by Dan Koontz
“Uh, can you hear me now?” he stammered.
“Oh yeah. Now I can. Loud and clear,” she said casually, obviously not sharing his anxiety. “So what’s up?”
“Uh, it’s nothing major. But I didn’t know if maybe... you might have any time to talk sometime today?”
“Sure. My shoot’s about to start back up, but I’ll be done in a couple hours. You want to call me back?”
“I could...” Ryan said, his heart pounding. “But is there any chance we might be able to meet up in person?”
“Oh. Well,” she hesitated, “I don’t think I can make it back up to Boston again this soon.”
“No. I... uh... I actually just arrived in New York.” He paused, shaking his head. That had to sound weird. “I don’t know how you feel about stalkers?”
“I love them. Love them!” Annamaria laughed. “Hey, let me give you a call when I’m done. I’m staying at the Peninsula Hotel, if you want to head over that way.”
“Awesome. Oh, and if you don’t mind, can you just give me your room number? I brought some of my higher-powered telephoto lenses down with me, and I just need to know where to aim them.”
To Ryan’s relief, she laughed again – a bubbly carefree laugh that reached through the phone and demanded reciprocity. “I’ll see you in a couple hours,” she giggled. He was feeling better already.
But as he walked out of the train station onto W 31st street to start the 25 block trek toward the hotel, the melancholy seeped back in. The stagnant New York air was thick, holding on to every scent the city had to offer, and the low-hanging sky was a virulent gray that seemed to infect everything it came in contact with, somehow sapping the color from both heaven and earth.
By the time his phone rang an hour and a half later, his mind was once again wholly consumed with what had led him to New York in the first place.
Then he caught sight of Annamaria stepping out of the lobby of the Peninsula. The world stood still for a moment as she walked out in a plain white V-neck T-shirt paired with well-worn jeans and flip-flops, an ensemble that tens (if not hundreds) of thousands of other women in the city were futilely trying to wear like she did.
She made fleeting eye contact with Ryan and then headed north into Central Park, as Ryan followed at an inconspicuous distance.
A hundred yards or so into the park, she veered off the asphalt path toward a large steep-faced boulder with a flat top under a mature elm tree. Ryan tried his best not to struggle as he scaled the nine-foot rock to join her at the top. And at last, they sat side by side, their legs dangling off the front of the boulder, nearly invisible to the rest of the city.
“Nice spot,” Ryan said, squeezing his knees together to prevent any potentially misinterpretable touching of their legs.
“Yeah, I found it last time I was here on a shoot. Every so often, I’ll leave my phone in my room and walk down here – just to think; stare off into nothing for a little while; cry sometimes. I’ve never been bothered here. You’re kind of away from everything. But I like that I can still hear the city. It’s kind of comforting.”
He gave her a silent nod that told her he got it. He knew the fine line between solitude and isolation, and he’d found himself on both sides of it at different times alone with his thoughts.
“But you’re the first person I’ve shown this place to,” she said with a fragile smile, trying to keep the mood from getting too somber. “So congratulations!”
Ryan took his phone out of his pocket and pretended to take a picture. “Gimme just a sec here. I’m gonna upload this location to my Facebook page and then tweet it out real fast.”
Annamaria laughed and threw her shoulder into his, nearly knocking him off the rock. “So how have you been?” she asked with a playful smirk. “Why did you come to visit me?”
He strained to smile back at her, but his expression read more sorrow than joy, and eventually his eyes fell to the ground below.
“What is it?” she asked, gently placing her hand on his shoulder.
“I just found out that my mom was pregnant when she died.”
“Oh my God. How do you know?”
“I read an email between her and my dad. They were gonna surprise me with the news the night of the car wreck.
“It’s just that...” He paused, staring straight ahead, shaking his head slowly. “I always wanted a sibling.”
“I’d give anything to have mine back,” Annamaria whispered.
Ryan continued, “And I’ve started to remember some things that might not be significant, but after hearing what happened to you and listening to Dillon’s rants, I’m starting to wonder if Avillage really is behind a lot of this. Maybe Dillon’s right. Maybe part of every dollar I ever make will be padding the bank accounts of my parents’ – my family’s – killers.”
Annamaria took Ryan’s hand in hers, ready to listen for as long as he wanted to talk.
“This is gonna sound weird,” he confessed with a nervous a laugh, “but the most impactful thing my parents ever said to me was after they’d already died. I mean, I know it wasn’t really them, but it seemed real. And it’s what they would’ve said if they could have.
“My dad told me that I was their everything – even more so since they were gone. And then my mom told me to do four things. She said, ‘Make a difference. Be happy. Love. And be loved.’
“‘Make a difference’ was first.
“That’s always been my biggest motivation – trying to be their legacy. But now I’m almost done with college, and what I’m good at is taking tests and making money. That’s not what they cared about.”
“What do you care about?” Annamaria asked.
“I care about my family.” That was a cop out though. Who didn’t care about their family? He thought for a while before coming up with a real answer, as if it were the first time he’d ever considered the question. “And I guess I care about us Avillage orphans. Even Dillon.
