bites of sunshine from the center. Angel kisses, her grandmother called them, and Lark needs all the kisses and angels she can get.
    “We need to talk about what happens next.”
    “Nothing is going to happen.” Lark takes a swig of water as if she were swallowing an antidote. “You said no one else knows.”
    “But now we know. And those people, your other parents, they deserve to know, too.”
    Lark studies the tiny moue of orange in her palm. “You could write them a letter, tell them I’m okay. Then we could go somewhere and hide.”
    Mexico, Ruby thinks again. Could she possibly subject this child, and her other one, to a life on the run? She holds out another segment of orange. Lark shakes her head, but Clyde noses in and gulps it down. “Do you really want to live like that, always having to lie about who you really