Shock

by Robin Cook

  Joanna sighed when she thought of all the wonderful sights they had seen and experiences they’d had. It had been an extraordinary year and a half in every way, including professionally. Tucked in their carry-ons stored above in the overhead compartment were two completed Ph.D. theses. Thanks to E-mail, which had facilitated sending chapters and their revisions back and forth, the theses had already been accepted. All that was left were their defenses, which both women were confident would not be a problem. A week after they got back, both had interviews scheduled: Joanna at the Harvard Business School and Deborah at Genzyme.

  Even Carlton had come for several visits. The first time it had been totally out of the blue, and it had made Joanna furious. Before leaving for Europe she’d tried a number of times to call him, but he had gone out of his way to avoid her and had staunchly refused to return her messages. After finding the apartment, Joanna had written a letter to give him the address so he could write to her when he felt he wanted to do so. Instead he’d just shown up and rung the doorbell one foggy, rainy winter day.

  If it hadn’t been for a sense of guilt over how far Carlton had come to visit, Joanna wouldn’t have seen him on that trip. As it was, she let him stew in his room at the Gritti Palace for a number of days before calling. They met for lunch at Harry’s Bar, Carlton’s choice, and although the conversation was painful at first, they managed to come to an understanding of sorts, which at least began a correspondence. The correspondence had led to two other visits by Carlton to La Serenissima, as the Venetians of old had called their fair city. Each visit was more pleasant than the previous for Joanna, yet not entirely comfortable. The perspective of her year abroad made her view Carlton as being progressively limited by the dedication medicine required. Yet the ultimate result of the contact was a truce in which they admitted they cared for one another but felt their current “un-engaged” status was appropriate, enabling each to pursue their own interests.

  Another series of bumps and thuds made Joanna again glance around the plane’s interior. She was amazed that no one else appeared to be upset. Then the turbulence ended as suddenly as it had begun. Joanna looked out the window again but nothing had changed. She wondered how clear air could possibly make the plane behave as if it were a land vehicle driving over potholes.

  As the flight grew calmer, Joanna couldn’t dismiss the nagging feeling that her life was not complete despite all the gaiety, the traveling, and the intellectual stimulation.

  Deborah was convinced that Joanna’s restlessness had something to do with her rejection of traditional female goals: house, husband, children. But Joanna had located a different source. Seeing the Italians’ continual love affair with infants left her wondering about the fate of her harvested eggs.

  Increasingly, she was tempted to find out what became of them. For a long time, Deborah pooh-poohed her curiosity, but on the eve of their homecoming, her friend had surprised her with a stunning reversal.

  “Wouldn’t it be interesting to find out what kind of children resulted from our eggs?” she asked over their last Venetian supper.

  Joanna had put her glass of wine down and had looked into her roommate’s dark eyes for some explanation. She was confused. She’d asked the same question a month previously, and it had evoked an angry reaction with Deborah accusing her of being obsessed.

  “What do you think are our chances of finding anything out?” Deborah asked, seemingly oblivious to Joanna’s reaction.

  “It might be hard considering the contracts we signed,” Joanna said.

  “Yeah, but that was more to ensure our anonymity,” Deborah said. “We didn’t want anyone coming after us for child support or anything like that.”

  “I think it works both ways,” Joanna said. “The Wingate Clinic certainly didn’t want us coming after the kids and demanding maternal rights.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Deborah said. “Too bad, though. It would be interesting even if it were only to be sure we can have kids. You know, there are no guarantees of fertility these days. I’m sure all those people we saw out there in the Wingate Clinic would attest to that.”

  “I can imagine,” Joanna said, still bewildered by Deborah’s turnaround. “I’d like to find out myself. So how about we call the Wingate when we get back and see what they say? There can’t be any harm in asking.”

  “Good idea,” Deborah had said.

  That was a day and an ocean ago. Now the plane’s intercom system crackled to life and brought Joanna back to the present. The captain’s voice announced that they were soon to start their initial descent into Boston. He added that he was going to turn on the seat-belt light, and he wanted to make sure that everyone was buckled up.

  Joanna checked her seat belt to make certain it was fastened. As a rule she always wore her seat belt during flights, whether the seat-belt light was on or not. A quick glance at Deborah’s revealed it too was secure. Returning her attention to the view out the window, she noticed there’d been a change. The tundra had been replaced by dense forest broken by widely spaced farms. She guessed they were over Maine, which was a good sign as far as she was concerned. It meant that Massachusetts wasn’t that far off.

  “HERE COMES MY LAST BAG,” DEBORAH SHOUTED. SHE dashed back to the baggage carousel from where she and Joanna had been searching through a pile of suitcases. She pulled the bursting bag free and lugged it over to where she and Joanna had amassed their others. Once they’d loaded them onto two carts, they stood in line for customs.

  “Well, here we are back in Beantown,” Deborah commented as she ran her hand through her long, thick hair. “What a great flight. It seemed a lot shorter than I expected.”

  “Not to me,” Joanna said. “I wish I could have slept half the time you did.”

  “Planes put me to sleep,” Deborah said.

