Disillusions

by Seth Margolis

  Fiona Stevens, who looked about thirty, wore a white oxford shirt, white denim pants, and white loafers. Even her skin was milk white; if it weren’t for her shoulder-length black hair, she’d have no trouble camouflaging herself against any wall of the gallery. Gwen wondered if white had replaced black as the official Soho color in the short time she’d been gone.

  “I’m trying to track down an old friend, Valerie Goodwin.”

  “Valerie hasn’t worked here in several months. Janet took her place.” She nodded at the receptionist, who didn’t look up from the keyboard of a sleek laptop. “Have you tried the phone book?”

  “She’s not listed,” Gwen lied, hoping she wouldn’t be contradicted. “But I remember her mentioning that she worked here. Why did she leave the gallery?”

  “I don’t really know, and I was rather surprised, to tell you the truth. She’d been here almost three years, with practically no absences, other than that one time just after she started, when she took a short leave.”

  “A leave?”

  Fiona Stevens looked puzzled. “Didn’t you say you were a friend of Valerie’s?”

  Gwen tried not to flinch as the director looked her over. Before leaving the hotel she’d pulled her hair back into a short ponytail to maximize the contrast with the photographs in yesterday’s editions. Her photo hadn’t been in the New York papers that morning.

  “We were very close at one time,” she said smoothly. “But we’ve lost touch. What kind of leave did Valerie take?” Gwen felt the collective gaze of all those hollow-eyed urbanites on the walls—the vast room felt suddenly crowded, and hot.

  “I really shouldn’t discuss—”

  “She was my sister-in-law, actually,” Gwen blurted. “Ex-sister-in-law. My husband—ex-husband—is very ill, I just found out.” She hoped her nervousness sounded like concern. “If Valerie has any sort of medical condition, she really must be tested. Our own child…” Gwen looked away, eyes downcast, trying not to overdo it.

  “I’m so sorry,” Fiona Stevens said. “You really don’t have to worry about Valerie, though. It was a medical leave, but it was gynecological. She didn’t go into specifics, though I do seem to recall that she’d temped for a gynecologist before coming here.”

  “Oh, God,” Gwen said as several pieces of the puzzle slotted together. “Ellikin.” Nick hadn’t met Ellikin while delivering x-rays. He’d been introduced to him by the receptionist, Valerie Goodwin.

  “That’s right, it was a Dr. Ellikin. She was a gal Friday, basically—appointments, billing, that kind of thing.”

  “Are you sure she took a week off for a gynecological procedure?” Gwen asked.

  “Minor surgery, I think she said. We weren’t exactly on intimate terms. Anyway, why in the world does this matter? Surely her brother didn’t suffer from a gynecological ailment.”

  Gwen looked around the gallery to avoid the woman’s gaze. The paintings were powerful in a bleak, pitiful way, each one like a photograph dropped on the sidewalk, insignificant to the person who found it, but obviously rich with meaning to the one who’d lost it.

  “She kept her distance,” Fiona Stevens said, glancing at a nearby canvas as if expecting to find Valerie depicted on it. “Not exactly warm, but efficient and reliable. She was very vague about her future plans—do you know what she ended up doing?”

  Gwen had an idea, but kept it to herself.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gwen rang the doorbell at East Side Reproductive Services. She rang again. Still no answer.

  “I’ll open it.”

  She turned and saw the attractive black receptionist from the clinic hurrying down the long corridor.

  “Sorry, Metpath pickup,” she said.

  At the end of the corridor a uniformed delivery man waited for the elevator, holding what looked like an oversize lunch box with Metpath stenciled on the side.

  The receptionist stopped a few feet from Gwen, a look of recognition, and then concern, crossing her face.

  “I’m not here to cause trouble,” Gwen said. “I just need to see Dr. Ellikin.”

  “I don’t think you have an appointment.”

  “Just tell him I’m here, okay? Gwen Amiel.”

