Fertile Ground (19 page)

Sam nodded. “So why didn’t you look for her?” “I knew my mom would feel threatened. And I decided it wasn’t fair to intrude on my birth mother’s life. She gave me up for a reason. What if my appearing caused her pain or embarrassment?” What if she rejected me again? “Or what if I located her and found that we had nothing in common, no connection? That would be worse than never finding her at all.”

“Reality is rarely as satisfying as fantasy,” he observed. He was silent for a moment. “But what about your medical history? You have a right to know. That’s why we have donors fill out health questionnaires. That’s why they have to take blood tests for HIV and other diseases.” His leg was swinging back and forth.

“According to my mom, my birth mother was eighteen when she had me. My mom says she saw all my birth mother’s health records and spoke with her OH. Everything was fine.”

“And as a doctor, that satisfied you?” He sounded skeptical.

“I had a genetic screening. I got a clean bill of health, except for my propensity for worrying and feeling guilty.” She smiled, trying to make light of what had

been an extremely tense time. She could still remember sitting in the reception area, her hands clammy with anxiety, waiting for the doctor to call her in.

“So you don’t regret not looking up your birth mother?”

She considered for a moment. “Not really. I know the trend is for open adoption, and that’s fine if all the parties are comfortable. I read an article about a birth mother who babysits the two children she gave up for adoption. Talk about an extended family!” She smiled. “The bottom line is, Esther Brockman is my mother. Nathan Brockman is my father. She didn’t provide the egg, and my dad didn’t provide the sperm, but I’m their child.”

Sam’s leg was finally at rest. “Is that why you specialized in infertility? Because your mother couldn’t have kids?”

“Yes.” She looked at him with interest. “It took me a while to figure that out. I wanted to help people like her. What about you?”

“Ditto. Plus, I always liked playing doctor.” His gray eyes twinkled behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Speaking of which, my next appointment should be here any minute.” He slipped off the desk and smoothed his jacket.

“If I don’t see you before the end of the day, have a good Shabbos.” It was the first time she’d wished him a good Sabbath—the first time in years she’d used the phrase to anyone besides her parents. It felt odd, but pleasant.

“You, too.” He didn’t seem surprised. “Have you been to any of the Orthodox shuls near you?”

“Not yet.” She’d been putting that off, along with the outreach classes. Maybe Sam was right—maybe she was afraid of being rejected again. “I know there’s one less than a mile away. Where do you go?”

“Shaarei Emunah.” He told her the address on Pico, east of Doheny. “It’s about two miles from your place—a long walk, which is too bad. The people are great, the rabbi’s terrific—dynamic, caring. And, of course, there’s me.” He looked at her archly.

She couldn’t help smiling. “Of course.” Most of the

people she knew worked at the clinic. She wanted to expand her circle of friends. And she needed to find a rabbi to advise her, guide her.

Sam headed for the door, then turned back. “I forgot to ask. Did you tell the police about the car that followed you?”

“Not yet. If Matthew did run away, there’s no reason to think I’m in danger, right?”

“Right.” He was frowning. “Still… be careful, okay?”

“Okay.” She was warmed by his concern.

After he left her office, she read the message slips Se lena had placed on her desk. Most were from patients. One was from Gina Franco; she’d probably heard about Matthew’s car. The folder with Chelsea’s photocopied documents was on her desk. Lisa opened it and scanned the papers.

According to the lab form, sixteen eggs had been harvested from Chelsea on September twenty-first. There had been two egg recipients, each named “Jane Doe” with a numerical suffix code. Each Jane Doe had received eight eggs.

Her computer was on. She accessed the confidential file that listed the egg recipients, typed in the numerical code for the first Jane Doe, and waited for the name to come up.

Cora Alien.

Lisa felt intense relief, Cora, thank goodness, wouldn’t be affected by the legal decision on the subpoena. The embryo transfer hadn’t produced a pregnancy.

She typed in the numerical code for the second Jane Doe and stared at the name on the screen:

Naomi Hoffman.

The Hoffmans lived in a small white stucco house in the Beverly-Fairfax neighborhood on Curson between Rosewood and Clinton. The street was narrow and crowded with similar one-story houses and duplexes and the parked cars that belonged to their residents. There were few trees, and the lawns ended abruptly, landscaped for the most part with obediently shaped shrubs rather than flowers.

