How could we eat? We couldn’t.
Mom called people—Frank’s co-workers at city hall, Big Mac and Little Mac, Aunt Colleen.
Now I paced—back and forth in the lobby, staring at the nurses and orderlies, the people in wheelchairs, the candystripers. Staring through them.
All I could think about was this: Frank could die. We would all die, but Frank could die sooner rather than later. And if he did get better, I had to face something else: Frank’s Huntington’s was getting worse. It was getting worse way faster than it was supposed to.
At one point as I stared through someone wearing a white lab coat, I realized she was calling my name. It was Quinn’s mother, Mrs. Harper. She patted my arm and said she’d heard the news.
I pulled myself out of my fog long enough to ask, “Where’s Quinn?”
“I sent her home,” Mrs. Harper said. “I didn’t want her to interfere.”
Before I could say that Quinn was born to interfere, she asked for Mom. I motioned her across the lobby to the bank of phones and watched the two of them hug.
Mrs. Harper was on her dinner break from the lab. She stayed with us until we were paged. In fact, she pulled a couple of apple spice muffins out from somewhere under her lab coat and practically forced us to eat them. (Quinn came by her take-charge attitude honestly.) Then Mrs. Harper made us promise not to leave the hospital without bringing her up to date on Frank’s condition.
As Mom and I followed the nurse down the corridor of the intensive care unit, all the usual hospital sounds and smells faded. All I heard was the pounding of my heart. All I smelled was the sour stench of the fear that walked, like a third person, between Mom and me. And all I could think about was controlling my stomach and not throwing up the apple spice muffin when I saw Frank.
The nurse came to a stop in front of a row of windows. I saw curtained-off cubicles in the room behind her. “Given Mr. MacLaughlin’s condition, we’d ask you to keep your visit to five minutes,” she said softly, “and not say or do anything to upset him.” Her gaze lingered on me.
Under normal circumstances, I might have made some sort of wisecrack. I mean, really. Did I look like I would go in and jump up and down on Frank’s bed or call him a stupid fool for losing control of the car?
But I just nodded meekly and followed Mom. Frank was in the bed at the far end of the room, hooked up to a bunch of machines that bleeped and blinked and whooshed and dripped.
His eyes were shut; he was the colour of snow.
I guess I gasped out loud, because a male nurse with spiky blond hair pushed me gently into the chair beside the bed. “He looks like he’s sleeping, but he’s awake, and he can hear what you say,” he said.
Mom took the chair opposite.
I stared. Frank’s skin was whiter than I thought skin could be. His head was wrapped in white bandages. His arm was swathed in white. Everything about him was white. He was so white, it was hard to tell where he stopped and the white hospital linens started.
Kind of like when I was little and it was hard to know where he stopped and I started. Back when we were so together, so much a part of each other, that there was practically no line between us, no separation.
We were so separate now I didn’t know what, exactly, he was to me anymore. Or what I was to him, either.
“Frank,” Mom whispered thickly. “Frank, we’re here.” Her hand snaked across the bed and tentatively touched what I think was an elbow. I knew she was on the verge of tears because I heard them in her voice. Besides, I was, too. “You’re going to get better, Frank. You know that, don’t you?”
A flutter of eyes and then, “Ovvv…caaarrrse…gittt…bittrrrr.” Frank’s voice was raspy and the words were a little garbled, but it was his voice.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both, and so did Mom, and I guess we were a little too loud for the ICU because Mr. Spiky Hair returned, and even though he pretended to check Frank’s vitals, I know the only reason he came back was to hold a finger to his lips and signal for us to be quiet.
Which we immediately did.
As much as we were able to.
“What happened?” I asked.
Judging by Mom’s frown, I figured this was one of those questions classed as potentially upsetting. But what did she expect me to do? Ask about the weather?
“Dnnntt…” Frank’s eyelids fluttered shut. After a minute, they fluttered open again. “Dnnntt…memmmbr.”
“Don’t worry, Frank, there’ll be lots of time for questions later.” She squeezed his hand, glared at me. “You just have to get well, okay?” And then she went into a rambling, boring account of who she’d phoned and what they’d said and how many people were rooting for him and why he shouldn’t worry because everything was covered down at city hall.
