“Dry those eyes, darling,” he said.
Tentatively, she reached out for the handkerchief, dabbed away the tears, and wiped her nose. When she went to hand it back, Jeremy raised a hand.
“It’s yours,” he said. He waited, wondering whether she would speak, and when she did not, he said, “You hurt me, Nicky.”
She said nothing.
“After all the things I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me.”
Nicky sniffed. She was studying a frayed opening in her jeans that allowed a peek at her knee.
“Has there ever been anything I denied you? When you needed a new phone, who got that for you? Tickets to Hamilton? No problem. Who got you in to see Saturday Night Live? You even got to meet some of the cast, after. Remember that?”
Nicky spoke for the first time. “Yes.”
“Do you remember what it was like when you first came to New York? How hard it was for you to get by?”
“I know.”
“Who’s shown more interest in your welfare? Me, or your mother in Norfolk who couldn’t have cared less when you left home?”
Nicky sniffed. “You.”
“And who set you up with your own little apartment so you didn’t have to keep living with that family in Brooklyn?”
“You.”
“I understand how hard it can be for a young girl on her own. The challenges, the troubles, all the obstacles. I’ve taken you under my wing and what kind of thanks do I get?”
“I’m really sorry,” she whispered. “I wasn’t going to do anything.”
“You’re not like so many of the others, you know. You’re special. Despite coming from a tough background, where you were neglected and taken for granted, you’ve got compassion. Empathy. You could have ended up as one of those kids on the street, looking through Dumpsters for scraps of food, begging for change. But you’re better than that. I see things in you. I’ve always imagined a future for you with me, with my organization, in any number of roles.”
Nicky said nothing.
“I’ve been happy to help you and the other girls. But lately, they’ve been the ones showing more gratitude, more loyalty.”
Nicky forced herself to look Jeremy in the eye. “It’s not … right.”
“What’s not right, Nicky? How I’ve provided for you? How I’ve looked after you? I’ll tell you what’s not right. Considering, even for a moment, of going behind my back and telling outsiders about matters that are nobody else’s business.”
“Do your friends know … how old I am? Do they even care?”
Jeremy frowned. “Age is just a number, Nicky. An artificial construct. You’re a very mature young lady. Why else would I have anything to do with you? But I was dismayed when one of the girls came to me and told me what you were thinking of doing. That’s why I wanted to take this opportunity to speak to you before you did anything foolish. Not for my sake, but for yours.”
Nicky whispered, “What do you mean?”
Jeremy smiled. “Do you know who’s here, right now? At my party?”
The girl shrugged. “Lots of people, I guess.”
“Yes, lots of people. Important people. Lawyers. Politicians. Judges. Prosecutors. Movie stars. You know what all those people have in common, Nicky?”
She shook her head.
“They run the world,” he said. “They make the rules. Fuck Santa. They know who’s been naughty and nice. And you know what the important thing is that they have in common?”
Nicky waited for the answer.
“They are all my friends,” he said. “No, more than friends. Many of them are beholden to me. They owe me. I’ve made many of them rich. I’ve come to the rescue of their charities and foundations. They have a hospital wing named after me in Queens. Did you know that? I’ve made dreams come true for more of them than I can count.” He paused. “All manner of dreams.”
He smiled.
“So who, exactly, do you think you might go to with some wild stories about what’s gone on here? Maybe that prosecuting attorney who shows up on MSNBC all the time who loves a good spanking from Leanne? Or that judge who likes to pontificate on Fox News who always asks for Sheena when he comes here because he likes the way she ties knots? Would it be one of them you want to go to?”
Slowly, Nicky shook her head.
“Nicky, what you need to understand, and I say this in all kindness, is that you are nothing.” Jeremy let that sink in for a moment. Her eyes began to well up again with tears. “You are as insignificant as an ant. You are a bug on the bottom of a shoe. You are a discarded condom, my dear. No one will ever listen to you, no one will give you the slightest attention. You will be dismissed. Oh, someone might nod sympathetically, might say they’ll look into it. But then your statement will go into the trash and you will never hear from anyone again.”
He smiled, touched her cheek, and caught a tear on the edge of his index finger. “I’m telling you this to spare you the pain. The shame and the embarrassment. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
Nicky nodded.
“That’s good. That’s very good, Nicky. You’re a good girl. You really are. Now, although I’ve been hurt by what you were thinking of doing, I know you can find a way to make it up to me.”
“Yes?” she whispered.
He nodded in the direction of the Winnebago.
“You can be the first to try out the new playroom.”
Nicky released her grip on her knees, put her feet on the floor, and stood. She turned and walked toward the door to the Winnebago.
“I’ll be along shortly,” Jeremy said as she reached the door, opened it, stepped in, and closed the door behind her.
Jeremy sighed. Personnel matters were always the most trying.
He got out of the chair, glanced at his watch. He figured he could be back at the party in five minutes. He took a step in the RV’s direction when the phone on his desk rang.