“I mean, look at us. We’re a pretty complex group of... anomalous individuals – outliers, I guess you could say. All of us have come from tragedy early in our lives, yet most of us have achieved or are at least on our way to achieving some level of what society would call success.
“But I think we still resent and fear some malevolent puppet master behind the scenes at Avillage headquarters. And I think most of us have never come to grips with the trauma from our childhoods.”
“I know I haven’t,” Annamaria said. “But I know what I have to do. If I could ever work up the nerve to do it.
“I’ve gotta go back to Panama. Back to the orphanage in Rainbow City and confront my old headmaster. Then, somehow, find a way to be of some use to those kids again. That’s what I care about. And I used to be good at it. Thing is, I don’t know if anyone could even take me seriously at this point.”
He looked Annamaria squarely in the eye still squeezing her hand firmly, his voice now even and steady. “Annamaria, listen to me. It’s incredible that you’ve been able to get where you are right now with everything you’ve been through. I’m not saying you’re not beautiful. You are. But don’t ever let anyone try and convince you that you got where you are on your looks. Your looks nearly damned you. They were an obstacle you had to overcome. And you did it.”
She smiled appreciatively, her lower lip quivering.
“And I hate to say it right now, but I actually have to get back to Boston. My train leaves in half an hour. Thank you for talking to me. I know it was quick and I hogged most of the conversation, but you have no idea how helpful it was. And if you ever need someone better – or I should probably say different – than your rock in central park to talk to, I’m here. Any time.”
~~~
Anxiety was a foreign concept to James Prescott. But right now he was anxious.
From the day he’d turned thirty, he’d never fluctuated more than five pounds north or south of 180. At his last doctor’s appointment he weighed in at 170. That seemingly insignificant finding h
ad led to a thorough exam, which then led to routine blood tests and eventually a series of CT scans.
Today, he’d be getting the results. His doctor had politely but emphatically declined to provide them to him by phone, encouraging him to come in to discuss them in person, as soon as possible.
Doctors don’t get paid for phone calls; they get paid for office visits, Prescott reminded himself cynically, but he knew deep down that the news couldn’t be good.
And so he waited – alone in the bright, airy, teal and stone waiting room of the Executive Health Clinic of New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Too keyed up to sit, he began to pace, intermittently looking over at the receptionist for some indication he might be on the verge of being called back.
Technically, he was still early. But, they had to know that his time was infinitely more valuable than the doctor’s. Wasn’t that the point of the Executive Health program? That people like him wouldn’t have to wait?
Finally reaching a boiling point, he approached the desk with an uncharacteristically disingenuous smile. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s been nearly fifteen minutes. Is there any way you could page Dr. Timmons?”
Before the receptionist had a chance to respond, Prescott heard the “clack” of the mechanical door to the back of the office unlatch, and the door slowly swung open. Dr. Timmons stepped through into the waiting room and greeted him with his characteristic firm handshake – but not the exuberant, bordering on brown-nosing, smile Prescott had become accustomed to.
They walked in silence, Dr. Timmons in front and Prescott following closely behind, past their customary exam room and down the hall to a small conference room, where two middle-aged women in white coats were waiting, projecting the same deliberate lack of expression Dr. Timmons had. More evidence of bad news in Prescott’s mind. These were clearly colleagues, not assistants. And while “multidisciplinary care” had been an enticing feature in selecting this particular health plan, realizing that he would soon be needing it was sickening.
Dr. Timmons introduced his colleagues, a radiologist and a medical oncologist, offered Prescott a seat, which he politely refused, and then started in a soothing tone, “I wish we had better news for you, Mr. Prescott. But your CT scan of the abdomen was abnormal. There appears to be a mass in your pancreas, and it took up the contrast we gave you. Now, we don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with at this...”
“What do you think we’re dealing with?” Prescott interrupted.
“Well, what we need to do to figure that out is more testing, which is what I was leading up to.”
Prescott was unimpressed. “You could have told me I needed more testing over the phone,” he said pointedly. “In your professional opinion, what do you think we’re dealing with?”
“In my professional opinion – well, in our combined professional opinion – the findings would be most consistent with... with pancreatic cancer.”
Prescott nodded with no change in expression. He knew among cancers that was a bad one. “And is it confined to the pancreas?”
“There was a spot in the liver as well,” Dr. Timmons answered, knowing there was no way he’d be able to get away with sidestepping the question. “But that spot was also non-specific.”
“What kind of life expectancy am I looking at?” Prescott asked emotionlessly.
“Mr. Prescott,” his doctor sighed. “There’s no way to answer that.”
“I’ll have my assistant look it up before I even get back to my office. Just save me the time. What is the life expectancy for someone with metastatic pancreatic cancer?”
“The five-year survival rate is less than five percent,” Dr. Timmons admitted, hanging his head.
One of the women took over from there. “Mr. Prescott, I’m a radiologist who specializes in interventional procedures. The next step toward a definitive diagnosis would be to determine what that mass in your pancreas is for sure, and the only way to do that is by looking at a piece of it under the microscope. It turns out the easiest and least invasive way to get that piece is with a needle biopsy, performed under CT guidance.”
