The Mistress's Daughter

by A M Homes

  “This is Jennifer,” the voice of Orchid Cellmark says.

  “Hi, I’m trying to locate the results of a DNA blood test I had done in 1993.”

  When I say 1993, it’s as though I’m saying 1903—the world we are living in is so brutally advanced and ahistorical.

  In a millisecond Jennifer tells me, “Oh, we wouldn’t have that. Anything over five years we don’t keep.”

  “What do you do with it?”

  “We shred it,” Jennifer says. And I don’t believe her. I’m thinking, Jennifer, you can’t shred it because it doesn’t exist on paper—it lives in a computer. And then images of laptop computers being fed into a giant shredder fill my mind.

  “Thanks,” I say, hanging up. I try another lab.

  According to Pat at LabCorp of America they too don’t have the results. “We keep our records for seven years.”

  “When did you start doing DNA testing?”

  “Hold on.”

  I’m on hold with tin can music in my ear. I’m on hold for a long time and it occurs to me that she just put me on hold to make me wait and is sitting there on the other end, picking her nose. It occurs to me that she might not come back. “First in its industry to embrace genomic testing,” says the background tape.

  “Nineteen eighty-one,” she says, coming back on the line. There is a peculiar coldness, a kind of self-satisfaction to the way these people say, We don’t have that, as though they have no idea what that might mean, they really don’t care, as though they get enormous and perverse pleasure from emptying the electronic trash can on their computer screen. Gone, gone, and gone.

  One of the lawyers asks if I have any letters from him. I think somewhere I might have a birthday card. Would there be enough DNA on the envelope to get a result? And anyway, without him already in a database, how would we deny or confirm?

  Again the lawyers debate. We talk about the fact that I have not said his name in public, have never printed the information. I am wondering if my father realizes that until now I’ve never told anyone who he is. In fact, the origin of this book, a long piece I wrote for the New Yorker in 2004, reflected my desire to continue to protect him. In that article, I called Norman “Stan” and Ellen “Helene.” I’m wondering if Norman knows that what I wrote for the New Yorker was so convincing that when it was time for the magazine to fact-check the article, they e-mailed me and asked for “Stan’s” phone number. “My father’s name is not really Stan,” I explained. And again they asked for his name and number. I told them that I had never given anyone that information and I would not be able to provide it to them.

  Only after the magazine first threatened and then did briefly kill the piece did I question why I was ruining my professional reputation protecting the identity of someone who had never shown any particular concern for me. Still, I didn’t think they needed to bother the man. They insisted. The New Yorker has what they call a double standard for fact checking—if the subject is to be unidentified or masked, not only does the subject have to be rendered unrecognizable to others, but also unrecognizable to himself. My father, simply by knowing that he is my father, had his cover blown.

  The way the magazine killed the piece—as if doubting me—practically killed me. For the first time in years, I felt that my right to exist was in question. That there was any doubt to the truth of my story sent me into a spin. It had never been my desire to expose my father—and at the same time I couldn’t help but wonder, why was I being so protective? Finally I gave the New Yorker his phone number. I have no idea what was said between the magazine and my father and his lawyer. I asked to be there, a witness to the conversation, but the fact-checker refused. From what the fact-checker told me, I understood there were thirty-five questions the magazine wanted to ask; they detailed them for my father and his lawyer—and my father and his lawyer declined to answer any of them. The piece was published by the New Yorker in December of 2004.

  I confer with my lawyers about the DAR application—it occurs to more than one of them that the lawyer for my adoptive parents might actually have a copy of my original birth certificate, because it was a private adoption and because my mother never signed the papers, and someone had to provide the court with a copy of the original birth certificate.

  The lawyer I have to call is the man who called my parents in 1992 to tell them that Ellen had contacted him, the same lawyer who opened the letters from Ellen, who recognized my father’s name and called Ellen to say, if you’re going to give her (me) that information, you’d better tell him.

  Dialing the lawyer’s house, I have chest pains. His wife answers—she is tentative when I ask for him. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “A.M. Homes.”

  “May I ask, what is it about?”

  And I explain, “Mr. Frosh helped my parents finalize my adoption back in 1961. It was a private adoption and I spoke with him several years ago when my birth mother contacted him trying to reach me—and now I have some questions.”

  There is a pause. “He’s not entirely well.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, wondering what that means—again, always the fear that I’ve called too late.

  “He’s eighty-seven and some days he knows everything and the next remembers nothing. But I will ask him when it seems like a good moment.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “What I’m looking for is the file, a copy of the file.”

  “Maybe my son Brian,” she says.

  “Yes,” I say, “if he could find it, that would be great. I think he knows about it. When my birth mother called, she actually first called Brian.” (Brian is also a lawyer).

