by Harlan Coben
"What did he say exactly?" Mom asked.
"That he'd had chest pains while I was in the Caribbean."
The Kaufman house had always been yellow, but the new family had painted it white. It looked wrong with the new color, out of place. Some homes had gone the aluminum-siding route, while others had built on additions, bumping out the kitchens and master bedrooms. The young family who'd moved into the Miller home had gotten rid of the Millers' trademark overflowing flower boxes. The new owners of the Davis place had ripped out those wonderful shrubs Bob Davis had worked on every weekend. It all reminded Myron of an invading army ripping down the flags of the conquered.
"He didn't want to tell you," Mom said. "You know your father. He still feels he has to protect you."
Myron nodded, stayed in the leaves.
Then she said, "It was more than chest pains."
Myron stopped.
"It was a full-blown coronary," she went on, not meeting his eyes. "He was in intensive care for three days." She started blinking. "The artery was almost entirely blocked."
Myron felt his throat close.
"It's changed him. I know how much you love him, but you have to accept that."
"Accept what?"
Her voice was gentle and firm. "That your father is getting older. That I'm getting older."
He thought about it. "I'm trying," he said.
"But?"
"But I see that For Sale sign--"
"Wood and bricks and nails, Myron."
"What?"
She waded through the leaves and took hold of his elbow. "Listen to me. You mope around here like we're sitting shiva, but that house is not your childhood. It isn't a part of your family. It doesn't breathe or think or care. It's just wood and bricks and nails."
"You've lived there for almost thirty-five years."
"So?"
He turned away, kept walking.
"Your father wants to be honest with you," she said, "but you're not making it any easier."
"Why? What did I do?"
She shook her head, looked up into the sky as though willing divine inspiration, continued walking. Myron stayed by her side. She snaked her arm under his elbow and leaned against him.
"You were always a terrific athlete," she said. "Not like your father. Truth be told, your father was a spaz."
"I know this," Myron said.
"Right. You know this because your father never pretended to be something he wasn't. He let you see him as human--vulnerable even. And it had a strange effect on you. You worshipped him all the more. You turned him into something almost mythical."
Myron thought about it, didn't argue. He shrugged and said, "I love him."
"I know, sweetheart. But he's just a man. A good man. But now he's getting old and he's scared. Your father always wanted you to see him as human. But he doesn't want you to see him scared."
Myron kept his head down. There are certain things you cannot picture your parents doing--having sex being the classic example. Most people cannot--probably should not even try to--picture their parents in flagrante delicto. But right now Myron was trying to conjure up another taboo image, one of his father sitting alone in the dark, hand on his chest, scared, and the sight, while achievable, was aching, unbearable. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. "So what should I do?"
"Accept the changes. Your father is retiring. He's worked his whole life and like most moronically macho men of his era, his self-worth is wrapped up in his job. So he's having a tough time. He's not the same. You're not the same. Your relationship is shifting and neither one of you likes change."
Myron stayed silent, waiting for more.
"Reach out to him a little," Mom said. "He's carried you your whole life. He won't ask, but now it's his turn."
When they turned the final corner, Myron saw the Mercedes parked in front of the For Sale sign. He wondered for a moment if it was a realtor showing the house. His father stood in the front yard chatting with a woman. Dad was gesturing wildly and smiling. Looking at his father's face--the rough skin that always seemed in need of a shave, the prominent nose Dad used to "nose punch" him during their giggling fun-fights, the heavy-lidded eyes a la Victor Mature and Dean Martin, the wispy hairs of gray that held on stubbornly after the thick black had fled--Myron felt a hand reach in and tweak his heart.
Dad caught his eye and waved. "Look who stopped by!" he shouted.
Emily Downing turned around and gave him a tight smile. Myron looked back at her and said nothing. Fifty minutes had passed. Ten more until the heel crushed the tomato.
2
Too much history. His parents made themselves scarce. For all their almost legendary butting in, they both had the uncanny ability to trample full tilt through the Isle of Nosiness without tripping any gone-too-far mines. They quietly disappeared into the house.
Emily tried a smile, but it just wasn't happening. "Well, well, well," she said when they were alone. "If it isn't the good one I let get away."
"You used that line last time I saw you."
"Did I?"
They had met in the library freshman year at Duke. Emily had been bigger then, a bit fleshier, though not in a bad way, and the years had definitely slimmed her down and toned her up, though again not in a bad way. But the visual whammy was still there. Emily wasn't so much pretty as, to quote SuperFly, foxy. Hot. Sizzlingly so. As a young coed, she'd had long, kinky hair that always had that just-did-the-nasty muss to it, a crooked smile that could knock a movie up a rating, and a subconsciously undulating body that continuously flickered out the word sex like an old movie projector. It didn't matter that she wasn't beautiful; beauty had little to do with it, in fact. This was an innate thing; Emily couldn't turn it off if she donned a muumuu and put roadkill on her head.
