“I have the record from the Bradford Clinic with your name on it.” Claire decided it was politic not to mention that she actually had four records, not just the Prices’. “I understand why you would want to keep your adoption private. However, if you refuse to help me, I could go to the media.”
“How do I know you haven’t already? How do I know you don’t have a little camera hidden in all that hair of yours?”
“But that wouldn’t serve any purpose. I’ve kept this completely confidential,” Claire said, lying only a little. After all, the people she had told had been sworn to secrecy. She just hoped Dr. Gregory would keep his word. “This is just between you and me.”
The deep, nearly robotic voice came from behind Claire. “That’s good. Because that’s how it’s going to stay.”
Startled, Claire reared back her head. Kurt Price stood behind her, dressed all in black - black jeans, black cowboy boots and a black T-shirt. Even the huge gun he held was black. Black fur poked above the neck of his T-shirt, which was so tight that the hills and valleys of his muscles stood out like a relief map. The actor had what serious bodybuilders called a “six-pack,” not a reference to a beer-fed spare tire, but instead muscles so defined that they cut the abdomen into six rectangles.
A snort from the other side of the room. Amanda threw up her hands in a deliberately artificial gesture. “Acting!” she mocked in a dramatic tone, imitating a character who had been a popular fixture on Saturday Night Live a decade ago.
“Amanda!” Kurt snarled, but his wife just leaned back and crossed her arms. Her exquisitely expressive face did the talking for her, as she regarded her husband with mingled annoyance and boredom. But, Claire noted, there wasn’t even a trace of fear, even thought the gun he held seemed pointed someplace midway between he and Amanda.
Claire wished she felt as unflappable. “I don’t want to violate your privacy,” she stammered while slowly getting to her feet, an awkward movement as she was holding her hands in the air. She figured once she was standing, she could keep the gun in her line of sight. She would also be able to move more quickly if she needed to. If only Kurt weren’t standing between her and the door to the hall. And if only there weren’t two hundred feet of hall separating her from the front door. Offering nothing but a straight shot, should Kurt be so inclined.
Once she stood up, Claire was surprised to find that she was taller than Kurt. As if she were reading Claire’s mind, Amanda said, “Boxes,” in a bored tone. “They have him stand on boxes if there’s a close-up with another character. For the action shots he frequently wears lifts.”
Kurt stuck out his chest. “I’m taller than Sly Stallone,” he retorted. “Taller than Mister Tom Cruise.” His voice was changing, the vowels drawn out, the tone a little higher, less his trademark and often imitated clipped growl. There was something about his inflection that sounded familiar.
“And he’s so muscle-bound you could pin him in a fight.” Claire realized Amanda’s comment wasn’t addressed to Kurt, but her. “He has started dying his chest hair, did you know that?”
Before Amanda had begun taunting him, Kurt’s gun had been aimed someplace in the direction of the fireplace, but now he pointed it squarely at Claire’s chest. Claire hoped he wasn’t going to use her dead body as proof of his manliness. “‘Kay, Amanda, that’s enough.”
The last time Claire had heard anyone say “‘Kay” in just that way, he had been wearing black gloves and a ski mask. “So you’re the one who threatened me yesterday when I was running,” she said. “But how did you figure out who I was?”
Kurt sneered. “Caller ID and a reverse directory. You’re not much of a sleuth, are you, calling from your own home? I erased your first message before Amanda ever had a chance to hear it. You should have listened to me when I told you to stop asking questions. Now you’ve forced me to deal with you.”
“Kurt!” Amanda’s voice rapped out. “Get a grip! You’re not in one of your own movies. This is not going to solve anything.”
But the gun didn’t move from where it was now aimed at Claire’s chest. Time seemed to slow down. Were his fingers beginning to tighten?
Suddenly there was the sound of running feet in the hall. A girl bounced into the room. She was dressed in jeans, a heavy gray sweatshirt and mud-spattered knee high boots. In one quick motion, Kurt tucked the gun behind his back and into the waistband of his jeans. He managed to sidestep a hug.
