Shock (10 page)

"HERE COMES MY LAST BAG," DEBORAH SHOUTED. SHE dashed back to the baggage carousel from where she and Joanna had been searching through a pile of suitcases. She pulled the bursting bag free and lugged it over to where she and Joanna had amassed their others. Once they'd loaded them onto two carts, they stood in line for customs.

"Well, here we are back in Beantown,' Deborah commented as she ran her hand through her long, thick hair. "What a great flight. It seemed a lot shorter than I expected."

"Not to me," Joanna said. "I wish I could have slept half the time you did."

"Planes put me to sleep," Deborah said.

"As if I couldn't tell!" Joanna said enviously.

An hour later, the two friends were in their two-bedroom apartment on Beacon Hill, newly vacated by the tenant they'd rented it to for their Italian sojourn.

"How about flipping a coin to see who gets which bedroom?" Joanna suggested.

"No way," Deborah responded. "I said I'd take the smaller bedroom, and I'm fine with that."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. For me a big closet and the view are more important than a space."

"It's the bathroom that's the problem," Joanna said. The bathroom had two entrances: one from the hall and one from the second bedroom. In Joanna's mind that made the second bedroom far superior.

"The smaller bedroom is fine by me. Trust me!"

"Okay," Joanna said. "I'm not going to argue."

An hour later the women had distributed the furniture, partially unpacked their luggage, and had even made their respective beds when, as Deborah put it, they "ran out of gas." Realizing it was after ten o'clock at night back in Italy, they collapsed on the sofa in the living room. The bright, mid-spring afternoon sun was still streaming in through the front windows to belie their exhaustion and jet lag.

"What do you want to do about dinner?" Deborah asked in a monotone.

"There's something else I want to do before thinking about eating," Joanna said. She pushed herself upright and stretched.

"Take a nap?" Deborah asked.

"Nope," Joanna said. "I want to make a call." She stood and walked across the room to pick up the phone from the floor. They had no phone table where the phone jack was located. They could have placed the desk there but had decided to put it on the other side of the room to keep glare from the window off the computer screen.

"If you are going to call Carlton, I'm going to throw up."

Joanna looked at her roommate as if she'd gone crazy. "I'm not going to call Carlton. What makes you even suggest it?" She brought the phone back to the couch. The phone was on a twenty-five-foot cord.

"I've been worrying about you backsliding," Deborah said. "I've been noticing how many letters you've been getting lately from that boring doctor-in-training, and it worries me, especially now that we're back here in Boston within a stone's throw of his hospital."

Joanna laughed. "You really think I'm spineless, don't you?"

"I think of you as insufficiently girded against twenty-five years of maternal indoctrination."

Joanna chuckled. "Well, for your information, calling Carlton never entered my mind. What I want to do is call the Wingate Clinic. Do you have the number?"

"You're going to call already? We just got home."

"Why not?" Joanna said. "It's been on my mind for months, and yours, too, or so you said."

"Toss me my phone book," Deborah said without moving. "It's on the top of the desk."

Joanna did as she was told, and while Deborah looked up the number, Joanna sat back down next to her. Deborah found the number, put her finger under it, and held it up for Joanna to see. Using the speaker-phone button to get a dial tone, Joanna punched in the numbers.

The call went through and was picked up quickly. Joanna identified herself as a previous egg donor and said she wanted to speak to someone knowledgeable about the program. There was no response.

"Did you hear me?" Joanna questioned.

"I heard you," the operator said. "But I thought you were going to say something else. I'm not sure what you are asking. Are you interesting in donating again?"

"Possibly," Joanna said. She glanced at Deborah and shrugged. "But at the moment I'd like to speak with someone about my previous donation. Is anyone available?"

"Is everything all right?" the operator asked. "Are you having a problem?"

"No, not really," Joanna said. "I just have a few questions I'd like answered."

"Perhaps I should page Dr. Sheila Donaldson."

Joanna asked the woman to hold on and hit the mute button. She glared at Deborah. "What do you think? I was hoping for a secretarial type, not a doctor."

