by Jance, J. A.
Alex nodded. “Jake and I studied the profiles and photos for a long time before settling on the guy we thought resembled Jake the most. The guy in the photo was blond and good-looking. Before Jake’s hair started going gray he was blond, too.”
“What about Evan?” Ali asked. “Is he blond as well?”
“No such luck,” Alex replied with a sad smile. “Red hair, fair-skinned. I was so scared of melanoma that I practically smothered the poor kid with sunscreen when he was little. It turns out I should have been more worried about kidney disease.”
“So you’re thinking that if Evan’s sperm donor fathered other children through the clinic, one of them might be a close enough match to donate a healthy kidney?”
“Exactly,” Alex said. “Dr. Gilchrist is still in business, so I contacted him and asked if he would put me in touch with the sperm donor.”
“How did that work out?”
“Gilchrist’s office wouldn’t give me the time of day. In fact, I wasn’t allowed to speak to him in person. I was never able to get past his nurse. She said that sperm donors are protected by doctor-client privilege, and they wouldn’t breach that under any circumstances. And that’s why I’m asking for your help.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“If there are other kids fathered by the same donor, chances are they’re from somewhere around here. I’ve watched your newscasts for a long time, Ms. Reynolds, so I know that you do occasional human-interest stories. I was hoping maybe you’d agree to do an interview with Evan or with both of us. We could appeal to the public in hopes that other patients who might have utilized Dr. Gilchrist’s services back in the eighties would step forward.”
“Wait,” Ali said. “That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. And even if you happened to locate some of Dr. Gilchrist’s former patients, what are the chances that they would have used the same sperm donor?”
“Evan is dying,” Alex said. “That isn’t how it’s supposed to work. Kids are supposed to outlive their parents, not the other way around. And I don’t care how much hay there is. I only need one needle.”
“And you really think this might work?”
“I do.”
Ali glanced at her watch. It was time for her to head to the green room to meet that evening’s guests, as well as stop for a quick hair and makeup adjustment. “I’ve got to get down to the studio,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’ll pitch the idea to my producers and let you know what they say. In the meantime how do I contact you?”
Alex reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. The address listed was in Sherman Oaks. “You don’t live in Santa Clarita anymore?” Ali asked.
Alex shook her head. “We needed to be closer to the hospital,” she said, a simple answer that made perfect sense.
Much to Ali’s surprise, her producer jumped on the idea. So did the producer for the station’s daily newsmagazine show, L.A. Evening. Several weeks later Alex and her son came to the station to do not one but two interviews, a shorter one for news broadcasts, both the evening news and the eleven o’clock news, along with a longer one for L.A. Evening’s more expansive time frames.
Ali took to Evan Munsey immediately. He was an earnest young man and a serious one. Both interviews started with Alex relating the background regarding Evan’s birth. When Ali asked him about his health issue and need for a kidney transplant, he stated his case plainly and succinctly, with no wasted words. He spoke about what it was like to be plugged into a dialysis machine for seemingly endless hours each week.
“If I do have a half brother or half sister out there,” he said finally, “I’m hoping he or she might be willing to step forward and give me both a kidney and a chance to live a normal life.”
End of story.
Except that wasn’t the end of the story, not at all. The day after the L.A. Evening interview aired, Ali was in her office overlooking the day’s likely lead story when her phone rang.
“Someone down here to see you,” Diane said. “Her name’s Cassie Davis, and she says it’s urgent. It’s about last night’s interview.”
“Okay,” Ali said. “I’ll be right there.”
Down in the lobby, Diane nodded toward the front entry. “She’s out there, smoking a cigarette. She seemed pretty upset.”
Ali stepped outside, too. “Ms. Davis?” she asked tentatively. “I’m Ali Reynolds. What can I do for you?”