“Mommy, Daddy! I did it! I jumped the high fence today! Dancer and me, we just sailed over it!” The girl was fine-boned, with huge dark eyes. An excited flush colored her creamy skin. Her hair was very dark, nearly as black as her riding helmet. Her muddy boots were leaving smears on the polished oak floor, but neither parent seemed to mind as they both focused on her. Despite their acerbic bickering, it was clear that Kurt and Amanda had something in common. They both loved the girl.
Claire stared at her, remembering Lori’s words. It’s not too hard to figure out what she might look like. ... Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin. Were those almond-shaped eyes familiar? The proud way she held her head - was it Claire’s imagination that let her see an echo of Havi in the girl?
Emily noticed Claire watching her, and she drew into herself a little. “I’m sorry to interrupt when you have company.” She dropped her gaze and noticed the mess she had made of the floor. “I’ll go get some paper towels.”
“Just leave it, Emily,” Amanda said. “I’ll get Alice to clean up later.”
The door was still closing behind the girl when Claire snatched the gun from Karl’s waistband. Raising it, she pointed it at Kurt. For all its size, it felt oddly light in her hands. But instead of being afraid, Kurt shrugged and turned away to look the window.
“It’s a prop, dear,” Amanda said. “I don’t know what he was planning to do with it. Probably he doesn’t even know.”
Claire thought she saw Kurt shrug, but she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t quite ready to believe the actress, not yet, but she did let her hand fall to her side. “I don’t understand why he would point a gun - real or not - at me. I’m not asking for much. My friend truly doesn’t want to take Emily from you. We just want to be able to test a tiny sample of her blood.”
“Do you want the truth?”
“Of course I do.” Claire was suddenly afraid of the answer. Was there some chance that the baby hadn’t come from the Bradford clinic at all, but was Amanda’s pregnancy by another man? That could account for Kurt’s crazy behavior.
“This is Kurt’s secret, not mine, so if I tell you, it can’t go beyond this room. No one else can know. You have to promise me.”
Claire gave a nod. “I promise.”
Amanda let out a long sigh. “It’s his image that Kurt’s defending, not Emily. That’s why he’s always insisted on secrecy about her adoption. He doesn’t want anyone to know why we had to adopt. He thinks his fans wouldn’t accept it. I’ve tried telling him he could be a role model, a spokesperson, maybe even found a non-profit research organization.” Claire had the impression that Kurt was listening intently. “I keep telling him he needs to branch out a little. Show his fans he can be human.”
Still feeling in the dark, Claire hazarded a guess. “He’s, um, sterile?”
“Kurt’s a diabetic.” A pause, while Amanda let the implications sink in, but Claire continued to be confused. Finally the actress took pity on her and spelled it out. “Over time that can sometimes have a severe effect on some very important nerves.”
Claire could finally read between the lines and Kurt’s sagging shoulders. Amanda was saying Kurt - kick-boxing, weapon-wielding, snarling-in-the-face-of-death Kurt Price - was impotent, and had been for some time.
“I’ve told him over and over again that he can do other kinds of movies. Comedy, for example. He’s naturally funny.” Amanda addressed herself to her husband’s back. “Or do a serious movie. Gain some weight and let everyone see you with a gut, like Sly did.”
Kurt spoke without
turning around. “And has Hasbro sold an toy action figure modeled on him since then?”
Amanda let out an exasperated sigh. “If you’re still so set on shoot-’em-ups, then you could play the older friend, the one who doesn’t get the girl. Maybe even the one who gets killed. Or go with your image, but parody it. Make fun of yourself before someone else does. If you’re not careful, that’s what your movies will be - parodies - without you planning it. You could stop talking about getting pec implants and just embrace the truth. You’re not who you were. But you know what, Kurt? It doesn’t matter. How many times do I have to tell you that it doesn’t matter to me? And it doesn’t matter to your daughter. And she is your daughter, no one can take that away from you.” She went up behind him and kissed the back of his neck, softly, as if they were alone in the room. He allowed her to take his hand and lead him to the couch, but he wouldn’t raise his head to look Claire in the eye.
