seventeen
The receptionist at Hilltop Rehabilitation was friendly but guarded.
“Who did you say you were?”
“Constance Prentice,” I replied. “I’m here to see my mother, Elizabeth Prentice.”
The woman leafed through a leather-bound date book. Of course, there was no paperwork for my unannounced visit, but I waited with an air of impatience as if I had actually gone through the proper scheduling procedures. I stepped back from the desk and pretended to look around for someone senior to the receptionist.
The rehabilitation center was a bit unusual for Long Island. I had expected a Gold Coast mansion with soft hills and park benches. This facility, a little over an hour east of Cold Spring Harbor, well into the flatlands of Suffolk County, had a California open feel, lots of glass and polished wood beams. In the distance, perfectly coiled rows of grapevines highlighted the East End’s growing wine industry. What a strange view for recovering addicts, I thought.
The interior of the building screamed spa. Meditation areas dotted the main floor as if at any moment a patient might care to sit and reflect on their train wreck of a life. The airiness and open public seating implied sharing. As much as I liked the redistribution of garbage, I wasn’t much for sharing emotions. My mother and I were similar in that respect, and I wondered how she and her new housemates were getting along.
The initial stage of my mother’s rehabilitation involved a long stay under well-supervised medical care. My brother’s death, coupled with my father’s disappearance and her chronic drinking, had triggered a nervous breakdown. The unraveling had scared me, and I had visited her at the hospital often. Hilltop Rehabilitation, where “new beginnings unfolded,” was a new location for my mother as she had recently been promoted out of the hospital psych unit. It was my first visit to Hilltop.
“Have you been here before?” The desk lady asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Well, this is highly unusual. We’re very careful with visitation paperwork.”
“One of the reasons my family chose Hilltop for my mother,” I lied again, unfolding my arms in gratitude of Hilltop’s airtight visitation policies. “The thing is, it’s my birthday today, and it would mean a lot to both us if we could see each other briefly.”
The woman’s expression softened. My fib proved just enough for her to pick up the phone and start the approval process. While she worked her way through layers of security, I found my way to a meditation pod, but my mother’s ears must have been burning.
“Constance,” she said, swooping into the lobby her arms stretched open. She was dressed for an outing, even carrying her pocketbook, as if she had been awaiting my arrival. Her eyes were crystal clear and her skin translucent. It was an amazing transformation, and I could feel the renewed strength in her body as she folded me into a bear hug.
She whispered in my ear. “Get me out of here.”
“A walk?” I said loudly. “You read my mind.” I took her hand, and we dashed for the door.
eighteen
“We’re supposed to stay on the grounds,” I said as we headed to the parking lot.
“Well, that’s not happening.”
“You’re good with that?”
“I’m fine.” She smiled. “In fact, I’m better than fine. I’ve moved from self-loathing to outright anger. It’s a much better place to be.”
“Good,” I said. “Because you’re going to need a little chutzpah today.”
I filled my mother in on Bob’s case and how my sketching had failed me. I was like a singer who had lost her voice, and I hoped my mother understood the stress it had caused. When you rely heavily on a single strength, it’s unnerving to come up short. My mother, being an artist herself, understood this, but I could see she was distracted by my friendship with Bob.
“So you’re friends with the man who runs the recycling center?”
“Yes, but he’s an artist too. We actually met at a gallery showing on Outsider Art. His dioramas were showcased, and I was fascinated with his medium.” I described the intricacies of Bob’s work to my mother.
“Very elaborate?” my mother asked, and then added. “I actually remember seeing some of his work. It had a fantasy feel.”
“Surreal, but relatable.”
“That’s probably how you felt growing up.”
“A tortured history is required for an artist,” I laughed. “My problem now is all I’ve got is history. I can’t seem to move forward visually. I’ve got painter’s block.”
“Been there for about twenty years,” my mother said, “and it’s awful. But, let me get back to your friend Bob. Can’t Frank do his job without you?”
“Of course, but I feel responsible because Bob was my friend, and his connection to Frank was through me. And now that I’ve seen this woman, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“That’s ridiculous, and you shouldn’t feel guilty, but I won’t argue. You’ve always tried to save the world. Charlie and I were just talking about it.”
“Charlie?” I said, laughing. “Has he been here?”
“Sure,” my mother said. “He was here a few days ago.”
I couldn’t help but grin. For all of Charlie’s bravado, he loved my family, and since half the members of my family weren’t related to who we thought they were, it was perfectly fine for Charlie to pretend he was one of us. Although lately, being a Prentice wasn’t all that cool.
“You two always had a thing,” I teased.
“It’s those t-shirts he wears,” my mother replied slyly as she rolled down the window and ran her fingers through the wind. A gust of warm air sent ripples up and down her silk blouse. “How can I help?” she said as I pulled into the driveway of a true Gold Coast mansion: the home I grew up in.
The circular driveway was empty, but I expected Norma, the housekeeper, was home. I put the car in park and turned to my mother.
“It’s not Teddy’s death that’s held me back. It’s what has come since.”
