Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (34 page)

“Sure, Anne.” His eyes followed my slow rise from the chair. “Need help?”

“Just air and time to think,” I said. “Milan, do we need to talk business?”

“We’ve set the clock back forty-eight hours, Anne. You’re in charge, the kids are back under your care. I return to the city tonight assuming you will prepare a thorough report of the present and anticipated expenses incurred because of this episode.” He rose. “Do let me walk you back to the residence.”

“Thanks. Lao, let me know when I can get into my office. I’ll supervise packing of my space and David’s personal things.” He stood up as well. “And thank you for steering the estate during these past days.”

Minnesota September evenings feel so different from the same time of day in August or July. The air cools quicker, the sun drifts toward its resting place with purpose, leaving no doubt of moving into a time when everything must be harvested, covered, protected from the Minnesota cold. Leaves change color, each variety taking center stage with rare vibrancy for a few days. David’s favorite time of year, I thought. This time I let the tears begin.

Milan guided me away from the residence, the curious children, the anxious family. We walked over already cooling earth toward a pond dug to balance the earth’s elements around our home. We sat on a bench built early in the summer by David and our boys. The whole family looked forward to planting a new garden in the fall. David developed a landscaping plan, which I hadn’t seen before he left. For all that might be lost, I placed my head in my hands and cried.

Chapter Thirty

When I was a girl, posttraumatic stress disorder became a widely used diagnosis to explain irregular behavior of discharged soldiers, abused women, children raised in war. The big
D
dropped millions of us into unbelievably horrible situations, and we stopped talking about the long-term psychological impact. We had survived and walked the earth hoping nothing as awful would ever happen again.

I cried and scrambled to find emotional balance. Milan sat close, his arm across the back of the bench, and told me what he admired about David and our kids. I listened until I could manage a steadier voice. We agreed that there was hope David would return. If the worst happened, Milan promised he would personally bring the message to Ashwood.

Needing to return to the cities, Milan offered to help me to the dining room. Paul and Sarah led the dinner conversation. Their chairs appeared closer than normal, and I saw Sarah’s hand resting on Paul’s leg. Dr. Frances sat between the younger boys and laughed at one of John’s knock-knock jokes. Everyone looked tired.

“Mom.” Phoebe jumped from her chair and ran my way for a hug. I noticed Dr. Frances watching my daughter’s movement but didn’t mind. Phoebe’s head rested near my chest wound, her hands touching at the top of the bruise on my back. This was the way parenting happened—love was offered and accepted and sometimes hit touchy spots.

“I’ll have a cookie,” I said as the boys dragged a chair to the table for me. Sarah put one of Terrell’s best sugar cookies on a plate and moved it in my direction. With so many heavy topics on our minds, I wanted to steer us to a normal activity, one without emotion. “If anyone needs help with homework, I’m all yours. Anyone?”

“We don’t have any,” Andrew said. “Teacher Jason said we should relax after all that stuff this morning.”

“Could we have a game night?” Noah made the suggestion while shoulder-bumping John.

“That sounds like a great idea, and I bet even your grandpa might be easy to beat tonight.” Paul scuffawed and the boys chuckled. “I’ll play until I get paged to pack our things in the DOE building.” They would be sad about the building’s demolition, but had to be told. “It has to be taken down because it is very damaged.”

“We’ll help you pack,” Phoebe stated, as if she were in charge. “We don’t need to play games.”

“Thanks, sweetie, but there are contaminants in the building so only adults can enter. We have to wear special clothes.”

John said what many at the table thought. “What will Dad think when he gets home and his stuff is all in boxes?”

Sarah’s eyes brightened with tears. I dug deep to stay confident for the kids. “Dad probably knows exactly what bad chemicals were used in the lab and will explain it all to us. He and I will both be sad because we have special family memories of each of you connected to those offices.” I looked toward Andrew. “Even you. The last conversation David and Paul and I had in my office was about you joining our family.”

Paul winked at Andrew. “That’s right. Pretty exciting conversation.”

“But where will Dad work?” Phoebe’s hands, clenched into small fists, pounded the table.

“We’re talking with the DOE about new construction. Dad will have an office.” The half-truth slipped into the conversation as a hopeful statement.

I stopped talking, picked up my cookie, and took a bite. Around the table stories about the building began to flow—crayon drawings on walls, baby spit-up on a chair, sitting for the portraits in my office. Everyone shared their memories until Sarah suggested moving to our family quarters.

“If we could take a minute, General Manager Hartford.” Dr. Frances walked next to me. “Maybe we can talk in the front room.”

“I’d like to be with the kids right now.” The world felt a bit blurry and I could name a handful of reasons. “Maybe in the morning?”

Her eyes opened wider at my response. “That’s the perfect answer. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Hoping my voice remained steady, I tried to bring her closer to our family emotionally “If you’re comfortable with this, please feel free to call me Anne.”

She smiled at me and we walked into the room filled with children who all needed an early bedtime after a crazy day. John invited Andrew, Sarah, and me to play cards. Crazy Eights reigned as the favorite game. Phoebe cornered the doctor, obviously a new best friend, for a game of building stick towers. I convinced Paul, a consummate card game winner, to take my place when Lao called.

My stiffened back and aching ankle suggested what life might become in two or three decades as I limped outside for the walk to the DOE front door. David had insisted on painting it red to match our residence. Star-filled skies above Ashwood reminded me of how fortunate he and I were to live this life. Lao talked about plans for making the Giant Pines a rare evening of relaxation during the crush of harvest. My thoughts were ahead of us, in the damaged building, with David.

