“Darling,” she said, as if my insecurity were the problem, “I believe in you. Remember how you helped me that time with Dottie Kubacki?”
My mother was referring to a debacle of an incident where she’d talked me into spying on one of our neighbors she’d become convinced was having an affair with my father. That little stunt had left me with an almost broken tailbone and an equally painful memory of the suspected adulteress in her three hundred pounds of naked glory.
“Who could I possibly trust more than you, darling?” my mother asked. “You’re always there for me.”
My mother wasn’t perfect. But she loved me unconditionally, and that counted for a lot. Plus, she never arranged to have me kidnapped and brainwashed into being straight. You had to add points for that, too.
Sure, she was high maintenance. But most worthwhile things are.
I let myself enjoy what I was pretty sure were likely to be the last nice thoughts I had for her today.
At least I didn’t have to worry about my accent—with my mother in the room, I rarely got a word in edgewise. Today, that’d work to my advantage.
My mother gave Steven a hug. “You’re a genius, darling. He looks awful.”
She grabbed me by the arm. “Get up, old man.” She dragged us to a full-length mirror mounted on the wall.
I was already in my costume for the day. A conservative Hugo Boss suit with a red power tie. They had it specially tailored to accommodate the padding they strapped to my belly and shoulders, making me look bulkier and out-of-shape. They also had me in elevator shoes, bringing me to a more respectable height of five feet six, an inch taller than my mother.
“Just look at us!” my mother exclaimed. “Don’t we make a gorgeous couple?”
I wouldn’t go that far. Nor did I quite get the whole reverse-Oedipal vibe. But, yeah, we did look close enough in age and style that we could pass as something other than mother and son.
At some point, Andrew must have come into the room, because he was the one who answered.
“You know,” he said, and I could hear he was being sincere, “I think this could work.”
“Of course it’s going to work!” my mother assured him. “We’re going to be the Jewish Woodward and Bernstein by the time this is done.”
I was pretty sure Woodward and Bernstein were the Jewish Woodward and Bernstein. At least, Bernstein must have been. I wasn’t sure about Woodward.
My mother gave us one last look in the mirror, squeezed my hand, and grabbed her stylist. “I think,” she said, “we’d better go find me a purse. The right purse will be key.” They hurried out of the room.
Andrew took her place by my side. Seeing that everyone had pretty much fled the room as soon as they could, he leaned over and whispered hotly into my ear.
“Wanna know how good that Steven is? I can honestly say if I were meeting you for the first time, looking as you do now, I would not, at this moment, want to fuck you.”
“Gee,” I gushed. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Of course, knowing that’s you under all that, I’m kind of turned on in a perverse way. It’d be like making it with you and not making it with you, all at the same time.”
“Well, you’re going to have to keep that nauseating three-way as a fantasy,” I said. “Mustn’t smear my makeup and all that.”
We reviewed our plan on the ride over to Families by Design. We were in our tricked-out video van, full of equipment rented by our tech guru, Laurent. From this command center, they’d be monitoring and taping every moment of our interview. My mother had a video camera concealed in her brooch and a backup in the temple of the stylishly thick eyeglasses she wore, which she didn’t need, but which further altered her appearance.
I was also wired, with my camera hidden in my tiepin.
The small devices wouldn’t record more than grainy, heavily pixilated images, but that was adequate for the job. It would give the footage a realistic spy-cam quality. And while it was hard to get good video from this kind of equipment, the sound would be clear and capture everything that was said. That was its most important role in gathering the material we’d need to prove if Families by Design was, in fact, unforgivably lax in assessing its potential parents.
“Now, remember,” my mother said to me, “you must turn and look at me frequently. Not just your head, darling, your whole body.”
“If we’re there adopting a child together,” I said, “I assume they’ll believe we’re a couple. I don’t think it’s necessary for me to constantly gaze adoringly at you. Wouldn’t want to overdo it.”
