But something is wrong with all of this, and as much as Juliet wants to walk away, she can’t.
The tea is ready. She sits at her desk, blowing on the edge of the cup to cool the scalding liquid. She touches the mouse and her iMac is up in an instant. She starts with the easy part—looking up doctors who practiced obstetrics at the hospital where Mindy was born. She gives a range of eighteen to sixteen years ago, just in case, and gets a list of names that is workable, only ten. Not surprisingly, seven were men, so they are eliminated immediately. That leaves her with three doctors, only one of whom’s name is remotely Hispanic.
Dr. Soledad Castillo. Educated at the Colorado School of Mines for undergrad, medical school at the University of Colorado, did her postdoc specialization in obstetrics and gynecology, worked at Swedish Medical from 1998–2000 as a staff OB/GYN instead of going into private practice. Which helps make sense of the situation Lauren explained—if Castillo worked the emergency room and was in the general physician pool, she would come across all sorts of people who might want a shortcut.
In other words, jackpot.
She checks her watch, surprised to find it’s already 8:00 a.m. Why not? A little fishing expidition won’t hurt. She dials the hospital.
“Hello, Swedish Medical Center. I’m Jasmina, your red stripe volunteer today. How many I direct your call?”
“Could you transfer me to Dr. Castillo? She should be in obstetrics.”
The woman on the other end of the line hums a little tune while she looks.
“I’m sorry, dear, there’s no Castillo in obstetrics.”
“Perhaps she’s left the hospital. Can you forward me to HR?”
“Certainly, dear. I don’t know if anyone’s in this early, but you can leave a message if they don’t answer. Have a blessed day.” There is a long beep, then an elevator version of a Britney Spears tune with a sweeping clarinet solo. Just as Juliet begins to worry she’s contracted an earworm, another voice comes on, this one harried.
“What can I help you with?”
“I’m sorry to bother you so early. I’m looking for information on Dr. Soledad Castillo. She was an OB there in 2000.”
“Who’s this again?”
“My name is Juliet Ryder, CBI.”
“Well, ma’am, I’m sorry to tell you this. Dr. Castillo is no longer with us.”
“Do you have any forwarding information?”
“You might try Fairmount Cemetery.”
Juliet groans. “Seriously? She’s dead?”
“Yes, ma’am. Dr. Castillo passed away...gosh, it must have been in 2000. Yes, that’s right. I remember because it was my first year here. It was a big deal at the time. She was a kind woman.”
“Tell me, are her records still in the hospital archives?”
“I’m sure they would be, but—” his voice takes on a peculiar tone. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to access them without a court order. Sorry I can’t be more help.”
“Thanks anyway.”
She hangs up and runs her fingers along her forehead, tapping against her temple to unseat the light ache that has taken hold there.
Dr. Castillo is dead. Damn. That will make things much more difficult. Exhuming a living doctor’s patient file is hard enough, but one who’s been dead for so long? The guy in HR isn’t wrong; she’ll have to get a court order, without a doubt. Even if the doctor’s files at Swedish were easily searchable, assuming Castillo was doing things off the books, as Lauren claims, then she’s out of luck, again.
Her tea is cold. She pops it into the microwave, taps her fingers along the counter ledge, thinking.
How to find a teenager who gave birth around the time of Mindy’s birthday—August 3, 2000—who doesn’t want to be found.
A teenager who was desperate to give up a baby.
She probably used a false name; she could be anyone, anywhere.
The odds of Juliet finding her are slim to none. Without DNA, that is.
Surely, though, there has to have been a lawyer involved. Lauren said she agreed not to contact the mother, ever. That the adoption was closed. The doctor couldn’t have been facilitating private adoptions without a lawyer, could she?
Oh, this is ridiculous. There is a simple way to handle this, the shortcut of all shortcuts. It is illegal, unethical, and if anyone ever finds out, she’ll absolutely lose her job, but there is a way.
Cameron said he was willing to help. He has Mindy’s DNA coded already. If Juliet asks—begs, pleads, promises her firstborn?—he can upload it into CODIS and see if there is any kind of match, familial or direct. Not to be a jerk about it, but she knows the life of a teenager who got pregnant and gave up her kid could have led somewhere dark instead of being a way out. She sees it all the time. All the time.
And if there is a match in the system, direct, or even a brother, a father, a cousin, then they’ll have that shortcut they need to get Mindy a donor.
She sits at her desk and leans back in her chair. The very idea of doing this makes Juliet sick to her stomach. She flashes back to the conversation she had with Cameron, lets his voice ring in her ears.
It goes against everything you believe in...
She could lie...
“Screw it.”
She picks up the phone and dials Cam’s lab. He answers on the first ring.
“I got permission. Run the DNA.”
“Juliet, as always, your wish is my command.”
26
UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
1993
VIVIAN
Together we watch her stomach grow. It is surreal. One day her stomach has a small pooch. A few days later, she is showing. For real. The nurses say it happens like that sometime. Zero to sixty, one of them said.
