Her Daughter's Mother

by Daniela Petrova

  I checked the date: one day before Good Friday, the day of Katya’s retrieval.

  I kept reading. The usual concerns about the hormones and the different steps of the process. More exchanges about the effects of the drugs, the cramps and . . . the cute doctor at the clinic. What? That was not a discussion I’d ever seen on my side of the forum. Of course, it was very different on the donors’ end—they were going through all of it while living their lives as single women.

  I barely had time to consider which of the doctors at my clinic Katya might have found attractive when I read:

  BGgirl: OMG, have you ever had a crush on the guy??? You know, THE guy who would be the father!

  My heart racing, I picked up the phone and dialed Tyler’s number.

  29.

  KATYA

  THEN

  Professor Jones was a passionate lecturer. He liked to push and provoke us. At his first lecture, he walked in and stood at the lectern, tall and imposing, scanning the rows of faces in front of him. Seeing me he paused, a look of surprise flitting across his face, before he took in the rest of the auditorium. Finally he spoke.

  “Albert Camus famously said: ‘There is but one truly serious philosophical question, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.’” Tyler gave us time to absorb his words before continuing, “If the answer to that question seems obvious to you, you’re lucky—you’re not a philosopher.”

  The hall erupted with laughing.

  “For the rest of you,” Tyler said, raising his right arm, “don’t expect that you’ll find the answer in this class. Or any other class for that matter.”

  More laughter.

  “I imagine by now you’re wondering what, then, you’re going to learn here. I’ll tell you what. You’ll learn to question things, to wonder, to be curious.” He then suggested that those of us who weren’t interested were free to leave. Nobody did. The hall was so quiet, I didn’t dare breathe. At the next lecture, the number of students had nearly doubled.

  We were now halfway through the semester. Winter had given way to spring, the weather turning warm and sunny, the daffodils poking their heads all over campus. Tyler’s Intro to Philosophy class had become my favorite of all time. I hadn’t realized I talked about it nonstop until Damian declared he was sick of hearing about that “damn philosophy professor of yours.” He was jealous, obviously.

  I wasn’t alone in my enthusiasm for Tyler’s lectures. We all sat there watching him, spellbound, as he spoke in his velvety voice, gesticulating, asking us questions back and forth, like a tennis match, even laughing with us. It felt less like a lecture and more like a joint enterprise. Like together we were figuring out the meaning of beauty, knowledge, happiness. We were discussing Plato’s Symposium today. It was a particularly raucous debate—we were all such experts on love, of course—but I didn’t participate. I was looking at Tyler. The way he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms while listening to my classmates express their opinions, the way he smiled, the way he held on to his chin as he thought.

  There were stars in my eyes, I’m not going to lie.

  But it wasn’t sexual or anything. It was more like being in church. As I sat there, listening to Tyler in sheer awe, it suddenly hit me: I was going to have a baby with him. At the thought, I swelled with pride. I looked around the class—everyone staring at him with their mouths open—and thought, I will have our professor’s baby. It’s just that another woman will carry it.

  Josh freaked out when I told him about it during our session two days later. “This sounds fucked-up,” he said.

  “Which part?” I asked, taken aback. He’d never used such language before.

  “Sorry. Just slipped out of my mouth.” Josh paused. “Does Professor Jones know any of this?”

  “Of what?”

  “How you feel about him and your donation?”

  I hadn’t yet started the hormone injections but all the documents were signed and we were ready to go in a few weeks. “Of course he doesn’t,” I said. “How would he?” Josh was starting to piss me off. “We don’t talk about matters outside of the class material.”

  Tyler had called me up to his office after our first class and explained that we had an ethical problem. A conflict of interest. “People might think that I would be more lenient with you because you’re our donor.” But I’d reassured him that I didn’t expect that and trusted that he wouldn’t allow himself to be swayed. “Also,” I said, “how would anyone know? I wouldn’t mention it and, in fact, this would be the last time the two of us would speak about it.” He smiled at that, thought a little more, then said, “Okay, if you have any questions about the material, stop by during office hours.” And that was that.

  I was doing great in his class anyway. The topics blew me away. I read not only the required but also the suggested readings. I ate it all up. No surprise then that I aced the midterm and got an A+ on my first paper. Next to the grade, he’d scribbled that my grasp of the issues was outstanding. “Not bad, huh?” I said to Josh.

  He did one of his “impressed” nods—eyes wide open, head slightly tilted—but didn’t say anything.

  I went on. “If I’d taken that class in freshman year, I might’ve ended up a philosophy major. I find it really fascinating, pondering all that stuff. And it comes easy to me. I’m good at arguing a point. Of making a case for any position I choose. Playing the devil’s advocate.”

  Josh pursed his lips in a smirk as if to say, Don’t I know it.

  30.

  LANA

  NOW

  “Is everything okay?” Tyler asked, his voice groggy with sleep. The alarm clock on my nightstand showed 1:33 a.m. but I didn’t care.

  “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Whose name?”

  “The woman you’re fucking.”

  “Lana, I’m not fucking—”

  “We’re no longer together, Tyler,” I said, stressing each word. “It’s okay. I just want to know her name.”