"I'd guess that secretaries would defer to Dr. Donaldson, so we might as well speak to her directly. I imagine it will save a step."

"I suppose you're right," Joanna said. She motioned toward the phone.

"Wait!" Deborah said. "Are you thinking about donating again?"

"Not at all," Joanna said. "But I figured we might as well stay on their good side. Who knows, it might help."

Deborah nodded. Joanna pressed the mute button again and told the operator to go ahead and page Dr. Donaldson.

"Do you want to hold on or should the doctor call you back?" "I'll hold on," Joanna said. A moment later, elevator background music emanated from the telephone.

"Maybe we should give the idea of donating again some thought," Deborah said. "I wouldn't mind being able to continue the lifestyle that I've become accustomed to." She smiled teasingly. "You're joking," Joanna said. "Not necessarily," Deborah said.

"I wouldn't do it again," Joanna said. "I've appreciated the opportunities we've had thanks to the money, but it's not been without an emotional price. Maybe I'd consider it after I have some children of my own, if that's going to happen. But of course, by then, I'd probably be considered too old."

Before Deborah could respond, Dr. Donaldson's voice interrupted the music. She identified herself with a degree of urgency and asked how she could be of assistance.

"I'm a former egg donor at your institution," Joanna said. "It was quite a while ago, but I have a question I'd like to ask . . ."

"What's the problem?" Dr. Donaldson demanded impatiently. "The operator implied there was a problem."

"I specifically told her there was no problem." "How long ago did you donate?" "Just about a year and a half."

"What is your name?" Dr. Donaldson asked, her voice decidedly calmer.

"Joanna Meissner. My roommate and I came in together." "I remember you," Dr. Donaldson said. "I came in to visit you at your apartment in Cambridge. As I recall you had long blond hair, and your roommate had short dark hair, almost black. The two of you were graduate students."

"I'm impressed," Joanna said. "I'm sure you see a lot of people."

"What is it you'd like to ask?"

Joanna cleared her throat and then forged ahead. "We'd like to find out what happened to our eggs. You know, how many children resulted and maybe even their sex."

"I'm sorry but that information is confidential."

"We don't need names or anything like that,' Joanna persisted.

"I'm sorry, all information, and I mean all information of that sort, is strictly confidential."

"Can you at least tell us if children were born?" Joanna asked. "It would be reassuring just to know if our eggs are healthy."

"I'm sorry but we have stringent rules that preclude giving out any information whatsoever. I don't know how to say it any clearer."

Joanna made a look of exasperation.

"Hello, Dr. Donaldson!" Deborah called out. She leaned forward to speak directly into the speaker phone. "This is Deborah Cochrane, and I'm here as well with Joanna. What if the children need genetic information for some reason from the biological mother, or if they require a transplant - bone marrow or a kidney."

Joanna shuddered at the thought.

"We keep a computerized record," Dr. Donaldson said. "In the unlikely event that something like what you are talking about were to occur, we might contact you. But that would be the only exception, and it is extremely unlikely. And even if it were to happen, the involved parties would still have the option of remaining anonymous. We would not give any of the information out."

Deborah threw up her hands.

"The only time the situation is different is when one of our clients finds their own donor," Dr. Donaldson continued. "But that is a completely different circumstance. It's called an open donation."

"Thank you, Dr. Donaldson," Joanna said.

"I'm sorry."

Joanna pressed the speaker phone button to disconnect.

"Well, that's that," Deborah said with a sigh.

"I'm not giving up so easily," Joanna said. "The possibility that I've got progeny out there has eaten up too much emotional energy for me to just let it go." She pulled the phone wire out of the phone, put the phone on the floor and headed over to the computer on the desk.

"What do you have in mind?"

Joanna bent down behind the electronics unit of the computer and plugged the phone line into the modem. "Way back you told me the Wingate Clinic had a website, and that you'd gotten some information from it. Let's see what kind of firewall they have. Did you keep the web address?"

"Yeah, I put it into Favorites," Deborah said. She got off the couch and came over to watch Joanna. Joanna was much more facile with every aspect of the computer than she. "What's a firewall?"

