Nobody's Child

by Austin Boyd

  “Thank you. Have you met Mrs. Stewart before?” he asked, motioning to Laura Ann.

  “I have. She was single then. I served as the attending nurse at three of her harvesting sessions.”

  Laura Ann winced at the term, but kept her back straight. Ian put his hand on her forearm, a squeeze of affirmation. They would endure this together.

  “Is Mrs. Stewart the mother of James McGehee McQuistion, based on the records as you knew them at the time?”

  “She is. The clinic has been closed, however. I do not have the donor records in my possession.”

  “Objection!” Mr. Whitt exclaimed, standing up.

  “Sustained.”

  “Alright. Let’s explore another line of questioning, Ms. Clark. Do you have any children?”

  “I do. I was infertile for many years before my divorce, but successfully carried a daughter to term as a result of in vitro fertilization. Dr. Katinakis was my physician.”

  “Relevance?” Mr. Whitt said, bounding up.

  “Continue,” the judge said, waving him on.

  “And did you select the biological mother for your pregnancy?”

  “I did.” She looked in Laura Ann’s direction. “I chose Mrs. Stewart. Her name then was McGehee.”

  Gasps arose around the court gallery, another two or three people peeking into the court, then taking a seat near the back.

  Laura Ann’s shivers ran from her spine to the tips of her

  fingers, a shaking she could barely quell. She’d heard this pronouncement before. But Maggie’s words cut just as deep now as they did last night when Mr. Brewer introduced her over dinner.

  I have a daughter.

  Ian’s hand gripped her tight, his assurance so steady, so firm. She clung to her husband, her rock. Surely this revelation pierced him to the core … yet he never flinched. More people slipped into the courtroom amid loud murmurs.

  “Order,” Judge O’Dell said.

  “Why did you choose Mrs. Stewart? I mean, Miss McGehee?”

  “She was attractive, relatively tall, and physically fit. Her IQ test scores were high, and she seemed so stable and strong. She told us her story, about how she was donating her eggs to raise money to help her father. It made me cry.”

  “And Ms. Clark, can you tell us why you left the employment of the Morgantown Fertility Clinic, prior to their losing their license?”

  “I can.” She straightened up, taking a deep breath. “I learned that two of our donors died — our patients. For various reasons, but neither of them during the performance of our care.”

  Laura Ann looked down in her lap, shaking her head. Ian put his arm around her. Mr. Brewer let the courtroom quiet a bit, then continued.

  “Some of your donors died?”

  “Yes. One girl suffered seizures as a result of the surgery soon after her third harvest. She moved away after the second trip to our clinic, and we asked her to fly back to Morgantown for a third donation. She came. But I learned later,” Maggie said, her chin quivering, “that she passed away soon after. We heard it was natural causes. But I discovered, through her family, that she’d suffered a stroke.” She coughed, and continued. “There was strong evidence that her drug regimen, to induce the hyperstimulation of her ovaries, may have been responsible when acting in combination with a tumor she had, but did not know about. A second client passed away from internal complications after commencing a Pergonal drug regimen, also to stimulate her ovaries.”

  “Objection,” Mr. Whitt said. “Circumstantial evidence. We’re not trying Dr. Katinakis here, or fertility treatments.”

  “Agreed,” the judge said. “Mr. Brewer?”

  “Ms. Clark, as a reproductive specialist and attending nurse, please summarize for the court the procedure and the medical complications that you presented to each egg donor before her, as you say, ovary harvesting event.”

  “The egg harvest is accomplished using one of two methods. An ultrasound-guided aspiration is a minor surgical procedure done under intravenous analgesia—sedation for pain control. An ultrasound probe is inserted through the vagina to image the swollen follicles of the patient’s ovaries. A needle is guided through the walls of the vagina into the follicle and the ripened egg is suctioned out. In some rare cases — and this happened for Mrs. Stewart’s first harvest — we have to guide the needle though the patient’s abdominal wall, or through her bladder. In more severe cases, we use general anesthesia and laparoscopic surgery through an incision below the patient’s navel.”

