Fertile Ground (12 page)

“I’m sorry to hear that. Really, I am.” Gina sounded sincere. “Do you think he’s dead?” she asked softly.

“I suppose you had to ask that, too?” Lisa said and

saw a hint of discomfort flash across the reporter’s face. “Actually, I try not to think about the possibilities.”

Her intercom buzzed. She yanked the receiver off the cradle and pulled it to her ear. “Did you hear anything?” she asked Selena in an undertone.

“No, sorry. Are you almost finished with the reporter?”

She relaxed her grip on the receiver. “Just about. Am I late for my next appointment?” Dealing with patients would at least provide her with a temporary reprieve from her tortured thoughts and Gina Franco’s incisive questions.

“No. But Mr. and Mrs. Wright are here. They insist on speaking to you right away.”

Chelsea’s parents.

Hardly a reprieve.

The Wrights looked worn and pale and nondescript, like an old sepia-toned photo that had faded, its once-glossy surface crackled. The mother was short and plump, with a puffy face and light brown hair. The father, whose hair was the same brown, was stout and had broad, sloping shoulders and wide, large-knuckled hands. Lisa looked hard but could find no hint of the animated, lovely young woman whose photo she’d studied two days ago.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. “I wish there were something I could do to lessen your pain.” She was embarrassed for offering platitudes but didn’t know what else to say.

“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Enid Wright smiled bravely. “Everybody’s been so wonderful, so caring. But it doesn’t bring her back.” Tears trembled on her lashes, then fell onto her face. She made no move to wipe them.

“We wanted to speak to Dr. Gordon,” her husband said, “but we understand he’s not available.”

“Not at this time. Is there something I can do for you?” Had they come to speak to Matthew because he’d seen Chelsea just a few weeks ago? Did they hope to find comfort in their daughter’s last conversations?

“It’s about her eggs,” he said. “The detective told us Chelsea donated eggs. We’d like to know who has them.”

“We never even knew.” His wife sniffled. “Her boyfriend knew, but we didn’t. I guess Chelsea thought Walter and I would disapprove,” she added in a tone that said she was troubled her daughter hadn’t confided in her.

“I’m so sorry.” Lisa shook her head in sympathy and leaned forward. “I don’t know who has your daughter’s eggs, or whether any of them were fertilized and frozen.”

Walter Wright exchanged a look with his wife. “I’m sure the information’s in her file.”

“Yes, but I can’t share it with you.” God, she didn’t want to be in this position! She’d almost prefer answering Gina Franco’s questions. Lisa had cut the interview short, telling the reporter she had to see a patient. Now she was intensely relieved that the Wrights hadn’t come earlier, when Gina was in Reception.

“But they’re Chelsea’s babies’.” the mother whispered. “Our grandchildren! They’re the only thing Walter and I have left.” She was sobbing now, her shoulders heaving.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa repeated. Her face was ashen.

Walter clasped his wife’s hand. “If you’re sorry, help us.”

“I wish I could. Please believe me.”

“We understand she received money for the eggs,” Enid said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Twenty five hundred dollars. She was always so worried about expenses.” She sighed. “If we have to, we’ll pay it back, every cent.”

Lisa felt physically ill. “It’s not about money, Mr. and Mrs. Wright. It’s against the law for me to release that information. Please try to understand.”

“They’re her eggs,” Walter said. A note of stubbornness had stiffened his voice and his shoulders.

“She signed a contract giving up her rights to the eggs.” Lisa hated the fact that she was using the cold shield of the law to deflect their heartrending pleas, that she was the enemy.

“Chelsea didn’t know she was going to be killed, did she? She probably wasn’t even eighteen years old when she signed that paper. I don’t think you can hold her to that.”

“Mr. Wright—”

“At least if we could see the babies when they’re born, visit with them once in a while,” Enid said. “It’s not enough, but it’s something.”

He whirled toward his wife. “They’re Chelsea’s babies, Enid! We have rights!” His voice was a whiplash. “A lawyer could have that contract tossed out,” he said, facing Lisa again.

“Mr. Wright, there must be some mistake. We don’t accept egg donors who are under eighteen.” “Well, she turned eighteen nine months ago. When did she donate the eggs?” he said, challenging Lisa now.