“Alright, when can we do it?” Prescott asked, desperate to know exactly what he was up against.
“That’s up to you. We can certainly be flexible with your schedule, keeping in mind that we shouldn’t sit on this for too long.”
“How long does it take?”
“Thirty minutes or so. An hour max.”
“Is there any recovery time?”
“No, it’s a pretty simple outpatient procedure.”
“Alright then, let’s go. Let’s do it now,” Prescott said decisively.
“Well, the equipment probably wouldn’t be available right now,” the doctor backpedaled, not expecting that response. “And regardless, you’d need to be fasting for the procedure.”
“I haven’t eaten anything today. And with the money I’m paying the hospital, I’m sure you can solve the equipment availability issue. Now let’s hurry up and get to wherever we need to be in this hospital and get this over with.”
~~~
Leonard Weinstien exited the baggage claim at Cleveland Hopkins Airport to find Ryan idling at the curb. After receiving the external hard drive in the mail that morning from Dillon, Ryan had spent the last several hours reviewing all of the J’Quarius Jones files. Nowhere had there been any mention of either Weinstien or a biological father.
“Paper files,” Weinstien grunted, as he hoisted an overstuffed suitcase into the back seat and then climbed in the front next to Ryan.
Weinstien was five-six with frazzled gray hair that shot out horizontally from the base of an expansive bald spot. He seemed to be in a constant struggle with a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that were perpetually trying to slide down his nose, away from his reddish-brown eyes that were stuck in a continuous squint. He wore a faded brown suit that obviously hadn’t been upgraded since well before his retirement five years earlier, and his generous gut hung lazily over his belt.
“Ryan Ewing,” Ryan nodded with a forced smile, hoping his skepticism wasn’t too apparent.
“Pleasure. Leonard Weinstien. Ok, then. Now that I’m no longer billing by the hour – or even billing at all – we might as well get straight to business. I’m staying at the Hampton Inn by the way, if you want to head that direction.
“First of all a couple of security questions for you. What school did you go to?
“Hunting Valley Academy.”
“Full name please.”
“Hunting Valley Academy for Math, Science and the Arts.”
“And what was your birth name?
“Ryan Tyler, Jr.”
“How old are you?
“17”
“College and Major?”
“Harvard. Economics.”
“Adoptive parents names?”
“Thomas and Sara Ewing.”
“ATM pin number?”
Ryan glared over at his passenger to see a wry smile materialize on Weinstien’s face.
“OK, well that’s all I’ve got,” Weinstien said, slamming a small notepad shut. “If you’re not who you say you are, I’ll at least give you credit for doing your homework.”
“What kind of law did you practice?” Ryan asked, visibly underwhelmed.
“Mostly family law, but I did a little criminal defense in my early years. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Well, as I stated in my email, J’Quarius was the second orphan adopted into Avillage – after me of course. And I was actually at the game the night he died. I happened to see your sign.
“Since that time, I’ve had the chance to talk with some of the other Avillage orphans out there, and there were some who had... I’ll say unusual circumstances surrounding their adoptions into Avillage.”
“Uh huh,” Weinstien nodded with a knowing smile. “So what you’re saying is, ‘You see, Mr. Weinstien, I’ve got this friend who...?’”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Ryan jumped in. “There were some unusu
al circumstances around my adoption too. I’m not trying to hide that. Right now I’m just trying to collect as much information as I can – not just for my sake, but for every kid who’s been put up on AVEX.”
“Ok, ok.” Weinstien’s smirk had disappeared. He could see Ryan was sincere. “I’ll tell you what I know.
“A little over ten years ago, in the weeks before J’Quarius’s adoption, I represented a man named Melvin Brown. So, he tells me he’d had a relationship with J’Quarius’s mom Cheryl Jones for a little over a year at the time J’Quarius was born – he had plenty of pictures of the two of them to support his story. I don’t doubt the story at all.
“Now, he claimed that Cheryl’s mom never really approved of him and was constantly in Cheryl’s ear the whole time they were together, trying to break them up.
“Then one day, when he was out of town for his uncle’s – or maybe it was a cousin’s? Anyway. Neither here nor there. He was at a family member’s funeral – he got a call from Cheryl’s mom to tell him Cheryl had had a seizure, been admitted to the hospital with uncontrollable blood pressure, and had died of brain swelling.”
“Eclampsia?” Ryan whispered.
Weinstien stared at him incredulously. “I thought you said you were studying economics?”
“Yeah, that’s my major, but I try to take a variety of classes.”
“So, yes,” Weinstien continued, “as it turns out, she died of eclampsia, which you already seem to know is a condition some pregnant women get – causes high blood pressure, seizures, and, if untreated, potentially fatal brain swelling.”
“But how did Melvin not know she was pregnant?”
“I don’t think she knew! I saw the pictures.
“I mean, you’ve seen J’Quarius. You could probably guess he came from a pretty big mom. She wasn’t necessarily fat. Just big. Over six feet. And big-boned. Sure, she looked a little heavier in the later pictures, but I could see how they might not have known she was pregnant. And when I got to digging into it a little, I found out J’Quarius was actually born prematurely – almost a month and a half early.