Hope House (4 page)

Clutching their blue nylon duffel bags, the girls chatted excitedly among
st each other in Creole. Emblazoned on the sides of the bags in gold were the words “Maison D’Espoir,” with the logo of a house with the sun rising behind it. The bags overflowed with goodies: shampoo, toothbrushes, nail polish, powder, candy, hair beads, and nightshirts with the Maison logo.

With today’s new stable of girls, the
population hit seventy-five. All the existing residents were producing. Some who joined the first round six years ago had become burnt out or had unexpected medical issues. Out they went.
Sent off,
the girls called it. Big bad Mr. Puglisi sent them off. He cringed at the bogeyman image he represented here, but it was necessary for business. New Age Adoption Agency prided itself on providing beautiful smart healthy Caucasian babies. Mick’s stash of special eggs, donor sperm from selected men, plus good surrogates, produced quality goods. People paid too much for these kids for
anything
to go wrong.

The only baby born with
a deformity so far was
his
Luke,  a club-footed infant out of Martine Jean-Baptiste. Puglisi had whisked little Luke away and adopted him but his crew believed otherwise, believed he had slaughtered the kid. He shuddered at the thought.

At one time, he and Tad
Boucher had been like brothers. Through unfortunate circumstances, they had been raised together in the same house. But now it was
Dr. Tad
and
his
girls aligned against the evil Mick Puglisi. Mick accepted it as the way of business, thinking of a list of prosperous men who had begun in business together and had a falling out. Unavoidable fallout but not a deal breaker.

Boris, one of the armed guards, stood beside Mick. Boris also acted as his translator when he needed one, whenever Tad was too busy. Mick
began his speech and tour for the girls when he saw Boris eyeing one of the incubators. Boris was never allowed inside the gates unless Mick or Tad requested his help, much too tempting. Seventy-five virgins, healthy, clean, and probably dying for a man’s touch. Who could predict what would happen if Boris were left unsupervised?

“Who are you looking at?” Mick said, grimacing at Boris.

“
Lot bo.
Over there.” He pointed. “What is her name? She looks like someone I know.”

“Never you mind. Whoever she was before is dead now, so it doesn’t matter. You just keep your pants zipped and help me settle these girls into their new home.”

Boris, six foot, five inches tall, with muscles like a racehorse, glared back at Mick. A shiny angry black stallion and his large nostrils flared as wide.  He clenched his jaw. Mick knew immediately that he crossed the crossed a line with the big lug.

“Okay, big boy. Sorry about that. Didn’t mean it.” He fished in his wallet and handed him two twenties. Boris took them and nodded.
I’ll let you live,
the look said.

Backing off, Mick asked, “Which girl did you have a question about?”

Boris pointed. “Her. In the flowered top. I have seen her a few times over the years but never up close. I think she is from my old village in La Saline.”

“She’s been here since the beginning. Martine Jean-Baptiste.” Mick saw a
flicker of something in Boris’ eyes but couldn’t be sure what. Joy? Anger?

Boris only nodded again and gritted his teeth. Mick stepped back a few feet. This guy scared the hell out of him but he’d hir
ed him for talent in intimidating. He’d been protecting the compound for years. No one could get by Boris Jean-Bap—Oh shit, was this guy Martine’s brother? Mick saw his life flash before his eyes.

“Is it the girl you knew?”
Mick prayed otherwise.

“Just start the tour.” Boris said.

Mick followed him, nervous as hell.
If he wanted to hurt me, he would have. Maybe he doesn’t know Martine. Jean-Baptiste is a common name.
Mick took a few deep breaths and began to speak.

“
Bon Jou.”
That was the extent of his Creole and most of these women couldn’t speak French, much less English. He rattled off a few more things and Boris translated for him. He seemed to relax a little so Mick did too. If Boris wanted any special treatment for Martine, he could have it. It was worth it to lose a good breeder if he got to keep this wolverine of a guard. For now he’d say nothing and count the minutes until he could get on the plane back to Miami, to little Luke, and the safety of his home.

5.

Boston General Hospital, Boston, afternoon

Gloria checked
her watch. Four o’clock. Her stomach growled, but in just two hours she’d meet Donna and didn’t want to spoil her dinner. Needed to leave room for Tiramisu. If the doctor didn’t emerge from behind the swinging doors with her results soon, she’d have to leave and call him later. It’s not like they’d take her marrow today anyway, even if she were a match. She tapped her foot, knowing that she couldn’t stay here past five-fifteen. If she did, she’d never get to Logan Airport by six with the rush hour traffic.

She chewed her lip.
So bored.
She’d already leafed through every magazine in the waiting room in the last three hours: Women’s cooking journals, men’s sports and fishing guides, as well as all the brochures explaining ADHD, depression, asthma, and allergies. There were a couple brochures entitled
Genital Warts and Herpes,
but she chose to leave those right where they rested on the rack. Instead, she picked up a magazine that promised forty Valentine cookie recipes.

Ick. There was something sticky on page seventy-two. She tossed the magazine down on the end table. Not a bright idea touching all the waiting room literature, since most of the people in the hospital were sick and had leafed through them as well. She frowned and got up to wash her hands.

“Ms. Hanes,” a man’s voice called to her.

“Doctor Norris.” He appeared
to be in his early forties and was so average and non-descript that Gloria knew she’d finally found a personification for the phrase
average white male
.

“At first glance, everything looks good. Your blood profile shows you’re very healthy and you seem to be a match. So long as the DNA you have is the same one we show as having scraped from your cheek a few years ago, it’ll be a go.” 