"It's software that blocks unauthorized access," Joanna said. Quickly she went onto the Internet and got the address for the Wingate. A moment later she was at the clinic's web page. Pulling up a chair, she tried to get into the clinic's files.

"No luck, huh?" Deborah said over Joanna's shoulder after a half hour.

"Unfortunately, no," Joanna said. "Of course I can't even be sure they have their web page on their own server."

"I'm not even going to ask what that means," Deborah said. She yawned and then made her way back to the couch where she stretched out full length.

Suddenly Joanna disconnected from the Internet, yanked out the phone line, and retreated back to where the phone was on the floor in front of the couch. When the phone was reconnected she called information to get the number for David Washburn.

"Who the hell is he?" Deborah asked.

"A classmate," Joanna said. "I took a couple of computer classes with him. A very nice guy, I might add, who actually asked me out a few times."

"Why on earth are you calling him now?"

"He's very computer-savvy," Joanna said. "And hacking was one of his sports as an undergraduate."

"Calling in the pros," Deborah commented with a wry smile.

"Something like that," Joanna agreed. Joanna had to go back to the desk for a pencil and paper to write the number down. Once she had, she dialed directly.

Deborah put her hands behind her head and watched Joanna's intent expression as the call went through. "Where are you finding the energy?" she asked. "You're all jazzed up, and I feel like death warmed over."

"This whole issue has been gnawing at me for too long," Joanna said. "I'd like some resolution."

SIX

MAY 7, 20O1 8:55 P.M.

WHAT TIME IS IT?" DEBORAH asked sleepily.

"Almost nine,' Joanna said, checking her watch. "Where on earth is he?"

The conversation with David Washburn had gone well. After Joanna had explained to him what they were trying to find out, he was happy to help, but he insisted on coming over to use their computer to do it.

"I can't afford any electronic trail to my machine," he had explained. "I'm on informal probation after slipping some porno shots onto the Defense Department web page with the caption Make • love not war. Unfortunately, the Feds were less than amused."

Deborah yawned noisily. "Are you sure he meant tonight?"

"I'm positive," Joanna said. "I told him we'd be going out for a quick bite to eat, but then we'd be home. He said fine; it would give him a chance to finish what he was doing."

"I'm afraid I'm not going to stay awake," Deborah said. "Do you realize it's three o'clock in the morning back in Italy where our bodies think they are?"

"Why don't you turn in?" Joanna suggested. "I'll wait up."

"Aren't you tired?"

"I'm exhausted," Joanna admitted.

Deborah put her feet over onto the floor, pushed herself up to a sitting position, but before she could stand, a raucous buzz filled the room. Both women started. It had been the first time they'd heard the front doorbell, and it was considerably louder than they expected.

"No fear we'll ever miss that,' Deborah said, collapsing back onto the couch.

Joanna got to her feet and moved quickly over to the door panel. "What do I do?" she asked in a minor panic. There were several buttons as well as a circular area of perforations through the metal.

"You're on your own."

Joanna pressed the first button. A crackling sound issued forth. "Hello, hello!" she said with her mouth close to the perforations.

"It's me, David!" a distant voice responded.

"Okay," Joanna answered back. She then pressed the second button while still holding the first depressed. She heard a distant buzz, followed by the faint sound of the front door opening and then closing.

"Well, that wasn't so difficult," Joanna said. She walked over to the apartment door, opened it, and stepped out. Bending over the railing, she looked down. The hall was like a chambered nautilus with the stair spiraling all the way down to the street level.

David bounded up the stairs with a broad smile baked on his face. He was a tall, athletic African American. After a moment's hesitation, he gave her a big hug. "How you doing, girl?" he said.

"Just fine," Joanna answered, hugging back. Even though she'd not seen him for over two years, he appeared exactly the same; he had the same short, scruffy beard, the same laid-back manner, and the same casual clothes.

"Man, what a surprise to hear from you. You look good, real good!"

"You too," Joanna said. "You haven't changed one iota."

"Just a little older and a little wiser," David said with a laugh. "And I'm happy to report the old jump shot's still going down fine. But you look different. In fact you look younger. How can that be?"