The A List

by Jance, J. A.

  Evan paused his pacing long enough to express part of what was bothering him. “How will we recognize him?” Evan asked. “Other people are carrying signs with people’s names on them. Maybe we should be, too.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” Ali said, handing him the photo of Cassie Davis and Rory standing in front of the Disneyland entrance. “I think you’ll recognize him on sight.”

  Frowning, Evan studied the photo before passing it along to his mother. “That’s me, but who’s the woman I’m with? I don’t remember going to Disneyland with someone like her.”

  “That’s because you didn’t,” Ali explained. “That’s Rory Davis with his mother, Cassie Davis.”

  Evan took the photo back and stared at it again for a long moment. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. He handed it back to Alex and resumed his pacing, leaving his mother staring at the photo.

  “It’s uncanny,” Alex said, her eyes wide with amazement. “Is this why you wanted me to bring a photo?”

  Ali nodded.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From Rory’s birth mother, who still lives here in L.A. Someone alerted her to the L.A. Evening piece. After she saw it, she came by the station yesterday and dropped off the photo.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Alex demanded accusingly.

  “Because when I talked to Rory, he asked me not to mention it. I gave him my word that I wouldn’t do so without his permission, and keeping my word is something I take seriously. But if you wouldn’t mind giving me both photos, I’ll go back to my cameraman and have him do a side-by-side shot so our viewers will be able to see the same thing you just saw.”

  Nodding, Alex dug a second photo out of her purse and handed both of them over to Ali. The two boys pictured there might have been carbon copies. After delivering the photos to the cameraman and waiting for him to film them, Ali did a brief introductory stand-up.

  “Two nights ago a young man named Evan Munsey appeared on our newsmagazine, L.A. Evening. Evan is a twenty-one-year-old student at UCLA who suffers from kidney disease and has been on dialysis for the past three years. He’s in desperate need of a kidney transplant. Evan’s parents had difficulty conceiving, and he was born as the result of an artificial-insemination procedure. He and his mother came on L.A. Evening in hopes of locating other individuals who might be the biological offspring of his sperm donor and also in hopes that if they could find such a person, he or she might turn out to be a possible source for Evan’s needed kidney. Two days later a miracle has occurred. I’m here at LAX with Evan and his parents, awaiting the arrival of Rory Davis, Evan’s newly located half sibling. Even though the two brothers have never met, they’ve spoken on the phone. Rory, age twenty-four, has already indicated that if he turns out to be a suitable match and passes the medical requirements, he’s willing to supply Evan with a healthy kidney.”

  By the time the stand-up was finished, the plane was already on the ground. After the two photographs had been returned to the safety of Alex’s purse, the welcoming committee moved to a spot near the bottom of the escalator to await Rory’s arrival. The presence of a known news anchor and a cameraman on the scene was duly noted. Soon a small but excited crowd gathered in the background, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever Hollywood notable was about to make an appearance. When a new set of folks started down the escalator, Evan stepped forward and stationed himself near the bottom.

  “Is this the flight from Phoenix?” he asked a briefcase-carrying businessman who had hurried off the escalator and paused long enough to check the signage, looking for the appropriate carousel.

  “Sure is,” the man answered. “I was on a connecting flight. I hope like hell they didn’t lose my luggage.”

  Evan stepped back again, leaving room for other people to pass. Ali was close enough to the action that she caught sight of Rory about the same time Evan did. The two young men looked so much alike that even though Ali was expecting it, she found the resemblance spooky. Rory was halfway down the escalator before the cameraman started filming.

  Rory was smart enough to step off the escalator and move to one side before he stopped and stared. The two young men stood there like that, regarding each other with outright amazement. They were dressed differently, of course, but in terms of size, build, and features—from the bronze of their hair to the set of their hazel eyes—they might have been twins. After a long, uncertain pause, both of them moved forward at once, each greeting the other with hand extended. Grinning, they shook hands briefly. Then, as the camera rolled, that initial handshake morphed into a heartfelt embrace. They were brothers, all right. No one who saw them that night in the airport or on their television screens later on had the slightest doubt about that.

