Most Wanted (9 page)

“What did he say?”

“It doesn't matter, he didn't mean it. Well, he did mean it, but he didn't mean it to hurt me.” Christine kept unpacking the gift bags. “I mean, if I go back two months ago, when I was still thinking about the stupid donor, I thought I was carrying the baby of a medical student. Now I could be carrying the baby of a serial killer.”

“What are you saying?” Lauren frowned deeply, still helping her unpack.

“I'm saying I don't know what's
inside
me.” Christine shuddered. “Is it a bad-seed baby? Is it ‘Rosemary's Baby'? Is it ‘Alien'?”

“Oh honey, no.” Lauren squeezed her arm. “It's none of those things. It's your baby.”

“And who else's? Who's the father? The biological father, that is.”

“Who
cares
who the biological father is?” Lauren touched her arm. “It doesn't matter who the biological father is. You are the mother, and you're going to be a great mother, and it's going to be a great baby—”

“I don't know if that's true.” Christine checked the clock and she only had three minutes before Gemma showed up. “You know what I was thinking about on the drive in? I used to feel great about the baby,
connected
to the baby, but now I feel distant. I get that it's a part of me, but it's not a part of me that I'm so happy with right now.” Christine stopped unpacking for a moment. “If I had known that Donor 3319 was capable of murder, much less
serial murder
, I never would've picked him. Homestead never would've taken him as a donor. Right?”

“Okay,” Lauren said slowly.

“So, we can't pretend it doesn't matter just because that's the way it turned out.”

Lauren blinked. “Okay, I get that.”

“Good.” Christine resumed unpacking. “Can you imagine when it comes time to tell him who his father is? First, your dad isn't your biological dad. Second, your biological dad is a serial killer.”

“You're getting ahead of yourself.”

“I have to. That day will come. We talk in therapy about disclosure, how to tell our friends we used a donor, how to tell our child.” Christine kept unpacking. “That's the kind of news that can destroy a child. And if we don't tell him, can you imagine if he finds out on his own?”

“You're getting carried away—”

“No, I'm not. By the time he grows up, there'll be major advances in technology. You read about facial recognition software, he'll use it. It'll be an app on his damn phone. It's not a secret we can keep.”

“Okay, here's what I think.” Lauren's dark eyes flashed with intensity. “You wouldn't have picked him if you had known, but now you have what you have. It's not what you expected, isn't it like a kid with special needs or reading problems? You adore your students. It doesn't matter to you that they're not what their parents expected.”

“This isn't that.” Christine had thought it over. “A child with special needs is just a child who needs more help than someone else. A child of a serial killer, or whatever mental illness that makes someone a serial killer, may be a child who has a lifetime of no connections with other people. Of anger, of pain. Of isolation, of
violence
. He could grow up to harm others, to kill others, even to kill
us
.”

Lauren gasped. “What?”

“Lauren, be real. You've heard the stories about parents who have to lock their kid in his room so he doesn't come out and kill them at night. You think I'll sleep easy, knowing that my child has half the genes of a
serial killer
?”

“You can't inherit being a serial killer.”

“Let's not get technical, okay? I'll be waiting for the other shoe to drop, won't I?” Christine felt her throat tighten. “And even if I can deal with it, do you really think Marcus can?”

“That
does
worry me. He has to buy in.”

“Look, maybe I can love this baby, raise this baby, no matter who his biological father is. Marcus was almost there. But all that's changed.” Christine felt it was true as soon as she said it aloud, like when Marcus had, last night. “He's acting different. Colder. We'd come so far, but now it's undone.”

“Do you think he's blaming you that you even went with the donor instead of adopting? Or if you picked the wrong one?”

“Please, that's what
I'm
thinking. I'm the queen of second-guessing. I'm asking myself a million what-ifs.” Christine unpacked the last gift bag. “If I know him, he's blaming himself because if he hadn't been infertile, we wouldn't have this problem in the first place.”

“Oh boy.”

“It's just going to bring everything back for him, all his feelings of inadequacy, and his reaction when he feels bad about himself is to withdraw.” Christine looked over, feeling ragged and sad. “Remember when he first got diagnosed? It was like living with the turtle who kept sticking his head inside his shell. We'll probably have to go back into counseling.”

“If that's what you have to do, that's what you have to do. You guys love each other and you will get through this.”

“All I know is, I don't feel like he's in it with me. I feel like I'm in it alone.”

“Honey, you're not alone. You got me.” Lauren looped an arm around her shoulder.

“Aw, thanks.” Christine scanned the desk, blanketed with festive bags, and it looked like she was having a party, which was the effect she had wanted for her students, even if it clashed with her current state of mind. Just then there was a knock on the door, meaning Gemma had arrived. Lauren left to meet with teachers, and Christine started her day, though Gemma was too distracted by her hamster book to concentrate on her drills, but allowed that she was “over hamsters” and moving on to guinea pigs.

Christine saw one student after the other, working with them when she could, dispensing their gift bags, listening to their last stories and little worries, giving them her final words of encouragement, hugging them all good-bye, and reminding them to keep up with summer reading. She knew that even the younger grades would be given summer homework by their other teachers, but her reading students had made so much progress during the year, she didn't want them to lose it in just two months. She didn't care
what
they read, just that they read, even if she wasn't going to be their teacher anymore.

Christine accepted small gifts from the moms who stopped in, because Nutmeg Hill allowed it, and she was happy to see the moms and grateful for their kindness, whether their gifts were gift-wrapped boxes from a department store or tin-foiled loaves of home-baked banana bread. She truly believed it was a privilege to teach their children, and she told them so, with tears in her eyes.