“It’s not that, darling. It’s just that the cameras I’m wearing aren’t going to capture me. I need you to get my reaction shots with that clever little one you’ve got on.”
Not for the first time, I concluded that my mother’s greatest talent was to make and keep herself the center of attention.
Andrew handed us fake IDs and made us run through our cover story again. He’d already had the production staff prepare the false documents and applications we used to set up the appointment. The most important part of our deception was establishing me as a wealthy investor whose start-up funds helped build three of the five most popular online social networks, making me very rich, indeed.
I’d had input into the planning of our fake identities. What no one knew was that the character I was playing was based on a real customer of mine back in the days I was hustling. Not only was my client fabulously wealthy and a brilliant venture capitalist, but he was also a motormouth. I’d learned enough from him that, if I had to, I could speak believably about how I’d made my fortune through the art and science of angel investing.
Our assumed names were Murray Goldsberry and Zorah Heffelbergen. We decided to pose as an unmarried couple to create the first of many considerations any reasonable adoption agency would want to ask about. Not that unmarried people couldn’t adopt, mind you, but it was a point of information worth exploring in a culture where married couples enjoyed certain rights and responsibilities that would affect a child’s well-being. But, trust me, being uninterested in tying the knot was the least of the Goldberry/Heffelbergens’ problems.
I couldn’t wait to see what the folks at Families by Design would make of the others.
34
Covert Missions
“Our goal,” the alarmingly well-manicured and groomed owner and chief operating officer of Families by Design, Amanda Peterson, said smiling, waving her arms at us like a spokesmodel demonstrating a particularly valuable prize on The Price Is Right, “is to help you build the family of your dreams.”
So far, Ms. Peterson said everything with a smile. From “How nice to meet you,” to “Can I get you something to drink?” to “So tell me, how did you hear about Families by Design?” was delivered with a Zenlike joyfulness. I wished I had a vest full of explosives so I could open my jacket to see if she announced a bomb scare with that same accommodating merriment.
An attractive, well-poised woman with impeccable diction, Ms. Peterson was probably somewhere in her late forties, although with the right skin care routine and a good surgeon, she may well have been a good deal older. Her skin was tightly stretched against her face, which, like the rest of her, was too thin by half. For all her outward graciousness, you got the sense this was a woman willing to starve herself, or anyone else, for that matter, to get what she wanted.
As generous as she was with her smiles, they never quite reached past her cheeks. It gave them a robotic unnaturalness. The top half of her face was either immobilized by Botox or disinterest; it was too soon to tell.
Her office, like the entire suite, was lavishly decorated in soothing pastels. Mary Cassatt prints of rosy-cheeked mothers and daughters called to the ladies, while Norman Rockwell scenes of fathers and sons playing baseball and reading with their children were hung to bring tears to the eyes of prospective dads. Ms. Peterson sat behind a glass table with no drawers or file cabinets. A sleek
silver MacBook Air and our file were the only items on her desk. On a credenza behind her, a tall, single white lotus, in full bloom, arched delicately from a silver bud vase. I remembered reading somewhere that many considered the lotus a symbol of fertility, and I wondered if it was there to inspire or depress.
“Tell me”—Ms. Peterson smiled—“why do you want to adopt?”
“I’ve always wanted kids,” my mother said. The voice that came out of her was a new one. Half New York yenta, half British nanny. She sounded like a character invented by a bad actress in a Saturday Night Live skit that would never be heard from again. She threw me an accusatory glance. “But my old man over there only shoots blanks.”
She leaned in to give Ms. Peterson a conspiratorial wink. “When he even makes it past the starting flag, that is. Usually, One Minute Murray finishes before he even enters the race, if you know what I mean.”
If Ms. Peterson ever had nightmares of the kind of woman with whom she’d never want to be in a room, my guess is they featured someone very much like my mother. “I see,” she said, the smile still there but trembling.
“Personally,” my mother said, “I take it as a compliment. When they finish before they even begin? That’s how you know a guy’s really into you.” She paused for a moment. “If not, literally, into you, pardon the pun.”