“I don’t know.” Matthew had told Barone that Chelsea had donated the eggs long ago. Lisa recalled. What was “long”? “Even though your daughter’s eggs were implanted in someone else, it’s possible no pregnancies resulted from any of those eggs.”

“You mean they could be gone?” Enid wailed. “All of them? All go neT

All my pretty ones? Did you say all? Lisa hesitated. What was the point of offering hope, only to snatch it away in the next moment? “Not necessarily. But even if one or more of your daughter’s eggs resulted in a pregnancy, those embryos belong to someone else now.”

“No.” Walter shook his head. “Those women can have other children. They can get someone else to donate eggs for them. My wife and I, we just have this one chance.” He tightened his grip on his wife’s hand. “We’re not stupid. Dr. Brockman. We know we can’t bring Chelsea back. But we can hold on to the part of her she left behind.”

He rose so quickly that he almost upended the chair. “Come on, Enid. We’re not going to get any help here.” He turned to Lisa. “I know you’re just doing your job, but you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Lisa didn’t answer. She watched them walk out of her office, two people broken by their daughter’s death. She lay her head on her arms and cried for Chelsea Wright and the babies she would never carry, cried for Matthew, cried for herself.

The restaurant where Chelsea had worked was on the corner of Beverly and Formosa. Lisa had found the name in a one-inch newspaper report about the murder, buried in the Times’ “Metro” section that she’d dug out of the trash.

She parked her Altima in the closest spot she could find, on La Brea between Oakwood and Beverly. It was eight o’clock, and though the yellow-gray light from the streetlamps interrupted the darkness, and she’d almost convinced herself that the car hadn’t been following her last night, she looked around warily as she headed toward the restaurant, conscious that Chelsea might have walked these same blocks on the way to her death.

She turned the corner. Across the street were a car rental place and a new building that, according to Sam, had replaced a camera shop torched years ago in the Rodney King riots. To her right was a mini-mall with a pharmacy, a dry cleaner, a Domino’s Pizza, and a kosher restaurant where Sam had taken her when she’d first moved to Los Angeles over a year ago.

The neighborhood, Sam had told her, was heavily populated with Orthodox families, and there were synagogues, schools, and markets to meet their needs. The same was true of the Pico-Robertson area where Sam fl!

lived. He’d chosen his apartment because it was closer to the clinic.

On an impulse she detoured into the mall, crowded with cars and two Suburbans, and stared inside the window of the kosher restaurant. A lone diner was sitting at one of the front tables, reading a folded newspaper as he ate his sandwich. All the other tables were occupied with families, or two or more women, or men.

A little boy waddled down the aisle. His mother jumped up and chased after him, then stopped at another table and, with her son anchored to her hip, talked with the people sitting around it. Crowded around another table in the middle of the long, narrow room was a group of high school girls. Lisa watched the pantomime of animated mouths and exaggerated gestures and felt a pang of longing.

This was what she missed so dearly, along with the ritual and the cocoon of faith—this sense of community, of belonging. This was what she’d thrown away.

Maybe she was feeling this way because of Matthew’s disappearance. Maybe it was because of her parents’ phone call. They’d reached her just before she left her apartment tonight. They’d heard a news item about the clinic and were concerned. Why hadn’t she phoned them?

She was fine, she’d reassured them. She hadn’t wanted to worry them. And Matthew? her father had asked—was it true he’d disappeared under suspicious circumstances? In her father’s quiet voice she’d heard the awkwardness that was present whenever he mentioned his future son in-law, but there had been no criticism, no intimation that life would have been better for all of them if Lisa had never met him. And when she told them she feared something terrible had happened to him, her mother had offered to fly out to be with her, or to send her a ticket to come home.

She longed to see her parents, but having her mother visit would complicate her life right now. And though going home was tempting, she couldn’t leave her job or the city, not with Matthew missing, possibly dead. So she’d declined both offers and told them she loved them.

“Your father and I will pray for Matthew’s safety,” her mother had said. “If you change your mind, AlA short, stocky man passed her and opened the restaurant door. “Going in?” he asked, holding it open for her.

She hesitated. “No, not tonight. Thank you.”

