What Is Missing

by Michael Frank

  “If Henry’s more into me—and I’m not saying that he is—it’s probably more because he knows I don’t give as much of a shit as you do.”

  “About what?”

  “Him.”

  Andrew took this in. “Did Mom tell you who the father is?”

  Justin shook his head.

  “Are you interested in knowing?”

  “Am I interested in knowing who the father is? Curious use of the definite article, Baby B. That would be our father, would it not? In some narrow biochemical sense. But—truly—I don’t care whose genes are in my cells. I feel freer not knowing.”

  “Freer than who?”

  “You, for one.”

  Andrew, frustrated, began to feel his temper flaring. “Aren’t we in this together?”

  “This? Which ‘this’ do you mean?”

  “This—this family, I guess.”

  Justin leaned back. “Now what family would that be, exactly? The one Judith and Henry made and then unmade before our very eyes? That would be the legal family, the social or maybe economical arrangement that goes back millennia and was devised to preserve property, fortune, a name. That would be a resounding, um, no. The genetic family? Let’s see: that one is created for the purpose of extending into distant generations the genes of a man and a woman, presumably in love, or once in love, who seek to unite their lineages through reproduction. Ding: no again. How about a looser interpretation—what shall we call it? The philosophical, the psychological, family—where two people, customarily in the olden days a man and a woman, though fortunately open to wider possibilities now, come together in an honest relationship with each other in order to create a civilized subgroup whose purpose is to rear strong children, give them a sturdy sense of self and of their place on the planet, and love them unselfishly or at least try not to play out on them all their insane animosity, egotism, neediness, pettiness, and greed, and now and then make them a decent home-cooked dinner besides? Hello? Any yeses out there in our audience?”

  Justin looked around the coffee shop theatrically.

  “Okay, we’re not in this together. We’re not in anything together. How’s that?” Then, in Andrew’s mind, a click. He stared at Justin for a moment. “I get it now. This is why you’ve been so angry at Henry. You knew, and you were mad at him, or confused or something, and you couldn’t come out and say it, so you turned yourself into a real prick. And not just to him but to me and Mom and Grandpa too.”

  Justin started to emit one of his rapid-fire responses, but then he looked at his brother’s open, hurting face. Justin drew in a long breath, as though deliberately to aerate his mind, and maybe also his stubborn heart. “Interesting hypothesis.”

  “Please, just for once, can you be serious.”

  “No, I mean it,” Justin said quietly. “You’ve possibly got something there. Possibly you do.”

  The two of them sat together in silence.

  “I’m sorry this is so hard for you, Andrew,” Justin added after a moment. “Maybe I’m also envious—a little envious—of your intensity, your … engagement. But really I prefer it my way. I’m not happy being resentful, but I am happier not caring so much. It’s harder for you, yes, but I think it also may be—I don’t know—deeper.”

  These were some of the most genuine words Justin had said to him in a long time. Again they sat in silence. Then Justin reached over and put his hand on Andrew’s. “Whatever you do, Baby B, please don’t cry.”

  * * *

  Andrew waited until he got back to the bus station. There, and only there, did he allow himself to burst into tears. Five minutes of this, he told himself. Then he upped it to ten. Where did all that freaking liquid come from anyway?

  At fifteen he took out his cell phone and googled the phone number of Dr. Isaac Schoenfeld on Park Avenue in New York City.

  * * *

  Benjamin answered the door. Andrew’s face must have showed some surprise, because Benjamin explained, “I came down for the weekend. I needed a break from school.” He closed the door behind Andrew. “My father said to tell you he’ll be out in a minute.”

  Andrew nodded. He stood in the foyer, paralyzed.

  “Maybe you should take off your jacket.”

  Andrew took off his jacket.

  “Is something wrong? You look kind of whacked. You want water or coffee or something? We just got a Nespresso machine.”

  Normal words, normal questions. Hospitable; affable; civilized. Andrew had to fight an image that came to him. He saw himself throwing his arms around Benjamin and saying, Will you be my brother? Will you help? Can you?

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  They both stood there looking at each other.

  “There’s something between our dads,” Benjamin said, “isn’t there? Something from the past.”

  Andrew didn’t answer.

  “And between you and my dad?”

  Andrew felt color coming into his face.

  “Whatever it is—no one has told me anything.”

  What was Andrew’s heart doing up there in his throat?

  Again they stood there looking at each other. Andrew had to break this excruciating silence. “How’s Charlotte?” he asked with a catch in his voice.

  Benjamin’s hands disappeared into his pockets. “That’s a good question. How is Charlotte? You’re probably not the person to be saying this to, or maybe you are the person, I don’t know. Let’s just say Charlotte is in a mood. Maybe not in the mood is a better way to put it. She’s not in the mood to continue a relationship with, and I quote, ‘such a nice guy.’”

  At least she hadn’t entirely stopped giving the nice guys a try, Andrew thought. “I’m sorry.” He had such a hunger for human connection that he was commiserating with the just-now-ex-boyfriend of his ex-girlfriend. For the second time in the space of three minutes he wanted to put his arms around this fellow and say, Brother, I understand. And maybe find out: Brother, do you understand?