  “And Mrs. Stewart’s harvests?”

  “All of them were of the first type, sir. Intravaginal ultrasound, in two of my three sessions with her, with no penetration of the abdomen except the first time.”

  “What kind of impact does that procedure have on the woman?” Mr. Brewer asked.

  “Nausea, bleeding, cramping, mild weight gain, and diarrhea are not unusual,” she said, looking back at Laura Ann. “I know that Mrs. Stewart experienced some of these symptoms because we spoke about it. Those were the usual complications that we mentioned in the safety briefing.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. Bloating, swelling, and distended abdomens are common for some women. More serious complications include Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome, or OHSS, as an aftermath of the drug regimen used to stimulate egg release. The ovaries become dangerously enlarged with fluid and can leak into the abdomen, with serious complications.”

  “Have you witnessed this in your patients?”

  “Yes, sir. In some.”

  “Other problems?”

  “Some women — we think it’s a small percentage — have experienced significant scarring of the ovaries as a result of the harvesting events, particularly if they have provided more than one donation. In extreme cases, infertility can result due to damage to the ovary. Some medical studies report an increased probability of ovarian cancer, as well as suspected ties to breast and uterine cancers. These effects are still under evaluation, of course. Unfortunately, there’s a tendency in this industry to publish only positive findings, and — “

  “And?”

  “Well, it’s new and fast-moving technology, and there’s not a very good way yet to follow up on the long-term health impacts of the drug regimens or harvesting events. A girl might donate today, but a year from now, or five years from now, she moves on to a new town, and finds she’s infertile, or has cancer. We don’t always make the connection.”

  “I’d like you to examine this issue from another angle, Ms. Clark. Can you share with us, from a clinical perspective, what are the impacts of egg or sperm donation on the person who is formed as a result of these donated gametes?”

  Maggie took a deep breath, wiping her hand in a quick pass across a glistening cheek. She sat bolt upright, stronger than Laura Ann thought possible were she in her shoes. “The studies are still

  formative. Nevertheless, clinical evidence shows that donor offspring are twice as likely to be in trouble with the law before age twenty-five, and one and a half times more likely to develop identity crises, depression, even mental illness. Why? Perhaps it’s a result of their concerns about their—how do I say this?—complicated origins. What some mistakenly call a ‘freak of nature’ or ‘a lab experiment.’ Then again, perhaps it’s a lack of grounding in family roots, or some angst about why the parent paid to buy the sperm or eggs to create them. I’ve heard the story, from more than one client, of donor offspring who asked their surrogate mother, ‘Did you buy me?’ “

  “Why then, in your opinion, would Ms. McQuistion seek out Mr. Mendoza and Mrs. Stewart?”

  “Objection! Conjecture, Your Honor.”

  “I’ll allow it. Go ahead, Ms. Clark.”

  She nodded at the judge, took another deep breath, and continued. “For the same reason I sought her out when I learned about this lawsuit from some coworkers I knew at the clinic. To tell my daughter more about the wonderful woman who sacrificed so much to make her life possible. To give my ba
by girl those roots. That’s why I chose her eggs in the first place, and it’s why I agreed to come here today — and that’s not conjecture. It’s my story.” She stared long at Mr. Whitt, then turned her attention back to Mr. Brewer.

  “Do you continue to work as a reproductive specialist, Ms. Clark?”

  “I do not.” She pursed her lips, then continued. “The more I learned, the less I liked it.”

  “And Ms. Clark, based on your prior experience as a nurse in this industry, if your daughter were of age to make an egg donation for altruistic purposes — or for money—would you recommend it?”

  Maggie wagged her head, a deep frown gathering as she expelled two words with force. “Absolutely not.”

  “Thank you. One more question. For the sperm donor, what are the medical side effects of a man donating a sample?”

  She chuckled, looking around the room, then to the judge, a bit red-faced. “Side effects? I mean, none that I know of. The donors are provided a room with some — some pornographic movies and magazines, you know? And a sample cup. But side effects?” She shrugged.

  “Did Mr. Mendoza provide samples at your clinic?” he asked, pointing toward the desk with Mr. Whitt.