  “As if I couldn’t tell!” Joanna said enviously.

  An hour later, the two friends were in their two-bedroom apartment on Beacon Hill, newly vacated by the tenant they’d rented it to for their Italian sojourn.

  “How about flipping a coin to see who gets which bedroom?” Joanna suggested.

  “No way,” Deborah responded. “I said I’d take the smaller bedroom, and I’m fine with that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. For me a big closet and the view are more important than a space.”

  “It’s the bathroom that’s the problem,” Joanna said. The bathroom had two entrances: one from the hall and one from the second bedroom. In Joanna’s mind that made the second bedroom far superior.

  “The smaller bedroom is fine by me. Trust me!”

  “Okay,” Joanna said. “I’m not going to argue.”

  An hour later the women had distributed the furniture, partially unpacked their luggage, and had even made their respective beds when, as Deborah put it, they “ran out of gas.” Realizing it was after ten o’clock at night back in Italy, they collapsed on the sofa in the living room. The bright, mid-spring afternoon sun was still streaming in through the front windows to belie their exhaustion and jet lag.

  “What do you want to do about dinner?” Deborah asked in a monotone.

  “There’s something else I want to do before thinking about eating,” Joanna said. She pushed herself upright and stretched.

  “Take a nap?” Deborah asked.

  “Nope,” Joanna said. “I want to make a call.” She stood and walked across the room to pick up the phone from the floor. They had no phone table where the phone jack was located. They could have placed the desk there but had decided to put it on the other side of the room to keep glare from the window off the computer screen.

  “If you are going to call Carlton, I’m going to throw up.”

  Joanna looked at her roommate as if she’d gone crazy. “I’m not going to call Carlton. What makes you even suggest it?” She brought the phone back to the couch. The phone was on a twenty-five-foot cord.

  “I’ve been worrying about you backsliding,”
Deborah said. “I’ve been noticing how many letters you’ve been getting lately from that boring doctor-in-training, and it worries me, especially now that we’re back here in Boston within a stone’s throw of his hospital.”

  Joanna laughed. “You really think I’m spineless, don’t you?”

  “I think of you as insufficiently girded against twenty-five years of maternal indoctrination.”

  Joanna chuckled. “Well, for your information, calling Carlton never entered my mind. What I want to do is call the Wingate Clinic. Do you have the number?”

  “You’re going to call already? We just got home.”

  “Why not?” Joanna said. “It’s been on my mind for months, and yours, too, or so you said.”

  “Toss me my phone book,” Deborah said without moving. “It’s on the top of the desk.”

  Joanna did as she was told, and while Deborah looked up the number, Joanna sat back down next to her. Deborah found the number, put her finger under it, and held it up for Joanna to see. Using the speaker-phone button to get a dial tone, Joanna punched in the numbers.

  The call went through and was picked up quickly. Joanna identified herself as a previous egg donor and said she wanted to speak to someone knowledgeable about the program. There was no response.

  “Did you hear me?” Joanna questioned.

  “I heard you,” the operator said. “But I thought you were going to say something else. I’m not sure what you are asking. Are you interesting in donating again?”

  “Possibly,” Joanna said. She glanced at Deborah and shrugged. “But at the moment I’d like to speak with someone about my previous donation. Is anyone available?”

  “Is everything all right?” the operator asked. “Are you having a problem?”

  “No, not really,” Joanna said. “I just have a few questions I’d like answered.”

  “Perhaps I should page Dr. Sheila Donaldson.”

  Joanna asked the woman to hold on and hit the mute button. She glared at Deborah. “What do you think? I was hoping for a secretarial type, not a doctor.”

  “I’d guess that secretaries would defer to Dr. Donaldson, so we might as well speak to her directly. I imagine it will save a step.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Joanna said. She motioned toward the phone.

  “Wait!” Deborah said. “Are you thinking about donating again?”

  “Not at all,” Joanna said. “But I figured we might as well stay on their good side. Who knows, it might help.”

  Deborah nodded. Joanna pressed the mute button again and told the operator to go ahead and page Dr. Donaldson.

  “Do you want to hold on or should the doctor call you back?”

  “I’ll hold on,” Joanna said. A moment later, elevator background music emanated from the telephone.

  “Maybe we should give the idea of donating again some thought,” Deborah said. “I wouldn’t mind being able to continue the lifestyle that I’ve become accustomed to.” She smiled teasingly.

  “You’re joking,” Joanna said.

  “Not necessarily,” Deborah said.

  “I wouldn’t do it again,” Joanna said. “I’ve appreciated the opportunities we’ve had thanks to the money, but it’s not been without an emotional price. Maybe I’d consider it after I have some children of my own, if that’s going to happen. But of course, by then, I’d probably be considered too old.”

  Before Deborah could respond, Dr. Donaldson’s voice interrupted the music. She identified herself with a degree of urgency and asked how she could be of assistance.

  “I’m a former egg donor at your institution,” Joanna said. “It was quite a while ago, but I have a question I’d like to ask . . .”

  “What’s the problem?” Dr. Donaldson demanded impatiently. “The operator implied there was a problem.”