  “Lana, it’s the middle of the night. Do you really want to—”

  “You told me there had been someone else,” I said, my stomach clenched like a fist. “What’s her name?”

  “That’s over and I never said that she and I slept together—”

  “Christ, Tyler, spare me the details. Just give me the damn name.”

  I heard the rustling of covers, the sound of bedsprings. He must have gotten up, started pacing. “Look, she’s one of my students,” he said.

  My ears began ringing. I felt dizzy and leaned back against the headboard.

  “It’s all my fault,” Tyler was saying, “but I can explain.”

  “Her name?” I managed to say, and held my breath, terrified of the answer.

  He sighed. “Lana, why are you doing this to yourself?”

  “Just say it, damn it!”

  “Fine. Her name’s Elaine. Are you happy now?”

  “Thrilled,” I said, and hung up.

  Fucking hell, I thought, and tossed the phone on the bed. I got up and went to the kitchen. There was an old half pint of frozen strawberry yogurt in the freezer and I pulled it out.

  Back in the bedroom, I took my phone and texted Angie. Are you awake? I saw the typing icon flash and exhaled. I’d already pressed Call by the time her yep arrived. As usual, she was on a deadline and working late.

  “Can you believe it? One of his TAs?” I said once I’d given her the highlights.

  “Such a cliché,” she said. In my mind I could see her shaking her head.

  “And please don’t tell me it’s love,” I went on. “Love takes time. It can’t happen without allowing it to. You know what I mean? The flame of love can’t burn if you don’t stoke the fire.”

  Angie laughed. “You’re t
urning into quite the poet, my dear. Having your heart broken might be the key to your literary success.”

  “I think I’m going to stick to art, but thanks.” I sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. “At least it wasn’t Katya. I really freaked myself out there for a moment.”

  “C’mon,” Angie said. “You were the one who stalked her, remember? She doesn’t even know Tyler.”

  “It’s just mind-boggling to me why she would write that.”

  “Who knows? Maybe she was considering a cycle with another couple and was referring to another guy. Or maybe she was making shit up just for the fun of it. Didn’t you two come up with fake names and jobs that night at the club?” I could hear Angie’s mouse clicking, her fingers tapping on the keyboard. “Either way, my friend,” she went on, “you’re becoming paranoid . . .” Her voice trailed off. I was about to bid her good night and let her finish her assignment when she gasped: “Oh, my God!”

  “What?”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, barely audible. Then: “Just sent you the link.”

  I knew it. In the pit of my stomach I knew it even before the page had loaded. The headline read: Female body found in the Hudson Friday morning believed to be missing Columbia student.

  PART 3

  I LOVE IT WHEN YOU WORRY ABOUT ME

  31.

  LANA

  NOW

  I sat at the piano, staring into space, my hands resting in my lap, my fingers burning with pain. I had played like mad all afternoon in a desperate attempt to silence my thoughts. Sunlight streamed into the room in thick shafts. Plato was sprawled on the floor in a sun patch by my feet, one of his legs sticking out straight from under him, looking like a chicken thigh. Sparrows chirped in the lone tree outside with grating exuberance, but I didn’t have it in me to get up to close the window. I’d tried to go for a walk earlier but had barely made it to the entrance of the park before turning back. Wherever I’d looked, I’d seen baby strollers, kids pushing scooters or pedaling tiny bikes.

  Meanwhile, Katya lay dead in the morgue.

  There was a brief mention of her in the morning news and the local papers. Mystery thickens, the Post’s caption stated, as the body of the missing Columbia student is found in the Hudson. I read the article three times, taking in each word: The body of Columbia student Katya Dimitrova, who was last seen leaving a nightclub on the Lower East Side on the night before Mother’s Day, has been found, NYPD officials said. Her body was recovered in the Hudson River near Hoboken and positively identified through dental records. The Hoboken Police Department and NYPD Detective John Robertson, who has been working the missing student’s case, did not immediately reply to requests for comment. The medical examiner’s office will determine the cause of death.

  Katya’s animated face flashed in front of my eyes wherever I turned, whatever I did. I saw her as clearly as if she were right there, joking about being a gold digger, laughing, dancing. So young. So beautiful.

  I should have never left her in the club. What was I thinking? I should have been a better friend and stayed with her or insisted that we leave together. Instead, I’d been so selfish, worrying about my pregnancy, which was in essence Katya’s gift to me.

  I was sure it was just a coincidence. Yet I found it hard to ignore the fact that I’d started bleeding right around the time she must have died.

  I felt sick and rushed to the bathroom. I no longer knew if it was regular morning sickness or the thought of Katya’s body floating in the Hudson.

  Back in the living room, I sank onto the couch. It occurred to me that the only thing left of her was the baby—her flesh and blood—growing inside me.

  Katya’s death only elevated the stakes for me to carry the pregnancy to term. No longer just for my sake, but for hers.

  I was thinking about this, my hand caressing my belly, when the doorbell rang. The ding reverberated between the walls, loud, obnoxious. I sat up, startled. Another ring. I headed for the door, running my fingers through my hair at an attempt to comb it, expecting a deliveryman who’d gotten the wrong apartment number.