  “I know who you are.” She unlocked the door, motioned for Gwen to follow her inside, and walked quickly behind the counter, tossing her key and a Metpath receipt onto the blotter as she sat down. She lifted the phone and punched in two numbers.

  There were three other women in the waiting room, all in their late thirties, Gwen guessed, all wearing conservative suits and silk blouses. They had quickly averted their eyes when Gwen turned around—did they too recognize the notorious murderer? Or was it the fertility clinic itself that was making them edgy?

  “Dr. Ellikin will see you in his office,” the receptionist said as she hung up the phone. “Fifth door on the left.”

  Ellikin wasn’t in his office when she walked in. She sat in a visitor’s chair and looked around. The desk was blond wood, the chairs upholstered in an innocuous pastel pattern; the fichus in the corner behind his desk looked suspiciously robust—perhaps a fake? The only personal touch was a silver-framed photograph of a beaming Ellikin with his arm around a beautiful young woman. Must be the new wife for whom he’d risked his medical license.

  Ellikin entered the room and waited until he was seated behind his desk before addressing her.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, sounding more weary than curious.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that Valerie Goodwin used to work with you?”

  “Who?”

  “No more games. If I don’t get honest answers from you I’m going right to the newspapers with what I know about you and Nick Lawrence.”

  “That’s your choice. I doubt you’ll find much interest in a two-year-old prescription drug case in which no charges were ever filed.”

  “They’ll be plenty of interest now, though, given Nick’s connection to his wife’s murder.”

  She stood and headed for the door.

  “Wait.”

  She stopped and turned. A veil of anxiety had fallen over his eyes.

  “Valerie Goodwin was a temp, a receptionist. I don’t know how long she was with me. What difference does it make?” His lips seemed to falter in the effort of forming a smile.

  “She knew Nick. She…” Gwen sat in a chair in front of his desk. “She lived with Nick Lawrence.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Valerie introduced you to Nick. She probably set the drug deal up for you.”

  “‘Drug deal?’ I think that’s a bit of a stretch. We’re talking Ritalin prescriptions.”

  “Why did you deny that Valerie worked here? What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of nothing.” A bead of sweat sparkled in the hollow above his upper lip.

  “About two years ago Valerie had some sort of procedure done,” Gwen said. “A gynecological procedure.”

  “Possibly, I don’t remember every patient.”

  “But you would certainly remember a patient who used to work for you.”

  “She had a D and C,” he blurted after a brief pause. He took a deep breath, then offered a macabre smile.

  He’s lying, Gwen thought. “But her employer at the time said she took a week or more off from work. Is that normal after a D and C?”

  “Some women have cramping,” he said, his voice clinically matter-of-fact. “Some women have psychological issues to resolve.”

  “Do you do many D and Cs here?”

  “It’s not our specialty, no.” He ran a hand through his thick black hair, which fell obediently back in place.

  “May I see her file?”

  “Of course not. Patient records are confidential.”

  “Did you know Priscilla Lawrence?” she said. “Her maiden name was Cunningham.”

  “No,” he said without hesitation, looking straight at her. “I did not know her.” He checked his watch and sighed noisily. “I have patients to see. Y
ou are not one of them. Is there anything else?” He glanced at the photograph, suddenly pensive, perhaps wondering if the gorgeous young wife had been worth the risk.

  Ellikin wasn’t going to give her much more, though she felt certain he could. After all, Maxine Cunningham had given her Ellikin’s name. Had Maxine been acting on a hunch, or did she know something concrete? Perhaps she knew only that her son-in-law had gotten into legal trouble with Ellikin, and figured the doctor was as good a place to start as any.

  “I’m going to go on trial soon for murder. If you’re withholding information that could exonerate me…”

  “I assure you I am not. I’ve told the FBI everything I know about Nick Lawrence.”

  “Did they ask you about Valerie?”

  He hesitated a beat before shaking his head. Then he stood and crossed the room to the door. “You know the way out,” he said over his shoulder.