His personal line. Only a few people knew it.
Before he picked up, he saw that the caller was his older sister, Marissa, from Seattle. What could she want? They hadn’t spoken in months. A family emergency, perhaps? The last time he’d heard from her, their mother had dropped dead of a heart attack. The funeral had been the last time he’d seen his sister.
Jeremy grabbed the receiver and put it to his ear.
“Marissa.”
“Hey, Jer,” she said.
No one else called him that. He hated that name.
“What’s happened?”
“Why do you assume something happened?”
“You don’t usually call just to say hello.”
“Nothing’s happened,” she said. “I mean, no one’s died or anything, this time.”
“Walter’s fine?”
“He had a little heart flutter a few weeks back but it turned out to be nothing. At least that’s what we think.”
“Good to know. Listen, Marissa, if this is a social call to catch up—and if it is, I couldn’t be more delighted to hear from you—but it’s not a good time.” He glanced at the RV. “I’m hosting a party at the moment.”
“When aren’t you hosting a party?” she asked.
“Good point. But why don’t I get back to you tomorrow? Would that—”
“The thing is,” Marissa said, “I found out something that doesn’t make any sense at all, and I thought maybe you could shed some light on the situation.”
“What would that be?”
“Is it possible we have relatives we’ve never even heard of?”
Jeremy said, “What?”
“It’s like, it came back with a 25 percent match,” Marissa said. “I think that’s what you get between uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews.”
“‘It’?” he said.
Jeremy dropped into the chair behind his desk. Nicky was going to have to wait.
Seven
New Rochelle, NY
Miles arrived ten minutes early for his appointment at the
ReproGold Clinic. He hadn’t had much in the way of involuntary muscle movements, so he decided to take the Porsche. Every drive, he believed, might be his last. Might as well have some fun while he still could. Even picked up another speeding ticket along the way.
As if he gave a fuck.
When he entered the waiting room, he found himself joining two young women sitting together on one side of the room, and on the other, a man and woman Miles guessed to be in their late thirties. The woman, who looked as though she might have been crying earlier, was quietly shredding a tissue in her hands.
As Miles approached the reception counter, he could hear the man whispering to her, “It’s going to work this time. I know it. Third time’s a charm.”
A woman wearing a JULIE name tag was on the phone at the reception desk.
“What do you mean the insurance doesn’t cover it?” she said quietly. “Look at your files again. It’s Harkin. Julie Harkin. What’s the point of paying for insurance if when you need it you don’t have it? Where am I supposed to get ten thousand dollars to fix that kind of water damage? How—”
At this point, she noticed that Miles was standing there. She raised a just a second finger in his direction and went back to her conversation.
“This is not over,” she said. “You people haven’t heard the last of this.” Julie hung up the phone and looked apologetically at Miles. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Hope you get that sorted out.”
“Insurance companies,” she said, shaking her head.
“You’re in good hands,” Miles said, cupping his palms, as though they were full of water. Then he opened them. “Until you’re not.”
“No kidding. How can I help you?”
“Miles Cookson. I have an appointment.”
She consulted her book. “Yes, right. This wasn’t a referral?”
“No. Not a referral. It’s another matter.”
She gave him a brief, quizzical look, then said, “Have a seat.”
Miles sat. The two other couples went in ahead of him. After nearly forty-five minutes his name was called and he was directed to a door at the end of a short hallway. The door, with the name DR. MARTIN GOLD printed on it, was ajar. Miles pushed it open and stepped in.
A balding man in his late sixties sat behind a desk. He took off a pair of reading glasses, set them down, and looked up.
“Mr. Cookson?”
“That’s right.”
“Please sit.”
Gold didn’t look as though he would top out at five-five once he stood up out of that chair. His face and hands looked soft and doughy.
The walls were decorated not with the usual framed degrees but half a dozen photographs of bridges. Miles didn’t know what they all were, but he recognized the Golden Gate Bridge and the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
Gold scanned his desktop and frowned. “I’m afraid you have me at some disadvantage. I usually have some sort of file, perhaps something from a family doctor, but I don’t have anything here related to your case. So, I guess I’m starting from scratch. What can I help you with? I’m going to guess, you’re married? You and your wife have been trying for some time to have a child, without success?”
“No,” Miles said. “It’s not like that. I wouldn’t expect you to remember me. And chances are, any files you have on me are before you switched over to computer. Probably tucked in an office box somewhere. It was a long time ago.”
“Okay,” he said. “Go on.”
“More than twenty years ago, I came to this clinic. I was a donor.” And then, as if clarification were needed in a place like this, he added, “A sperm donor.”
“Oh, okay.” He smiled. “Was that back in the day when we gave away a free toaster with every new deposit?” He laughed. “Sorry. An old joke.”
Miles managed a crooked smile. “You may not have been giving away toasters, but what you paid donors allowed me to upgrade my computer. I desperately needed a more powerful one, and you helped make that happen.”