Last, she said good-bye to Pam, the office staff, and her fellow teachers, holding back more tears though she felt an undercurrent of sadness and profound loss. There was no emptier-feeling day than the last day of school, when the desks are pushed together and the chairs turned upside down on top, and she'd felt that way even when she had been a student herself. Both of her parents were high-school educators, so she'd never doubted that her work had meaning, especially teaching children to read, because reading was the cornerstone of self-esteem, success, and even a simple pleasure that was lifelong. She had expected that her last day of school would be bittersweet, knowing she'd be leaving teaching behind, as well as students she loved, but she'd been willing to give everything up for a baby of her own and a happy new family.

My wife could be carrying the baby of a serial killer.

At the end of the day, Christine left the building alone, deep in thought, her head down. She didn't know what to think or expect. The rug had been pulled out from under her, and she felt hopeless, rudderless. She knew what she was leaving behind, but she didn't know where she was heading.

Except to see a therapist, with her husband.

 

Chapter Eight

“Hi, Coach.” Christine entered the office with Marcus, finding a heartfelt smile for their therapist, Michelle LeGrange. Michelle was in her late fifties, but looked younger; though her bright blue eyes were hooded behind her preppy tortoiseshell glasses, she had on a cheery, almost child-like turtle-print shift from Lilly Pulitzer. She rose quickly and gave Christine a warm hug.

“Honey, come in. I'm so sorry about what happened, or may have happened.” Michelle's touch was soothing and familiar, and Christine almost didn't want to let her go. Marcus had been distant in the waiting room, and she could tell that he was completely preoccupied. She had driven separately from him since she had come from school and he from the office. He even looked out of sorts, his dark silk tie just slightly askew against his cutaway collar, which he had on with a lightweight tan suit.

“So you heard.”

“Of course. I can only imagine how hard this is for you both, to have such a cloud over happiness you worked so hard for.”

“Exactly.” Christine sat down in a cozy conference area, with several sea-foam club chairs opposite Michelle's sleek walnut desk. Her framed diplomas and awards lined the walls, and medical binders and textbooks stocked her bookshelves. Christine and Marcus usually had sessions in Michelle's home office at her lovely Tudor in Rowayton, which Christine preferred. She couldn't forget that she had been inseminated one office down, and the techs had shown her the gray cryotanks under their counter across the hall, where they fertilized eggs in petri dishes, for IVF. One of the techs had told her that there were four thousand fertilized embryos in their tanks, and that the techs had two fears; one was mixing up the embryos, and the other was dropping them.

“Thanks for coming in. I'm glad we can talk this over.” Michelle turned to Marcus, extending a hand, but he was already heading for the other chair.

“Michelle, I don't know what good ‘talking it over' will do.”

“How so?” Michelle took her seat opposite them, crossing her legs, which were trim and muscled. Late-day sunlight filtered into the office through blinds on the window behind her.

Marcus asked, “Aren't you the one who talks about the ‘elephant in the room'?”

“Yes,” Michelle answered, pleasantly.

“So, there's a question that has to be answered before we discuss our feelings. Is the serial killer Donor 3319 or not?”

“I understand how you feel, and unfortunately, I don't know the answer to that question.”

“How typical is this that Homestead won't confirm or deny something so basic?”

“Nothing about the situation is typical. I've never seen anything like it before.”

Christine sighed. “I'm sure.”

Marcus was shaking his head. “Really? It seems like it's exactly the kind of thing that can happen. These aren't gods who donate sperm, they're just guys, mostly college kids or graduate students, whatever. They're young guys. Things are going to happen as they grow up, criminal or not, that have to impact this process.”

Michelle nodded. “You would think that's true, but the fact is this hasn't happened to us before. Our task is to try to bring some perspective to the situation, even in the absence of facts we wish we had known.”

“I don't think that's possible,” Marcus shot back.

“Thank God,” Christine said, at almost the same moment, but she could see that Michelle wanted to finish a thought.

“Marcus, I understand where you're coming from. Like most of my patients, you're used to setting goals and arriving at them. You run a multimillion-dollar company, you're a CEO. You're used to a degree of control. You've been very successful in life, setting goals and meeting them. Is that a fair statement?”

“Yes,” Marcus answered, but he pursed his lips, and Christine knew what he was thinking. He always felt that Michelle stroked him too much, overly sensitive to the fact that his male ego was bruised by his infertility. Christine didn't buy into the criticism because she did the same thing. She walked on eggshells when the subject of his infertility came up, a classic no-win position.

“So this situation is going to challenge you in new ways, both of you.”

“Oh it's
challenging
me all right,” Marcus said, with a smirk.

Michelle glanced at Christine. “Christine, how are you feeling?”

“I'm really upset. I'm upset for me, for the baby, and obviously for Marcus.”

“And what upsets you the most?”

“It's hard to say. Everything.”

Marcus interjected, “That nobody will answer a simple question.”

Michelle kept her eyes on Christine. “You were saying?”

“Well, I guess, first, it does bother me that Homestead won't tell us the truth.” Christine didn't want to begin there, but she wanted to back Marcus up. “We don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. There's nothing to do.”

“I understand how you could feel that way.” Michelle's voice remained soothing. “None of us here knows the identity of 3319. We are not withholding information from you. We simply don't have the information, though we wish—”

“You could get it,” Marcus interrupted.

“What makes you say that, Marcus?” Michelle asked, tilting her head.

“You deal with Homestead all the time. You probably send lots of your patients there. You're familiar with them. Dr. Davidow called Demipetto by her first name. Lee Ann.”

“And what follows from that, in your view?”

“I think you can put pressure on them to give us the information.” Marcus stabbed the air with an index finger. “I think you could say, ‘we're not going to send you any other patients, and we're not going to spend a single dollar at Homestead unless you give the Nilssons the information they need.'”