It was faint, but my I could see the muscles in my mother’s face droop. What had come since was a dangerous topic—the very last thing my mother and I spoke about before she slipped into a catatonic state. I had a suspicion, however, that until it was resolved, neither of us would truly heal.
“I can’t stop thinking I might have a child.”
“Funny,” she said, reaching for my hand. “I can’t stop thinking I might have a grandchild.”
I held my mother’s hand, and then I watched her face as she saw mine fall.
“What is it, Constance?”
“I sense this child isn’t safe, and I think it’s the root of my visual block.” And with that, I explained the Lifely fertility center and my father’s potential association. There was no reason to sugar coat the story at this point. My mother let out an audible gasp when I explained how Lifely serviced undesirable clients.
“I can’t say I’m shocked, but I have to wonder, even with your father’s horrible track record, whether he’d actually go so far as to place your eggs with an unfit parent. It would be child abuse.”
“Look what he did to Frank.”
My mother opened the car door, and we walked to the front door. “I’m not defending your father, but Frank’s parents were actually good people. They were poor and had no command of the English language, but they weren’t deficient.”
“How do you know that?”
My mother led me to a stone bench in a side garden. “Immediately after Frank was removed from our home, I harassed your father regarding his whereabouts. Of course, he wouldn’t say a thing, but your father’s driver at the time was a very nice man. At one of my lower moments, the driver took pity on me. Apparently, he’d driven your father to Frank’s new home. He gave me the address.”
“Mom!” I screamed. “You knew where Frank was all this t
ime.”
“Calm down,” she said. “It’s not what you think. The family moved to another neighborhood shortly after, but not before I made at least one attempt to see Frank and, honestly, he was perfectly fine. It wasn’t a great neighborhood, but I saw his adopted mother pushing him on a swing, and the outside of the house and yard were well kept.”
“Why didn’t you try to find them again?”
“Your father fired the driver after he found out the man had given me the address, and that was the end of it. Your father continued to insist it was a normal adoption. I know it’s hard to see, but at the time, I didn’t understand your father had split up the boys for a study. I actually thought this was a genuine adoption.”
I frowned at my mother. “You owe me one.”
“I owe you more than one, so why don’t we start now.”
We entered my childhood home and no matter how many times I’d walked through the front door, I was always amazed at the grandeur. The house didn’t exude a homey feel, as most of the rooms were designed for large-scale entertaining, but the back of the house had a cozy atrium off the kitchen that my mother had added when I was young.
After plenty of hugs from Norma—my mother’s housekeeper, companion, and confidante—we headed back to my favorite room and settled into the patio chairs surrounding a small indoor pond.
“Mom, here’s where I need your help,” I said as I gratefully accepted a glass of iced tea from Norma. “Dr. Grovit called me earlier. He’s found one of Dad’s former lab assistants, and he’s willing to meet with us. Apparently, he’s now a doctor, and he remained on at the labs to run the Plant Biology division.”
My mother’s breathing slowed. “Go on.”
“You were there when my egg and Teddy’s sperm were harvested.”
She tried to interrupt, but there was no room or time to backpedal.
“No apologies,” I said. “I know you couldn’t stop it. Dad probably threw a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo around.”
“He told me you had fibroids and, in fact, you had bad cramps. It seemed so logical, I didn’t think twice. All I wanted was for you to feel better.”
“See, you’re remembering things that hadn’t come up before.”
“Still, I don’t know how I can be of any help.”
“If you could remember some of the people involved, it may lead us to something more valuable. Maybe meeting this doctor will spark your memory.”
“It’s possible,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Now that I’m sober, I seem to be infinitely more productive. I can’t get over how many hours are actually in a day.” My mother rose from her lounge chair and kissed me. “Let me grab a change of clothes, and then we’ll head over to the labs.”
nineteen
Dr. Grovit wore brown corduroys, a greenish wool sports jacket, and penny loafers. I had swapped out my Levi’s for cargo shorts in deference to a late-April warm spell, but I imagined in my senior years, I too, would lose my sense of temperature. Body heat modulation issues probably get sandwiched somewhere before incontinence and after hearing loss. I knew, however, that Dr. Grovit’s seasonally challenged attire had nothing to do with his mental acumen. My mother, of course, looked impossibly chic in a sleeveless silk shirtwaist dress and Ferragamo flats. If nothing else, a trip home had allowed her to raid her closets for new outfits.
I pulled up to the front entrance of the Sound View labs and rolled down the car window.
“Hey, Doc,” I said.
“I’ll get in, and you can drive us to the west campus,” Dr. Grovit replied as he hopped in the car. As usual, Dr. Grovit bypassed pleasantries in favor of progress, although he did take a second to kiss my mother before settling into the back seat.
“You look wonderful, Elizabeth,” Dr. Grovit complimented.
“Thank you for committing me,” she said. “Apparently, I owe everyone in this car at least one return favor.”
