“What do you mean, you’ll keep me posted? I want to be there, at the next appointment.”
It was my turn to pause and stare at him. “Tyler, we’re no longer a couple.”
“But it’s my child.”
“You are the father, yes, and once the baby is born we can talk about a visitation schedule and all that.”
“Visitation schedule?” He took my hand. “Lana, you can’t do that.” He looked straight into my eyes as if by sheer will he could convince me.
I shook my head, pulled my hand away. “You walked out on me, Tyler. On us. You got involved—”
“I screwed up big. I know. I messed it all up. But nothing that was reported in the media is true.”
“I believe you had nothing to do with Katya’s death.” Just the thought of her made my heart race. “But your relationship with her makes any reconciliation between us—”
“I had no relationship with Katya outside of the classroom.”
“Right. That’s why you didn’t tell me she was your student. Good-bye, Tyler.” I spun on my heel, started walking away.
“I didn’t know she would turn out to be crazy,” he said as he caught up with me.
“Of course. It’s always the woman’s fault. She either turns out to be crazy or a bitch.”
“I only wanted to find a Bulgarian—”
“And how about your TA?” I snapped. “Elaine? How stupid do you think I am?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted to protect Rachel.”
“Rachel? How about protecting me?”
“I know. There is no excuse. I was a moron.”
“I don’t need your apologies,” I said, and picked up my pace.
“Please let me explain.”
“Don’t make me run to get away from you!” I shouted, feeling out of breath, claustrophobic almost, with him shadowing me like that. “You know exertion could be harmful to the baby.”
He grabbed me by the arm. “Lana, you can’t keep me away.”
“Sorry, but you forfeited your rights when you left.”
He shook his head. A look of desperation crossed his face. When he spoke, his voice was grave, halting. “This baby is more mine than yours. And I will fight you on it if I have to.”
I pulled out of his grip and strode off, my ears buzzing.
A few steps farther as the path ended, splitting into a maze of trails, I looked back. Tyler was standing at the exact spot where I’d left him, staring at the river. A couple of cyclists swooshed by but he didn’t seem to notice them. His words echoed in my mind: This baby is more mine than yours.
I sped up, feeling faint with fear.
PART 4
PLAYING GOD
45.
KATYA
THEN
The topic of Tyler’s lecture today was Plato’s theory of forms. As usual, there was not a sound, not a single movement in the auditorium full of captivated undergraduates. “While the forms are timeless and unchanging,” he was saying, “physical things are in constant flux. While the forms are unqualified perfection, physical things are qualified and conditioned.”
I nodded along, thinking that maybe that was why Tyler could see past my looks. He lived in the world of ideas whereas my body was—at best—just a shadow of the form of Beauty, like the shadows in Plato’s allegory of the cave. I loved that about him. I loved everything about him.
“All the girls in class have crushes on Tyler,” I told Josh at our next session. “With anyone else, that kind of mass infatuation would have actually made me dislike him. But Professor Jones. Oh. My. God.”
Josh raised his eyebrows.
“I know,” I said. “I sound like a starry-eyed teenage girl going gaga over her favorite pop star.”
“Is that how you feel?” he asked, his eyes boring into me.
“God, no. Such a relationship would actually kill the buzz for me. You know what I mean? The thing about idols is that they are unattainable. Mortal girls don’t mingle with the gods. There are a bunch of exceptions, of course, both in Greek and Hollywood mythology.”
Josh smiled. Noted something in his notebook.
“I’m not saying he isn’t sexy,” I went on. “He’s hot as hell.” I paused, picturing him. The boyish hair, the lopsided smile. The blue stare that warmed you up and made you feel like you mattered. “I would have totally gone for him,” I said, “if it weren’t for the fact that I’m going to be his egg donor.’”
Josh nodded. Waited for me to say more. But I was done.
Finally, he asked. “So why do you think you like him so much?”
“You mean other than being so hot and all?” Sometimes I really wished I had a girlfriend to talk to. Josh was a poor substitute. You couldn’t even crack a joke with him.
The thing was I was feeling particularly horny these days. Maybe it was the hormones. I’d started the injections two days ago. Around the day of the spring equinox, actually, which I took as a good sign. I’d always liked spring, a time of hope and excitement, when flowers bloom and trees blossom and the birds sing to no end. There weren’t any songbirds in New York, really. I’d heard the screech of a blue jay a couple of times and even spotted a cardinal in the park once. But mostly, it was the sorrowful Hoo-ah-hoo . . . Hooo . . . Hoooo . . . Hoooooooo of mourning doves I woke up to in the mornings, which was still something.
Anyway, the injections. What an ordeal. I did it after dinner when most people went back to studying. Thank God for my single room this year or I don’t know how I would have explained it. All these syringes. If anyone walked in on me, they would think I’d become a druggie.
“They can’t know in advance when exactly my eggs will be ready,” I told Josh at the end of the session. “Women respond differently to the hormones. But the doctor said my retrieval would be at some point late next week. Easter week.” I clasped my hands and smiled. “Imagine if it happened on Good Friday.”