“Glad to be of help.”
“In fact,” Miles said, “that computer ended up being a real breakthrough for me. Got me headed in the right direction. I’m in the tech industry. Apps. You might have heard of my company. Cookson?”
Gold shook his head. “Sorry. But I’m glad we were able to give you the financial boost at the right time. I hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t actually recall your earlier visit with us. As you can imagine, we get a great many people through here. And we try to help them all as best we can, and are grateful to men like yourself who make our work possible.”
“Sure. And I don’t think we met, anyway. Someone else guided me through the process back then.” He pointed to one of the photographs. “What bridge is that?”
“Confederation Bridge,” he said. “Not that spectacular to look at, but amazing just the same. Links Prince Edward Island to the mainland. Opened in 1997.” He smiled. “Bridges are kind of my thing.”
Miles nodded, cleared his throat. “Anyway, I should explain why I’m here. It’s a long story, but I’ll try to make it short.” He paused. “The thing is, I’ve been diagnosed with Huntington’s.”
Gold’s face dropped. “I’m sorry. That’s … a tough one.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I find myself having to make some big decisions.”
“I’m sure.”
“One of the things I’ve been thinking about is the children that may be out there that are … I don’t know that ‘mine’ is the right word because they are not my children, but they are the children I fathered. These children that exist, that are out there in the world, living and breathing, because of the donation I made at this clinic many years ago.”
Gold nodded thoughtfully.
“I think those children—I suppose they would all be adults now—are entitled to know what their future may include. As you may know, there’s a 50 percent chance of a child developing Huntington’s if a parent has it.”
“Yes,” Gold said. “I am aware.”
“I’ve been … very successful in my field and have a substantial estate, and I would like to start dispersing it sooner rather than later. After considerable thought, and no small amount of soul searching, I have decided I want to distribute a large part of my … fortune … among these adult children. If they should ever develop the disease, they’ll have the resources to look after themselves, and in the meantime have the means to do things they might otherwise not have been able to afford. Travel, buy a place in Spain. Or do nothing with it. Pass it on to their own children, if they have any. It’d be up to them.”
“And if it turns out they don’t have the disease?” Gold asked.
“They get the money anyway,” Miles said.
The doctor tented his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “I see. Your heart is certainly in the right place, and I understand your position, but I should point out to you that I don’t see any legal responsibility here for you. This isn’t exactly medical jargon I’m about to impart to you, but life is a crapshoot. The sperm from any donor carries the potential for troubling consequences. Any couple having a child faces the same issues, including couples who don’t avail themselves of the services we provide. We all bring our genetic makeup to the table. It’s life.”
“Still.”
“And besides, it’s all rather moot,” the doctor said. “You don’t know who these children are.”
Miles said, “But you do.”
“Excuse me?”
“The names of the women impregnated with my sperm. You must have that information.”
Gold shook his head and smiled sadly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Those files of ours are completely confidential. It’s not negotiable.”
“There must be a way. What if you were to contact these women, urge them to get in touch with me?”
Gold was shaking his head. “No, it’s out of the question. Mr. Cookson, I am not without sympathy. You have a tough road ahead. And your intentions
are noble. Generous. But you came here, years ago, with the understanding that you would never know how your donation would be used, and the recipients came here with the understanding that their privacy would not be violated. My hands are tied.”
Miles sat there, making fists of frustration. “I think they—these children—would want to know.”
“They very well might. If they truly do want to know, there are steps they can take, and may have already taken. It’s a different world now. Maybe some of the people you hope to find have taken advantage of the services that are available today. They provide a DNA sample, learn about their ancestry, and are connected with family they didn’t know they had. You could take the same route. Who knows where that might lead?”
“That’s a shot in the dark,” Miles countered. “Too many variables. I could be dead before anyone I need to connect with does that.”
Gold’s shoulders briefly went up a quarter of an inch. “I don’t know what to say.”
He stood, signaling that the meeting was over, and extended a hand, which Miles took with little enthusiasm.
“Good luck,” the doctor said.
Miles said nothing on his way out. As he passed reception, he glanced at Julie, on the phone again. She had her head down and turned away, a hand partially covering the mouthpiece so that she could not be heard.
But Miles caught some of what she was saying.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. When’s the tuition payment due, again? Christ, can you get some kind of delay on that?”
On his way home, Miles got another ticket.
Eight
Springfield, MA
“Oh, my God, did you see what you just did there?” Todd Cox asked.
“What?” Chloe said. “What are you talking about?”
“The way you put your hand on your forehead.” He demonstrated, slamming the heel of his hand into his head, fingers splayed upward. A duh gesture. “I do that all the time.”
“Bullshit,” she said. “You do not. You’re just saying that, looking for things. Seriously.”
“No, I’m not fucking kidding. I do that all the time.” He gave his head a shake. “This is unbelievable. I’ve got an honest-to-God sister.”
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