Of course, that was why he was bending the rules. Not to sadden me, but to help in my quest. The parents might be normal looking, but maybe one of them was Down’s as well. I was more determined than ever to find my little baby’s parents.

“When will the results come in?”

“Maybe tomorrow. I’ll tell you when I know something definite.”

Mixed race and one of the parents might be Down’s. I knew a lot more going out than I did coming in. And wasn’t that the purpose of this visit?

“Can I hold her, Koby?”

“It’s a very busy night, Cindy.”

I stood my ground. He exhaled. “I give you five minutes. And that includes the time it takes to suit up.”

“I’m a very fast dresser.”

“Come.” He led me into the office that adjoined the nursery. He watched me with intensity as I donned the paper suit, observing my every move, but this time his eyes were not at all hungry. They held an expression of wariness. I asked him what was wrong.

He said, “You are getting attached to her, Cindy. Watch yourself or you’ll be in for a broken heart.”

“The question is, how do you not get attached to them?”

His smile was a plaintive memory. “After many broken hearts, you learn.”

9

Breakfast was a quick affair—coffee, juice, and a bowl of granola with skim milk. In working mode, I dressed for efficiency: gray slacks, black ribbed crewneck sweater—merino wool because it and cashmere were the only kinds of wool I could wear against my skin—and black flats. Because I was meeting Koby for lunch, I brought along a pair of pumps and a colorful scarf to offset the look of a funeral director. Scarves were wonderful. Throw them around your neck and people thought you took great pride in your appearance.

There was just one vocational school that looked promising. Fordham Communal Center for the Developmentally Disabled sat just east of Hollywood in the Silver Lake district—yes, there really was a reservoir lake. The neighborhood was predominantly Latino, but it held smatterings of other nationalities who had gone through the portals of INS. The school’s address was a half block from Sunset Boulevard, that handy crosstown thoroughfare that began at the Pacific Ocean and died east of Dodger stadium.

I found a parking space on the side street and got out of the car, armed with a badge and medical information. The building was a renovated two-story Arts and Crafts hunter green bungalow surrounded by a porch and topped by a peaked roof. Buttermilk-colored wood trim framed the front door and encased two multipaned side windows. Leading up to the door was a lovely stone walkway. After giving the knocker a few judicious raps, I was buzzed in.

I was surprised that the house appeared to have maintained its original floor plan. There was a tiny vestibule that led into a sun-drenched living room replete with desks and other office paraphernalia. Natural light was made possible by windows and French doors in the back wall through which I could see a panoply of color—an array of flower gardens fit for any Impressionist painting. I could make out figures tilling and tending the soil.