Identity (49 page)

“Sorry to hear that. Walter still reigning over his kingdom?”

“Yes, and I thought you were going to help with that situation.” Ellen put some salad on her plate and nudged the rest toward Fina. Fina didn’t take the hint.

“Well, if Walter is up to something illegal or unethical, I’m happy to help, but I can’t get him booted just because he’s impeding your professional development.”

“He’s doing something, believe me.” Ellen unscrewed the cap on her mineral water.

“You didn’t really give me much to go on.”

“Is that why you wanted to meet?”

“Sort of. Tell me about the testing that the bank does on donors. Both now and when Hank Reardon donated.”

A few drops of sauce from the gyro dribbled down Fina’s arm, and she dabbed at it with a napkin. A gyro was one of those things in which the whole was better than the sum of its parts. Taken individually, the lamb, tomatoes, onions, and tzatziki were all okay, but together, they achieved a new level of deliciousness.

“Seriously? We do a lot of tests.”

“Just give me some examples.”

“HPV, herpes, HIV, chromosome testing, cystic fibrosis, CMV, spinal muscular atrophy. And then there are tests geared to specific donors based on their backgrounds.”

“Like?” Fina dipped a triangle of pita into the hummus. She liked hummus, despite its nutritional benefits.

“Jewish donors are tested for a specific kind of anemia, Niemann-Pick Type A, Bloom syndrome, Tay-Sachs. African-Americans for sickle cell. That sort of thing.”

“It sounds pretty thorough.”

Ellen picked an olive pit out of her mouth and placed it on a napkin. “Trust me. There are a lot of tests.”

Fina had a sip of her soda. “It’s a wonder that anyone makes the cut.”

“Less than five percent do.”

“Really?”

Ellen grinned. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“It’s just more rigorous than I thought,” Fina said.

“I would deny ever saying this,” Ellen said, leaning toward her, “but it’s bad business if people take home a bum baby.”

“You mean one who’s sick or predisposed to a health problem down the road.”

“Right. Nobody wants a sick baby, if they’re being honest.”

Fina took a bite of her gyro and chewed for a moment. “But you didn’t always do these tests,” she said after swallowing her mouthful.

“No. The technology didn’t exist, plus they’re expensive.”

“What about things like allergies and asthma?”

“We don’t test the donors for those, since they’re not considered life-threatening or severely debilitating. The donors are supposed to report it if they suffer from either.”

“But that’s just self-reporting, right?”

“Sure, but if they aren’t forthcoming, it’s not disastrous.”

“Kids can die from asthma and allergies,” Fina noted.

Ellen put down her gyro. “Is this a friendly hypothetical conversation or have I misunderstood something?”

Fina held up her hand. “It’s a completely friendly hypothetical conversation. I’m just trying to figure stuff out.”

“Yes, people can die from asthma and allergies, but it’s rare.” Ellen shook her head. “You know what’s really frustrating? When it comes to donor sperm, people have much higher standards than they do when it comes to procreating with a spouse.”

“What do you mean?”

“My husband is a wonderful man, but heart disease runs in his family, he’s an incredibly picky eater, and he’s allergic to grass, for crying out loud. He might make it through the donor-screening process, but no one would pick him. Everybody wants the perfect donor.”

“But you know that your husband is a wonderful man,” Fina said. “You know that his assets outweigh all that other stuff. SMCs or anyone else weighing the options don’t have as much to go on.”

Ellen took a sip of water. “I suppose, but it just seems like people think they’re owed a perfect baby to make up for the fact that they couldn’t get one the old-fashioned way.”

“I can understand that. They probably think that something should go their way.”

Ellen nodded. She forked a slice of cucumber and popped it in her mouth.

“What kind of reports are generated from all the tests?” Fina asked.

“What do you mean?”

“How detailed are they? Who sees them?”

“They aren’t
too
detailed—unless you have a scientific background, it doesn’t take long for your eyes to glaze over reading that kind of data. Obviously, the donors see their results, and a medical profile and history are made available to prospective parents.”

“Is the testing done in-house?”

“Some of it. Some of the samples are sent out to specialty labs.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“It is, and it’s only going to get worse. Prospective parents clamor for every new diagnostic, but they don’t want to pay for it.”

Fina contemplated her half of the salad, then thought better of it. “How’d you end up in this field?”

“I stumbled into it after grad school, but it’s been a good fit. It’s a nice marriage of science and business, and who can argue with the end result? Who can resist a cute baby?”

“Not me, as long as I can give it back.”

They dumped their trash in a barrel and headed to the exit. During the walk to the parking lot, Fina and Ellen chatted about nothing in particular and parted company when Ellen reached her car.

“I hope this helped,” she said, unlocking her car with a beep.

“It did,” Fina said. “The wheels are turning.”

“Talk to you later.” Ellen climbed into her expensive SUV, and Fina wandered back to her less-conspicuous vehicle.

Her head was starting to feel crammed with information, and she massaged her temples with her fingertips. She hadn’t had a pain pill since first thing in the morning. She put one in her mouth and washed it down with a swig of warm water.

That would help. She’d been known to do some of her best thinking while medicated.

She was crawling through the clogged streets of East Cambridge when her phone rang. Fina answered using the hands-free option; she hated talking on speaker, but having both hands on the wheel was generally a good idea, especially in Boston.

“I cannot believe you!” Haley exclaimed.

“I know you’re mad, and I’m sorry.”

“Do you know how embarrassing it is going to school with a bodyguard?”

“Yes, actually, I do. We had them for a spell in middle school because Pap was hired by some goons.”

“And you did it anyway, knowing how miserable it would be?”

“It seemed better than the alternative.”

“My getting killed or kidnapped?” her niece asked.