The community ashtray was located far enough away from the door to be legal. Without a word, Cassie Davis walked over to it and ground out her cigarette. She was a tough-looking woman, dressed in faded jeans and boots along with an equally faded western shirt. As she returned, she reached into a fringed leather purse, pulled out a photograph, and handed it to Ali. The color photo showed Cassie standing in front of the entrance to Disneyland. The lanky kid standing next to her was a much younger version of someone Ali thought she recognized.
“So you know Evan Munsey?” she asked.
“That’s not Evan Munsey,” Cassie answered. “He’s my son, Rory.”
Ali studied the photo again. “They could be twins,” she said at last.
“Yes, they certainly could,” Cassie observed.
There wasn’t really a delicate way to ask how this spooky resemblance could have happened, so Ali dove right in.
“Is there a chance your husband was a sperm donor at one time?” she asked.
“I’m a lesbian,” Cassie answered abruptly. “I don’t have a husband and never have. I was in my thirties, and my partner and I wanted a kid. No one was falling all over themselves to let lesbian couples adopt back then, so we went another route.”
“With Dr. Edward Gilchrist’s fertility clinic up in Santa Clarita?”
Cassie nodded. “That’s right,” she said, “one and the same. I never watch the local newscasts, but one of my friends called and told me what was going on. She’d seen a promo for the L.A. Evening segment. She thought the kid scheduled to be on the program was my son but that he was going under a different name now. That made sense to me. Rory and I have been estranged for years. When Emma and I broke up, he blamed me, and he wasn’t wrong. I cheated on her. A few months after that picture was taken, she packed up, moved back home to Phoenix, taking Rory along with her. As far as I know, he’s still there.”
“So you watched the program?”
Cassie nodded again. “Watched it and recorded it,” she replied, “and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.”
“Did you let him know about the program?”
Cassie shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not really sure where he lives these days.”
“What about Emma?”
“Ours wasn’t exactly an amicable breakup. So no, I didn’t get in touch with her either, because she’d probably hang up as soon as she heard my voice, but I was able to get a current phone number from a mutual friend.” With that she passed Ali a slip of paper. There were two phone numbers listed. The one on top started with a 602 area code. The second number was a 714, probably in Orange County or maybe slightly north of there.
“So is Rory aware of his . . . ?” Ali paused, not knowing quite how to phrase the awkward question. “His origins?” she finished at last.
“Emma and I were sort of at the forefront of the two-daddy/two-mommy household movement,” Cassie answered, “so yes, we told him about the artificial insemination from the time he was old enough to grasp the concept.”
“Did he ever indicate any interest in tracking down his sperm donor?”
“Not when I was around, but I haven’t seen him for the past eight years. He’s twenty-four now, and in all that time things might have changed.”
“What does Emma do for a living?”
“She teaches at Arizona State University. She’s a golf instructor there and also coaches the girls’ varsity golf team.”
“Would you like me to give her a call?”
Cassie nodded. “Please,” she said. “Rory needs to know about t
his. They both do.”
“Thank you,” Ali said. “I’ll try calling right away.”
“The second number on that paper is mine,” Cassie added. “If you do happen to talk to Rory, would you tell him I miss him and that I’m sorry? Would you do that?”
“Of course,” Ali said. “And can I keep the photo?”
Cassie nodded again. “I made a copy for you on my way here. I kept the original. It’s the only one of him I have left.”
With that, Cassie Davis turned and walked away, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt as she went. Ali hadn’t seen any tears, but she was pretty sure Cassie Davis was crying as she stomped off. She may have looked tough as nails, but as far as her estranged son was concerned, she clearly wasn’t.
Ali stood there for several long moments, staring down at the piece of paper and wondering what the right move was. During the interviews the station had posted both Alex’s and Evan’s contact information on the screen, but Cassie Davis hadn’t taken that route or done things the easy way. Instead she’d gone to the time and trouble of making the trip to the station from OC or wherever else she lived, and she’d done so without calling ahead to make an appointment. Instead she had made that long drive on the off chance that Ali would actually be on hand and willing to see her when she arrived.
