“But where will Dad work?” Phoebe’s hands, clenched into small fists, pounded the table.
“We’re talking with the DOE about new construction. Dad will have an office.” The half-truth slipped into the conversation as a hopeful statement.
I stopped talking, picked up my cookie, and took a bite. Around the table stories about the building began to flow—crayon drawings on walls, baby spit-up on a chair, sitting for the portraits in my office. Everyone shared their memories until Sarah suggested moving to our family quarters.
“If we could take a minute, General Manager Hartford.” Dr. Frances walked next to me. “Maybe we can talk in the front room.”
“I’d like to be with the kids right now.” The world felt a bit blurry and I could name a handful of reasons. “Maybe in the morning?”
Her eyes opened wider at my response. “That’s the perfect answer. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Hoping my voice remained steady, I tried to bring her closer to our family emotionally “If you’re comfortable with this, please feel free to call me Anne.”
She smiled at me and we walked into the room filled with children who all needed an early bedtime after a crazy day. John invited Andrew, Sarah, and me to play cards. Crazy Eights reigned as the favorite game. Phoebe cornered the doctor, obviously a new best friend, for a game of building stick towers. I convinced Paul, a consummate card game winner, to take my place when Lao called.
My stiffened back and aching ankle suggested what life might become in two or three decades as I limped outside for the walk to the DOE front door. David had insisted on painting it red to match our residence. Star-filled skies above Ashwood reminded me of how fortunate he and I were to live this life. Lao talked about plans for making the Giant Pines a rare evening of relaxation during the crush of harvest. My thoughts were ahead of us, in the damaged building, with David.
In a tent next to the entrance, cleaning crew members helped us into protective clothing, complete this time with respirators. My cane, too difficult to swaddle in disposable protective wrap, stayed outside, so I moved even more awkwardly into the building. Much had been cleaned and removed since the military’s early wrap-up. Our damaged sofa was gone, along with the rubble that had covered the waiting area and coffee station. Two conference rooms stood bare.
“We’ve sanitized the rest of your pictures, General Manager Hartford.” My guide could have been male or female, a thin-faced, short-haired young person. “We’re doing a quick sanitation on everything going into boxes from the offices, then those boxes will be run through additional cleansing at our plant. You’ll have access to everything in about two weeks.”
“You’ve done so much more than I expected.” My respirator added weight, rested on a tender muscle. I wanted to tell my helper that we liked to place dried flowers in the outer office to add an outdoor scent to the DOE’s filtered air, but I saved this androgynous individual from such a feminine emotional tidbit. “Which office should we start on?”
“Well, we actually have most things out of Director David’s space.”
“Tell me your name? We’re going to be working together.”
“It’s Fran.” My helper smiled. “My parents named me after an old friend of the family.”
I looked to Lao, finding this situation funnier than it should be. His dark eyes, like those of a parent in church, suggested I stay on task.
“Okay, Fran.” Government protocol wouldn’t allow this person to use my first name unless we became informal friends, so I didn’t offer. “Let’s look at David’s office.”
Every drawer in his oak credenza had disappeared. Workers on six-foot ladders passed books to others to be placed in a metal apparatus that sounded like a vacuum. The spines were scanned, then the books were placed in lined boxes. I watched as they finished one box and placed an inventory list on its side. A stack of boxes stood outside his office door, each marked with specific shelf identification: kids’ artwork, photo, baseball hat, coffee mug, toy tractors.
Industrial lighting overwashed the rooms with harsh brightness. My husband, who loved natural light by day and soft illumination at night, was as removed from his office as the Paraguayan jungles.
“Maybe we could work on my office.” I turned away. Lao moved aside, engaged in discussion with the site manager. While I walked the distance between our offices, I reminded myself that these people were doing their job with efficiency and competence and had no reason to add compassion to a tight time line.
My conference table pieces now lay piled against one wall, four intact chairs shoved aside. The visitor chair Peterson smashed through the window had disappeared, as had its mate. My legs began shaking and I knew I could not sit at my desk and have the stain of Peterson’s blood on the wall fill my sight each time I looked up.
“Lao was right.” I turned away. “You should finish this. I’ll just hold up your work.”
“It’s no problem, General Manager Hartford. I’ll stay here and help.” I appreciated the kindness in Fran’s voice but knew I needed to leave.
“I’m sorry if you made special accommodations for me, but I really can’t do this, Fran.” Turning with me, the cleaning staff member followed me out and helped me remove the protective gear.
The night felt cool, as if October was closer than the calendar showed. Hobbling alone back to my family, I reminded myself that this was only a building, not our life. I originally arrived at Ashwood with everything I possessed in my mother’s old suitcase and two boxes. Having built a new life, I’d not leave my home the same way.
Chapter Thity-One
Our family quarters were dark and quiet when I arrived. Finally I followed Dr. Frances’s advice about rest. Ignoring medical protocols, I medicated myself with the strongest pain medicine in our bathroom kit plus a sleeping aid, put on my pajamas, and turned out the lights. Finding a comfortable position in our bed took as many minutes as the little yellow pill required to drag me into sleep.
