Finding Miracles by Julia Álvarez

indeed ready for democracy,” the reporter signed off.
    Mom had put her arm around Mrs. Bolívar, who was crying quietly now. Mr. Bolívar had turned off the TV and was pacing up and down the room. Poor Dad was staring down at his work boots like they might tell him what to say.
    “We must have faith,” Mr. Bolívar finally spoke up. “For the sake of our sons, for the sake of our country.
El paisito
will liberate itself!”
    Mrs. Bolívar glanced over at her husband, her face like that of a little girl just aching to believe some story she’d been told. But tears kept falling down her cheeks.
    “Sí, Mamá,” Pablo agreed, his voice barely a whisper. “Like Tía Dulce says,
‘Milagros ocurren.’
”
    I didn’t know who Tía Dulce was, but maybe because Milagros was my original name, I felt like Pablo was talking directly to me. Miracles do happen, I told myself. All I had to do was look around me. I’d found a friend in the person I thought would ruin my life. After years of secrecy, I was opening up about my adoption. My impossible grandmother seemed to sort of in her own way be trying to apologize, and I was sort of in my own way trying to forget about her rejection. Pablo and his Tía Dulce were right. Miracles do happen. But sometimes, like that old needle in a haystack, you just had to find them.
    The weekend before school elections, we drove down to Long Island on Happy’s invitation. For the first time ever, we were going to be staying in her mansion—even though renovations were not finished.
    All the way down, Dad kept bursting into song, “Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go.” You couldn’t blame Dad for being in such a good mood. Grandma had apologized—something she’d never done in her life that Dad could remember. She’d told Dad and Mom, each on an extension, that all of us were her grandchildren. She loved every one of us the same. She had been wrongheaded and she was sorry. I guess Dad tried to blame it on Mr. Strong’s bad advice, but Grandma took full blame. “Not at all, Davey. Eli Strong told me I was being a fool, and I should have listened to him.”
    I guess I should have felt good, too. But now, with everyone being so cheery, like we were some big ole happy family after all, my old feelings returned. I couldn’t seem to forget that Happy’s unconditional acceptance had been on second thought. All the ride down, I stared out the window at the sunny spring day outside. Mile by mile, the trees kept getting fuller and greener, the air warmer, the sky bluer. But gray, wintery clouds hung over my heart. I scratched and scratched at my hands.
    I think Mom and Dad sensed I was still brooding, and that’s why they started in on their Peace Corps stories. The happy beginnings of our family.
Your
family, I thought, your
blood
family. Any time now, we’d hear all about the orphanage, the baby in the basket, the memory box, Sister Corita with the seagull hat. Please, I thought. Somehow, today, I didn’t want
them
talking about
my
adoption.
    “It was love at first sight!” Dad was recalling the first time he met Mom. “I get there and this very foxy lady at the Aereopuerto Internacional is holding up this sign that reads CUERPO DE PAZ, and boy, did she have a
cuerpo
on her!”
    “What’s a
cuerpo
?” Nate wanted to know.
    Mom and Dad and Kate burst out laughing.
    “SOMEBODY TELL ME WHAT A
CUERPO
IS!” Nate hollered, his bottom lip quivering. He hated to be left out.
    Mom was in too good a mood to scold Nate for yelling in the car. “Honey,
cuerpo
means body. In Spanish, the Peace Corps is called Cuerpo de Paz, Body of Peace.”
    “But her
cuerpo
did not bring me any peace, no sir,” Dad continued. “Day and night, that’s all I could think about—”
    “The Peace Corps might be going back soon,” Mom cut in, her prim Mormon genes taking the upper hand. Right before we had left, the Bolívars had called. The generals had tried to stop the