Who Are You? (9780307823533) (15 page)

Jonathan nods with approval and opens his notebook again. It’s a good question and one he didn’t think to ask.

“With my work here in Houston the donors were students at the university—bright young men in good health. Their names were kept confidential, of course,” the doctor tells me.

“Even the women whose eggs were fertilized didn’t know who the donors were?”

“They were not told.”

“What about in a court of law? Where someone needs to know the name of the donor? Can’t they find out?”

Dr. Salinas shakes his head. “The records are sealed.”

I can’t give up. I approach the doctor in a different way. “Then even though the father of the child was a donor, the woman’s husband’s name would be on the birth certificate. Is that right?”

“Yes. That’s right. That is the law.”

I’m so scared, I grip my fingers together to keep them from shaking. “Did all your patients have fertility problems?”

“Most of them.”

“And they all agreed to participate in creating test-tube babies?”

“By no means,” Dr. Salinas says. “We treated
many women—and sometimes their husbands—with medication or surgery.”

“If I give you the name of one of your patients, would you remember—”

Dr. Salinas leans forward as he interrupts me. “You should know, young lady, that with any doctor a patient’s records are completely confidential and not open to any other party. I can’t discuss a patient with you.”

With some difficulty he pushes himself to his feet. Jonathan and I scramble to stand.

“Thanks for letting us come,” Jonathan says.

In a small voice I manage to thank him too.

“You’re welcome,” Dr. Salinas says to Jonathan. “Good luck with your report.”

As we walk to the car, I dart quick looks at Jonathan. I wonder if he’s angry at me.

But as we settle into the car and he turns on the ignition, he says, “That was a good question about who the donors were. Thanks for asking it. And I hadn’t thought about asking if the in vitro work took up all his time. It was interesting to know that he had other patients and other methods of treating infertility.”

“I went too far,” I say. “I shouldn’t have asked about a particular patient. I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“It’s okay, Kristi,” Jonathan says. “He wasn’t that upset. I know how you feel about that little kid you told me about. The story got to you. It bothers me, too.”

He reaches over to take my hand and squeezes it. I don’t try to tell him his assumption is wrong. “I’m
glad you came,” he says. “It’s still early. Want to get pizza and hear some music?”

“I’d love to,” I tell him.

“Now that the interview’s over, I can relax,” Jonathan says. “It’s a good feeling to know that I got answers to all my questions.”

I desperately wish I could say the same thing.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

G
etting ready to visit Douglas Merson is a pain, and it’s Mom who’s making it so difficult.

“Kristi, you aren’t going to wear jeans!”

“Why not, Mom? I wore them the last time I went to visit Mr. Merson in the hospital.”

Mom groans. “This visit is different. We’re going to his house. Wear what you wore this morning to church. Remember, it’s Sunday.”

“What does Sunday have to do with wearing jeans?” I ask.

“Kristi!” I can tell from Mom’s voice that there’s no use arguing. “Put on a dress. And stockings. And your good shoes. And please, do something with your hair. Get it out of your eyes.”

Mom doesn’t know what Mr. Merson will tell us.
A part of me wants to comfort her. I want to hug her and say, “Hey, look, whatever reason he gives us for keeping that folder about me doesn’t matter.”

But it
does
matter because I think I already know his reason. And I’m scared too.

I back off from Mom and run upstairs to change. I’ve always believed everything Mom and Dad ever told me. I’ve never questioned them because I’ve trusted them. Are things different now? It shakes me.

I lean toward the bathroom mirror, my hairbrush in my hand, then stop and stare hard at my reflection. “Who are you?” I whisper.

The doorbell jangles, and I jump.

Mom yells up the stairs, “Kristi!” So I smooth back my hair, fasten it with a clip, and hurry down the stairs.

Detective Balker smiles up at me from the foot of the stairs. I’m surprised to see him. “We’re getting ready to visit Mr. Merson,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says. “I just came by to make sure the meeting was still on.” As he takes a step toward the door he says to Mom, “I’ll meet you folks over there. You can ask him whatever questions you want, but we’ll keep the visit short.”