In a tent next to the entrance, cleaning crew members helped us into protective clothing, complete this time with respirators. My cane, too difficult to swaddle in disposable protective wrap, stayed outside, so I moved even more awkwardly into the building. Much had been cleaned and removed since the military’s early wrap-up. Our damaged sofa was gone, along with the rubble that had covered the waiting area and coffee station. Two conference rooms stood bare.

“We’ve sanitized the rest of your pictures, General Manager Hartford.” My guide could have been male or female, a thin-faced, short-haired young person. “We’re doing a quick sanitation on everything going into boxes from the offices, then those boxes will be run through additional cleansing at our plant. You’ll have access to everything in about two weeks.”

“You’ve done so much more than I expected.” My respirator added weight, rested on a tender muscle. I wanted to tell my helper that we liked to place dried flowers in the outer office to add an outdoor scent to the DOE’s filtered air, but I saved this androgynous individual from such a feminine emotional tidbit. “Which office should we start on?”

“Well, we actually have most things out of Director David’s space.”

“Tell me your name? We’re going to be working together.”

“It’s Fran.” My helper smiled. “My parents named me after an old friend of the family.”

I looked to Lao, finding this situation funnier than it should be. His dark eyes, like those of a parent in church, suggested I stay on task.

“Okay, Fran.” Government protocol wouldn’t allow this person to use my first name unless we became informal friends, so I didn’t offer. “Let’s look at David’s office.”

Every drawer in his oak credenza had disappeared. Workers on six-foot ladders passed books to others to be placed in a metal apparatus that sounded like a vacuum. The spines were scanned, then the books were placed in lined boxes. I watched as they finished one box and placed an inventory list on its side. A stack of boxes stood outside his office door, each marked with specific shelf identification: kids’ artwork, photo, baseball hat, coffee mug, toy tractors.

Industrial lighting overwashed the rooms with harsh brightness. My husband, who loved natural light by day and soft illumination at night, was as removed from his office as the Paraguayan jungles.

“Maybe we could work on my office.” I turned away. Lao moved aside, engaged in discussion with the site manager. While I walked the distance between our offices, I reminded myself that these people were doing their job with efficiency and competence and had no reason to add compassion to a tight time line.

My conference table pieces now lay piled against one wall, four intact chairs shoved aside. The visitor chair Peterson smashed through the window had disappeared, as had its mate. My legs began shaking and I knew I could not sit at my desk and have the stain of Peterson’s blood on the wall fill my sight each time I looked up.

“Lao was right.” I turned away. “You should finish this. I’ll just hold up your work.”

“It’s no problem, General Manager Hartford. I’ll stay here and help.” I appreciated the kindness in Fran’s voice but knew I needed to leave.

“I’m sorry if you made special accommodations for me, but I really can’t do this, Fran.” Turning with me, the cleaning staff member followed me out and helped me remove the protective gear.

The night felt cool, as if October was closer than the calendar showed. Hobbling alone back to my family, I reminded myself that this was only a building, not our life. I originally arrived at Ashwood with everything I possessed in my mother’s old suitcase and two boxes. Having built a new life, I’d not leave my home the same way.

Chapter Thity-One

Our family quarters were dark and quiet when I arrived. Finally I followed Dr. Frances’s advice about rest. Ignoring medical protocols, I medicated myself with the strongest pain medicine in our bathroom kit plus a sleeping aid, put on my pajamas, and turned out the lights. Finding a comfortable position in our bed took as many minutes as the little yellow pill required to drag me into sleep.

My mind traveled far and wide through a tornado of the last days’ experiences. At three, back muscle spasms woke me. I waited in the dark for something bad to happen. At four o’clock I put my good foot to the floor, then my swollen one, hobbled to David’s small coffeemaker and started a mug brewing while I showered.  Five minutes under a hot water spray couldn’t steam away my stiffness. Dressed in soft clothes, I began Sunday. During harvest, it was almost like every other day in the week except for a morning devotions hour and closed school building.

With our bedroom curtains pulled aside, I watched dawn break the darkness. Sitting at David’s desk, I turned on my data pad to review yesterday’s production reports and mail. The DOE offered a temporary lab trailer if we remained willing to participate in their gifted student program. I responded enthusiastically and forwarded a copy of the plan to Jason and Lao.

A picture of Tia and David at a long-ago holiday party accompanied the morning news’ expanded story of the government’s surrogate program scandal. Dancing around defamation laws, the reporters implied that Tia, while brilliant, was unstable and not the best DNA source for children to be raised by unassuming strangers. Videos of three of the Regan surrogates, two girls and a boy all living in Chicago, were offered. The children, one a year older than Phoebe and two younger than Noah, shared physical features with our kids. Making the video public broke all Bureau security guidelines.

I read the story, angered by the fine line reporters were willing to walk in keeping facts straight while suggesting novel interpretations. No one in a senior position in the current White House could speak to how the surrogate program became corrupted or convince readers that this tampering might not still be in practice. At the end of the article, the reporter reminded readers of the ambush in Paraguay and wondered at the irony that the surrogate son of David’s second wife recently came to live with the family. That an orphaned surrogate child had been forced on a woman who might soon be widowed and raising her husband’s orphaned children. Without thinking of the time, I called Milan.

“You’re lucky I have an early-morning flight, Anne.” Milan, while he was awake, didn’t sound like he was ready for business. “Something must be wrong.”

“Have you read the morning news post? A second installation on the surrogate story that features David and Tia.”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll call you back. We had an agreement that the second story would be held for next week.” He disconnected.

I stayed at the desk, wondered how Sarah and Paul would deal with all the pain raised in this story—the insinuation of mental instability for Tia’s offspring, the videos of the grandchildren they might never know, the closing paragraph with its mention of me as a widow. My coffee went cold as the morning light gained meager strength. Milan called back.