  It was a heartwarming, wonderful story that remained on the news for days and wound back up to fever pitch when it was announced, several weeks later, that Rory was indeed a suitable organ-donor match and that he intended to return to L.A. at the end of May when school ended for the summer so he could gift his newly discovered sibling with a healthy kidney.

  Yes, it was a feel-good story all the way around—at least at first. The problem is, those initial stories were only the tip of the iceberg. There was much more to come, and it wouldn’t all turn out to be such good news.

  6

  Santa Clarita, California, March 2003

  Kaitlyn Martin Todd was addicted to TV. She had spent her early years living in a mountain-bound cabin outside a tiny community called Lyons, Oregon, twenty-five miles east of Salem. The house was remote enough that no television signals ever reached that far.

  Kaitlyn’s parents had divorced when she was in her early teens. She and her mother had left her logger father alone in his solitary cabin on the mountain and had moved to Salem, where she’d graduated from high school and attended Salem Community College, before eventually earning a nursing degree from Portland State. But once she moved to Salem and later, after settling in California, Kaitlyn had made up for lost time as far as TV viewing was concerned. Television was her passion.

  Once out of school, Kaitlyn had reconnected with and married her high school sweetheart, Chuck Todd. The newlyweds had ended up in Santa Clarita when Chuck’s uncle offered him steady work as a tow-truck driver, hauling stranded motorists off the treacherous Grapevine section of I-5. She had already landed a job at the Gilchrist Fertility Clinic in Santa Clarita when Todd ran off with another woman who happened to be a fellow tow-truck driver. Once Kaitlyn’s husband had abandoned ship, her hooking up with her boss had started out as little more than revenge sex, but at the time what he had to offer seemed like a fair deal.

  Edward Gilchrist was a good twenty years older than Kaitlyn. His sex drive seemed to be waning a bit, so he wasn’t especially demanding on that score, and Kaitlyn’s work in the clinic wasn’t especially demanding either. The pay was good, and the boss had no problem with the tiny TV set she kept out of sight underneath the reception counter as long as she muted the sound when there were patients in the room. During quiet times she was able to keep abreast of her daytime soaps and afternoon talk shows, and she was usually home in time to never miss a single airing of her all-time favorite, L.A. Evening.

  It was on a commercial break during one of the soaps when she saw the promo for that evening’s program. There were no patients present, so she went straight into the office to tell Edward about it.

  “Remember that woman who came in a few weeks ago looking for her records? I can’t recall her name right now, but I recognized her face on the screen.”

  “What screen?” Edward asked.

  “My TV screen. She and her son are going to be featured in a segment on L.A. Evening tonight, something called ‘In Search of a Kidney.’ ”

  “Alexandra Munsey,” Edward said.

  Kaitlyn was a little taken aback. She was surprised that he remembered the name right off the bat like that and had it on the tip of his tongue.

  “That’
s the name they mentioned,” she said. “But I thought you’d want to know.”

  That was the truth—Edward really did want to know. He left work at the stroke of five that day, something that was unusual for him. He went straight home without stopping off for a cocktail along the way. Kaitlyn had no idea that he was headed home to set his DVR to record that evening’s edition of L.A. Evening. When the show finally came on, he watched the whole thing with a growing sense of fury. Once the segment ended, he replayed it several more times—listening to every word, searching for something that might rise to the level of outright slander.

  In the course of the interview, Alexandra Munsey mentioned that she had conceived with the help of a fertility clinic in Santa Clarita. Since there was only one of those—his—anybody who knew the first thing about Santa Clarita would understand that she was referring to him and his practice. As Edward listened, his contempt for that unbearable woman knew no bounds. After all, hadn’t he given the bitch exactly what she wanted—a baby? And now, here she was twenty-plus years later with that very same kid at her side, and was she grateful about that? Not on your life. Instead she seemed hell-bent on destroying him. How dare she go on the air and talk about him like that? How dare she?