Walking up the block from her parking spot. Lisa saw several toddlers careening up and down their driveways on tricycles and made way for two helmeted boys racing by on Rollerblades. At the Hoffmans’ door, she rang the bell and wondered whether she was doing the right thing, coming here.

Baruch was obviously startled to see her. His face was pale and pinched as he opened the door and invited her in. “Is everything all right?” he asked, his voice tight with alarm.

“Everything’s fine,” she assured him, feeling guilty that she’d given him even a moment’s concern. “There’s something I wanted to discuss with you. How’s Naomi? Resting?”

He looked at her questioningly. “Yes, in the bedroom.”

1CB

They were standing in the living room, unfurnished except for light oak bookcases that occupied two adjacent walls and were filled with the gilt-bound tomes Lisa recognized from her parents’ home—tall, dark burgundy volumes of the Talmud, shorter volumes of the Bible, numerous commentaries. Baruch, she knew from Naomi, was being groomed to step into his father’s rabbinic shoes.

They passed through the dining room, where two tall silver candlesticks were sitting on top of a white-cloth covered oval table, then entered a long, narrow hall. All the floors had the same low-pile dark beige carpet that looked freshly shampooed but showed signs of wear.

“Something smells good,” Lisa said to fill the silence. She inhaled the blended aroma of roast chicken, of dill, of sweet noodle pudding, of challahs warming in the oven. It was like stepping into her mother’s home, into her past.

“My mother and Naomi’s take turns sending over Shabbos meals, and during the week I cook or stop at a restaurant just a few blocks from here that has great takeout stuff. We’re following your instructions about bed rest.”

Wondering if it was the same restaurant she’d almost walked into the other night, she followed Baruch down the hall and stopped when he did in front of an open door.

“This will be the babies’ room,” he said.

Lisa peeked inside. The room had been painted a soft yellow. The linoleum had a yellow-and-white square pattern, and white miniblinds covered the two windows. There were no cribs, no dresser, no changing table.

“It’s a good-size room.” She was about to ask whether they’d ordered furniture but remembered that buying anything before a baby was born was considered to be inviting an ayin hara—bad luck. So was having a baby shower.

The door to the next room was open, too. From the hall. Lisa could see Naomi reclining on a twin-size bed covered with a taupe-and-navy plaid comforter. She was leaning against a navy corduroy backrest with arms. A

pillow sham that matched the comforter propped up her knees.

“Who was at the door?” she asked when Baruch stood in the doorway.

“Dr. Brockman’s here. She stopped by to tell us something. Everything’s fine.” He stepped aside to let Lisa enter.

“I thought I recognized your voice.” Naomi’s eyes and tone revealed curiosity and a little anxiety. From the nightstand between the two beds, she picked up a black crocheted snood with tiny gold spangles and slipped it on her head.

“Why don’t you sit here. Dr. Brockman?” Baruch pointed to the other bed.

“Thanks.” Lisa felt awkward, sitting on his bed, but there were no chairs in the small room. “I’m sorry to come unannounced, especially right before Shabbos.”

Naomi smiled. “That’s okay. Baruch’s taking care of everything. That’s one advantage of having a teacher for a husband—he’s home by three every day.” She took his hand as he sat down at the edge of her bed.

Baruch, Lisa knew, received no pay for leading a daily early-morning Talmud class in his father’s small shul; he earned a modest income teaching Judaic studies at a local private Orthodox elementary school and tutoring students at night. Naomi had worked for over ten years as a paralegal. Lisa couldn’t imagine how the Hoffmans were managing with one salary now that Naomi had quit her job—she knew they’d depleted their savings and refinanced their home to pay for years of fertility treatments. They’d also borrowed money from Naomi’s parents, who owned a fabric store downtown, and a smaller sum from Baruch’s parents.

Realizing that she was stalling. Lisa said, “I told Baruch how wonderful everything smells. It reminds me of my mom’s cooking.”

“He’s become an expert food warmer.” Naomi smiled at him. “He’s even learned how to scramble eggs and boil pasta. Why not stay and have Shabbos dinner with us? We have plenty, and we’d enjoy the company.”