  “I specifically told her there was no problem.”

  “How long ago did you donate?”

  “Just about a year and a half.”

  “What is your name?” Dr. Donaldson asked, her voice decidedly calmer.

  “Joanna Meissner. My roommate and I came in together.”

  “I remember you,” Dr. Donaldson said. “I came in to visit you at your apartment in Cambridge. As I recall you had long blond hair, and your roommate had short dark hair, almost black. The two of you were graduate students.”

  “I’m impressed,” Joanna said. “I’m sure you see a lot of people.”

  “What is it you’d like to ask?”

  Joanna cleared her throat and then forged ahead. “We’d like to find out what happened to our eggs. You know, how many children resulted and maybe even their sex.”

  “I’m sorry but that information is confidential.”

  “We don’t need names or anything like that,” Joanna persisted.

  “I’m sorry, all information, and I mean all information of that sort, is strictly confidential.”

  “Can you at least tell us if children were born?” Joanna asked. “It would be reassuring just to know if our eggs are healthy.”

  “I’m sorry but we have stringent rules that preclude giving out any information whatsoever. I don’t know how to say it any clearer.”

  Joanna made a look of exasperation.

  “Hello, Dr. Donaldson!” Deborah called out. She leaned forward to speak directly into the speaker phone. “This is Deborah Cochrane, and I’m here as well with Joanna. What if the children need genetic information for some reason from the biological mother, or if they require a transplant—bone marrow or a kidney.”

  Joanna shuddered at the thought.

  “We keep a computerized record,” Dr. Donaldson said. “In the unlikely event that something like what you are talking about were to occur, we might contact you. But that would be the only exception, and it is extremely unlikely. And even if it were to happen, the involved parties would still have the option of remaining anonymous. We would not give any of the information out.”

  Deborah threw up her hands.

  “The only time the situation is different is when one of our clients finds their own donor,” Dr. Donaldson continued. “But that is a completely different circumstance. It’s called an open donation.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Donaldson,” Joanna said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Joanna pressed the speaker phone button to disconnect.

  “Well, that’s that,” Deborah said with a sigh.

  “I’m not giving up so easily,” Joanna said. “The possibility that I’ve got progeny out there has eaten up too much emotional energy for me to just let it go.” She pulled the phone wire out of the phone, put the phone on the floor and headed over to the computer on the desk.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Joanna bent down behind the electronics unit of the computer and plugged the phone line into the modem. “Way back you told me the Wingate Clinic had a website, and that you’d gotten some information from it. Let’s see what kind of firewall they have. Did you keep the web address?”

  “Yeah, I put it into Favorites,” Deborah said. She got off the couch and came over to watch Joanna. Joanna was much more facile with every aspect of the computer than she. “What’s a firewall?”

  “It’s software that blocks unauthorized access,” Joanna said. Quickly she went onto the Internet and got the address for the Wingate. A moment later she was at the clinic’s web page. Pulling up a chair, she tried to get into the clinic’s files.

  “No luck, huh?” Deborah said over Joanna’s shoulder after a half hour.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Joanna said. “Of course I can’t even be sure they have their web page on their own server.”

  “I’m not even going to ask what that means,” Deborah said. She yawned and then made her way back to the couch where she stretched out full length.

  Suddenly Joanna disconnected from the Internet, yanked out the phone line, and retreated back to where the phone was on the floor in front of the couch. When the phone was reconnected she
called information to get the number for David Washburn.

  “Who the hell is he?” Deborah asked.

  “A classmate,” Joanna said. “I took a couple of computer classes with him. A very nice guy, I might add, who actually asked me out a few times.”

  “Why on earth are you calling him now?”

  “He’s very computer-savvy,” Joanna said. “And hacking was one of his sports as an undergraduate.”

  “Calling in the pros,” Deborah commented with a wry smile.

  “Something like that,” Joanna agreed. Joanna had to go back to the desk for a pencil and paper to write the number down. Once she had, she dialed directly.

  Deborah put her hands behind her head and watched Joanna’s intent expression as the call went through. “Where are you finding the energy?” she asked. “You’re all jazzed up, and I feel like death warmed over.”

  “This whole issue has been gnawing at me for too long,” Joanna said. “I’d like some resolution.”

  MAY 7, 2001

  8:55 P.M.

  WHAT TIME IS IT? DEBORAH

  asked sleepily.

  “Almost nine,” Joanna said, checking her watch. “Where on earth is he?”

  The conversation with David Washburn had gone well. After Joanna had explained to him what they were trying to find out, he was happy to help, but he insisted on coming over to use their computer to do it.

  “I can’t afford any electronic trail to my machine,” he had explained. “I’m on informal probation after slipping some porno shots onto the Defense Department web page with the caption Make love not war. Unfortunately, the Feds were less than amused.”

  Deborah yawned noisily. “Are you sure he meant tonight?”

  “I’m positive,” Joanna said. “I told him we’d be going out for a quick bite to eat, but then we’d be home. He said fine; it would give him a chance to finish what he was doing.”