  Maggie nodded. “Yes. He was a frequent client.” She smiled, then added, “He never complained.”

  “Objection!”

  “Mr. Brewer?” Judge O’Dell asked.

  “No further questions, Your Honor. The defense rests.”

  Mr. Brewer returned to the oak table where Laura Ann and Ian waited. She bent at the waist, her hands clasped together, a mental agony pummeling her insides. The sordid testimony about James’s father, the explicit sexual references, and the thought of her genes joined in some way with Felix Mendoza all turned her stomach. Mr. Brewer put a gentle hand on her shoulder as he sat down, then withdrew it. Ian’s arm threaded around her, pulling her close.

  Laura Ann looked up as Mendoza and Whitt conferred with whispers to her right. For a long time, an uncomfortable silence hung over the court. She heard the rustle of a robe and looked up. The judge shifted about, moving some papers into his satchel.

  “Well, I think we’re about done here,” Judge O’Dell said. “Your Honor?” Mr. Whitt exclaimed, turning away from Mr. Mendoza, his hands raised in the air. “What is this?”

  “I said, we’re done, Mr. Whitt. Based on the evidence submitted by your client, and by Mrs. Stewart, in consideration of the legally binding and probated will of the deceased Ms. Sophia McQuistion, and after that enlightening evaluation of the medical risks of Mrs. Stewart’s egg donation, the court finds in favor of the defendant, Laura Ann McGehee Stewart, legal guardian — and certified biological mother — of the child James McGehee McQuistion.”

  “What?” Mr. Mendoza exclaimed, jumping up from his chair.

  “Sit down, Counselor,” Judge O’Dell ordered. “Yes, the plaintiff did establish paternity. The defendant, however, has proven that she is not only the legal guardian, but is also the biological mother of this child. In addition, she may have experienced a significant risk to her health in order to donate genetic material to the deceased. The defendant has established a clear and compelling case for parental rights, in accordance with the laws of the State of West Virginia.”

  Judge O’Dell shook his head. “This beats anything I’ve ever seen. It’s time to go home, folks. The court rules for the defendant. Clerk of the court, please inform Child Protective Services I’ll be giving them a call. It’s time to get that baby back in his mother’s arms.”

  Judge O’Dell slammed his gavel into the desk. “Court is adjourned.”

  Eagles took wing, gliding on high currents of cool air above a cliff of books and along sheer walls of pictures. An aviary came to life in her imagination, seated in Judge O’Dell’s eagle-strewn chambers an hour after the trial.

  “Angus would be so proud of you,” Judge O’Dell said, leaning forward on his elbows, his hands clasped where they supported his chin in thought. “You didn’t have to do that. You might have won it based on your care for Sophia, and the probated will.”

  “Maybe,” she said, her smile so wide it gave her cramps in her temples. “But I’m tired of carrying that secret.”

  “Why? I mean, why’d you do it?” Judge O’Dell asked. “Submit for the maternity test?”

  “Gracious, no. Maybe it’s a little personal, but humor me. I heard what you said in there, but why donate your eggs? With all those risks?” He tilted his head in the cradle of his hands, waiting.

  “Other than the bloating and pain, they didn’t tell me about the rest of the physical complications. They advertised a big payment. But it wasn’t what I was paid. I needed the money for medical and bank bills. And it kept us going—for a while.” Her voice drifted off, and she looked down. “Four thousand dollars on my first visit. A few hundred dollars on my last visit when they couldn’t harvest enough eggs. Then I stopped going.”

  The judge listened, all ears, not pushing her.

  “I wanted to get this story out in the open, to be free of all the secrets.” She shrugged. “I don’t care what people think. I’d rather they knew I took a stand.”

  He nodded, a patient listening ear. Laura Ann could hear the screech of eagles, winging their way across the void of his office, free at last.

  “I learned something very important in all of this,” she said, taking Ian’s hand where it dangled by her shoulder. Judge O’Dell raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Actions have consequences. I sold part of myself to save Daddy and the farm. But that little decision affected many lives, and not all of them for the good.”