The weird thing was, they were both virgins when they met, somehow missing the perhaps overblown sexual revolution of the seventies and early eighties. Myron always believed that the revolution was mostly hype or, at the very least, that it didn't seep past the brick facades of suburban high schools. But then again, he was pretty good at self-rationalization. More likely, it was his fault--if you could consider not being promiscuous a fault. He'd always been attracted to the "nice" girls, even in high school. Casual affairs never interested him. Every girl he met was gauged as a potential life partner, a soul mate, an undying love, as though every relationship should be a Carpenters song.
But with Emily it had been complete sexual exploration and discovery. They learned from each other in stuttering, though achingly blissful, steps. Even now, as much as he detested her very being, he could still feel the tightening, could still recall the way his nerve endings would sing and surge when they were in bed. Or the back of a car. Or a movie theater or a library or once even during a poly sci lecture on Hobbes's Leviathan. While he may have yearned to be a Carpenters man, his first long-term relationship had ended up more like something off Meat Loaf's Bat Out of Hell album--hot, heavy, sweaty, fast, the whole "Paradise by the Dashboard Light."
Still, there had to have been more to it. He and Emily had lasted three years. He had loved her, and she'd been the first to break his heart.
"There a coffee bar near here?" she asked.
"A Starbucks," Myron said.
"I'll drive."
"I don't want to go with you, Emily."
She gave him the smile. "Lost my charms, have I?"
"They lost their effect on me a long time ago." Half lie.
She shifted her hips. Myron watched, thinking about what Esperanza had said. It wasn't just her voice or her words--even her movements ended up a double entendre. "It's important, Myron."
"Not to me."
"You don't even know--"
"It doesn't matter, Emily. You're the past. So is your husband--"
"My ex-husband. I divorced him, remember? And I never knew what he did to you."
"Right," Myron said. "You were just the cause."
She looked at him. "It's not that s
imple. You know that."
He nodded. She was right, of course. "I always knew why I did it," Myron said. "I was being a competitive dumbass who wanted to get one up on Greg. But why you?"
Emily shook her head. The old hair would have flown side to side, ending up half covering her face. Her new coif was shorter and more stylized, but his mind's eye still saw the kinky flow. "It doesn't matter anymore," she said.
"Guess not," he said, "but I've always been curious."
"We both had too much to drink."
"Simple as that?"
"Yes."
Myron made a face. "Lame," he said.
"Maybe it was just about sex," she said.
"A purely physical act?"
"Maybe."
"The night before you married someone else?"
She looked at him. "It was dumb, okay?"
"You say so."
"And maybe I was scared," she said.
"Of getting married?"
"Of marrying the wrong man."
Myron shook his head. "Jesus, you're shameless."
Emily was about to say more, but she stopped as though her last reserves had suddenly been zapped away. He wanted her gone, but with ex-loves there is also a pulling sadness. There before you stands the true road untraveled, the lifetime what-if, the embodiment of a totally alternate life if things had gone a little different. He had absolutely no interest in her anymore, yet her words still drew out his old self, wounds and all.
"It was fourteen years ago," she said softly. "Don't you think it's time we moved on?"
He thought about what that "purely physical" night had cost him. Everything, maybe. His lifelong dream, for sure. "You're right," he said, turning away. "Please leave."
"I need your help."
He shook his head. "As you said, time to move on."
"Just have coffee with me. With an old friend."
He wanted to say no, but the past had too strong a pull. He nodded, afraid to speak. They drove in silence to Starbucks and ordered their complicated coffees from an artist-wannabe barista with more attitude than the guy who works at the local record store. They added whatever condiments at the little stand, playing a game of Twister by reaching across one another for the nonfat milk or Equal. They sat down in metal chairs with too-low backs. The sound system was playing reggae music, a CD entitled Jamaican Me Crazy.
Emily crossed her legs and took a sip. "Have you ever heard of Fanconi anemia?"
Interesting opening gambit. "No."
"It's an inherited anemia that leads to bone marrow failure. It weakens your chromosomes."
Myron waited.
"Are you familiar with bone marrow transplants?"
Strange line of questioning, but he decided to play it straight. "A little. A friend of mine had leukemia and needed a transplant. They had a marrow drive at the temple. We all went down and got tested."
"When you say 'we all'--"
"Mom, Dad, my whole family. I think Win went too."
She tilted her head. "How is Win?"
"The same."
"Sorry to hear that," she said. "When we were at Duke, he used to listen to us making love, didn't he?"
"Only when we pulled down the shade so he couldn't watch."
She laughed. "He never liked me."
"You were his favorite."
"Really?"
"That's not saying much," Myron said.
"He hates women, doesn't he?"
Myron thought about it. "As sex objects, they're fine. But in terms of relationships ..."
"An odd duck."
She should only know.
Emily took a sip. "I'm stalling," she said.
"I sorta figured that."
"What happened to your friend with leukemia?"
"He died."
Her face went white. "I'm sorry. How old was he?"
"Thirty-four."
Emily took another sip, cradling the mug with both hands. "So you're listed with the bone marrow national registry?"
"I guess. I gave blood and they gave me a donor card."
She closed her eyes.
"What?" he asked.