She left the mini-mall, crossed Detroit Street, and walked two more blocks to the restaurant where Chelsea had worked. On either side of the brick-faced corner exterior were square cafe tables and simple hardwood slatted chairs; a stack of teal umbrellas, obviously used to protect patrons from sunlight, lay against one of the walls. The windows were topped with narrow teal-and-white striped canopies. The air was chilly, but all the tables were occupied.

There were many restaurants like this in L.A.” she’d noticed one Sunday afternoon, driving around to familiarize herself with the city. There was one just a block away. According to Matthew, they were all busy, all day. Who were the midday patrons? she’d asked him. How could so many people afford to spend their days talking and eating instead of going to work? Jealous? he’d asked, smiling, and she’d laughed and said of course she was.

She entered the restaurant and asked to see the manager. A waitress showed her to a table near the rear, and Lisa wondered which station had been Chelsea’s. The lighting was dim. The room was redolent with the pungent aroma of fried onions and seared beef and coffee, and she was reminded how hungry she was. Aside from a tuna sandwich at lunch, she hadn’t eaten anything all day. She scanned the menu and signaled to the waitress, intending to order a steak sandwich, then changed her mind. She’d asked Matthew to think about keeping kosher, but hadn’t tried doing it herself. Hardly fair. She considered making a bargain with God—she’d keep kosher, she’d keep the Sabbath, keep all the laws, if He would keep Matthew safe. A pretty good bargain, she thought, wishing it were that simple. The waitress arrived. Lisa ordered a lemon Coke.

She was sipping the Coke minutes later when a tall,

dark-haired man in chinos and a black knit shirt approached her table. “I’m Cal, the manager. How can I help you?” He had large sable-brown eyes with lashes that reached his thick brows.

She took a business card from her wallet and handed it to him. “I need to talk to people who knew Chelsea.”

He studied the card, then slipped it into his pants pocket and folded his arms. “Why?”

Lisa couldn’t blame him for being wary. She explained about Matthew’s disappearance, then said, “The detective thinks it may be connected to Chelsea’s murder, so the more I learn about Chelsea, the better chance I have of finding my fiance.” She might have twisted to some degree what Barone had said, but she didn’t care.

“The police were here right after the murder. Anything my staff could tell you, they already told the detectives.”

She nodded. “I know I’m probably wasting my time, going over the same ground. But I have to try to find him.”

His hands moved to his pockets. He rocked back and forth on his heels, looking as if he were going into a trance. “She was close with my bartender, Ramon.” He tilted his head toward the bar. “And she was friendly with Yvonne and Melissa. Both of them are here tonight. That’s Melissa.” He pointed to a thin, ponytailed brunette in a black miniskirt and white silk T-shirt. “Yvonne’s not on the floor. She’s got red hair.”

“When can I talk to them?”

“You can try to catch them between orders. We’re busy, so it might take a while. Tell ‘em I said it was okay,” he said, friendlier now.

“Thank you.”

“Chelsea was real nice. I hope you find your fiance.”

If she had to wait, she could use the time trying to figure out how to access Matthew’s “Notes” file.

After work she’d played with the laptop but still hadn’t found the password.

The bartender first. Taking her Coke to the bar, she sat on a dark teal leather-covered stool and watched him. He was short and well-built, with trim hips and well-defined

muscles that stretched his white knit shirt. When he finished serving a drink to a woman at the end of the bar, she said, “Excuse me?” and waited for him to come over, noting the bounce in his step.

“What can I get you, miss?” He smiled at her.

She told him why she was here and saw sadness, then anger, replace the smile. She gave him her card. He slipped it into his pocket without glancing at it.

“Can you believe something like that happened, just two blocks from here?” He shook his head. “A while back, a guy was killed in the parking lot of the art store down the block. They said it was a carjacking. You heard about it?”

Lisa shook her head, too. “I don’t live around here.”

“It was on the news. Anyway, Chelsea and I, we talked about it. She was scared, you know? I told her, “Hey, baby, I’m scared, too, but you gotta live your life, you know?” But I never thought something would happen to her. Man, she was sweet.” He sighed. “So your boyfriend’s disappeared, huh? You must be scared.”