My mind traveled far and wide through a tornado of the last days’ experiences. At three, back muscle spasms woke me. I waited in the dark for something bad to happen. At four o’clock I put my good foot to the floor, then my swollen one, hobbled to David’s small coffeemaker and started a mug brewing while I showered. Five minutes under a hot water spray couldn’t steam away my stiffness. Dressed in soft clothes, I began Sunday. During harvest, it was almost like every other day in the week except for a morning devotions hour and closed school building.
With our bedroom curtains pulled aside, I watched dawn break the darkness. Sitting at David’s desk, I turned on my data pad to review yesterday’s production reports and mail. The DOE offered a temporary lab trailer if we remained willing to participate in their gifted student program. I responded enthusiastically and forwarded a copy of the plan to Jason and Lao.
A picture of Tia and David at a long-ago holiday party accompanied the morning news’ expanded story of the government’s surrogate program scandal. Dancing around defamation laws, the reporters implied that Tia, while brilliant, was unstable and not the best DNA source for children to be raised by unassuming strangers. Videos of three of the Regan surrogates, two girls and a boy all living in Chicago, were offered. The children, one a year older than Phoebe and two younger than Noah, shared physical features with our kids. Making the video public broke all Bureau security guidelines.
I read the story, angered by the fine line reporters were willing to walk in keeping facts straight while suggesting novel interpretations. No one in a senior position in the current White House could speak to how the surrogate program became corrupted or convince readers that this tampering might not still be in practice. At the end of the article, the reporter reminded readers of the ambush in Paraguay and wondered at the irony that the surrogate son of David’s second wife recently came to live with the family. That an orphaned surrogate child had been forced on a woman who might soon be widowed and raising her husband’s orphaned children. Without thinki
ng of the time, I called Milan.
“You’re lucky I have an early-morning flight, Anne.” Milan, while he was awake, didn’t sound like he was ready for business. “Something must be wrong.”
“Have you read the morning news post? A second installation on the surrogate story that features David and Tia.”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll call you back. We had an agreement that the second story would be held for next week.” He disconnected.
I stayed at the desk, wondered how Sarah and Paul would deal with all the pain raised in this story—the insinuation of mental instability for Tia’s offspring, the videos of the grandchildren they might never know, the closing paragraph with its mention of me as a widow. My coffee went cold as the morning light gained meager strength. Milan called back.
“Anne, I’ve read the article. The series is meant to embarrass the secretary of Welfare, the executive directors of the Bureau of Human Capital Management, and the president, whose husband spent his career in the Bureau.” Irritation played under his voice. “We’ve taken the only action we can and shut down the video segments.” He coughed, a morning tendency I’ve sat through during years of early calls.
“I’m keeping our kids close to the residence. We’ve posted specific signage forbidding photographing residents, workers, and all staff.” I already felt tired, wanting just one day to begin without drama. “I suspect this story is big enough to attract photographers to Ashwood for pictures of our kids.”
“Tell Sarah and Paul that I’m sorry.”
“What they want to ask about is why you didn’t tell them about these children.” He didn’t respond. “I think they feel betrayed that they haven’t heard this from you.”
“Anne, my official responsibility is to the children, not to the Regan family.” Again the cough.
“To Sarah and Paul, the children are the family.” My quiet time for the day was over. Long-ago unethical decisions of people in power now threw us into the uncharted legal grounds of this scandal. “They would like all six of these kids brought to Ashwood and might well engage counsel to press their interest.”
“In David’s absence?”
“Perhaps because of David’s absence.” Someone knocked at my door. “Because they believe this is what he will want and because they want to hold on to anything that reminds them of their son. I have to go.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Paul waited in the hall, a big man made even larger with anger. “Turn on your data pad. There’s a story.”
“I’ve read it, Paul. I talked with Milan. There isn’t anything the government can do.”
“Fine friend. He’s legal guardian for David’s children and hides them from us. Doesn’t even have the decency to let you and David know any of this until it can’t be hidden. He’s a snake.”
I eased Paul into our room, closed the door before the whole estate heard his words through gossip. “How is Sarah?”
“She’s making plans for where they’ll sleep when we get them here. I’m thinking maybe we should take all of our grandkids to South Dakota and the ranch. Life is simpler there. Not so much pressure, not all of this crisis.”
“Sit with me for a few minutes, help me think through talking with the kids.”
He shook his head, ready for action, not talking. “Isn’t that why your friend sent the doctor here? Talk with her, then have her tell Sarah and me what she’s figured out.”
“Milan did not send Dr. Frances here. Terrell made the arrangements on our behalf.” The generally patient, wise Paul left as emotionally tight as I’d ever seen him. I followed, steered off into the kitchen. Dr. Frances sat at the counter, on the stool where I usually sat, talking with Terrell. They both turned.
“You’ve read the news,” she said. Terrell stood up, offered me his stool.
“Yes.” I waved Terrell back to his seat. “Paul and Sarah are overwhelmed. I’m so angry about everything in the past week, I can’t even think straight.”
“How do you do your best thinking?” I thought her lips looked different, her eyes softer. Terrell moved away, touched her knee first.