  And then she tells me a story of someone, maybe her daughter, maybe a neighbor, having adopted two Romanian children. At this point I’m having what I call situational deafness. I am worrying about the fact that I may not be able to get this information. I’ve half of a mind to say: Do you know where he kept his files? Are they stored somewhere? But instead I say, “Did it work out?” And I think she says yes, and I say something like, “That’s good. Good or bad, up or down, it’s all interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Are you having a good life?” she asks, like she wants to know, did it all work out?

  “A good life? Yes,” I say, both lying and not. I’m having a great life. “I’m really lucky. I have a great life.” And it is equally true that I am suffering, otherwise I wouldn’t be calling her. “Everything is good,” I tell her.

  “That’s good,” she says. “Have a good life.”

  I contact the lawyer’s son Brian Frosh, now a Maryland state senator. We exchange e-mails; I tell him about my conversation with his mother and remind him of the call he intercepted from Ellen years ago. I ask Brian if, when he visits his parents’ house, he might check for the file. He is incredibly gracious and understanding. We trade stories of what it is like to have an aging parent, our concerns for our families, for the history that is lost. Brian Frosh makes a special trip to his parents’ house to look for the file—he looks everywhere, but finds nothing.

  I am running out of options.

  The question of whether or not to sue, to attempt to legally compel my father to produce the DNA document or an affidavit, remains open. Joining the DAR is not essential to my health and well-being, but the idea that my father—or any one person—can decide to exclude someone from her lineage profoundly bothers me. The real question is not about the DAR but about adoptees’ rights to access and join their own heritage—and for that reason I am not entirely willing to drop the subject.

  I think of my father asking me to have the DNA test and then later refusing my request for the DNA document, refusing to sign an affidavit, and refusing to acknowledge me. I think of my father and can’t help but think of Ellen—falling for him when she was just a teenager, being his mistress for seven years, and then pregnant with his child. I think of Ellen and I think of how my father behaved—making her promises, stringing her along, and ultimately abandoning her.

&nbs
p; Nothing has changed. More than forty years later he is still behaving exactly as he always behaved. He is doing what is good for him, what suits his needs and desires. I see my mother as a teenager in love with an older man, a young woman who had to give up her child, who lived the rest of her life in the shadow of that loss, a woman who never married, who never really recovered—and for her I am angry with him.

  This is not just about the DAR—that’s clear. I wish there had been more: a father-daughter relationship, a friendship. I wish I could know more about his family (my family)—where they came from, how they lived their lives, what they valued. I would have liked to know his children, to learn what we have in common, to feel what it means to have a blood knot. And I would have liked to have come out from the shadows, to be seen not as the product of an affair but as a person, an adult—who is no more or less of them than they are of one another.

  Based on nothing except my own blind faith, I am cautiously optimistic that there will be some natural opening, some give on Norman’s part. I resolve to do nothing for the moment, to watch and wait, to allow myself to catch up to my feelings and to see over time where the story leads me.

  Like an Episode of L.A. Law

  Deposition: a curious word meaning to remove from office or a position of power and/or testimony under oath—a written statement by a witness for use in court in his absence.

  Deposition: I think of suing my father to prove that he is my father and just the phrasing—suing my father to prove that he is my father—has the equally surreal echo of the moment my mother told me that my mother was dead. Suing my father—I picture the papers being filed, a summons served telling him to appear at a certain place at a certain time. I imagine there being a man, a stranger to both of us, someone hired to do the job, to ask the questions.

  Mr. Hecht, before we begin I would like to remind you that the length of a deposition is limited to seven hours a day, over the course of however many days it takes to do the kind of call-and-response, asking of questions, related to the actions and activities of the last forty-four years—that’s how old she is now, the infant in question.

  Rules of Civil Procedure. Rule 26—Discovery. We will be asking you, the deposed, to provide a copy of your birth certificate and a copy of the DNA test that you and Ms. Homes jointly participated in. Given that a potential witness is anyone who has information relevant to the issues of a lawsuit or who has information that may lead to relevant information, we will also call your wife and your children. Unlike a trial, where a judge can rule on objections, at a deposition lawyers can ask irrelevant questions and inquire into hearsay.

  Is all of this clear?

  Have you ever had your deposition taken before?

  Do you understand that you are under oath—sworn to tell the truth?

  Are you prepared to answer my questions?

  Is there anything about your physical state—are you taking any medications that will prevent you from giving me complete and truthful answers?

  If you need to take a break at any time, let me know.

  What is your full name?

  Your place and date of birth?

  Your parents’ names and places and dates of birth?

  Mr. Hecht, can you tell me why are we here today? Is there a particular issue?

  In 1993 you asked Ms. Homes to participate in a DNA blood test that would genetically compare DNA samples from both you and Ms. Homes to prove that in fact you are her father. And the result of that test showed that it was 99.9 percent likely that you are her father, and recently when she requested a copy of that test from you, you declined to provide it—is that correct?

