Most Wanted (12 page)

“My car is closer than yours,” Marcus said, closing the door behind her. “Let's go to mine. I'll drive you to yours.”

“Fine.” Christine barely looked at him as she went through the door, which led to a vast, glass-walled entrance hall of the east wing of Pilgrim Point General Hospital, which was the new addition, built only last year. Families and visitors crisscrossed the modern lobby, some carrying balloons and others using walkers or pushing wheelchairs. Christine and Marcus passed the circular reception desk and walked to the exit together, and she could barely wait until they were alone to start the conversation.

“What the hell?” Christine said under her breath. “What were you thinking?”

“I'd ask you the same question. What were
you
thinking?” Marcus looked down at her stiffly as they walked through the automatic doors, stepping outside into the warm, humid air.

A couple whom Christine recognized from the clinic passed them, and she and Marcus fell silent. The sun was turning a coppery color, low in a cloudless June sky, and out front was a fancy courtyard of Belgian block, where people stood talking in groups or waiting to be picked up. Beyond that was a large outdoor parking lot that had an area designated for Families First, and they both walked in that direction. Usually they held hands, but not today. Christine ignored an acrid cloud of cigarette smoke that wafted their way from someone lighting up on the way to his car. She was much more sensitive to smells since her pregnancy, but she was too angry to let it bother her right now.

“Marcus,
you're
the one. You've lost your damn mind. I'm so mad at you, I don't know where to begin.” Christine didn't raise her voice because she wasn't a big yeller, even when they fought. They had two ground rules: no yelling and no name-calling. That was why whenever she called Marcus a jerk or a total asshole, she had to do it in her mind.

“How? Why?” Marcus walked along, his pace quicker than usual. “Because I'm trying to get an answer to a question we have every right to know? Because I'm trying to do what's best for us?”

“How is it best for us if you antagonize all those people who are our friends—or
were
our friends?”

“They're not our
friends,
honey. They're professionals we hired.”

“They're more than that. Dr. Davidow is, for sure. So's Michelle.” Christine felt a wrench in her chest, thinking of how Dr. Davidow's face had fallen in his office.

“No, they're not.” Marcus took the lead between the parked cars. “If they were our friends, they'd tell us what we have a right to know. If they were our friends, they wouldn't withhold information that's
our information
.”

“They don't know it. Homestead knows it.”

“Then they'd find it out. They'd move mountains to find it out. That's what a
friend
would do.” Marcus shook his head, as they walked. “
Lauren
is a friend. Lauren would pick up the phone and call Homestead. Lauren would read them the riot act. She would be outside their building,
picketing,
until they told you.
That's
what a friend would do. They're not acting like friends, so they're not friends.”

“Dr. Davidow tried to get the information.” Christine spotted Marcus's Audi two cars away. He did have a better space. He always got the best space. It drove her crazy. Today, it made her want to kill him.

“He's not trying hard enough. I'm going to make him try harder.” Marcus's eyes glittered with suppressed anger.

“I'm not going to sue him, Marcus.”

“Why not? Don't you want to know who our donor is?”

“Of course I do, but not that way. My God, he practically threw us out of his office. You offended him, Marcus. You
hurt
him!”

“He hurt me! He hurt us. He's hurting my family.”

“He
made
us a family!” Christine blurted out, but she knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as she'd said it.

“Thanks for the reminder.” Marcus looked away, raising his chin. His jaw clenched.

“Marcus, you know I didn't mean it that way.” Christine felt suddenly exhausted and raw, unwilling to shore up his ego any longer, not the way he was acting. “We wouldn't be pregnant without his intervention. I'm grateful to him for that. We owe him.”

“We paid him. That's all we owe him. You heard him, it's his practice. He owns it. He does it for the money.”

“No he doesn't.” Christine knew how much joy Dr. Davidow took in helping couples have children. He'd told her himself, and she had seen the sincerity shining in his eyes. Maybe she identified with him because she did her job for love, too. It was why it had hurt so much today, to walk away from the school building for the last time.