"Fanconi anemia is fatal. You can treat it for a while with blood transfusions and hormones, but the only cure is a bone marrow transplant."
"I don't understand, Emily. Do you have this disease?"
"It doesn't hit adults." She put down her coffee and looked up. He was not big on reading eyes, but the pain was neon-obvious. "It hits children."
As though on cue, the Starbucks soundtrack changed to something instrumental and somber. Myron waited. It didn't take her long.
"My son has it," she said.
Myron remembered visiting the house in Franklin Lakes when Greg disappeared, the boy playing in the backyard with his sister. Must have been, what, two, three years ago. The boy was about ten, his sister maybe eight. Greg and Emily were in the midst of a bloody take-no-prisoners custody battle, the two children pinned down in the crossfire, the kind no one walks away from without a serious hit.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"We need to find a bone marrow match."
"I thought siblings were an almost automatic match."
Her eyes flicked around the room. "One-in-four chance," she said, stopping abruptly.
"Oh."
"The national registry found only three potential donors. By potential I mean that the initial HLA tests showed them as possibilities. The A and B match, but then they have to do a full blood and tissue workup to see--" She stopped again. "I'm getting technical. I don't mean to. But when your kid is sick like this, it's like you live in a snow globe of medical jargon."
"I understand."
"Anyway, getting past the initial screening is like winning a second-tier lottery ticket. The chance of a match is still slim. The blood center calls in the potential donors and runs a battery of tests, but the odds they'll be a close enough match to go through with the transplant are pretty low, especially with only three potential donors."
Myron nodded, still having no idea why she was telling him any of this.
"We got lucky," she said. "One of the three was a match with Jeremy."
"Great."
"There's a problem," she said. Again the crooked smile. "The donor is missing."
"What do you mean, missing?"
"I don't have the details. The registry is confidential. No one will tell me what's going on. We seemed to be on the right track, and then all of a sudden, the donor just pulled out. My doctor can't say anything--like I said, it's protected."
"Maybe the donor just changed his mind."
"Then we better change it back," she said, "or Jeremy dies."
The statement was plain enough.
"So what do you think happened?" Myron asked. "You think he's missing or something?"
"He or she," Emily said. "Yes."
"He or she?"
"I don't know anything about the donor--age, sex, where they live, nothing. But Jeremy isn't getting any better and the odds of finding another donor in time are, well, almost nonexistent." She kept the face tight, but Myron could see the foundation starting to crack a bit. "We have to find this donor."
"And that's why you've come to me? To find him?"
"You and Win found Greg when no one else could. When he disappeared, Clip went to you first. Why?"
"That's a long story."
"Not so long, Myron. You and Win are trained in this sort of thing. You're good at it."
"Not in a case like this," Myron said. "Greg is a high-profile athlete. He can take to the airwaves, offer rewards. He can buy private detectives."
"We're already doing that. Greg has a press conference set up for tomorrow."
"So?"
"So it won't work. I told Jeremy's doctor we would pay anything to the donor, even though it's illegal. But something else is wrong here. I'm afraid all the publicity might even backfire--that it may send the donor deeper into hiding or something, I don't know."
"What
does Greg say to that?"
"We don't talk much, Myron. And when we do, it's usually not very pretty."
"Does Greg know you're talking to me now?"
She looked at him. "He hates you as much as you hate him. Maybe more so."
Myron decided to take that as a no. Emily kept her eyes on him, searching his face as though there were an answer there.
"I can't help you, Emily."
She looked like she'd just been slapped.
"I sympathize," he went on, "but I'm just getting over some major problems of my own."
"Are you saying you don't have time?"
"It's not that. A private detective would have a better chance--"
"Greg's hired four already. They can't even find out the donor's name."
"I doubt I can do any better."
"This is my son's life, Myron."
"I understand, Emily."
"Can't you put aside your animosity for me and Greg?"
He wasn't sure that he could. "That's not the issue. I'm a sports agent, not a detective."
"That didn't stop you before."
"And look how things ended up. Every time I meddle, it leads to disaster."
"My son is thirteen years old, Myron."
"I'm sorry--"
"I don't want your sympathy, dammit." Her eyes were smaller now, black. She leaned toward him until her face was scant inches from his. "I want you to do the math."
He looked puzzled. "What?"
"You're an agent. You know all about numbers, right? So do the math."
Myron tilted back, giving himself a little distance. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Jeremy's birthday is July eighteenth," she said. "Do the math."
"What math?"
"One more time: He's thirteen years old. He was born July the eighteenth. I was married October tenth."
Nothing. For several seconds, he heard the mothers chatting over one another, one baby cry, one barista call out an order to another, and then it happened. A cold gust blew across Myron's heart. Steel bands wrapped around his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. It was like someone had whacked his solar plexus with a baseball bat. Emily watched him and nodded.
"That's right," she said. "He's your son."
3
You can't know that for sure," Myron said. Emily's whole persona screamed exhaustion. "I do."
"You were sleeping with Greg too, right?"
"Yes."
"And we only had that one night during that time. You probably had a whole bunch with Greg."