“That’s very good news.”

“Sure is. Could you come with me to one of the consultation rooms? I need you to fill out some paperwork and there’s something interesting in your DNA I’d like to discuss in private.”

She nodded and followed him down the hall. “Interesting?” she asked as she walked. “Are you going to tell me I’m really a superhero or my mother was a jackal?”

He laughed as he guided her into a small room. “Afraid not. Not Wonder Woman or the anti-Christ. Human through and though.” He shut the door and they both sat down. As he opened her chart he said, “I’m afraid there are some very personal questions I’ll need to ask. I hope you don’t take offense.”

She felt herself blush. Her heartbeat quickened. How personal? Was he going to ask her how many men she had slept with? There hadn’t been a lot, but still—

“The DNA we have on file, and granted we need to verify this, shows that you’re strongly related to the patient.”

“How strongly?”

“Well, this is what’s strange. I’m not a geneticist but the report I
have states you’re either her grandmother or her aunt. Obviously you’re not her grandmother, given your age, but your questionnaire says you’re an only child.”

“I am. It took years for my mother to get pregnant with me, and after
that she never conceived again.”

“You’re sure?”

Her face reddened further. “Very. We’ve had long talks about it.”

“I hate to even suggest this but what about your father. Any chance—”

“Absolutely not. How dare you imply that he was unfaithful to my mother?”

“I’m sorry, but it just doesn’t make sense.”

“What’s the child’s name, the one I’m here about?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Please, just a first name.”

“I can’t.”

“I’m begging. Just a
first
name.”

He frowned. “Promise you won’t try to figure out who she is.”

She nodded.

“Alison. Her name is Alison. Back to my questions now. So you have no siblings and your only pregnancy was—”

Gloria felt the blood gushing through her ears, blocking out anything else he may have said. Her last pregnancy? When would she ever be able to put it behind her? She nodded and took a deep breath.

“Is there any chance this Alison could be my daughter?”

“No. Of course not. You lost your fetus to miscarriage six and half years ago. But did you have another pregnancy?”

“Why? Is Alison genetically my daughter?” She hadn’t realized she was yelling until a nurse opened the door to
check on them.

“Everything’s fine. I’m just speaking with my patient.”

The nurse left.

“Your daughter died, Ms. Hanes. You had a miscarriage before she was born. This child’s DNA does not suggest she’s your child. You’re a twenty-five percent match, which indicates the relations I mentioned: Grandmother or aunt. You’re a step removed from motherhood.”

She felt reality slip away, just like the last time in a hospital. “You’re wrong. When you retest the DNA, you’ll see. She
is
my daughter. I felt her kick before they stole her from me, from my womb. The doctor lied back then, don’t you see? Someone else is raising my daughter!”

He grasped her folded hands and held
them. Hard. She tried to move them but couldn’t.
What is he, some kind of Dr. Black Belt?

“Ms. Hanes. Alison is
not
your daughter. Yours died long before she was surgically removed from you. And this child will die as well if you don’t calm down and stop ranting. She needs your marrow. We can sort out how you’re related to her later. All I need to know is that if all the tests come back compatible, that you’re willing to save this little girl’s life.”

Gloria blinked a few times and tears fell on her lap. He still rendered her hands immobile.

“Of course. I’m sorry. Just give me the paperwork to sign. I just— sometimes I—when you told me she was related I just got upset. Hopeful. But I know it’s foolish. I’ll be all right. I won’t have another outburst like that, I-I promise.”

He let go of her hands and laid out the paperwork before her. She reached for the table and picked up a pen.

*

A few minutes later Gloria got in her car and began the drive to Logan airport in bumper-
to-bumper traffic. She checked her cell phone and sighed. Moving her eyes from the road to the phone, she hit the numbers to a direct line she never thought she’d dial again.

“
Tommy Carpenter’s office. How may I help you?”
Chirpy secretary.

“Can I speak with him please?”

“
He’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”
Damn cheery bimbo.

“It’s his ex-wife. Please get him on the phone right now. It’s an emergency.”

The meeting couldn’t have been too important because in less than ten seconds he picked up.

“
Gloria, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Our daughter’s not dead.”

“
What?”

“I just came from the hospital. There’s a little girl whose DNA matches mine, Tommy. They say it’s not her, but it is. I know it. I told you—”

“
Stop it. Stop it right now, Gloria
.” Over the phone, she could picture his lips tightening into that seething angry face he used to make. “
It’s time to move on.”

“Did you even hear me? I know
you’ve
moved on. You started planning your new life the minute the doctor gave us the news. Up and married and had more kids and never looked back; but I’m telling you Tommy, something’s up. I want you to come down to Boston and get a DNA cross match on this little girl. Her name is Alison. Then we can prove—”

“
I was there right alongside you, Gloria. You, the doctor, and me. At the hospital, he told us about the baby, and he showed you an ultrasound of her lifeless body. You had
surgery to remove her corpse. I hate to be blunt and graphic but I don’t know how the hell else to get it across to you.”

She sank in her seat, glad for the distraction of driving to keep her from breaking down.

The therapists had been right, and Tommy, goddamn him, was right.
She’s not my daughter.

Gloria
was about to respond when Tommy barked, “
Don’t call here again with this bullshit.”
Then came the dial tone.

Another jolt of reality. She supposed Donna Mallory’s bit of information would lead to the same result. Some strange coincidences, but in the end the same. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Gloria had accepted her horrible past until a few hours ago, and she trusted that she could, with just a little effort, just as easily go back to
the comforting belief—or lie—that she had moved on.