I spun the car around and drove past the main building, a barn-like structure with a modern aesthetic. With the water on our right, we had a panoramic view of the campus, which covered ten acres
of highly desirable real estate on a protected cove of the North Shore of Long Island. The compound housed at least thirty buildings that included labs, auditoriums, recreational areas, and a pretty swank restaurant. The outdoor grounds were worthy of a glossy magazine shoot with indigenous plants lining crooked paths down to the water. Science, it seemed, paid off.
Harbor House sat on the opposite side of the bay facing the labs. For the last year, it had been hard to wake up to a full-on view of the place where my brother had died. On the other hand, this picturesque area of Long Island had been my family’s stomping ground for decades. I had decided, after some random relocation attempts via Google search, that I couldn’t run away from my home. The whole point of family is to celebrate and suffer the passage of life. No matter how bizarre, this was my family and the town we’d helped build. I’d have accomplished nothing if I had run away. I also felt that Teddy knew our mother and I were here, on his campus.
I glanced at Dr. Grovit in the rearview mirror. He leaned forward and squeezed my mother’s shoulder.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Plant Biology,” Dr. Grovit instructed. “One of the lab assistants, now Dr. Jack Wilson, stayed on and runs the division,” Dr. Grovit said.
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth,” Dr. Grovit said. “And believe me, it worked.”
My mother laughed wryly. “Guilt is a wonderful motivator.”
Dr. Wilson was in the lobby when we arrived. I pegged him for about forty, maybe a few years younger. Other than his full head of dark red hair, there was nothing outwardly memorable about Dr. Wilson. He wore the requisite lab coat covering up a bland button-down and nondescript pants. Given my estimate of his current age, he would have been no more than in his early twenties when my procedure took place. Not so young that an adult decision would have been beyond his reach but young enough still to trust an authority, like my father. I wondered if Dr. Wilson was a follower or a leader. Or a challenger, like me.
I looked at his shoes—worn-out running sneakers. A nonconformist. Maybe I liked this guy.
My mother gave Dr. Wilson the once-over and shook her head in a quick no to me. She didn’t recognize him.
A conference room with a view of the lab’s greenhouses was available for our meeting. Despite the short notice, Dr. Wilson had a thickly stuffed manila folder in front of him. I wondered if he felt this meeting would provide a form of absolution for him. Maybe he had nothing important to impart, but the act itself would probably prove cathartic for him if he’d been at all suspicious of my father’s activities.
“I don’t want to waste your time,” Dr. Wilson said matter-of-factly.
That worked for me since I’d already been kept in the dark for more than a decade.
“Great,” I said. “Let’s get started.”
“I’m going to be blunt. We were testing sperm mobility when I started my fellowship in this very lab. There was nothing unusual about it at the time, and I wouldn’t have given it a second thought until Dr. Grovit called.”
I looked around the room. The entrance to the building had seemed familiar. The hall lined with photographs of prominent staff scientists rang a bell, and I guessed this was where my egg extraction took place.
“Many of the doctors and medical students donated sperm for the studies,” Dr. Wilson continued. “The natural progression was to test categories of sperm with categories of eggs. Medically, there was nothing wrong with our work. In fact, it was quite progressive.” Dr. Wilson paused, deep in his own thoughts of scientific breakthroughs. His face took on a glow, and I was reminded of Teddy’s passion for his medical studies. Within seconds, Dr. Wilson’s eager expression dissolved. “When we began to fertilize the eggs …” Dr. Wilson sa
id. “Well, I guess you could say, we were creating life in a petri dish.”
I had a million questions, but Dr. Wilson’s confession, it seemed, couldn’t be contained. He continued before I could interject.
“I’m not sure what happened to the fertilized embryos,” he admitted, looking absolutely lost. “It’s the oversized elephant in the room.”
“Did you donate?” my mother asked.
“I sure did,” he replied. “And now, from what Dr. Grovit has told me about Lifely and what I could pull together in the last day”—he frowned at his bursting folder—“I may have hundreds of children out there.”
Oh my, I thought. And I was worried about having one child. Was it possible I had more? This poor guy may have fathered a small country of redheads. Then I thought about Teddy. There could be dozens of mini-Teddys running around. Frank’s Christmas list for his nieces and nephews could be miles long. My mouth felt dry, and I reached into my bag for my water bottle. My mother’s eyes started to glaze over, and I passed her the bottle. She waved it off, probably hoping for something stronger. Maybe I had overestimated my mother’s resiliency. And Dr. Grovit? I turned my head to him. He had finally started to sweat under his winter garb.
“Do you think I have multiple children?” I asked Dr. Grovit.
“I don’t. In fact, the chance of you having even one child is miniscule,” Dr. Grovit said.
Dr. Wilson nodded and then addressed my mother and me. “Do you remember getting a series of shots before the extraction?”
We both shook our heads no. “Would I have needed shots?”
“In a typical IVF case, the woman wants to increase her odds of pregnancy, so hormones are used to stimulate an overproduction
of eggs. The more eggs, the better the odds. If you didn’t have shots, which would be highly unusual before an extraction, then you could only provide one egg.”
“Which lowers the chance that this single egg even made it to a womb and survived,” I said as I thought about it. I turned to my mother. “I don’t remember shots.”
Drawing Blood Page 9