  As for the kid himself? Evan Munsey had kidney disease? So what? True, Edward’s paternal grandfather had died of kidney disease sometime in his fifties, but surely that wasn’t a genetic defect for which Edward could be held responsible at this late date. As for Evan—why couldn’t he put himself on the kidney waiting list and take his place in line like everybody else? Why did he have to go on TV and kick open a hornet’s nest? Because Edward Gilchrist knew that’s exactly what it would be. Even on the television screen, he could see that Evan Munsey was the spitting image of his biological father—not the way Edward looked now, of course, but the way he’d looked when he was much younger, back when he was in high school and college.

  After watching the segment three times in a row, Edward finally switched off the TV set and went over to the wet bar to pour himself another stiff drink. He’d already indulged in one earlier, before the program even aired. All he could hope was that this sympathy-seeking emotional appeal sent out over the airwaves would come up empty. And if it didn’t? Thank God he and Dawn had already shredded those damning records back in the nineties when he’d first spotted that unstoppable freight train called DNA speeding in their direction.

  And that brought up another sore subject—Dawn. A few weeks earlier, for no apparent reason Edward could understand, she’d gotten some kind of wild hair up her butt and had moved out. Not only had she moved out, she’d even gone so far as to contact an attorney and file for divorce. As far as Edward was concerned, Dawn and Alexandra Munsey were birds of a feather—ungrateful bitches from beginning to end. He knew where Dawn lived. He was tempted to drive over to her place right now and raise hell with her about it, but eventually he calmed down. With all the Alexandra Munsey crap circling the drain, what Edward needed to do at that moment was absolutely nothing. Instead he’d lie low and wait for things to blow over, as he hoped they would.

  They always did.

  The next morning at work, Kaitlyn showed up brimming with enthusiasm about the L.A. Evening piece. “It’s too bad the Munsey kid is so sick, but the show was good PR for you, don’t you think?” she asked. “After all, there he was, sitting next to his mother as big as life and testifying to the fact that when it comes to fertility issues, you know what you’re doing.”

  “Alexandra Munsey can go to hell,” Edward snarled back. “And if records have gone missing, you can bet that useless bitch Dawn was behind it.”

  With that he stalked into his office, slamming the door behind him, leaving Kaitlyn to wonder what she’d said that had sent him into such a spasm.

  “Sounds like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed today,” she muttered under her breath, and then she walked behind the counter and switched on her tiny television set. Regis and Kathie Lee were just coming on, and she didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

  7

  Burbank, California, March 2003

  The explosive story of the half brothers’ first meeting was initially aired on the eleven o’clock news that very night, but it was rebroadcast the following day on every newscast there was—the morning show, the noon show, and the evening one as well. It was all a part of the gathering storm, and Ali Reynolds’s participation continued to be front and center. Two days later, again just when it was almost time for her to go down to the green room for makeup, Diane called again.

  “You have a visitor here in the lobby,” she said.

  “Is it someone I know?” Ali asked.

  “Her name is Jolene Browder,” Diane replied. “She says it’s about Evan Munsey and Rory Davis.”

  “Did any of these people ever hear of calling ahead for an appointment?” Ali muttered.

  “Do you want me to send her away and have her come back later?”

  “Pardon my grumbling, but no, don’t do that,” Ali said. “I have a couple of minutes. I’ll make it work.”

  She hurried downstairs. Once again the lobby area was filled with a crowd of people lined up to be part of the live audience for the show preceding the newscast. One slight woman, probably in her fifties, was clearly different from the others. She was seated on the same love seat where Ali had first caught sight of Alex Munsey. The audience members were all in casual Southern California attire. Jolene wore a timeless knit suit, sensible heels, and most astonishing of all—pantyhose. Her gray hair was pulled back in a carefully constructed upsweep that was held in place by some beaded combs and an armor-plating layer of hair spray. She sat bolt upright with her hands resting on a small purse that was perched on her lap, but what struck Ali most about her was the undeniable air of sadness that hovered around her like a visible cloud.