I don’t know how much Frank heard. His eyes were shut through most of it. But when Mom finished, they flickered open again. He mumbled incoherently. “Vncurvv…llinekk…”
Mom and I exchanged perplexed glances.
“It’s okay, Frank. It’s okay.” Mom tried to soothe him. “Just rest and get better.” I saw the nurse eye us and check his watch. He was going to boot us out any minute.
Frank’s mumbling got louder. “Vnnncurrvvv…llinnek…Casssssdeee.”
The clinic. After obsessing about it all day, Frank’s accident had completely wiped it from my mind. “The clinic, Mom—he’s talking about me going to the clinic.”
Frank grunted. “Llllinnnekk…goooooo.”
Mom smoothed his forehead with her hand. “Calm down, Frank. There’ll be time for the clinic when you get well. We can postpone the appointment for a few days.”
For twenty-four to forty-eight hours at least. How could I go anywhere when Frank was like this?
“Noooooo.” The machine beside him beeped faster. The jagged lines on the neighbouring machine grew taller, sharper. “Casssdeeee…goooooo…llinnekk.”
“Time’s up, I’m afraid.” With calm efficiency, the nurse moved to the side of his bed and took Frank’s pulse. Mom and I stood.
“Casssddddeeee…gooooo.”
The nurse thought Frank wanted us to leave. “It’s all right, Mr. MacLaughlin. They’re going now.”
But Mom knew exactly what Dad wanted to say. She leaned over and gently kissed Frank’s cheek. “Relax, Frank, I’ll make sure Cassidy goes to the clinic tomorrow.”
The beeping on the machine slowed. The spikes on the second machine softened.
And Frank slowly shut his eyes.
SEVENTEEN
Crows are not good parents. They get helper mom and dads. If they have too many babies, they throw them out of the nest.
Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project
You look fine, Cassidy. Come on.” Quinn watched me stare into the rear-view mirror and meticulously apply Geisha Girl red to my lips. Her impatience radiated out like heat from an angry star.
Cypress Hills Fertility Clinic loomed out the window to our left. It was a pale stucco building, faintly Spanish-looking with its adobe tile roof and ornate wrought-iron gate. A small brass sign above the door said simply Cypress Hills.
I was about to meet the doctor who had impregnated my mother, and my thought as I sat behind the wheel of my Cabrio was to be beautiful for him. Irresistible.
“Come on,” Quinn said again as she checked her watch. “Your appointment is in two minutes.”
I needed more than two minutes to psych myself up. The lipstick was a stalling tactic. Truthfully, I was afraid. All my hopes rode on this meeting. I was determined to get a name, to find out whatever I could about my father. But what if I failed?
Not only that, I felt guilty just being here.
Frank was worse. A small bleed had started the night before, about an hour after they’d let us see him. He’d slipped into a coma sometime in the middle of the night. When I called Mom from the ferry, she told me they were probably going to operate.
I was at war with myself.
I wanted to leave Victoria, but I didn’t want to leave. And I certainly didn’t want to come to Vancouver alone. Mom and I had a huge, screaming fight. I mean, it was her fault I was in this stupid donor mess to begin with, and of course I was being unreasonable, but I couldn’t be mad at Frank, not when he was almost comatose. Besides, I figured it was my mother who had insisted on lying from the beginning, so why was she all of a sudden being honest and keeping her word to Frank and forcing me to leave for the appointment?
Unfortunately, this huge, screaming fight took place in the hospital lobby.
Fortunately, hospital staff are trained to deal with crazies.
The other good thing is that Mrs. Harper was still on shift, and she came and took us to the cafeteria, where we—okay, I—calmed down. Then she said that Quinn could come with me. Quinn’s boyfriend, Dean, lived on the Mainland, she was familiar with the area and she was quite capable of directing me from the ferry to West Vancouver.
Which is why Quinn now stared at me as I checked to see if the under-eye concealer had done its job. “Don’t worry about your eyes,” she said.