  Judge O’Dell wiped at his eyes, then continued. “I’m glad for Ms. McQuistion — and for you — that she had you in her life, Laura Ann. The way I see it, these challenges you’ve overcome in the past months represent a sort of extended detour, a byway on a long road that leads from grace to strength.” He cocked his head to the side. “But somehow, I suspect that detour is not yet finished. There are other Sophia McQuistions and Maggie Clarks out there — and surely another James.”

  The judge took a long breath, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in thought. “This is all very new to me. You know, I read about these issues, but they’ve never hit this close to home.” He leaned back in the chair, hands laced behind his head.

  “Your actions and this case raise some tough questions. Is a child a gift from God?” he wondered aloud. “Or have babies simply become some kind of commodity?”

  Staring upward in thought, his eyes focused on the eagles that circled above, winging on the winds of change.

  CHAPTER 29

  OCTOBER 1

  The lobby of Tyler County Bank reminded Laura Ann of a beehive. Or an anthill. A steady stream of people filed in and out of the bank, most of them here because of the confluence of lunchtime, a payday Friday, and the first of the month. Payments came due, checks waited to be cashed, certificates of deposit rolled over. Clerks moved from desk to desk, the bank’s three officers negotiating, approving, and cajoling. Laura Ann stood on the edge of the fray, her son in her arms, and a wad of cash in her pocket. The time had come.

  Her last trip. Except for the miraculous support of Sophia, Ian, and Granny Apple, the farm would have gone to the bank a long time ago. The McGehee account would be emptied today. She was a Stewart now, part of a proud clan.

  Baby James stirred, bundled in his cotton blanket, fast asleep. She needed to move quickly in the bank, get the loan paid, and get home. She couldn’t nurse him here.

  Finally her turn came at the teller. Laura Ann approached the woman, someone she’d never met. “I came to pay on my mortgage.” Laura Ann fished a wad of more than a hundred twenty-dollar bills from her front pocket, one hand securing James, the other clutching the cash surrounded by a rubber band and note with her loan number. “For this account,” she said, pointing to some writing on the wrapper.

  The teller nodded, took the cash, and whipped through it in rapid fashion, her rubbe
r-coated thumb expert with the bills. She typed a number in the computer at her station and waited, then typed again.

  “Are you sure this is the correct loan number?” she asked, sliding the money back in Laura Ann’s direction.

  “Yes. Why?”

  The teller shrugged, typed the number in again, and replied, “I’m sorry, but could you wait for a moment over there, ma’am” — she glanced at the screen — “Ms. McGehee.”

  “It’s Stewart. McGehee was my maiden name.” Laura Ann’s heart skipped again, like it had last Thursday when Uncle Jack stepped into the courtroom. Even though he sat in jail now, under arrest for fraud, his connivings still spooked her. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?” Laura Ann asked, shaking off the memory of her uncle and his sticky threads that ran through the mountain hamlet of Middlebourne.

  “My system says that there’s been a change to your account, not related to the name change. You’ll need to talk to a loan officer. It will be just a minute.” She directed Laura Ann to a chair.

  James whimpered, his stomach growing empty after a lunch two hours ago. Laura Ann kissed his forehead, her heart pounding, and prayed for some path to resolution, whatever this latest financial concern.

  “Miss McGehee?”

  She looked up to see an older gentleman she had met when Daddy first set up the loan.

  “I’m Joe Emerson, Laura Ann. Your father and I went to school together.”

  Frustrated with the delays, and James’s stirrings, she cut her words short. “Hello, Mr. Emerson. I tried to make a payment on my loan,” she said, handing him the stack of bills, “but the teller won’t take it. Is there a problem? I’ve changed my name — I got married,” she said, holding up her ring finger. “But that doesn’t seem to be the problem.”

  Mr. Emerson shook his head. “No. But there is something you need to know. About your account.”

  Mr. Emerson ushered her into his office. After rummaging through a file cabinet, he retrieved a large envelope, then slipped some papers out and handed them to her. “I’ll need your signature,” he said with a widening smile.