“Oh please. Davidow has more leverage with Homestead than he's letting on. He's one of the top REs in the country. If he stops using Homestead, word will get around.”

“You don't know that.”

“Yes I do. Gary told me. This is his expertise, his field.”

“Who's this Gary, by the way? How did you find Gary?”

“I asked Bruce. He knows the top lawyers in town, and he got me in today. Gary's famous, you heard Davidow.” Marcus arched a light eyebrow, in a newly knowing way. “Sometimes you have to get tough, honey. We'd be suing Davidow for leverage, to force Homestead's hand. I'm glad we have a lawyer.”

“Now we have a lawyer?” Christine rolled her eyes, and they stopped walking when they reached the Audi.

“Yes, and we need one. You know what your problem is?” Marcus chirped his car unlocked, aiming his fob like a weapon. “You want everybody to like you, and everybody does like you. You're
nice
. That's what makes you a great teacher. But this isn't elementary school, this is big business.”

“Please don't condescend to me,” Christine snapped, fuming.

“I'm not. But this is about dollars and cents. We have to sue and we have to sue them both. You have to hit them where it hurts, in their pockets. It's the only way to get an answer.” Marcus opened the passenger-side door for her, but Christine didn't move to get inside.

“I don't want to sue Dr. Davidow.”

“It's not really Davidow, it's his insurance company. You heard him. He's going to call his malpractice carrier. It's not him we'd be suing.”

“He said it was, and I don't want to do that to him. It's his livelihood. He has a family—”

“Why are you loyal to his family and not ours?”

“It's not right.”

“Yes, it is. Why are you tying my hands? We're not powerless. We don't have to sit on our thumbs. Why don't you want to sue?”

“It's mean, and it's expensive—” Christine stopped herself, because she didn't know what else was involved with a lawsuit, but she knew enough to know it was terrible. “I'm not going to, I'm just not.”

“Look, we'll meet with Gary. He'll explain it to you. He already told me he'd squeeze me in. Tomorrow, okay?”

“Why don't you just give it a few days? Homestead is investigating, let's see what they turn up.”

Marcus scoffed. “Why wait? We could have an answer by next week if they settle.”

“We don't need to jump the gun and start suing people. What's the rush?”

Marcus hesitated, blinking, and suddenly, Christine realized why.

“Oh, is it because you want me to get an
abortion
? I can't believe you said that. I can't believe you're even
thinking
that!”

“Babe, we have to be able to talk about it.” Marcus met her eye evenly, gesturing at the hospital. “You heard what they said. People abort for less than that.”

“I don't, and I won't! How dare you suggest such a thing?” Christine remembered in a flash that her first ultrasound was tomorrow. Marcus was supposed to come with her. Now she didn't want to remind him. She didn't want him there now.

“If it were a really sick baby, we'd abort it.”

“That's different.”

“No it isn't. It's a baby who's psychologically sick, who's inheriting serious mental issues.” Marcus threw up his hands. “Look at the upside. The pregnancy isn't that far along. We can pick another donor. We can start over.”

“No, it's out of the question.”

“You could be pregnant again in no time. You're Fertile Myrtle! I'm the one with the problem!”

“We already have our child!” Christine gestured at her belly.

“It's the child of a serial killer. Is that what you want?” Marcus's eyes flared an incredulous blue. “I can show you the articles in medical journals. They talk about how psychological disorders like that are inherited. Lucy's only giving you her opinion. There are lots of contrary opinions, you'll see.”

“Even if they told us it was inherited, I wouldn't get an abortion, not now.”

“It's not even two months! Women miscarry in two months.”

“Here's hoping!” Christine shot back, sarcastically.

“That's not funny.”

“I know. I
want
this baby!”

“Well I
don't
!”