“Of course,” Mom says. She looks the way she did when she had the flu. She’s put color on her cheeks, but she’s so pale underneath that the two pink ovals stand out, looking weird.

“Does it have to be a short visit?” I ask Balker. “Mr. Merson has a fabulous painting in his entry hall. He’s an artist himself. I’d love to see his work.”

“Kristi!” Mom explodes. “Be reasonable! This is not a social call. Mr. Merson is not a friend. We’re not hoping to have a pleasant chat with him.”

Her anger startles me.

“See you there,” Balker says, and quickly leaves the house.

I get a tissue from the pop-up box in the guest bathroom. “Hold still,” I tell Mom, and I blend in the stark edges of color on her cheeks.

Mom glances into the mirror in the entry hall. “Thanks, honey,” she says. Her eyes fill with tears.

Dad claps a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he tells her. “Merson can’t hurt Kristi.”

“He can’t?” Mom says. “Look what he did to his son.”

“Mr. Merson loved his son!” I’m surprised at myself for strongly defending a man I don’t even know.

Mom takes the tissue from me and wipes her eyes. “If a parent really loves a child, he nurtures him. He doesn’t try to control him.” Her words seem to bounce off the walls and into our private thoughts.

I want to say,
How about not allowing the child to major in art, when that’s what she wants most in the world to study?
But I don’t. I can tell from Mom’s and Dad’s expressions that they’ve thought of that.

Finally Dad clears his throat and asks, “Are you both ready to leave? We don’t want to keep Detective Balker waiting.”

Mom takes a deep breath and throws back her shoulders. “We’re coming,” she says firmly.

I silently follow my parents out to the car.

On the way to Merson’s house we don’t talk. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. But as we near Chimney Rock I give Dad directions on how to reach Merson’s house on Buffalo Bayou Lane.

As we pull into the drive behind Balker’s car, he climbs out and waits for us to join him. The four of us walk slowly to the front porch. Mom grips Dad’s arm tightly.

Mom’s nervousness is contagious. I begin to fear whatever it is Mr. Merson is going to tell us.

Frederick opens the door. Gurtz looms behind him. I feel intimidated. I let Balker do all the talking.

We’re ushered into the entry hall, and I find myself face-to-face with the Kupka painting. The vibrant bands of color reach out to me. They wipe every other thought from my mind. “See, Mom? Look, Dad. This is Frank Kupka’s portrait of his wife.” I check the bottom of the canvas. There, in neat script, is the signature:
František Kupka.

Mom gives the painting only a quick glance, but Dad studies it, frowning. “I don’t get it,” he says in a low voice. “You can hardly see the woman’s face. Why did the artist slap those strips of color all over her? Couldn’t he have had her sit in a chair? Maybe with some flowers in a vase next to her? I bet she wasn’t too happy with this portrait.”

Discouraged, I don’t even try to answer.

A nurse, wearing a tidy white uniform, comes into the hall and smiles at us. “I’m Connie Babson,” she tells us. Ms. Babson is short and plump and middle-aged and looks as if she laughs easily. If I had to be taken care of, I’d like a nurse like her.

“You’re the first guests Mr. Merson has had,” she says. She leans toward Mom, as though she’s confiding in her. “We’ll keep our visit short because he tires easily.”

We’re led into a large living area with stark white walls, white upholstery, a white marble fireplace, and even a white carpet. I suck in my breath. We’ve been thrown into a stage setting in which the rows of paintings on the walls are the stars. Muted colors, bright colors, textures both soft, like old, faded silk, and bold, with thick, rough brush strokes. Soothing landscapes, imposing portraits, and impressions so wild they shout.

On the far side are windows that look out onto a roofed patio. A sparkling blue swimming pool lies just beyond.

Mom and Dad are being introduced by Sergeant Balker. I forcibly rip myself from this world of beauty and say hello to Mr. Merson.

He’s propped up with pillows on a large sofa and covered with a light wool blanket. In his hands he holds a pad of paper and a pencil. He nods at each of us in turn, his eyes showing a smile as they meet mine. I notice that he studies Mom for a long time.