“Usually on my own, but if you don’t mind moving slowly, I would appreciate company outside.”
She slid from the stool. “Lead the way.”
Terrell handed me a travel mug of coffee, a half sandwich, and two tablets. “Better you take these here with a glass of water and eat that sandwich as you walk.”
So, like a child, I stood next to the counter and took my medicine. “By the way, when you conduct the next medical audit, I’m guilty of self-medicating.”
“We’ll take care of that. I want to rebandage that ankle, then you can take a walk.”
Dr. Frances and I slipped on yard coats. My feet wanted to move fast, to trot or run, but even a rough hobble taxed my strength. I led the doctor around the front of the residence, glanced at the DOE building, where a crew already readied for demolition. We headed to the orchard, where the smell of sun-ripened apples mixed with the overly sweet stink of fallen fruit rotting in tall grass. The bees would be busy when the sun truly rose, but in the half-light of early morning all was still. Bunnies dashed out ahead of us. Across the near silence, sounds from the livestock could be heard.
“Phoebe says walking here with you is one of her favorite activities.”
The comment made me smile. “There was an old orchard here that David and I decided to restore the first year we were married. We are both tree lovers, but every estate investment must support food production and jobs.” I breathed in, held the sweet air in my lungs. “We planted hundreds of fruit trees where we could see the growth from our offices.”
“How do you feel about the story referring to you as a possible widow?”
“It’s not just about how I feel. You do understand that, if David dies, the Bureau could determine that Phoebe and Noah should be raised elsewhere? I’m afraid of losing my kids.”
“You are a powerful influence in your stepdaughter’s life.” Dr. Frances walked like an experienced country hiker, not needing to watch her feet on the uneven ground. “Your resiliency and steadiness give her an important sense of stability. And your sense of humor encourages her to be a child. Phoebe needs you.”
I slowed, relieved to hear this clear declaration. “It’s become a bit more complex because of how Paul and Sarah are responding to this story. If David doesn’t return, they want legal custody of all his biological children.” I slowed to sip coffee. “There has been a lot of pressure on our business to increase production, pay more taxes, and make all that happen with fewer resources. Paul works very hard and he isn’t a young man. Because of all of that, they want to return to South Dakota.”
“How does that make you feel?” She spoke softly.
“I think you can figure it out.” I sipped again, took a few bites of the sandwich, then threw the rest down for the birds. “I know they have no real understanding of how the Bureau managed these gifted kids’ futures.”
Grackles filled the air around us with their edgy heckling. Something about these black winged creatures frightened John as a baby and still made him nervous. They circled near the edge of the trees, possibly fixated on a mouse. I understood their victim’s feelings too well.
“David has never spoken with his parents about the legal requirements we must meet in education, testing, and developmental activities to keep Phoebe and Noah with us.” Rough ground snagged my support boot, making me stumble. Dr. Frances reached for my elbow, steadied me.
“Anne, don’t underestimate what your parents-in-law know. They’ve done a bit of their own research over the years. For example, Sarah told me you pay a handsome salary for Teacher Jason to keep her grandchildren at home.”
“But she can’t really understand how the Bureau plans to manage these kids’ adult lives and keep them as intellectual employees.” A large rabbit dashed ahead on our path. “We just act like parents and hope for some major change before Phoebe and Noah grow
up.”
“You’re sensitive to Sarah’s feelings about surrogacy. Why?”
“How do you think a woman who gave up her career to raise five boys on an isolated ranch would respond to a government program requiring a woman to have her tubes tied and allow her babies to be carried by a surrogate?” I took a wrong step again and my ankle twisted. “Damn.” Distant sounds of machinery and animals and voices drifted through the trees, a life I never sought. “They didn’t have to make the tough personal decisions our generation made to pull this country out of the depression. Financial stuff changed on the ranch, but not freedom. They don’t want to know the hard fact that their surrogate grandchildren are not truly free citizens.”
I tossed most of my coffee in a high arc into the grass. The air was warming, the sun showing beautiful fruit nearly ready for harvest. “It stinks. David and Tia got a good education, comfortable housing, and generous compensation but lost the most fundamental rights of human beings—choosing their own mates and raising their own babies.”
“Everyone sacrificed to bring the United States back to stability.” Logical tenacity appeared to be Dr. Frances’s strength. “You wanted to be a teacher, I wanted to do research, Terrell wanted to be a therapist. This is what happens when countries tank.”
“I’m fine making those sacrifices for myself—but not for the next generation. Our rights weren’t taken away before we were born. Our DNA wasn’t manipulated to make us supposedly superior individuals.” I stopped. “Let’s go back. My ankle’s not quite up to another half mile.”
We turned around, walked in silence. “Dr. Frances, I am grateful for how my life developed, but it’s hard to set my mind at peace with what might be expected of our children.” Grackles flew up in front of us. Dr. Frances startled.
“I feel betrayed by somebody.” I wandered into sharing thoughts I never felt free to speak before. “The government did a bang-up job hauling this country out of the depression. Somehow I thought if my generation worked really hard, our kids would have a life more like what we knew before this all happened.”
Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 Page 26