  You asked Ms. Homes to participate in the test, but you don’t believe you should both have access to the results. Why is that?

  You participated equally?

  You paid for the test, Mr. Hecht—actually you had some trouble paying for the test, didn’t you? You scheduled the appointment for the test in July of 1993, Ms. Homes traveled from New York to Washington and met you at the lab, but you didn’t have the right kind of payment, the right kind of check—and you had to go back again the next day?

  At the time you scheduled the test, Ms. Homes offered to pay for the test as well or split the cost with you?

  Now, if it is all about the money—the costs associated with this meeting here today are in excess of the charges for the test. So perhaps this is not about money?

  How would you describe yourself, Mr. Hecht?

  Would you describe yourself as a family man?

  Is there more to you than that—than just a retired businessman?

  Are you close to your family?

  Do you go to church?

  You have a son who shares your name—what does that name mean to you?

  What is your identity, Mr. Hecht?

  Did you always know who you were?

  Have you ever been arrested?

  Been charged with a crime?

  For the record, can you tell us about any and all claims, lawsuits, that you’ve been involved in over the years?

  What was your age and place of first employment?

  And your last—were you fired, or asked to step down?

  Did you feel any personal responsibility?

  Do you think of yourself as someone who gets things done?

  Has anyone ever called you a big shot?

  Do you think you’re an average man?

  Same level of ambition as your peers?

  Did you graduate from college?

  Were you in the army? Ever kill anyone?

  Where did you grow up, Mr. Hecht?

  How would you describe your childhood?

  Who raised you?

  How was it that you lived with your grandparents—where were your mother and father?

  How did your parents meet?

  What did your father do for a living?

  How would you describe your relationship with your father?

  Were you close?

  Did he love you?

  Do you think it’s true that boys are closer to their mothers, and girls to their fathers?

  Are you proud of your family history?

  Involved in any lineage organizations?

  What clubs are you a member of?

  Have you ever wanted to join a club and not been allowed in?

  What kind of name is “Hecht”?

  Was your father Jewish?

  Was he raised in a Jewish home?

  Did your mother’s family consider you Jewish?

  Was your father’s father a kosher butcher?

  Why did your paternal grandmother carry a gun?

  Would you describe yourself as charitable?

  Do you give money to charities?

  Do you give of your time and abilities?

  Do you drink?

  Did you ever use recreational drugs?

  Ever smoke marijuana?

  Ever take pills for energy?

  Ever use cocaine?

  Ever try Viagra?

  Where did you meet your wife?

  At what age were you married?

  Did you engage in relations before the wedding?

  Was she a virgin?

  Were you?

  Have you ever had a sexually transmitted disease?

  When did you last have sex, Mr. Hecht?

  With whom?

  Would you say that you and your wife had a good sex life?

  Did you and your wife ever discuss open marriage?

  So, initially she didn’t know that you were having a sexual relationship with Ms. Ballman?

  Was Ms. Ballman your first relationship outside your marriage, or did someone precede her?

  How did your wife find out about Ms. Ballman?

  Can you tell me the names of your children?

  Do you know their birth dates?

  Besides Ms. Homes—did you have any other children outside your marriage?

  Is it possible, Mr. Hecht, that there are others?

&nbs
p; How many relationships did you have outside your marriage?

  How long did they last?

  Your wife was pregnant at the same time as Ms. Ballman?

  How old was Ms. Ballman when you met her?

  How would you describe her physically—her appearance?

  Did you know that she was a minor?

  What were the circumstances of that meeting?

  Were you the owner of the Princess Shop?

  How long did Ms. Ballman work for you?

  When did your sexual relationship begin?

  What were the circumstances of that first encounter?

  Was she a virgin?

  Do you think your libido is average?

  Was Ms. Ballman a nymphomaniac?

  Was she a lesbian?

  Did you once tell Ms. Homes that Ellen Ballman was a nymphomaniac and on another occasion that she was a lesbian?

  Did your male friends also have girls on the side?

  How many of them knew Ms. Ballman?

  Did you worry that Ms. Ballman was sleeping with other men—your friends?

  When your sexual relationship with Ms. Ballman began, how old was she?

  What would prompt a teenage girl in the 1950s to leave her mother’s care and take up with a married man?

  Did Ellen Ballman tell you that someone was molesting her?

  You told Ms. Homes that Ms. Ballman told you something that would have indicated that something was happening in her mother’s home and that you probably should have listened better.

  Did you take advantage of Ms. Ballman?

  Did you use birth control?

  Did Ms. Ballman meet your family—your mother?

  Your children?

  Your wife?

  How did it happen that your eldest son spent time with Ms. Ballman?