I'll Be Seeing You (4 page)

This office has his aura, Meg thought. The handsome cherrywood desk he'd found in a Salvation Army store and stripped and refinished himself. The table behind it with pictures of her and her mother. The lion's-head bookends holding leather-bound books.

For nine months she had been mourning him as dead. She wondered if at this moment she was mourning him more. If the insurers were right, he had become a stranger. Meghan looked into Phillip Carter's eyes. “They're not right,” she said aloud. “I believe my father is dead. I believe that some wreckage of his car will still be found.” She looked around. “But in fairness to you, we have no right to tie up this office. I'll come in next week and pack his personal effects.”

“We'll take care of that, Meg.”

“No. Please. I can sort things out better here. Mother's in rough enough shape without watching me do it at home.”

Phillip Carter nodded. “You're right, Meg. I'm worried about Catherine too.”

“That's why I don't dare tell her about what happened the other night.” She saw the deepening concern on his
face as she told him about the stabbing victim who resembled her and the fax that came in the middle of the night.

“Meg, that's bizarre,” he said. “I hope your boss follows it up with the police. We can't let anything happen to you.”

As Victor Orsini turned his key in the door of the Collins and Carter offices, he was surprised to realize it was unlocked. Saturday afternoon usually meant he had the place to himself. He had returned from a series of meetings in Colorado and wanted to go over mail and messages.

Thirty-one years old with a permanent tan, muscular arms and shoulders and a lean disciplined body, he had the look of an outdoorsman. His jet black hair and strong features were indicative of his Italian heritage. His intensely blue eyes were a throwback to his British grandmother.

Orsini had been working for Collins and Carter for nearly seven years. He hadn't expected to stay so long, in fact he'd always planned to use this job as a steppingstone to a bigger firm.

His eyebrows raised when he pushed open the door and saw the auditors. In a deliberately impersonal tone, the head man told Orsini that Phillip Carter and Meghan Collins were in Edwin Collins' private office. He then hesitantly acquainted Victor with the insurers' theory that Collins had chosen to disappear.

“That's crazy.” Victor strode across the reception area and knocked on the closed door.

Carter opened it. “Oh, Victor, good to see you. We didn't expect you today.”

Meghan turned to greet him. Orsini realized she was fighting back tears. He groped for something reassuring to say but could come up with nothing. He had been questioned by the investigators about the call Ed Collins made to him just before the accident. “Yes,” he'd said at the time, “Edwin said he was getting on the bridge.
Yes, I'm sure he didn't say he was getting off it. Do you think I can't hear? Yes, he wanted to see me the next morning. There wasn't anything unusual about that. Ed used his car phone all the time.”

Victor suddenly wondered how long it would be before anyone questioned that it was his word alone that placed Ed Collins on the ramp to the Tappan Zee that night. It was not difficult for him to mirror the concern on Meghan's face when he shook the hand she extended to him.

A
t three o'clock on Sunday afternoon, Meg met Steve Boyle, the PCD cameraman, in the parking lot of the Manning Clinic.

The clinic was on a hillside two miles from Route 7 in rural Kent, a forty-minute drive north from her home. It had been built in 1890 as the residence of a shrewd businessman whose wife had had the good sense to restrain her ambitious husband from creating an ostentatious display on his meteoric rise to the status of merchant prince. She convinced him that, instead of the pseudopalazzo he had planned, an English manor house was better suited to the beauty of the countryside.

“Prepared for children's hour?” Meghan asked the cameraman as they trudged up the walk.

“The Giants are on and we're stuck with the Munchkins,” Steve groused.

Inside the mansion, the spacious foyer functioned as a reception area. Oak-paneled walls held framed pictures of the children who owed their existence to the genius of
modern science. Beyond, the great hall had the ambiance of a comfortable family room, with groupings of furniture that invited intimate conversations or could be angled for informal lectures.

Booklets with testimonials from grateful parents were scattered on tables. “We wanted a child so badly. Our lives were incomplete. And then we made an appointment at the Manning Clinic . . .” “I'd go to a friend's baby shower and try not to cry. Someone suggested I look into in vitro fertilization, and Jamie was born fifteen months later . . .” “My fortieth birthday was coming, and I knew it would soon be too late . . .”

Every year, on the third Sunday in October, the children who had been born as a result of IVF at the Manning Clinic were invited to return with their parents for the annual reunion. Meghan learned that this year three hundred invitations were sent and over two hundred small alumni accepted. It was a large, noisy and festive party.

In one of the smaller sitting rooms, Meghan interviewed Dr. George Manning, the silver-haired seventy-year-old director of the clinic, and asked him to explain in vitro fertilization.

“In the simplest possible terms,” he explained, “IVF is a method by which a woman who has great difficulty conceiving is sometimes able to have the baby or babies she wants so desperately. After her menstrual cycle has been monitored, she begins treatment. Fertility drugs are administered so that her ovaries are stimulated to release an abundance of follicles, which are then retrieved.

“The woman's partner is asked to provide a semen sample to inseminate the eggs contained in the follicles in the laboratory. The next day an embryologist checks to see which, if any, eggs have been fertilized. If success was achieved, a physician will transfer one or more of the fertilized eggs, which are now referred to as embryos, to the woman's uterus. If requested, the rest of the embryos will be cryopreserved for later implantation.

“After fifteen days, blood is drawn for the first pregnancy test.” The doctor pointed to the great hall. “And
as you can see from the crowd we have here today, many of those tests prove positive.”