“I don’t think either is very likely, but why take the chance?”

“So I have this woman who looks like a Secret Service agent following me around all day. She acts like she’s trying to be inconspicuous, but that’s a joke.”

“That is the idea—that she would follow you around and try to be inconspicuous.”

Haley sighed. “For how long?”

“Hopefully, not long at all.”

“You’re being evasive.”

“Thank you, counselor. Is there anything else I can do for you this fine day?”

Haley was quiet for a moment. “I’d feel better if I had some new clothes.”

“You’re such a little stinker.”

“You owe me, Aunt Fina.”

Fina was halfway through an intersection when the light turned red. She tried to ignore the bus driver who was gesticulating wildly at her, critiquing her driving. “I love you, so yes, I’ll take you shopping, but not because you’re owed anything.”

“Good. I’m busy today, but maybe tomorrow?”

“Text me and we’ll figure something out. And Haley? Don’t try to pull a fast one with the bodyguard.”

“I won’t. Scout’s honor.”

Fina disconnected the call and pulled over into an illegal parking space. She needed to think for a moment before making her next call. An idea was taking shape in her head, but it was still vague. Sometimes, talking to someone on her list would jar her brain and knock something loose or into place. First, though, she wanted to give Haley an unexpected present.

Fina dialed Dennis’s number. “I have a request,” she said when he answered.

“What do you need?”

“I’d like to swap someone in for Robin on my niece’s detail.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes. Robin isn’t a strong, handsome man. Do you have someone who looks like a movie star with a pro athlete’s physique?” Fina asked. “The whole inconspicuous thing isn’t working; let’s go full-on conspicuous and enviable.”

Dennis laughed. “Sounds like Milloy.”

“He would be great, actually, but he has a job, and not enough professional distance from the subject.”

“I’ll make a swap.”

“And tell Robin I’ll use her some other time.”

“Will do.”

She pulled back into traffic and contemplated Haley’s frustration. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about it. Fina drove by a neighborhood playground that had seen better days. The basketball nets were missing, and the intended green space was devoid of grass. The ground beneath the deserted monkey bars was crumbling concrete, not the fancy, spongy layer that cushioned kids in other zip codes. Even if the children who played here were relatively safe, they didn’t have the toys and distractions that Haley and her peers usually took for granted. Maybe Haley needed to start thinking about her bodyguard as an unusual tax on her privileged lifestyle.

Everybody paid. Only the currency differed.

•   •   •

Juliana pulled a thick towel from the clean stack next to the shower and wrapped herself in it. Her muscles emitted a faint ache, but she welcomed the sensation, which proved that she’d pushed herself. That feeling of depletion was one of Juliana’s favorites, something she strove for at the end of every swim, bike ride, and run.

She patted her skin dry with the towel and reached for a bottle of body lotion she’d picked up on her last trip to India. The formula included the Indian butter plant, and Juliana loved the feel of it on her skin. Maybe she could import it and make it available at the Reardon Center. She slathered it over her skin and hung her towel on the towel bar. She walked into her bedroom naked and glanced out the window overlooking the beach to make sure she didn’t have an audience before cracking the window and letting the cool breeze fan over her.

When she was younger, Juliana had been in good shape, but not like she was now. Her muscles were smooth and solid, her stomach flat, and her ass firm and lifted. She felt a sense of pride in her body and reveled
in its strength. Some people were naturally thin or naturally strong, but it was rare that a trim, sculpted physique was purely the result of genetics. Her body proclaimed that she was tough and disciplined. Juliana wasn’t declining with age; she was just hitting her stride.

She pushed a button on the remote, and the TV sprang to life. Flicking through the channels, she settled on the local cable channel before walking into her closet and choosing an outfit. There was a subcommittee meeting later on at the center, but before that a lunch date with a potential donor. She wanted to look classy, but not too rich, which might prompt her donor to question why she needed his help.

Juliana plucked a navy blue sheath from its hanger and laid it across the bed. She was hooking her bra when the news anchor got her attention. Coming up after the break was a segment about a new charitable organization in the city with deep roots and big plans. The screen cut to a shot of two women in the “chat” area of the news set. The tease was brief, but Juliana took a seat on the end of the bed, her blood pressure creeping up. She waited through two and a half minutes of commercials for cleaning products and butter, her mind a choppy mess of conflicting thoughts.

The anchor returned to the screen and introduced her guests, a chirpy PR flack and Danielle Reardon, Hank Reardon’s heartbroken widow, new mother, and philanthropist. Juliana curled her fists into balls as she watched her replacement unveil plans for a new home to support the families of patients who were forced to temporarily relocate to Boston for medical treatment. The Hank Reardon House—or Hank’s House, as Danielle referred to it—was going to be built in the Longwood Medical Area and would be a homey environment that would provide not only support services but also living quarters free of charge for qualifying families.

The rational part of Juliana’s brain knew it was a wonderful addition to the city, fulfilling a need that certainly existed.

But the other part of her brain?

It was furious.

•   •   •

Theresa McGovern had left a voice mail for Fina asking for a call back, so Fina left her a message, frustrated at the prospect of playing phone tag. She also sent pleading texts to Hal and Emma asking for something, anything, on Denny Calder. In the meantime, she decided to head to Harvard Square on the off chance that Marnie Frasier was available at work.

Marnie was high up in the student affairs office at a small university, her office tucked into a collection of colonial-style houses in Cambridge that were connected by additions built in recent decades. Fina parked in a visitor parking spot and walked into a yellow house where the ceilings were low and the scarred wooden floors creaked. An eager student sat behind a desk in the small front room. In contrast to Renata’s receptionist, her hair was shiny and bouncy, and her nails were short and polished a pale pink.