Lisa hadn’t had a traditional Sabbath meal since she’d visited her parents half a year ago, but she doubted that the Hoffmans would enjoy her company after she told them why she was here. “Thanks, maybe another time.” They were looking at her expectantly. “I wasn’t sure I should bother you with this,” she began. “There’s been a development that concerns you in a way, but I don’t think it’s a problem.”

“What development?” Baruch asked warily.

‘ “This is a little complicated. A young woman, Chelsea Wright, was murdered a few days ago.”

“I heard about that on the radio,” Naomi said softly. “It’s heartbreaking.”

“Yes, it is.” Lisa cleared her throat. “Apparently, Chelsea donated eggs at the clinic in October, and her parents have hired an attorney to find out who received them.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with us.” Baruch was frowning now. He removed his hand from his wife’s.

“For some reason, our computer codes indicate that Naomi received eight of Chelsea’s eggs. Obviously—”

“Oh, my God!” Naomi’s eyes widened. “But that’s impossible!”

“Of course it’s impossible,” Lisa said firmly. “Especially since you had the shomer.” Thank God, she added silently. “But I felt I had to tell you, because if they subpoena Chelsea’s records, they may contact you. I wanted you to be prepared.” She found it hard to face the betrayal and accusation in their eyes.

Baruch said, “I thought you ran a reputable clinic. I don’t understand how this could have happened.” His voice was like chips of ice. His hands had formed fists.

She didn’t blame him for being angry. “Frankly, I don’t, either. I can assure you I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

She couldn’t tell them about the alleged forgery, or that the person who had altered Chelsea’s documents might have altered the recipient code to correlate with the date of the donation. That he—or she—had chosen Cora and Naomi at random.

“To be frank. Dr. Brockman, your assurance isn’t enough.” Baruch was struggling for control. “Since we all know that Naomi never received any donor eggs, I want your guarantee that these people won’t learn her name.”

Lisa clasped her hands. “I can’t guarantee that. If the Wrights get a subpoena—”

Baruch was gripping his thighs, and the veins in his hands were pronounced. “You said there’s been a terrible mistake. Why let them think they know who has their dead daughter’s eggs, only to find out they don’t?”

“I agree with you. But if they subpoena the files, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t tamper with the files.”

“But it isn’t even true!” Naomi slumped back against the pillow and covered her eyes with her hands.

“You stood at our front door and told us we have nothing to worry about.” His voice was bitter.

“You don’t, because of the shomer. You can get a notarized affidavit that he was present during every step of the retrieval, the fertilization, and the implantation.”

“The shomer isn’t in L.A.,” Baruch snapped. “When I heard about the allegations against the clinic, I called the rabbi who hired him, just in case. The shomer is in Israel on a year’s retreat.”

Lisa had a sinking feeling. “There’s no way to contact him?”

“The rabbi’s trying, but he says it could take weeks.” Baruch pressed his hands against his temples. “We shouldn’t have to be doing this. This is outrageously unfair.”

“What about my lab forms?” Naomi sat up abruptly. “Wouldn’t they indicate whether I received donor eggs?”

Lisa felt herself blushing. “I can’t find your file. I checked everywhere.” In the central filing system, where it should have been returned after Naomi’s appointment. On Selena’s desk. In the billing office. In her own office. “I’m sure it’ll show up soon.” Unless someone had deliberately removed it.

“I don’t believe this is happening.” Baruch stood and crossed the room. Placing his palms on top of the long,

narrow dresser, he rested his weight on his arms and stared at the wall.

“I’m so sorry, Naomi,” Lisa said. “I’m especially sorry to be telling you this now. I hate ruining your Shabbos.” She’d contemplated waiting until Saturday night or Sunday, but had worried that by then the Wrights might have contacted Naomi.

“You had to tell us,” she said dully, not looking at Lisa.

Lisa wrote her home number on her card. “Please call if you need me—no matter what time it is.” She put the card on the nightstand and crouched at Naomi’s side. “Promise me you won’t let this agitate you,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you going into labor. And I know everything will be straightened out.”

Naomi nodded and covered her mouth with her knuckles. Her eyes were bright with tears.

“Have a good Shabbos,” Lisa said lamely, standing up. “I’ll let myself out.”

No protest from Naomi, who responded with a softly uttered “Good Shabbos,” or from Baruch, who didn’t respond at all.