  She waited a few moments before heading back to the reception area, convinced that there was more to learn there, and that once she left she’d never be allowed back in. Halfway down the long corridor to the clinic entrance she stopped in front of an open door. Inside, a man in a white lab coat peered into a sleek black microscope. He straightened up, made a notation on a white pad, and glanced at her.

  “Hi,” he said, smiling. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m a patient of Dr. Ellikin’s.” The lie passed so quickly through her lips, she had no time to weigh the implications. “I was…” She shrugged, at a loss. He smiled again; at least he hadn’t recognized her.

  “You were snooping?”

  “No, no, I just—”

  “Don’t worry, a lot of women snoop around here.” He was handsome, about thirty-five, with a manner as warm and approachable as Ellikin’s was cold and withdrawn. “I guess they want to see where their eggs end up. It must be kind of like leaving a child with a stranger. Want a peek?”

  She walked hesitantly to the microscope.

  “It won’t bite,” he said.

  Gwen smiled as she bent over the eyepiece. A shallow petri dish had been placed under the lens. She looked into the microscope and waited a few seconds for her eyes to focus.

  “Fertilized eggs,” the man said.

  Gwen began to make out discrete roundish forms.

  “Harvested yesterday,” he continued. “I just added a bit of prewashed sperm. Stir until completely dissolved, et voila! A match made in scientific heaven.”

  “Prewashed sperm?”

  “We process donor sperm to eliminate the weaker swimmers, kind of like a college swim team. Right now I’m grading the pre-embryos to see which ones we’ll end up using. See the honeycomb forms?”

  “I think so.”

  “Those are zygotes, fertilized eggs, eight cells each.”

  She wasn’t sure what she was looking at, but was riveted by the idea that life, a human being, was forming literally before her eyes. Eight little cells…yes, she saw them now…those eight cells, floating in a shallow dish beneath a black microscope in this windowless, Formica-clad laboratory in this cold, impersonal clinic, held the potential for a complete, unique person.

  “Amazing.” She straightened up and shook her head slowly.

  His name tag read Brian McDougle, Ph.D. “Are those embryos going back to the same woman who…”

  “Laid them?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Those of us in the business hear the same bad jokes a thousand times. No, these babies…sorry…these embryos were donated. They’re going to a woman whose ovaries aren’t functioning properly.”

  “Does she know the donor?”

  “In this case, yes, it’s a friend. Most of our egg donors are anonymous, though. We supply relevant information, but no names.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Age, ethnic background, sometimes even religion. And a complete medical history, of course.”

  “Why would someone donate her eggs anonymously?”

  “Most are college students. Some have altruistic motives, others want the money. Egg donors make several thousand dollars, even more, in some cases, if they fit a desirable demographic profile. Excuse me.”

  He angled around her and peered into the microscope.

  “We have one of the best success ratios in the city here at East Side,” he said. “Almost twenty-five percent. Are you considering using a donated egg?” Still peering into the microscope, he skittled his right hand over the Formica counter until it located a pen. He made a note on a sheet of paper.

  “Possibly,” she said.

  “And your doctor is…”

  “Ellikin,” she said quickly.

  He made another notation. “Then I’m sure he’ll explain the procedure. He’s one of the best in the field, widely respected.”

  But not widely loved, his tone implied. Well, to a woman unable to conceive, success ratios probably counted for more than warmth.

  “How much time would a donor need to dedicate to this process?” she asked. “You know, time off from work, away from home…”

  He stood up and looked at her quizzically.

  “I just want to know what the other woman is going through,” she said. He nodded, smiling warmly; lying to him was neither easy nor pleasurable.

  “Not an uncommon reaction, but I should probably let Dr. Ellikin explain it to you.”