“Please be seated,” Ms. Babson tells us.

Four chairs have been arranged so that they’re facing the sofa, and we sit down. Ms. Babson hovers over Mr. Merson behind the sofa, and Gurtz stands at the door, his arms folded across his chest.

I lean toward Mr. Merson, overcome by the art that surrounds us. “I wish you could tell me about each of your paintings,” I say. “Are some of them your own work?”

He nods and points to four canvases, one of which I would have guessed was a Chagall, with its strange cow heads and scrap of a rural village. Then he writes, “The real thing. Turner,” and points to a subdued landscape. And “Monet,” then points to a scene of water lilies.

Wow! This is like living in a museum.

“Where do you paint?” I ask. “Is your studio in your house?”

Mom grips my arm. “That’s enough, Kristi,” she says, although she doesn’t look at me. She looks directly at Mr. Merson. “Mr. Merson knows why we’re here.”

He writes something and holds up the pad so we can read it. “Kristi has been kind to me. She’s a fine young woman. I know you are very proud of her.”

“Well, yes. Of course we are proud of her,” Mom says. She twists her fingers together.

“Kristi realizes how important art is in my life,” Mr. Merson writes. “Please forgive her for indulging me.”

Mom squirms as though she doesn’t know what to say next. I think she must have worked out a plan before we came, but Mr. Merson just wiped it out.

Dad steps in. “Mr. Merson, we need to know why you have held this long-term interest in our daughter.”

Mr. Merson holds up a hand, the way a traffic cop would signal drivers to stop. For a few seconds he writes. Then he holds up the pad. “Is Kristi receiving the instruction she needs?”

Dad and Mom look at each other in surprise. “She’s in high school—Carter High,” Dad answers.

“Instruction in art?” Mr. Merson writes.

“She belongs to an art club that meets after school,” Mom says. Impatience creeps into her voice.

Mr. Merson writes, “It’s not enough. She has talent that needs to be directed.”

Mom’s temper begins to rise. “
We’re
her parents. We’ll be the judge of that.”

Just then Frederick comes into the room. He walks carefully, balancing a tray that holds four glasses of iced tea, sprigged with mint. As he pauses before each of us we say, “No, thank you.”

The tea looks good, and I’d really like to have some, but what if I spilled even a drop on the gorgeous white carpeting? It’s a lot safer to leave the tea in Frederick’s hands. I think my parents probably feel the same.

Mom is ready to go back into battle, but Mr. Merson hands Ms. Babson a note. She reads it, walks to the far end of the sofa, and picks up a small, framed photograph—the one I saw in the hospital. She carries the photo to Mom.

“Oh! It’s Chip,” Mom says. I can hear the tears in her voice.

I glance at Mr. Merson, and he’s studying Mom, his gaze so intent, it’s as if he’s trying to peer inside her head.

Mom looks up from the photograph. “I’m sorry about your son, Mr. Merson,” she says. “Chip’s death was painful to all of us in the honors program.
We all felt close to each other. We celebrated together, and we shared each other’s problems.”

“Roger was an artist too. He had great promise,” Mr. Merson writes.

“I know. Chip … that is,
Roger
, shared some of his drawings with me.”

Mr. Merson writes another note to Ms. Babson. She hurries over to the end table again and picks up a manila folder. As she hands it to Mom, she takes Roger’s photograph, returning it to the table.

Mom opens the folder on her lap, and I lean close to see what it contains. There is a sketch of a laughing young woman, sitting on the rim of a fountain. Her hair is long and hangs down her back. Her hands rest on her bulging abdomen. There’s no mistaking who the woman is. At the bottom of the page is a signature:
Roger Merson.

“Mom!” I exclaim. “That’s a great picture of you!”

A tear rolls down Mom’s nose, and she wipes it away with the back of one hand. “It was a beautiful, sunny day, and some of us were sitting out by the fountain,” she says. “I was so happy because I was expecting
you
, Kristi. I knew Chip was sketching, but he never did show me what he had drawn.”