  But the brotherhood Andrew was fantasizing about would be founded on what? Genes? He and Benjamin shared only half their genes; Andrew and Justin shared them all. It would have to be genes—and then he’d see. He’d see if this alternative path might lead to a better world, a wider world.

  Is that where this news, this truth, would lead him? To a world of more connection, deeper friendship? Would it be deeper or, well, just different? A new brother, a new … what would he be to Schoenfeld and Schoenfeld to him, anyway?

  * * *

  Schoenfeld’s hair was neatly combed, his face freshly shaved. His clothes seemed deliberately chosen yet effortlessly worn. He smelled good too: of lemon, or lime. A bracing, citrusy scent that Andrew recognized from Schoenfeld’s sweater, which Andrew had put on again that morning, as Schoenfeld noticed as soon as he saw Andrew. “You’re getting some use out of that, I see.”

  “Yes.” Andrew’s voice was on the verge of cracking.

  Schoenfeld invited Andrew into his private study, a room Andrew had not seen on his earlier visit to the apartment. There were more books, also shelved in meticulous order. A desk faced the window; a sofa and two chairs stood across the room and were covered in soft brown leather. A single, notably large painting hung over the sofa. It depicted what looked like an abstracted Cycladic figure, one of those stylized women with large hips whose head, blank of features except for a nose, tilted up to the heavens. On their visits to the classical galleries at the Met, Henry used to like to point out to Andrew these figures as among his favorites. They were believed to be fertility figures. Of course they interested Henry. It made sense that they would interest Schoenfeld too.

  Andrew studied the picture. “Her hips are—impressive.”

  “I suppose there’s a certain reverberation, professionally.”

  Andrew was relieved that, for a moment, there was a subject other than the subject. Well, almost another subject. “It reminds me of those small Cycladic statues at the Met.”

  “They are, I believe, the
inspiration.”

  Somehow this was less offensive to Andrew than Henry’s obsession with annunciations; less grandiose anyway. Schoenfeld was like Henry; he was unlike Henry. He was in control where Henry was controlling. He was autocratic yet thoughtful, formal yet compassionate. He had a big heart.

  Did he have a big heart? What did Andrew know about him, really? In truth Andrew had no idea who he was, what his heart was like, or not like. Who he was, at least, might soon become a little clearer. If only Andrew could think how to begin.

  “You wanted to speak to me.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Are you all right?”

  Andrew shook his head.

  Andrew stared at Schoenfeld. Schoenfeld stared at Andrew.

  “Things right now feel very—”

  An object the size of a grapefruit lodged in Andrew’s mouth. It was like his heart, before. How did it get there? How had he missed all this? He and Schoenfeld had the same noses. They were built similarly. They both had long arms. The shirts, the long sleeves—at that shop in Florence. Andrew flashed on that moment, so peculiar and confusing then. So simple and obvious now.

  What would it be like? Would Schoenfeld hug him? Would someone, finally, hold him and keep him from spinning, spiraling— falling?

  “Things right now,” he tried again, “feel very strange.”

  “Oh?”

  Andrew blurted, “Henry finally told me. I know.”

  It was impossible to detect whether Schoenfeld expected this. “Ah. I see.” Then: “What do you know?”

  “You want to hear me say the words?”

  Schoenfeld nodded.

  “You are my father. My genetic father. I am your son. Your genetic son.”

  Schoenfeld stared at him evenly and was silent for a beat. “That is correct.”

  “And I have no idea what it means.”

  “Honestly, Andrew, I don’t either.” Schoenfeld paused. “I think this is something we have to find out together—or perhaps not. It’s up to you.”

  Andrew flushed. “I don’t understand. You mean, it’s my … problem?”

  “I mean, it’s your choice. You choose where we go now. Forward, into knowing each other a little better. Or nowhere. We stop here.”

  Andrew considered for a moment. “Forward.”

  Schoenfeld nodded. “But, quite honestly, I think the person you might most want to go forward knowing, really knowing, is Henry.”

  “I know Henry.”

  “Do you? When did you learn—this information?”

  “Today. This morning.”

  “So you haven’t thought so much about how you know your father, with this information factored in? This new frame with which, through which, you might come to understand him? You might now understand better, or differently, what it is to be in his place. To be him.”

  “I barely understand what it is to be in my place. To be me.”

  “Small steps then.”

  “It’s hard for me to get beyond the secrecy. The untruthfulness.”

  “He had his reasons, I’m sure. We all did. We’re all complicit.”

  “You?”

  “I agreed to the terms.”

  “Whose terms?”

  “Henry’s. Judith’s.”

  “And what were they?”

  “Not to tell you or your brother until it had become clear that you had been told.”

  “It sounds like you wish you had done it differently.”

  “Well, it was easier to respect until … until I met you again—saw you—in the summer and later this year. Then it began to feel…”

  Andrew looked at him.

  “More complicated.”

  A silence fell.

  “This is just freaky,” Andrew said. “You and I look much more alike than Henry and I do.”

  “Yes, I noted that instantly when we saw each other in Italy. That must have been hard on your father.”

  “Why do you keep thinking of him first?”