Upstairs in her office, Ali was still conflicted about what she should do—should she call or not? Finally, taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone and dialed the 602 number. She was hoping Emma herself would answer. Instead a male voice came on the line. “Hello.”
“Is Emma there?” Ali asked.
“She’s at work. Who’s this?”
“My name is Ali Reynolds. I’m a newscaster at a television station in Los Angeles.”
“What’s this all about?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
“Is this Rory?” Ali asked.
“Yes, it’s Rory,” he replied. “But I don’t know anyone named Ali Reynolds. How do you know my name?”
“I talked to your mother just now—to one of your mothers,” Ali corrected. “Cassie Davis is the one who gave me this phone number.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with her. I’m hanging up now.”
“Please don’t,” Ali said urgently. “I need to talk to you. It’s about your brother.”
“Look, lady,” he said. “You’re nuts. No matter what Cassie Davis may have told you, I don’t have a brother.”
“Actually, you do,” Ali countered, “a half brother, but a brother nonetheless. His name is Evan Munsey, and it would appear that the two of you share the same sperm donor. Evan is hoping the two of you can meet.”
There was a slight pause on the line before Rory spoke again. “You know about that, too—the sperm-donor thing?”
“I do,” Ali breathed, grateful that he hadn’t hung up on her. “Cassie told me.” Since that was how Rory referred to his birth mother, Ali did, too. “I did an interview with Evan and his mother last night. Your mother saw the program and came here this afternoon to talk to me about it.”
“What makes you think this Evan guy and I have the same sperm donor?” he asked. “And what kind of interview? Is this supposed brother of mine some kind of criminal? Did he kill somebody?”
“Instead of my trying to explain all this over the phone, how about if I ship you a copy of the interview?” Ali asked. “Do you have a DVD player?”
“Of course.”
“If you’ll give me your physical address, I can FedEx it to you. You’ll have it tomorrow. That way you and your . . . mother . . . can watch it together.”
“My real mother, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I should give you our address,” he said. “What if this is some kind of scam?”
“It’s not a scam,” Ali assured him. “I just want to send you a copy of the interview. I’ll include my contact information. That way, if you want to be in touch with me after you watch it, you can be. If you don’t want me to tell Evan and his mother about you, you have my word that I won’t mention any of this without your express permission.”
Finally, reluctantly, he gave her a street address in Tempe, Arizona.
“I’m going to ship this FedEx,” she said. “I’ll specify an early-morning delivery. Will anyone be home to sign for it?” Requiring a delivery signature was the only way she could be sure he had actually received it.
“It’s spring break right now, so I’m off school,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
In case he didn’t contact her again, in case this was the end of Ali’s involvement, there was one more thing she needed to do—pass along Cassie Davis’s final words.
“Cassie asked me to give you a message if I spoke to you,” Ali said. “She said to tell you that she’s sorry and she misses you.”
The only reply was the sound of Rory Davis hanging up the phone.
Once the call ended, Ali hurried downstairs to production and got one of the guys there to burn a DVD with copies of both the Evan Munsey interviews. She slipped them into a FedEx envelope and dropped it off in the mail room just minutes before the driver was due to stop by for his pickup.
The clerk in the mailing office checked the shipping instructions. “Early delivery and signature required? What are you shipping here, the crown jewels?”
“Close,” Ai answered. “What’s in this envelope could very well mean the difference between life and death.”
The next day Ali came to work early with the old spring in her step. The malaise that had been besetting her had evaporated. She was upbeat, focused, and on her game. She sat in her office watching the clock and waiting for the estimated delivery time to pass. It was spring but not yet daylight saving time, so Arizona was an hour ahead. Eventually time slowed to a crawl. No matter how badly she wanted her phone to ring, her device remained stubbornly silent. As the hours passed, Ali suppressed her disappointment and was grateful that she’d kept her word and not mentioned any of this to Alex Munsey. Knowing about Rory’s existence would have gotten her hopes up only to have them dashed when he failed to respond.