  I looked through the peephole. Tyler. My hands clenched.

  I’d left him a frantic voice mail this morning about Katya’s body floating in the Hudson. But I hadn’t asked him to come over. And he could have called to warn me. I flung the door open ready for a fight.

  He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, shaking his head, lips pursed, eyes moist. The man I’d been yelling at on the phone last night. The man who’d left me for a woman named Elaine. But I felt broken and seeing him in person was all it took. He opened his arms and I rushed into his embrace. Muscle memory. My body just went for it.

  His hand stroked my hair and even after my sobs had quieted, I didn’t want to move. I wanted to remain there with my eyes closed, taking in his familiar scent, his touch, the way his body fit against mine, and pretend that the past month had never happened.

  “I still can’t believe it,” I said when I finally pulled back and we walked inside.

  He shook his head again and sat on the couch. “I came as soon as I got your message.”

  I flopped on the armchair across from him. Now that I was no longer in his arms, I felt awkward around him. Plato didn’t seem to share my problem and pranced over and started nuzzling at Tyler’s ankles. He picked him up and plopped him on his lap. The damn cat began purring before he’d even stroked his fur.

  “Even Plato’s been missing you,” I said.

  Tyler turned to me with a glint in his eye. “Does that mean you have?”

  My instinct was to lie. Never show vulnerability, my mother whispered in my ear. But Katya’s death had undone me. “Why would I call you if I didn’t?” I said instead. “Of course I’ve missed you.” I paused. “I hate you and miss you at the same time.”

  There was a grave ring to his laughter, an aching overtone. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Katya’s death . . . it puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Don’t let it get to you so much. I know it seems big just because we knew her . . . knew of her. It’s that connection that makes it seem more significant than if she were a stranger.”

  But I did know her, I wanted to scream. Worse, a part of her is growing inside me . . . Along with a part of you.

  I filled my lungs with air, exhaled slowly. “What do you suppose happened?”

  “She got herself into trouble.” He looked at Plato, stroked him slowly.

  If I could only tell him I’d been with her that night and it had all seemed normal. As normal as any other night out in New York City. But I couldn’t. So much had changed since he and I were a couple. I could pretend as much as I wanted, but the fact was he’d left me.

  Katya’s death didn’t change that.

  It was time I weaned myself from leaning on him. “Thanks for coming,” I said, and stood up. “I have a report to finish before the end of the day.”

  “On Saturday?” He nudged Plato off his lap and onto the couch, stroked him one last time, before getting up. “You work too hard.”

  Not even close, I thought. But I wasn’t going to go into it with him.

  At the door, he turned, peered into my eyes. “You’ve got nothing to prove. You’re a brilliant woman whether your mother sees it or not.”

  “Gee, thanks! I could use some patronizing right now,” I said wryly. I knew he meant well, but deep down I was furious. He had no business telling me what to do. Hell, he had no business coming here to comfort me. Not after walking away on me, leaving me stranded at the worst possible time.

  32.

  LANA

  NOW

  It had been a slow news weekend, without any major events at home or abroad, and Katya’s story had been picked up by the network news. By Monday morning, everyone was talking about the beautiful Columbia student from Bulgaria
and her tragic end in the Hudson just shy of graduation. I could barely focus on work and I couldn’t afford not to because tonight was the Visiting Committee. I’d finally managed to finish the presentation over the weekend after Tyler had left. Anger was a powerful motivator. This morning, I’d woken up to Alistair’s notes in my inbox. I didn’t need to open the e-mail to know that he’d have a lot of “suggestions.” By lunchtime, I’d finished the revision and sent it to Caitlin to look over and print out a clean copy. On my way back from the cafeteria, she handed me the pages.

  “It’s fabulous,” she said, smiling her big dimpled smile. “You’re going to wow them.” I was glad she was coming to the event tonight. Ordinarily, it would be Alistair and me, but since he was away, I’d asked Caitlin to join me. She might not be the most brilliant of scholars but she was a fantastic networker. Upbeat and vibrant, she worked the room at department functions without a sign of hesitation, as if our patrons—often more than twice her age—were her college pals. Nor did she seem intimidated by scholars, collectors, or private dealers with as many years of experience as she was old.

  First thing I did back in my office was check the news. According to the latest Gothamist article, an NYPD spokesman stated that Katya’s case was “an active investigation and the cause of death is pending.” They were still waiting on the autopsy report. More tests needed to be performed, including a toxicology report.

  I’d barely closed the screen when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but decided to answer it. I could use a distraction even if it was just a marketing call.

  “Lana?” a female voice said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m calling from the Bulgarian consulate,” said the woman on the other end. She introduced herself as Anna Konstantinova and explained that Detective Robertson had given her my contact information. She told me that Katya’s mother had flown in from Bulgaria and was with her at the consulate at the moment. How crushed this poor woman must be, I thought. Her only child found dead in a foreign land. “She speaks no English,” Anna continued, “but she’d like to meet with some of Katya’s friends. Detective Robertson told us that you are also Bulgarian—”