“Let me show you a picture of Zach,” Claire said. She wanted Amanda and Kurt to understand what they had traded their secret for. “Do you think he looks like your daughter?” Claire handed over the photo of Zach that Lori had given her, the one guaranteed to melt the heart of any parent, biological or otherwise.
Together, Amanda and Kurt regarded it for a long while. Kurt looked sad and tired, but Amanda’s expression was unreadable. “There may be a resemblance,” she said finally. “Perhaps more than that.” A tiny muscle flickered near her eye. So there were some things even an actress couldn’t control. She looked up at Claire with the smoke-colored eyes that had been projected on a thousand movie screens. “If they took Emily’s bone marrow, wouldn’t it hurt her?”
Even though her heart was racing, Claire tried to keep her voice calm and reassuring. “First of all, they would just test to see if there was a match. And all that requires is a blood draw.” This child of Amanda and Kurt’s, this Emily, she was Lori’s daughter, too, Claire was suddenly sure of it. And she would prove to be a match. Claire’s bones lightened as she imagined Zach well again. “If she does match, it’s not like a real surgery, where they open you up and take out an organ. They just suck out some bone marrow from the hip, under anesthesia. There’s some soreness for two or three days afterward, but that’s about it. In a couple of weeks, the body naturally replenishes the bone marrow that was taken, just like it would with a blood donation.”
Amanda let her breath out in a sigh, and then was silent for a long time. She looked at Kurt and he gave the smallest perceptible nod. She said, “We’ll consent to a blood test. And if Emily is a match, and she agrees, we will also consent to her donating.”
GONFSHN
###
Claire drove straight to the hospital. On the seat beside her was a small silver-framed photograph of Emily that Amanda had given her after Claire asked if she could take the girl’s picture. The actors didn’t want to tell their daughter anything until it was clear that she was who Claire knew she must be - Lori’s daughter.
She walked quickly down the cancer ward’s long corridor, scarcely taking in the sights and sounds of terribly ill children. When she reached Zach’s room, she found him curled on his hospital bed, the IV lines running into the plug in his chest. His eyes were closed. Lori lay beside him, but started up when she saw Claire. She eased herself out of bed without speaking, and they walked into the hall.
“I think I’ve found her,” Claire whispered.
With trembling fingers, Lori took the photograph. She studied it for a long time, then the picture fell to the floor with a clatter. “She is a beautiful girl. But she’s not mine.”
“How can you say that? You can’t tell just be looking a picture!”
Lori’s mouth tightened. “I looked at her face, and I knew. I just knew. There was finality in her words. “We can still have her blood tested. But I’m sure it won’t be a match.” She raised her hands to cover her face and began to cry without making a sound.
Chapter Twenty-three
Was this it then? Claire wondered as she walked through the hospital parking lot. Amanda had promised to make arrangements for Emily’s blood to be drawn tomorrow, but was it already over tonight? Claire tried to tell herself that Emily could still be Lori’s daughter, that they still had to wait until the blood was typed. But somewhere inside, in a place deep past reasoning and logic, Claire found herself believing Lori. If Lori said Emily wasn’t her daughter, then the girl wasn’t. That meant that the Liebling’s child had been dead and buried for eight years. And with her was buried all hope of Zach surviving. Claire’s chest ached. There was a river of tears dammed up inside her.
As Claire drove home from the hospital, she realized she was only a couple of blocks from Ginny’s apartment. What had happened to the young woman? Despite his promise, Dr. Gregory had never called to report if Ginny had been admitted to another hospital.
She parked in the lot and went up the worn cement stairs. An orange and black sign was taped to Ginny’s door. “Apartment for rent. Inquire with manager in unit six.” The yellow curtains to her apartment were open, but the apartment was empty. Every trace of Ginny was gone.
When Claire knocked on the door to unit six, a frowzy woman with a bad perm and a cigarette perched on her lip answered the door.
“I’m a friend of Ginny Sloop’s. Where is she? Did she go home?”