Ali had given Rory her direct number, but when her phone finally did ring at two o’clock that afternoon, the call came through the switchboard. “I have Alexandra Munsey on the line,” the operator said. “Are you available?”
“I’m here,” Ali said. “Send it through.”
“Oh, my God!” Alex exclaimed when Ali came on the line. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Believe what?” Ali asked. “What’s going on?”
“You did it!” Alex gushed breathlessly. “You found the needle in the haystack. I just got off the phone with Evan. This morning a stranger named Rory Davis called him from Tempe, Arizona. Rory told Evan that the two of them may be half brothers. They talked for the better part of an hour, and now they want to meet. Rory is flying in from Phoenix tonight. His flight is due to arrive at LAX at 7:20. Evan and I are going to the airport to pick him up. We’re supposed to meet him at baggage claim. And Rory said to tell you that he’s sorry he didn’t call you back, but he wanted to cut out the middleman. He also mentioned that if you want to bring a film crew along to the airport, you’re welcome to.”
Ali felt a wave of goose bumps pass down her legs.
“And that’s not all,” Alex continued.
“What else?”
“Rory says that if he and Evan are related, and if Rory turns out to be a match, then Evan has found himself a donor. I can barely believe that he’d do this for someone who’s a complete stranger, but he seems to be willing. I don’t know how to thank you, Ali. This means everything to me. Everything!”
“You’re most welcome,” Ali replied. “And thank you for the scoop. What airline?”
“American. Flight 3690.”
“Fair enough,” Ali told her. “I’ll be there with bells on, along with a film crew, but there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Do
you happen to have a color photo of Evan when he was fifteen or so?”
“I think so,” Alex replied. “I believe I have one that I took at a tennis tournament. Why?”
“Bring it along if you can,” Ali said. “This is TV, after all, and comparing two photos side by side will make for a good visual.”
“Will do,” Alex said. “See you there.”
For the next few minutes, Ali sat at her desk and stared out her window. The smog had lifted. The sun was out. The mountains were visible in the distance. For the first time in a very long time, Ali Reynolds felt as if she had done something useful—that she’d made a valuable contribution, that what she did for a living actually mattered.
It was a lesson her parents, Bob and Edie Larson, back home in Sedona had drilled into her head the whole time she was growing up. “There’s nothing more worthwhile,” her father always said, “than helping someone else.”
“You were so right, Dad,” she whispered under her breath. “It just doesn’t get any better than this.”
5
Burbank, California, March 2003
For Ali Reynolds that initial meeting between half siblings Evan Munsey and Rory Davis was also the beginning of the story of her lifetime. It was a heartwarming piece, one that had legs, enough so that eventually it was picked up on the network news outlets as well. She had to go to the airport in the same clothing she’d worn on the evening newscast, but that was okay. Her wardrobe wasn’t the story, because Evan and Rory were the primary focus.
In order to get set up, she and her crew arrived at baggage claim a good forty-five minutes before the plane was due in. She expected they’d be the first to arrive, but Alex and her son were already there. Evan had been totally poised and at ease when he’d come to the station to do the interviews, but that night at the airport he was clearly a nervous wreck. He paced the floor, walking up and down the length of the baggage-claim area, waiting for an announcement to be posted that would tell them which baggage carousel would be in use once the plane touched down and the bags were unloaded.
As the cameraman laid out his equipment, Ali approached Alex, who appeared to be in a state that verged on jubilation. Alex introduced Ali to her husband, Jake, a man who seemed content to remain in the background and who held himself in careful reserve. His body language indicated he was there, all right, but he wasn’t quite sure what any of this meant or even if he believed it. Ali’s first impression was that Jake had distanced himself from his son’s fight while his wife had been one hundred percent all in.