Ratchet took Liesel into her office, they talked, and now Liesel seems happy. She has stopped trying to cut herself. She is eating nutritious food. She is glowing. There are regular discussions of safe antidepressant medications for pregnancy and OB/GYN checks and special conversations. Someone is always knocking on our door frame or pulling her from our activities. The entire unit coddles and cuddles and leaves choice bits of meat and string and foil swans and sunny yellow crayons at the door to our room. Even the most insane among us is moved by the chance of a new life. Of resurrection, and redemption.
She says it’s driving her up the wall, but to be honest, I can tell she enjoys it. She thrives under the constant attention, blossoming like some sort of Madonna in a field, awaiting her worshippers. She is a butterfly, escaped from a desiccated cocoon, crawling toward the sunlight. It makes me think she never got any positive reinforcement at home.
I don’t like the people on the ward, and they normally give me a wide berth, too. But with Liesel as their sudden superstar, even though she coyly refuses their advances, I get their positive attention, too. We’re all a bit less lonely.
She still won’t talk in group, which means she gets sent back to the quiet room. I think it’s her plan all along, so she can get some solitude. The ward is loud. It is bright. There is no such thing as peace when you’re living among people who don’t know what planet they’re on, or who want to slit your throat to see what color you’ll bleed. Liesel takes advantage of the white space. She says she paints in her mind while she lies on the hard bed, her child growing inside her.
It has changed her, this diagnosis. I’m not sure how I feel about the transition. She was more interesting before, I think, when she was moody and gray, closed like the first buds of spring in a flower bed that’s been hit with weed killer, all gray and wizened and hurt. I didn’t enjoy finding her in our bathroom, crouched down, scraping at her flesh with a plastic pen lid, but I understood and didn’t tell.
How an incarcerated sixteen-year-old is going to be able to handle a child is lost on me. Liesel refuses
to talk about what happens when the baby is born. She will still be in here, living out her sentence.
Personally, I would have screamed and yelled for an abortion immediately. The idea of being pregnant is abhorrent to me—the claustrophobia of not being able to escape the sentence of something growing inside you for nine months is too much for me to bear. But Liesel is surprisingly content. She says she has something to live for, now.
We reach a kind of détente when she is four months along. I stop bothering her to get rid of Satan’s child; she stops throwing up in my shoes.
She goes about her days with a small smile, following the routine: wake, eat, one-on-one therapy, arts and crafts, lunch, nap, shower, dinner, television, sleep. Bed checks every fifteen minutes, then thirty, then every hour, as the nurses realize she’s truly in a better place.
There’s another truth I must face.
As we watch, Liesel is being cured. The insanity which drives her to cut open her skin was superseded by the murder she committed, which now everyone knows about and feels was justified, and the punishment for her actions is to bear the child of a rapist she was supposed to trust in, believe in, a man who was supposed to protect and cherish, not rip and tear. She’s both a hero and a project for the doctors and nurses. She is our shooting star.
When she starts to spot, five months in, Ratchet herself escorts her to the clinic downstairs. Liesel is put on bed rest. She gets to luxuriate in our worn, thin, bleached sheets while the rest of us follow the routine.
When she starts to bleed, a week later, we can smell it from the dining room. I run to our room, find her writhing on the bed, the stain beneath her growing darker and wider. She doesn’t utter a sound, is biting the pillowcase, her eyes closed tight.
In the end, there is a tiny angel to be buried somewhere, we never know where. Liesel is taken away; the mattress is taken away, the room sanitized. I have to sleep there that night, with the scent of death surrounding me.
She comes back a different girl.
She doesn’t look that different, maybe not as glossy, but her eyes are dead, and her stomach has gone back to normal.
She is put back on bed checks every fifteen minutes. Ratchet asks me to keep an eye on her, too. A personal favor. She is worried about her small nestling.
Liesel doesn’t speak. It is just like when she first arrived.
So I sing to her. I bring her treats. I do everything I can think of to bring her back to life.
Eventually, it works.
She smiles again.
She laughs again.
We make plans to run away, to a beach, and live in a grass hut and eat coconuts and entertain tourists. She participates in group. She teaches some of the loons how to paint—and hit the canvas, not themselves.
And then, on a freezing cold, gray morning, Ratchet knocks on the door frame. “Are you ready?” she asks Liesel, who smiles and nods. She gives me a brief, hard hug, then waves.
And she leaves the ward. She leaves me there. Alone, in our room.
Liesel gets out.
And I am stuck inside.
I hate her as much as I love her.
27
THE WRIGHTS’ HOUSE
CURRENT DAY
Lauren wakes at dawn. Jasper is splayed out facedown next to her, naked, the sheet thrown off, sleeping deeply. She pulls the sheet and blanket up over his haunches. He doesn’t move; his breathing doesn’t change. Good. She dresses quickly, goes to the kitchen, starts the coffee, then scurries to her office to erase the history on her laptop.
Jasper is sitting naked at her desk. Her laptop is open, and he is staring at the screen.
“What are you doing?” She tries not to sound defensive or scared—but what the hell is he doing?
“Who is Zack Armstrong?”
“I, what—” she starts, but Jasper holds up a hand.