Josh tilted his head.
“Think about it,” I said, leaning forward, too excited to sit still. “I’m going to have Tyler’s baby without us having had sex. I won’t even carry the baby. Talk about immaculate conception.”
46.
LANA
NOW
I was sitting on the couch, with my laptop propped open, researching reproductive rights lawyers when Penka called. Her voice quivered, like she’d been crying. I couldn’t understand much other than the cops had been there earlier and that she really wanted me to come over. “Idvam,” I told her as I grabbed my purse, slipped into a pair of flats, and rushed out without bothering to change out of the black leggings and ratty T-shirt that I only wore around the house.
It was an overcast Saturday afternoon, warm and humid, and I was already sweating by the time I descended into the sauna that was the subway platform. I shouldn’t have walked so fast but I couldn’t help it. My first thought was that the cops had made a breakthrough in the case. That they’d found Nick and he’d confessed. But there was nothing in the news about Katya. I kept checking my phone while on the train and then the crosstown bus, the suspense driving me mad until I finally rang Penka’s doorbell.
She felt so thin, so frail when I gave her a hug. Her face was red from crying but there was a spark in her eyes as she led me to the kitchen. “Dobra novina,” she said, and I held my breath as she proceeded to tell me that the cops had recovered Katya’s money.
I exhaled. So they had found Nick.
“I can bring her home now,” Penka said, eyes welling up. Her Bulgarian sounded different from my mother’s, her vowels softer, the sentences more melodic. “I will be able to visit her,” she continued. “Together with my son.” A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away.
Her son? I stared at her, my heart aching at the realization that Penka had lost two children.
�
��Predi mnogo godini,” she said, explaining that he’d been only three when he’d drowned many years ago. I squeezed her arm, blinking hard to stall my own tears.
Penka poured two glasses of lemonade and put a plate of cookies on the table. When we sat down, I took a deep breath and asked, “Did they tell you where they finally located Katya’s money?” I was already getting better at finding the right words in Bulgarian. At least, Penka seemed to understand me.
“Her friend,” she said. “Nick, I think was the name.”
“So is he in custody? Do they think he . . . ?” I let the question hang, unable to say it out loud.
Penka shook her head. “They said he’d tried to steal the money but he hadn’t done anything to her. He’d been with another girl that night.”
My shoulders went slack with disappointment. Craving closure, I’d convinced myself that Nick was responsible for Katya’s death and it was only a matter of time before the cops found him and brought him to justice. Still, I was relieved that Robertson had followed up on my tip and recovered the money so that Penka could take her daughter back home.
When she finished her lemonade, Penka pushed her glass to the side, blew her nose, then pointed to the bedroom, her eyes glassy with tears. “I’m having a hard time going through Katya’s stuff. I thought maybe you can help me sort it out.”
* * *
The bedroom was light and airy, with beautiful moldings and high ceilings, like the rest of the apartment. Two cardboard boxes sat between the bed and a small desk tucked in the corner.
With a heavy heart, I started sorting through Katya’s clothes, while Penka worked on the box filled with notebooks, toiletries, and makeup. My fingers ached at the touch of Katya’s sweaters, T-shirts, and jeans. No wonder Penka had called me to help her. I nearly gasped as I pulled out the pink dress I’d met her in. It was that dress that had first attracted my attention. Had she worn something less bright, I might never have noticed the girl standing just a few feet away from me. I might never have looked up to her face and recognized her. I put the dress in the pile to keep and paused to collect myself.
I was having a hard time navigating my feelings for Katya. There were moments when I was furious, the thought of her sleeping with Tyler unbearable. But more often than not, I was overcome with sadness at her tragic, untimely death. If there was anyone to be angry at, it was Tyler. He was her professor, for God’s sake.
“Wait, is that her laptop?” I pointed to the MacBook Air on the desk, the cord folded loosely on top of it.
Penka nodded. “The cops just dropped it off.”
A flutter of excitement ran through my body at the thought of having access to Katya’s calendar, contacts, texts, e-mails, and social media. I turned back to the pile of clothes but couldn’t focus. I kept stealing glances at the laptop, anxious to open it. Not that I knew what to look for. I was simply seized by the urge to check, to see what might be there. Stop it! I chastised myself. It’s your damn curiosity that brought you to this point.
“Do you think she kept a diary?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Penka wore one of my mother’s signature expressions—corners of the lips down, eyebrows up—that meant I’ve got no clue.
And what if she had? It would be wrong to read another person’s diary. I knew that much. Just as it would be wrong to browse through someone else’s e-mail and social media accounts. But what if the person was dead? I looked at Penka, bent over her daughter’s stuff. Would she mind?
“Maybe there is . . . you know, something on her computer,” I said in my fumbling Bulgarian and stood, unable to restrain myself any longer. “A clue,” I added, remembering the word, “to what might have gone wrong that night.”
“The cops would have seen it, no?” Penka said without looking up.
I went to the desk and plugged in the computer. “Not if it’s in Bulgarian.”