  “Of course,” she said. “It’s just that he’s very backed up…”

  “No surprise there.” McDougle shrugged. “Well, first we have to synchronize the menstrual cycles of the donor and recipient. The donor takes hormone stimulants to help her produce a high number of eggs. That involves an office visit, so she wouldn’t need to alter her schedule much. Then she goes to a hospital, where she’s given anesthesia. We remove the eggs through her vagina. She’s usually feeling completely recovered by the next day. Once in a while there’s a pelvic infection that might lead to fever, but that’s rare.”

  “What if some day my child wanted to find out who its…who donated the egg?”

  “Big issue,” he said. “Big controversy. Donor names are coded by number, and the codes are kept in a special double-locked safe. Access requires the permission of two doctors. That way, the information is available, but it isn’t so available that it could fall into the wrong hands.”

  “So my patient file wouldn’t include the name of the egg donor?”

  “Correct, it would indicate only that you underwent the procedure, and it would list the coded number of the donor. No nurses, lab technicians, even future doctors you might consult will know who that donor is.”

  “But how can you—” She heard Ellikin’s voice outside the lab. “I better get back to the waiting room,” she said quickly, already walking toward the door. “You’ve been so helpful. Thank you.”

  “No problem,” he said as he leaned over the microscope.

  She saw Ellikin enter an examination room and close the door behind him. She hurried to the waiting room, where the receptionist was typing on a computer behind the counter that separated the office area from the patients. Her back was to the room.

  Gwen walked quickly to the counter, leaned over, and picked up the key that the receptionist had used to open the clinic door. She turned and walked calmly across the room. Two women and one couple watched her as she left.

  Chapter 43

  Gwen returned to East Side Reproductive Services at ten o’clock that night. Riding in a cab across town, battling panic, she’d composed the inevitable headline: ACCUSED MURDERER NABBED IN MEDICAL OFFICE BREAK-IN. She used the stolen key to unlock the front door, praying that an alarm wouldn’t go off.

  She held her breath and pushed open the door. Silence.

  The waiting room was dimly lit by a nervous white glow from the halogen street lamps just outside the large windows behind the receptionist’s area. She walked slowly and quietly, in case someone was working late.

  Once she was sure the place was deser
ted, she flicked a light switch in the hallway, waited a beat for her eyes to adjust to the fluorescence, then began searching for medical records. She passed the lab she’d been in earlier that day, a few offices, a small lunchroom, and finally found a tiny, square, windowless room lined with file cabinets.

  She located the G drawer and quickly found Valerie Goodwin’s file. Holding it with jittery fingers, she began to read.

  Valerie Goodwin had donated an egg on February 16 of the previous year. The recipient was not identified, in keeping with what the lab technician had told her that afternoon about ensuring donor anonymity. Valerie’s physician was named: Mitchell Ellikin. A series of dates, handwritten, indicated several office visits, before the actual “harvesting,” to hyperstimulate her ovaries. A lot of the notations were either illegible or too technical for her, but one item stood out: Valerie had returned to the office on February 17 complaining of fever; the diagnosis was pelvic inflammation. That explained her one-week absence from the gallery last year. Amoxycillan was prescribed.

  Gwen scanned the rest of the file: photocopies of bills, statements from outside laboratories, a general health report from another doctor Valerie had consulted a year or so earlier. Nothing of much interest.

  She replaced the file, found the L drawer, and began searching. Audrey Lawrence…Martha Lawrence. No Priscilla.

  Priscilla was in there, she was sure of it, never mind Ellikin’s insistence that he’d never met her. She located the C drawer and rifled through it.

  “Yes!” She started at her own voice as it reverberated off the wall-to-wall metal file cabinets.

  Priscilla Cunningham’s file—which began several years before her marriage to Nick Lawrence, long before she’d even met him—was much thicker than Valerie’s. Gwen sat on the floor, her back against a file cabinet, and read it chronologically. By the time she reached the final entry, November of the previous year, she had become somewhat expert at deciphering Ellikin’s cramped and hurried handwriting, though she still found most of his entries too technical to comprehend. But she was able to grasp the gist of Priscilla’s medical history, and what she read alternately thrilled and appalled her.