I wondered if it were true that certain ninja masters and Hindu fakirs could, when required, turn themselves invisible. If so, it was a skill I’d have paid anything for at the moment.
Ms. Peterson smiled. “You two have been together long, then?”
I was sure that question had been answered in our application. I wondered if Ms. Peterson was trying to trip us up, or if she hadn’t bothered to read it.
“Forever!” my mother exclaimed. She glanced over at me. “Almost eight months, right, honey?”
“Urgh,” I answered. Maybe if I appeared incoherent, they’d leave me out of it.
“Eight months?” Ms. Peterson’s grin, for one quick moment, fell. “And you’re ready for a child?”
“Ready?” my mother asked. “More than ready! When you meet the right man, the one you love, the one you want to spend the rest of your life with, the one you know is too smart to marry you without a prenup, which you wouldn’t sign with a gun to your head but who you know would never not provide for his beloved child, even if it is just adopted, you know it, don’t you, Amy, darling?”
Of all the objectionable, tasteless things my mother had just said, I think calling Ms. Peterson “Amy” was the one that bothered her the most. The smile stayed frozen but the eyes narrowed. I sat forward in my seat, looking forward to being kicked out of there.
“Ah,” Ms. Peterson began, “love. To hear you speak of ‘love’ warms my heart, Ms.”—she glanced at the file on her desk—“Heffelbergen?” She said the name as if she couldn’t believe it, then quickly recovered. “Isn’t that what a family’s about? Love? Where there is love, there is life. That’s what I always say.”
My mother nodded. “But let’s face it, Amy. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”
I was sure my mother noticed how much she did.
“Of course not,” said the grinning skeleton across from us.
“I’m not getting any younger. And I hear that these adoptions can take months. Years even. I don’t have that kind of time, Amy. When you have a big bass floating near your fishing boat,” she darted her eyes at me, “you don’t want to waste too much time baiting the hook. You want to reel that sucker in before some other, younger, prettier boat comes along, if you catch my drift.” She winked conspiratorially.
“Well.” Ms. Peterson smiled, tapping her perfectly rounded nails against the smooth glass of her desk. The clinking noise sounded like coins falling. Pennies from heaven. “These things can take time. There are many, many families looking to adopt. Do you have any conditions? Anything special you’re looking for in a child?”
“Oh, no,” my mother said. “We’d be happy with any baby, wouldn’t we, darling?”
“Rgghtd,” I said.
“As long as he’s white and healthy, we’re fine.” My mother continued. “And he should come from good stock. I don’t want to be raising some hillbilly trash conceived at the drive-in. I’d like him—oh yes, I’m looking for a boy, thank you—I’d like him to resemble us as much as possible, of course. More me, but that’s only because looks are so important, and why not give him every possible advantage in life, no? So, I’d say healthy, white, athletic, good-looking, with birth parents who have at least a college degree. If you could make him tall, that would be great. And, oh yes, green eyes. I love green eyes! Blue in a pinch, though, if supplies are limited.”
You’d have thought she was ordering from a catalog.
To me: “Am I forgetting anything?”
I turned toward her, remembering to get at least one shot of her with my camera tie. “Flrkk,” I said. “Nrffing.”
Ms. Peterson nodded. “I don’t see why we can’t make that happen.” If she had any objection to my mother’s list, she didn’t betray it. Nor did she seem the least unconfident in her ability to determine, at birth, if a child would grow to be athletic, tall, or handsome.
“But,” she said, resuming her fingernail drumbeat, “it is a . . . oh, I hate to make it sound like this . . . a competitive market out there. There are many, many loving couples such as yourself who are looking for the kind of child you describe. You have to find a way to make yourself stand out.”
“Anything,” my mother said. “My Murray here has been very successful. He’s what you call a real ‘on top of newer’ businessman.”