“I certainly can,” Meg agreed. “Doctor, what is the ratio of success to failure?”

“Still not as high as we'd prefer, but improving constantly,” he said solemnly.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Trailed by Steve, Meghan interviewed several of the mothers, asking them to share their personal experiences with in vitro fertilization.

One of them, posing with her three handsome off-spring, explained, “They fertilized fourteen eggs and implanted three. One of them resulted in a pregnancy, and here he is.” She smiled down at her elder son. “Chris is seven now. The other embryos were cryopreserved, or, in simpler terms, frozen. I came back five years ago, and Todd is the result. Then I tried again last year, and Jill is three months old. Some of the embryos didn't survive thawing, but I still have two cryopreserved embryos in the lab. In case I ever find time on my hands for another kid,” she said laughing as the four-year-old darted away.

“Have we got enough, Meghan?” Steve asked. “I'd like to catch the last quarter of the Giants game.”

“Let me talk to one more staff member. I've been watching that woman. She seems to know everybody's name.”

Meg went over to the woman and glanced at her name tag. “May I have a word with you, Dr. Petrovic?”

“Of course.” Petrovic's voice was well modulated, with a hint of an accent. She was of average height, with hazel eyes and refined features. She seemed courteous rather than friendly. Still, Meg noticed that she had a cluster of children around her.

“How long have you been at the clinic, Doctor?”

“It will be seven years in March. I'm the embryologist in charge of the laboratory.”

“Would you care to comment on what you feel about these children?”

“I feel that each one of them is a miracle.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“We've got enough footage inside,” Meg told Steve when they left Petrovic. “I do want a shot of the group picture, though. They'll be gathering for it in a minute.”

The annual photo was taken on the front lawn outside the mansion. There was the usual confusion that attended lining up children from toddler age to nine-year-olds, with mothers holding infants standing in the last row and flanked by staff members.

The Indian summer day was bright, and as Steve focused the camera on the group, Meghan had the fleeting thought that every one of the children looked well dressed and happy. Why not? she thought. They were all desperately wanted.

A three-year-old ran from the front row to his pregnant mother, who was standing near Meghan. Blue eyed and golden haired, with a sweet, shy smile, he threw his arms around his mother's knees.

“Get a shot of that,” Meghan told Steve. “He's adorable.” Steve held the camera on the little boy as his mother cajoled him to rejoin the other children.

“I'm right here, Jonathan,” she assured him as she placed him back in line. “You can see me. I promise I'm not going away.” She returned to where she had been standing.

Meghan walked over to the woman. “Would you mind answering a few questions?” she asked, holding out the mike.

“I'd be glad to.”

“Will you give us your name and tell us how old your little boy is?”

“I'm Dina Anderson, and Jonathan is almost three.”

“Is your expected baby also the result of in vitro fertilization?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he's Jonathan's identical twin.”

“Identical twin!” Meghan knew she sounded astonished.

“I know it sounds impossible,” Dina Anderson said happily, “but that's the way it is. It's extremely rare, but an embryo can split in the laboratory just the way it would in the womb. When we were told that one of the fertilized eggs had divided, my husband and I decided that I would try to give birth to each twin separately. We felt that individually they might each have a better chance for survival in my womb, and actually it's practical. I've got a responsible job, and I'd hate to have left two infants with a nanny.”

The photographer for the clinic had been snapping pictures. A moment later he yelled, “Okay kids, thanks.” The children scattered, and Jonathan ran to his mother. Dina Anderson scooped up her son in her arms. “I can't imagine life without him,” she said. “And in about ten days we'll have Ryan.”

What a human interest segment that would make, Meghan thought. “Mrs. Anderson,” she said persuasively, “if you're willing, I'd like to talk to my boss about doing a feature story on your twins.”

O
n the way back to Newtown, Meghan used the car phone to call her mother. Her alarm at getting the answering machine turned to relief when she dialed the inn and was told Mrs. Collins was in the dining room. “Tell her I'm on my way,” she instructed the receptionist, “and that I'll meet her there.”

For the next fifteen minutes Meghan drove as though
on automatic pilot. She was excited about the possibility of the feature story she would pitch to Weicker. And she could get some guidance on it from Mac. He was a specialist in genetics. He'd be able to give her expert advice and reading material she could study to know more about the whole spectrum of assisted reproduction, including the statistics on success and failure rates. When the traffic slowed to a halt, she picked up her car phone and dialed his number.

Kyle answered. Meghan raised her eyebrow at the way his tone changed when he realized she was the caller. What's eating him? she wondered, as he pointedly ignored her greeting and passed the phone to his father.

“Hi, Meghan. What can I do for you?” As always the sound of Mac's voice gave Meghan a stab of familiar pain. She'd called him her best friend when she was ten, had a crush on him when she was twelve, and had fallen in love with him by the time she was sixteen. Three years later he married Ginger. She'd been at the wedding, and it was one of the hardest days of her life. Mac had been crazy about Ginger, and Meg suspected that even after seven years, if Ginger had walked in the door and dropped her suitcase, he'd
still
want her. Meg would never let herself admit that no matter how hard she tried, she'd never been able to stop loving Mac.

“I could use some professional help, Mac.” As the car passed the blocked lane and picked up speed, she explained the visit to the clinic and the story she was putting together. “And I sort of need the information in a hurry so I can pitch the whole thing to my boss.”

“I can give it to you right away. Kyle and I are just heading for the inn. I'll bring it along. Want to join us for dinner?”

“That works out fine. See you.” She broke the connection.