  “Ms. Browder?” Ali inquired. “I’m Ali Reynolds. You wanted to see me?”

  “Oh, thank you,” Jolene said, startling out of some faraway reverie. “I meant to be here earlier, but there was a big traffic tie-up on the 101. It was one of those multi-car wrecks that had the freeway coned down from four lanes to one, and it took forever to get past it. You probably need to get ready to go on the air. If it’s inconvenient, I can come back another time.”

  “No,” Ali said quickly. “That’s all right. I have a few minutes. Where were you coming from?”

  “Westlake Village.”

  “So let’s take care of this now if we can,” Ali said with a reassuring smile. “What can I do for you? The receptionist said it had something to do with the Evan Munsey/Rory Davis story.”

  Jolene nodded in reply, but rather than answering aloud, she reached into her purse and pulled out a photograph and passed it to Ali. The somewhat faded color snapshot, most likely taken with a cheapie throw-away camera, featured a young woman—mid-teens, maybe—seated on a saddled black-and-white horse. The girl was grinning from ear to ear, but under the white Stetson she wore, Ali caught a glimpse of bright red curls.

  “That’s my daughter,” Jolene said. “Her name was Cindy. Her horse was named War Paint.”

  “Was?” Ali asked tentatively.

  The question was answered with another sad nod. “War Paint was already in his twenties when we got him. We had him put down shortly after we lost Cindy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ali said. That was all she could think of to say.

  Jolene suddenly seemed to lose heart. “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “This is a long story. I’m sure you need to go. I can come back later.”

  “No, continue, please,” Ali insisted. “Tell me now.”

  “My late husband, Robert, lost his first wife and daughter in a car wreck when the child was little more than a baby. When we met, he’d been a widower for years, but he was only thirty and I was five years older. That five-year difference didn’t seem insurmountable at the time, not like it would have been if we’d met when we were in high school, but still he made it cle
ar from the start that he really wanted a child. We tried, and when it didn’t work . . .”

  “Let me guess,” Ali interjected, “you went to see a fertility doctor in Santa Clarita.”

  “That’s right,” Jolene replied, “Dr. Edward Gilchrist. I was thirty-eight when we went to see him and forty-two when Cindy was born. Robert was absolutely over the moon. He spoiled her rotten, including getting her that blasted horse.”

  “You said you lost Cindy. What happened to her?”

  Jolene sighed. “We were on a camping trip in Yellowstone. Cindy and Robert were into the outdoors. I wasn’t especially wild about it, but I went along to get along. We were booked for a week in Yellowstone, camping here and there along the way. We had a dual-cab pickup with one of those fifth-wheel camp trailers hooked on behind it, so it’s not like we were sleeping on the ground in a tent or something. But Cindy just wasn’t herself the whole time—not feeling well, lethargic, not wanting to eat, losing weight. I thought maybe she was coming down with a form of the flu or maybe even mono. So one morning when we were supposed to go on a daylong trail ride, she didn’t want to go. I would have been happy to stay with her, but she insisted that her father and I go, so we did.”

  Jolene’s voice had faded to almost nothing as she spoke. She paused for a moment, and when she resumed, even with the audience members drained out of the lobby, Ali had to strain to hear her. “When Robert and I came back that evening, she was sleeping. When I woke her up for dinner, she was confused. She didn’t seem to know who she was or where she was. She didn’t even know who I was. She tried to get out of bed, and her legs . . .” Jolene paused again, struggling. “Her legs were swollen to almost twice the size they should have been. When she stood up, she almost fell. I grabbed her to keep her from falling, and her breath smelled awful—like ammonia.”