Christine gasped, shocked. Marcus's eyes flared, and his lips parted slightly. She could tell that he had surprised even himself. They faced each other in the parking lot, in a sort of marital suspended animation. Marcus had said the unsayable, the
unthinkable
, and there was no going back. She was carrying a child that he did not want. Christine turned on her heel and walked away.

“Babe, don't go, get in the car!” Marcus called after her.

“No!” Christine felt tears come to her eyes.

“Let me give you a ride!”

“I'll walk!”

“Fine! See you at home then!”

Christine didn't reply. She didn't know if she was going home. She didn't know where she was going. She felt untethered, unmoored. Disconnected. She had lost everything. She had left a job she loved, for nothing. She had lost Michelle and Dr. Davidow. And she had no hope of a happy family anymore.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she found herself picking up the pace toward her car.

And then, she ran.

 

Chapter Eleven

Christine left the hospital via the back roads, since Marcus always took the Parkway. She kept her face front and her hands on the steering wheel, but the last of her tears were running down her cheeks behind her sunglasses, in the time-honored tradition of women everywhere, who drive-while-crying. She had done it once in high school after she got dumped by Michael Rotenberg, and she had done it again in college, after she got an undeserved C in American Civilization. She knew Lauren had done it when she didn't get into Penn, and she'd seen other women on the road, driving-while-crying, probably enough to make it its own acronym, DWC.

Christine felt the lowest she had ever felt in her life, but she still had her sense of humor, and it kept hysteria at bay to know that she was a cliché on wheels. The rush-hour traffic was stop-and-go, and she braked behind a tall truck. She avoided looking at the other drivers, who were texting or talking on the phone; she never texted while she drove, and she talked only hands-free, so she could be forgiven a crying jag after her husband had just told her he didn't want their child. A serial killer's child.
Her
child. Or all of the above.

Christine sniffled, reached in the console for the umpteenth Starbucks napkin, and blew her juicy nose into its recycled brown scratchiness. She tossed it used onto the passenger seat, where it joined a soggy pile of other used napkins, evidence that she was the ugliest crier of all ugly criers. She thought about calling Lauren, but the dashboard clock read 6:15, and she remembered that Lauren was going out to dinner with Josh and the kids, celebrating the last day of school. The thought made Christine reach for another napkin, since leaving teaching might've been the dumbest thing she ever did, after using a serial killer as a sperm donor.

The truck finally moved, the traffic got going, and she gave the car gas, noticing that at the exit ahead was a cluster of box stores, including her favorite food store, Timson's. Her stomach growled in response, and she realized that she was starving, which was probably her favorite symptom of pregnancy so far. She'd always wondered if she'd have food cravings while she was pregnant, and it turned out that she did—she craved food. All food, any food, at any time.

She dried her eyes and headed for Timson's, and in no time, pulled into the parking lot in front of the massive grocery store, with its characteristic façade of indeterminate beige stone, which, though it wasn't her Timson's, looked exactly the same as her Timson's, and gave her comfort. She kept her sunglasses on, grabbed her purse and phone, and went inside the store, letting the air-conditioning soothe her jangled nerves. She glanced around in the artificial darkness, and the layout was the same, so the prepared foods were straight ahead.

She made a beeline for the glistening stainless-steel counters bubbling with cooked food, then grabbed the large-sized plastic clamshell from an upside-down stack and followed her nose to the spicy Indian food. She felt her mood improve as she shoveled goopy orange glop into her clamshell, then added a pile of French fries and a square of eggplant parmesan, wondering in which universe these foods went together. Answer: Pregnancy World.

She got a bottle of water, checked out, and carried her tray to one of the dining areas for grown-ups; she had learned to avoid the kid-friendly dining area, with the undersized chairs and tables and the television that showed
The Lego Movie
on a continuous loop, because she used to wonder if she would ever be lucky enough to be one of those mothers. Now that she was, it didn't feel so lucky.