Ms. Peterson looked at me to elaborate. I was pretty sure my mother had been going for “entrepreneur,” but I was hardly going to start being helpful now. “Untrependerenter,” I said, with great certainty. “Intervestingstan.”
Ms. Peterson’s eyes stayed on me for another second before blinking twice, rapidly, like an iguana’s. Afraid I may have lost her, I slightly more clearly added, “Ova three hundred milzions. Fuzzbok. Twizter. Goggle.”
That seemed to ease her mind.
“Now, I can’t tell you what to do,” Ms. Peterson said playfully, her lilting tone at war with her pulled-back skin, perfect posture, and insincere expression, “but what we like to do here at Families by Design is put you directly in touch with the birth mothers. Through us, of course. You never actually talk to her. In fact, any direct contact is expressly forbidden.”
And thus, “directly in touch” took on a whole new meaning.
“On your behalf, we handle all the . . . negotiations. Now, the rules about this kind of thing are very strict. You cannot, under any circumstances, be perceived as trying to ‘buy a baby.’ ” For the first time, Ms. Peterson dropped her smile and looked serious. “That would cause me to lose my license and you to lose your baby. That must never happen. Are we clear on that?”
In the space of a moment, Ms. Peterson had gone from benevolent builder of loving families to mafia hitwoman.
“Who said anything about buying a baby?” my mother asked. “But surely there’s some way to . . . reward the mothers, yes?”
Ms. Peterson’s smile returned. “I see you’re every bit as clever as I thought,” she beamed. “Yes, according to state law, all you can do is provide basic support to the birth mother during and immediately following her pregnancy.
“But who’s to say what’s basic?” she continued. “For some women, ‘basic’ is a tenement apartment in the South Bronx. Those women require very little support to maintain the lifestyle. Of course, we all know what kind of babies they produce.”
“What?” my mother asked in a hushed and frightened whisper.
Ms. Peterson answered with cautious alarm, as if the very utterance of the next two words risked raising demons in our midst. “Puerto. Ricans.”
My mother slapped her hand over her mouth and widened her eyes in mock horror. “No,” she gasped, “that would never do
.”
For the first time, Ms. Peterson’s smile appeared sincere. Not friendly or warm, mind you, but sincere. The wide toothy smirk of a shark smelling chum in the water. She moved in for the kill.
“But the kind of woman you’re looking for is accustomed to a finer lifestyle. Park Avenue. Maternity clothing from Neiman Marcus. During her pregnancy, she’ll require pampering and services to ensure the healthiest baby possible. Massages, spa treatments, nutritional counseling. I’m afraid the costs can be . . . considerable.
“We keep track of everything, though,” Ms. Peterson said. “Every dollar passes through us so we can make sure they’re spent responsibly. Naturally, for your protection, we retain fifteen percent of the costs you reimburse to the birth mother to ensure proper bookkeeping and accountability.”
I bet. Fifteen percent off the top of what I’d expect would be thousands of dollars a week. Not to mention how easy it would be to fake receipts for services never received.
“Nothing,” my mother said, her voice heavy with emotion, “is too good for my little boy. Whatever it takes, we can afford it. Right, Murray?”
“Yarghh.”
The sawtoothed shark grin broadened. “Then, there are our fees.” She reached into our file and withdrew two glossy single-page brochures. She handed one to each of us.
A required Home Study cost $20,000 (I knew from the experiences of friends that they were usually in the $1,500 range). Three mandatory counseling sessions at $1,500 each. Preparation of the Family Profile (a file which is shown to prospective birth mothers) was $25,000 (a service offered free by some agencies; others encourage prospective parents to develop their own). Unspecified processing and administrative fees totaled another $50K.
“This is all so reasonable!” my mother enthused. “If, that is, you can promise us a kid real quick. I can’t wait to be a mother! I’m thinking a couple of months.” My mother’s voice dropped to what I’d always think of as her “pick-up-your-clothes-or-else” tone. “Tops.”
Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) Page 26