“Listen to me, and listen carefully.” It is his court voice: formal, educated, remote. A chill spikes through her. He’s never—never—spoken to her like that. Clients, opposing lawyers, the judge, yes. But her? Her heart flutters as it takes on a shot of pure adrenaline.
“You have put yourself in an untenable position, Lauren. I’ve just found out you’ve been lying to me for seventeen years, literally from the moment we met. Now you’re sneaking around in the middle of the night doing private searches on your computer for a man I’ve never heard of—”
“How can you see my private searches?”
“I saw the search over your shoulder last night. I am a very patient man, and I can handle a lot, but any more lies between us will not be tolerated. Do you understand me?”
She does. She hears him loud and clear.
She turns and walks out of the room. There is no way in hell she is going to explain herself right now. She can’t take that chance. And he is right; she shouldn’t lie to him again.
He follows, of course, bellowing her name. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate. She grabs her boots and her purse, the keys to her car, and keeps on moving, straight down the back stairs into the kitchen, out to the garage. Jasper keeps on her, calling, trying to block her way, but she simply looks through him until he gets exasperated and moves, allowing her to walk out the door.
She throws herself behind the wheel and dumps her things into the passenger seat. She finally meets his eyes, forcing away the qualms she feels when she sees how truly confused and upset he is. He has his anger on a tight leash, and she knows it. She needs to be very careful; she can’t afford to turn Jasper against her.
She puts down the window. “This story has nothing to do with you and is long, long past. I love you, and only you. Now, I’m going to see Mindy. I’d appreciate you not breaking into my computer again.”
The window slides up with a whisper, and she backs out of the garage, her bare feet cold on the pedals.
* * *
VAIL HEALTH HOSPITAL
“Mom!”
Mindy’s smile is wide and thrilled, and Lauren realizes Dr. Oliver was right. Mindy needed the break as much as she did.
“How are you, little peep?”
“I feel good today. Better. Whatever they gave me worked. I don’t hurt at all. They’re going to make me stay in here another day, then I can get back home. I slept all night, and Lolly and I had fun yesterday. She likes Sarah J. Maas too, so we talked for a long time about fantasy. You know, I think I want to be a writer. I mean, when I retire from skiing.”
“You do?” Lauren sits on the edge of her daughter’s bed, smoothing the jumbled sheets. “What do you want to write?”
“Novels, silly. Big, sweeping fantasy novels, where I can build the world myself, and make all the rules.”
“I think you’d be wonderful at it, sweetie. It’s a great plan. You’ll need something to do when you retire from competition. I can adjust our homeschool schedule to include a few more English modules if you’d like. Add in a creative writing class?”
“You’re the best, Mom. Who knows, maybe I’ll be an Olympian and World Cup champion and win the Nobel, too.”
“Writers usually have a better chance at winning the Pulitzer, darling, but that’s a great goal to have. I think you’d be a brilliant writer.”
“I think I might, too.”
This barrage of happiness, of planning for the future, rips Lauren’s stomach to shreds, but she keeps the smile glued to her face and nods and coos in all the right places. The change in her daughter is startling. Overnight, she has blossomed again. There is a blush on her cheeks; her eyes are bright.
You were stifling her. She was depressed watching you suffer.
No more. Only happy and excited from now on, she swears to herself. And space. Her daughter clearly needs space. She should have known her budding Buddhist would want some meditative time. She vows to do better.
“Mom, guess wh
at else? Aunt J called. She’s coming up again today.”
“That will be nice. She’s fun, your aunt.”
Mindy’s eyes narrow only slightly at this; Lauren knows she hasn’t been very enthusiastic about her sister in front of her daughter and realizes she shouldn’t have done that. Especially now that Juliet knows the circumstances of Mindy’s birth.
“Don’t give me that look. You forget, she and I practically grew up in different decades. She was much younger, just a pest, and I had a lot on my plate.”
“Like what?”
“Like you and your daddy, silly. I wanted everything to be perfect for the two of you.”
“It has been, Mom. It’s been so much fun.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Now, what should we do today? Do you want to study, do you want to go for a walk?”
“A walk. Definitely. I am shriveling up in here.” She slaps her legs. “Can we do some yoga? I found a great new routine from a girl who has a broken ankle, and I can modify all the moves like she did so I don’t put any pressure on the leg.”
“By all means, let’s do it. I’ll go see where we can practice, okay?”
Mindy beams and Lauren’s heart catches in her throat. She realizes she’s handled Mindy so badly. Normalcy, that’s what her girl needs. From now on, that’s what she is going to get.
Out in the hall, Lauren talks briefly to the nurses and gets permission to use the rehab mats for an impromptu yoga session. On impulse, she sticks her head into Dr. Oliver’s office. What luck, he is there.
“Lauren, come in. You’re looking better this morning.”
“I feel better. Thanks for sending me home. I needed the break but didn’t realize it. Mindy seems much better this morning, too. We’re going to do some yoga.”
He nods, his face suddenly grave. “I’m glad you stopped in, I was about to call you. Her numbers fell off a cliff last night, and I felt it necessary to put some energy into the tank. We gave her a little booster shot. Some B-12, vitamins, iron. She’ll burn through it in a week or so, but for the time being—”
Tear Me Apart Page 13