“True,” she said, and, to my relief, came to join me.
I drummed my fingers on the desk as we waited for the laptop to power up only to come face to face with the lock screen.
I looked at Penka. “Could you guess her password?” It was stupid, I knew. What were the chances? But you never know. It wasn’t like it was the password to her bank account or even her e-mail. She would have had to type it every time she opened the computer, so it had to be easy.
Penka furrowed her forehead. “I wouldn’t know.”
“If you were to guess . . .”
“Maybe her father’s name?” she said. “Katya loved him dearly. After he died, she’d write his name over and over, pages of it, in her notebooks.”
“Okay,” I said, unable to contain my impatience. “What was his name?”
“Petar.” She sighed. “Petar Bogdanov Dimitrov.”
Something about it rang a bell but I was too anxious about cracking the password to think about it and typed quickly, my fingers punching hard on the keyboard. I held my breath as I hit Enter. The wiggle of the dots. Wrong. Damn.
I tried again without a space in between the names. I tried all small letters. I tried all capital letters. I tried combinations of name and family name or name and middle name. Nothing. Maybe I needed to add numbers. “What year was he born?” I asked Penka, who had gone back to her sorting. “What year did he die?” Again, nothing. “I give up,” I said finally, and went to the bathroom. It had a window—a real luxury in Manhattan—that looked at the brick wall of the building next door. I lifted it and stood there for a moment, letting the breeze hit my face, taking in slow deep breaths. I returned to the bedroom resolved to help Penka sort out Katya’s belongings without getting distracted.
But I’d barely picked up a pair of shoes when I had a new idea. “Last try,” I said, and opened the laptop again. I typed Katya’s year of birth followed by her father’s first name followed by his year of death. I pressed Enter and stared, stunned, as the desktop opened to a photo of a tropical beach.
“I got it!” I shouted. “We’re in!”
I brought the laptop to the living room couch and Penka and I huddled over it, going through every document in every folder.
* * *
York Avenue was quiet, less hurried on Saturday afternoon. A woman walking her poodle, a young couple pushing a stroller. Barely any cars waiting at the traffic light. Even the construction site across the street seemed dead. It was that leisurely time between brunch and dinner, when people were in the park or napping back home. I stepped out of Penka’s building, my disappointment feeling that much heavier against the relaxed weekend vibe. After two hours of sorting through Katya’s documents, we hadn’t found anything. No journal, no notes, no texts, no e-mails that pointed to what might have happened to her that night.
The humidity outside felt oppressive. The sidewalk stank of urine. It wasn’t even Memorial Day yet but summer seemed to have started already.
On the subway, I sat down and closed my eyes, feeling spent. The high of getting into Katya’s computer had only made the crash back to reality that much harder. My mind drifted from one topic to another. Suddenly, my eyes popped open. I sat up. Peter Bogdin—my so-called secret admirer. Katya’s father’s name was Petar Bogdanov.
With shaking hands, I pulled my phone out of my purse and tried to open my Instagram account. There was no connection. I got off at the next station without even paying attention to where I was. Leaning against the cold tiled wall, I scrolled to a post on my wall just a few days before Katya and I went to the Bulgarian club. I pressed on the two dozen “likes” I’d gotten and pulled up the list. Sure enough. Peter Bogdin was one of them. He had also acknowledged the photo I’d posted the next day. The shot I’d snapped of the bone marrow plate at dinner that evening was the last image he’d liked.
Peter Bogdin had vanished along with Katya.
* * *
“Katya was my secret admirer!” I shouted into the phone a
s soon as Angie picked up. I was walking up and down the subway platform, oblivious to the oppressive heat, the beads of sweat running down my back.
“Who?” It sounded like Angie was in a store. I could hear voices in the background. “Sorry, let me get out of here,” she said.
“Katya knew,” I said when it was finally quiet at Angie’s end. “All along, she knew who I was.”
“Wait. What?”
“Remember the guy I told you about who was watching all my stories on Instagram? You gave me shit about it?”
“Yeah?”
“There was no guy. That was Katya.”
“But didn’t you tell me about your secret admirer before you met her?”
I tried to remember. We’d been sitting on a bench in the park the day I’d found out I was pregnant. “You’re right,” I said, and felt goose bumps prickle my arms despite the heat. An express train barreled through the station and I pressed my palm against the other ear.
“Between your stories and photos,” Angie said, “she knew where you worked, where you bought your coffee, where you took your lunches. She knew—”
“Where to find me, if she wanted to,” I said, finishing her sentence. “Dear God!” Had it all been a charade? Could she have staged what I’d thought to be a chance meeting?
“Turns out the stalked was the stalker.”
“But why?” I asked. “It makes no sense.”
“Nothing about her makes sense.”
A train approached the station and came to a stop with a groan. The doors opened, people walked out, others pushed in. I stood there as the doors closed and the train disappeared into the tunnel, the number 1 glowing in a red circle on its back. A rat scuttled across the tracks and I watched it zigzagging until it vanished out of sight.
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