“Oh yeah?” I couldn’t help but smirk. “This from a closet Bobbi Brown fan?” Quinn had insisted on ducking into the ferry bathroom and applying foundation the moment we got on the boat. She wouldn’t even buy breakfast first.
“So I like to have nice skin. Big deal.”
“We need to work on extending nice to below the neck,” I said. Considering some of Quinn’s outfits, today’s brown cords weren’t half bad, but I could do without the yellow Mickey Mouse hoodie.
“Quit procrastinating. Let’s go.” She popped the door and stepped from the car.
Heart thudding, I followed.
Inside the clinic, a grey-haired woman wearing triangular gold earrings sat behind a sleek mahogany counter. She smiled as we approached.
“I’m Cassidy MacLaughlin,” I said. “I’m here to see Dr. Anderose.”
Her smile froze. “Of course. Have a seat.”
“It’s her,” I whispered to Quinn as we sat in two padded armchairs. “The woman who wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone.” I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
Quinn studied her; I didn’t care to.
Instead, my eyes gulped in my surroundings. So this was where I’d been conceived. Thick, plush carpet. Beautiful beige linen wallpaper. Soft generic music. And a long corridor behind the desk with a zillion closed doors.
Which one of those doors had been the room? Which one of these chairs had the Fake and the Snake sat in?
Which one had my real father sat in?
He had been here, too. He had walked through the same door, gone down the same long corridor.
Why had he donated? For money? On a dare? As a joke? Because of his ego? I couldn’t begin to imagine. I wondered, Had he even thought of me when he was here?
A phone buzzed; the grey-haired woman murmured something into the receiver. She stood. “Dr. Anderose will see you now.”
My heart galloped in triple time. Quinn and I stood, too.
“The appointment is for Ms. MacLaughlin and her parents,” the woman said as she came out from behind the desk. Her gaze settled on Quinn; she bristled with smug superiority. “You can’t come in.”
“I’ve been given permission by her mother to be here.” Quinn pulled the letter from her purse and handed it over. The woman accepted it gingerly, like it might be contaminated with anthrax or something.
She read it and looked up. Distaste was clearly evident in her frown. “Fine.” She turned on her heel and marched down the hall. “All this fuss for a whole lot of nothing,” she muttered.
Quinn made nasty faces as she followed her. Once I would have laughed. Not today.
The woman stopped to the left of an open door. She gestured. I hesitated, but Quinn gave me a quick push and we were inside.
Dr. Anderose was tall and thin. White-haired, blue-eyed, heavily wrinkled. He had to be, like, ninety years old.
I could only stare.
He knows who my father is. He knows everything about him.
Dr. Anderose gave me a brief, sharp glance before turning his attention to the door. When the woman shut it behind us, his smile slipped. A perplexed frown took its place. “I understood your father and mother would be here, too.”
“He’s not my father,” I blurted.
“He’s been in a car accident,” Quinn said. She handed over the letter.
Dr. Anderose sat down behind his desk—more mahogany—and read the letter. Quinn and I settled in the chairs in front of him.
My knees shook; I was surprised at how nervous I felt. I quickly took stock of his office, noting the long bank of baby pictures on one wall, the huge floor-to-ceiling filing cabinet on the other.
Was my file in there?
“Well.” Dr. Anderose looked up. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”
“Frank MacLaughlin is not my father,” I repeated. “And I’m here to find out who is.”
Something sparked in his blue eyes—anger, maybe?—but it quickly disappeared. He pulled a silver pen from his white lab coat, twirled it between his fingers like a baton. “My dear, the records are sealed, the contract is ironclad. There’s really nothing more I can tell you.” The words were practised; the smile was false.
“What do you mean more?” Quinn interrupted. “You haven’t told her anything yet.”
The doctor turned to Quinn. “This is a matter between Ms. MacLaughlin and myself. I don’t have to meet with her. And I don’t have to allow you to stay.”
In other words, keep your mouth shut.
His dismissal of Quinn made me angry. “But my friend’s right. I don’t know anything. And I have a right to know some basic facts. His ethnicity. His health history. How do I know if he was healthy?”