The woman shrugged. “That’s what her father said.”
“Her father?”
“He called me up and said the girl had decided to go home. He told me I could take all her stuff and sell it or give it to Goodwill, didn’t make no difference to him.”
Relief washed over Claire like a wave. “So she went back to Eastern Oregon then.”
“That’s right. Her daddy said she decided to have those babies there and raise them up with the help of her family.”
“He said she was still pregnant?” Claire asked, staring.
The woman exhaled a cloud of white smoke into Claire’s face. “Little thing’s not due for another month, now is she?”
###
Claire parked on Terwilliger Boulevard. For as long as Portland had had streets, Terwilliger, with its stands of tall trees and breath-taking views of the city, had been the preferred route for local runners and the favorite place to park for local lovers. Below them, the city lay cupped between the hills. The wide, dark ribbon of the Willamette river wove through the sparkle of hundreds of city lights.
Doug Renfro, the parking lot attendant from the Bradford Clinic, sat still and silent beside her. She had called from a pay phone near Ginny’s old apartment. They had arranged to meet at eight p.m. at the foot of the long hill that led to the clinic. Before going home, she had stopped by the liquor store.
Claire had to tell Charlie what had happened in fits and starts, waiting for moments when Max was occupied. Charlie’s eyes filmed with tears when she learned that there was now no hope for Zach. Claire saw how Max made a point of not noticing the expressions on the faces of the adults around him. They ate dinner together in silence. While Max watched a children’s video, Claire told Charlie her plan to wrest the truth about Ginny from Doug. Charlie had her doubts that Claire would learn anything, but they both agreed that they had to know what had happened.
“Are you cold?” Claire asked Doug now. His hands were stuffed in his coat pockets, even though the evening was warm enough that Claire had rolled down her window a couple of inches. “I could run the heater if you want.”
Doug shook his head without answering. He hadn’t said much on the phone, either, just agreed in monosyllables that he wouldn’t mind seeing her again.
She had filled a fat thermos with a batch of Long Island Iced Tea, which through some miracle combination of five kinds of hard liquor resulted in something that could be sucked down as easily as a soft drink. Her plan, such as it was, was to get Doug good and drunk, so drunk that he might tell her all he knew about what had happened the night Ginny gave birth. Maybe he didn’t know anything. She remembered that Vi h
ad written it was three in the morning when Ginny started to bleed and wouldn’t stop. Doug had probably been sound asleep.
Then again, maybe he knew a lot. A few days before, when Claire had pulled her keys from her coat pocket, a slip of paper had fluttered onto the floor. She had picked it and stared at the strange handwriting for a minute, puzzled. It took her a while to remember who Doug Renfro was. She realized that was the thing about Doug. He was forgettable. He sat in his booth all day and watched people drive in and out. They might talk to him for a minute, or if there were two of them in the car, they might continue their conversation as if he wasn’t there at all. Claire knew. She had had that kind of job before, cashiering at an all-you-could eat restaurant, where you didn’t even need to eavesdrop to hear bitter arguments and protestations of desperate love.
Long Island Iced Tea might not be the best approach to loosening Doug’s tongue, but at least it would be quick. And with luck she could get Doug drunk enough that he wouldn’t be interested in exploring her body and discovering that her pregnancy was really a throw pillow she wore strapped across her belly.
She filled two paper cups to the brim and handed one to Doug, along with a straw. While she waited for the alcohol to have its affect, Claire told him stories she made up on the spot about growing up in California, basing them loosely on lyrics to Beach Boy songs. She turned herself into a surfer girl with a tan, two things she could never hope for in a million years. Doug only grunted at her tales, but she thought there was a kind of approval or interest hidden in the guttural sounds.
“How about you - where did you grow up?”
“I’m local. There’s not much to say about that.” His straw sucked air. “Any more where that came from?” He turned in his seat and held out his cup, and she noticed his left hand was still in his pocket. At least he wasn’t trying to slip it around her neck. Yet.
“Is it interesting, working at the clinic?” Claire asked.