And then I hear the car door opening. The gritty footsteps of a man’s shoes on concrete. Through her sweatshirt, I feel my mom’s heart skip for a split second.

“What—” she says with a gasp.

I step away from my mom and the whole world seems to stop. I can’t believe I’m seeing my mom and my dad together. My mom’s mouth is open like she’s about to speak. Or shout. Or laugh. Francisco Gómez’s eyes avoid hers. But he’s smiling shyly. I wonder what it was like when they first met. They were both in college. College students like the ones at Northern Madrone. Did they stare at each other like this?

“Valerie,” my dad says. His accent makes the V sound like a B. Like my mom is someone else.

“Francisco?”

“I’ve brought your daughter.”

Your daughter, my father says to my mother. Not our daughter.

“How—” my mom begins.

But then the other car door opens and Mercedes steps out.

My mom looks back and forth between me and Mercedes. “Who—” she tries again.

“This is Mercedes,” our father says. “Mercedes Miller.”

My mom looks at me, stunned. “This is your new friend? This is Mercedes?” She turns to Francisco. “Is she—”

“Mercedes is my daughter.”

“They look like—” my mom begins. “They look like twins.”

“Yes, they are very close in age.”

There’s a long silence.

“The divorce was a long time ago, Francisco,” my mom says. And then she repeats Mercedes’s name like everything makes sense now. “I should have guessed. And she must be named after—”

“Yes.” Francisco Gómez bows his head.

“I’m named after the wife of Gabriel García Márquez,” Mercedes volunteers.

“Yes, of course,” my mom says, her voice full of wonder. “It’s a beautiful name.” She moves toward Mercedes as if she’s going to hug her. I don’t think that’s a good idea.

“Mercedes Barcha, yes. But you’re named after my sister, too,” our father says. “Mercedes Gómez Flores. It was all I asked of your mother.”

My mom asks, “How is Mechi?”

Mechi? I sneak a look at Mercedes. I was right.

Our dad shakes his head sadly and tells my mom, “She didn’t make it.”

“I’m so sorry. Your sister was a wonderful person.” My mom squeezes me again. “This is why we give our children family names. To remember.”

“Just like Matilde,” our father says. “Named for my mother.” I smile. “Matilde and Mercedes. Family names.”

“And also literary names,” my mom says. We are both named after wives of famous writers and also given family names. Sometimes two things can be true at the same time.

“Mattie and Mercedes.”

“Yes,” says Francisco Gómez. “Names have stories.”

“And now, you two.” My mom looks back and forth between me and Mercedes. “I’d like to hear your story.”

CHAPTER 42 Mercedes