“He was,” Dr. Anderose assured me. “All my donors are.”
“How do I know that?”
“You have to take my word for it.”
Take his word for it.
His gaze was implacable, resolute. Frustration slammed into me. He was in complete control. He had the information I wanted. I glanced at the filing cabinet again.
Somehow I had to make him give it to me.
“What about genetic history?” I forced myself to stay calm. “My—Frank MacLaughlin has Huntington’s chorea. How do I know my real father doesn’t have some kind of genetic illness?”
Dr. Anderose cleared his throat, tapped his pen noisily against his blotter. “Genetic screening wasn’t done when you were conceived. But all my donors had proven track records.”
Quinn and I exchanged frowns. “What do you mean, ‘proven track records’?” I asked.
“Just what I said.” He shifted in his chair. “They were all fathers of healthy children. Not a genetic problem in the bunch.”
All fathers of healthy children. I had siblings out there somewhere. People related to me. Who are they? I wanted to yell. Tell me! Instead I said, “All I want is a name. Nothing else. Just that.”
“I’m sorry. Donors are guaranteed anonymity.”
“And without the donors there wouldn’t be a program,” Quinn chimed in sarcastically, “so the offspring get to pay the price for everybody else’s selfishness.”
The good doctor gave her a filthy look.
“For another thing,” he continued, “there are privacy laws.”
“There are freedom of information laws, too.” My frustration built into a fury that surprised me with its intensity. “You saw my father. You played a role in creating me. How can you keep his name from me?”
Dr. Anderose simply studied me. That’s when I knew: I wasn’t going to get my father’s name. “Why did he donate?” I whispered. “What made him do it?”
“That’s privileged information.”
I wouldn’t leave without something to hold on to. “What does he do for a living? What are his hobbies? Where was he born? Does he have sisters or brothers?” My mind
raced; the questions poured out of me. “What about his parents? Are they alive? What are they like? Did they die? What from? Tell me…” My voice slipped, cracked. “Tell me if my father…likes birds.”
The doctor looked away. “We don’t ask those kinds of questions,” he said stiffly.
“What do you ask?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Quinn cleared her throat. I stared down at my hands.
I had given blood once, during a blood drive the year before. The only good thing about it was the juice and candy I got afterward. But I remembered one thing: they wanted a huge history on me, including where I’d gone on holiday for the last five years.
When you gave blood to sustain life, you had to tell them everything. When you gave sperm to start life, you were allowed to tell them nothing?
It wasn’t fair. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe this issue was bigger than me. Maybe QTGYRL’s fight for the rights of donor offspring was mine, too. When I trusted myself to speak, I said, “We’ll subpoena the records, and my mother will swear that she signed the contract under duress.” It was a flat-out lie—my parents had said no such thing. “We’ll fight for the right for me to know my own father.” I would. I didn’t expect my parents to. They had Frank’s disease to deal with, and I couldn’t fault them for that.
“I’m sorry, Ms. MacLaughlin, your file no longer exists.” He wasn’t sorry. I could tell by the matter-of-fact way he spoke. The way his careful smile didn’t reach his eyes. “After ten years, my records are destroyed. It’s a matter of policy, and of space.”
He was lying. Judging by the snort of disbelief from Quinn, she knew it, too. But I knew something else: my file did exist, it wouldn’t by the time we got in the car.
Tears clogged the back of my throat, forming a lump I couldn’t swallow. I had to leave; I had to get away and try to make sense of things.
I stood. Quinn did, too.
The doctor reached across the desk and grasped my hand. His smile grew wider. “My dear Cassidy, don’t you see how lucky you are? Think about it. You come from a wonderful, caring home with two parents who love you. You’re healthy. You’re happy. By anyone’s standards, you lead a most comfortable life.” Through a film of tears I caught a glimpse of his patronizing smile. “Perhaps you should spend more time being grateful for what you do have and less time thinking about what’s missing.” Embarrassed, ashamed and filled with rage, I watched him give my fingers a final squeeze.
Finding Cassidy Page 17