  “Maybe because I am a father myself. I share his place—his position. I am not, in this, a son.”

  “But I’m a son—only I don’t know whose. And I feel—” Andrew swallowed. “I feel awful. I feel—lost.”

  Schoenfeld considered for a moment. “You know, Andrew, I have lived through some quite … devastating experiences in my life. I watched my younger sister become ill and struggle for years and I watched her die. I was twelve, and I thought … I thought that was the end of me too. But I found that with time I was able to break down what happened into smaller pieces and then smaller ones still. Then I began to be able to tolerate, to absorb, more than I ever thought I could.” He paused. “This has been my template for many other difficult events in life.”

  “But you worked this out years later, right? I’m at the beginning of all this, this—weirdness. It’s all very new to me.”

  “That’s true.” Schoenfeld thought for a moment. “Tell me. How can I help?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. I can’t figure anything out.”

  Schoenfeld sat back in his chair. He set his chin in his palm. “How about if we agree to a time when we can see each other? Maybe fixed times, so that we keep to them, know that they will be coming, regularly.”

  “Father-son dating. Biological father-son dating.”

  Schoenfeld laughed. “We could meet once a month if you like.”

  “What will we do? Watch sports?”

  “I’m not a particular fan.”

  “Me neither.”

  “We’ll go for a walk. Or a cup of coffee.”

  Andrew had never before understood how literal the phrase a wave of exhaustion could be, but he did now, because he felt it now. He felt all his energy drain out of him in a violent swoosh.

  “May I—may I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “May I lie down for a second on this couch?”

  “Of course you may.”

  Andrew took off his shoes and floated into a horizontal position. Schoenfeld bent over and placed his hand on Andrew’s forehead, as though checking him for fever, or simply to touch him—to touch his flesh. His own flesh. Flesh to flesh, he stood there for a long moment, then left him to sleep.

  * * *

  What they said about homes that weren’t lived in was true: over time they developed a closed, almost mortuary air. There was more to it than just the old fading spices, unvacuumed upholstery, and stagnant toilet water; there was the way such places stopped being relevant to anyone’s daily life. Without food, mail, a newspaper, without curtains open to daylight, without movement and conversation, an apartment was just a moldering box.

  Costanza had noticed this previously when she’d returned to her studio after long breaks, but now she was also struck by how the studio seemed to contain so much of her old unhappiness. Her unhappiness alone, before she met Morton; her unhappiness coupled, when she slipped away to try to think matters through without interference; her unhappiness when she became temporarily uncoupled from Morton; and her unhappiness when she was on her own again after he died, and she’d needed to flee Fifth Avenue.

  Her unhappiness with Henry: Was that now to take its place with all these other unhappinesses? Maybe she had come down to the studio to bring her unhappiness here, to unpack it and look at it coolly, analytically. And possibly, with any hope, or luck, to leave it with its kind. Or maybe she had come down to try out what it felt like to be alone, even just for a few hours, though this was a fake aloneness, a pretend aloneness; she had come in body, but in her spirit, in her heart and in her mind, she was still caught up—deeply and intricately—with Henry.

  She had entrusted not only her heart to this man, Henry Weissman, but her body also.

  And who was Henry, exactly? A man who captivated and provoked her and interested her. A man she felt compassion for and was attracted to. A man she loved but did not at the moment entirely trust.

  Why, then, had she gone ahead and allo
wed him to give her the injection of HCG?

  The injection: that was probably the only question she could answer with any reasonable certainty. She had felt it would have been too emotional, too impulsive and dramatic, to decide in the middle of the night, in the aftermath of what he’d told her, to give up on this cycle. After all those drugs and appointments, all that wear and tear on her body, all that hope, and worry, and hope again, and worry again—not even to try? Henry had agreed to her terms, anyway. He had said he would talk to the boys. He would correct what was, to her mind, a grave mistake; but this was a matter between Henry and his sons, she reminded herself. It was their story, their problem; their challenge—not hers.

  Yet how would she feel, what would she think, if this cycle also didn’t work? What if Henry had made ICSI sound more hopeful—more probable—than it actually was, because of his yearning to have a genetic child of his own? What if, knowing the truth about his own body, he had put his needs, his desires, before hers?

  If that was the case, then he was malevolent, a demon, and she was tragically blind and stupidly naïve.

  That couldn’t be right. She wasn’t that woman, so he couldn’t be that man.

  And what about this: What if her desire to have a baby was so powerful that it had vanquished her doubts about Henry? Had she become a woman who wanted to become a mother at all costs, even by a man she did not trust, a man who was not trustworthy?

  She had come downtown to the studio to try to find clarity, but she was finding the opposite. The aloneness, the quiet, the dust, were all activating her worst worries.

  The dust: that she could do something about. She took off her sweater, filled a bucket with soapy water, and wiped down the counters of her modest kitchen. Never underestimate the calming powers of cleaning; maybe that was why she was so often on edge when she was married to Morton. He wouldn’t let her clean. Ivan wouldn’t let her cook. The interior decorator would never let her rearrange the furniture. She had her work, her walks … but none of those chores that soothed an unquiet mind.