Chương 6
I kept my hand there until the baby stopped moving, and even then I did not know how to take it away.
Alina finally covered my fingers with hers and guided my hand down.
Dana cleared her throat.
Priya touched Alina's elbow.
"We should go."
I looked at my wife.
"Can I see the records before then?"
She hesitated.
"I can send them."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
"Today?"
"Yes."
Priya gave me a measured look that said she was already deciding whether my questions were legal, emotional, or both.
Alina stood carefully.
I stood too.
For a second, we faced each other with the old reflex of people who used to know how goodbye worked.
A kiss once.
Then a hug.
Then, later, a distracted wave from opposite sides of a kitchen.
Now there was nothing.
"Okay."
She started toward the elevators with Priya.
"Alina."
She turned.
I wanted to say something that would change the morning.
Something useful.
Something that justified the months I had already lost.
Instead I said, "Blueberry muffins aren't that bad."
Her mouth moved despite herself.
"You're emotionally unstable."
"Apparently."
Then she walked away.
I watched until the elevator doors closed.
Dana was still beside me.
"You are going to need to decide what you want."
"I know what I want."
"No, you know what you're afraid of."
I looked at her.
"Is that included in the hourly rate?"
"Unfortunately."
She picked up one of the divorce pages I had missed and handed it to me.
"Two o'clock."
Then she left.
I stood in the hallway holding a petition to dissolve my marriage while the place on my palm where my possible son had kicked me seemed to have its own heartbeat.
I did not go back to work.
I told my supervisor there had been an unexpected development in court.
He replied with a thumbs-up, then three minutes later asked whether I could still review a procurement spreadsheet before the end of the day.
That was work.
Your life could split open, and somebody still needed cell H37 checked.
I drove without deciding where I was going and ended up outside the house Alina and I had bought nine years earlier.
Technically, it was still half mine.
Emotionally, I had treated it like a country I no longer had a passport to enter.
The oak tree in the front yard had lost one heavy branch since I left.
A blue tarp covered part of the grass.
I remembered her mentioning storm damage through the lawyers and being irritated at the estimated cleanup cost.
Now I sat in my car staring at the cut limb and wondering who had helped her move it.
Daniel came to mind immediately.
I hated that.
My phone chimed.
An email from Alina.
The subject line read, Records.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Just seven attachments.
I opened the first.
Clinic intake forms.
The second contained bloodwork.
The third was a summary of the embryo transfer.
The fourth was a letter from the clinic's legal department.
That one I read twice.
It said an internal review had identified inconsistencies in storage identifiers and chain-of-custody documentation for a limited group of cryopreserved reproductive materials.
Limited group sounded carefully engineered to mean nothing.
The letter advised affected patients that there was no confirmed evidence of misidentification at transfer, but the clinic could not exclude that possibility pending review.
I felt sick.
The next attachment was the independent laboratory order.
Alina's name.
My name.
The phrase alleged biological father.
I stared at those words longer than I should have.
Alleged.
As though I were being accused of something.
The final attachment was an ultrasound report.
I opened it.
The screen filled with measurements and abbreviations I could barely interpret.
Then I saw the image.
A profile.
Forehead.
Nose.
A tiny raised hand.
I enlarged it.
The resolution was poor.
Still, I stared.
People lied to themselves about ultrasound pictures.
I knew that.
Every baby looked like every ancestor if you wanted badly enough.
But I saw my father's forehead.
Then Alina's nose.
Then nothing recognizable at all.
I closed the image.
Opened it again.
Closed it.
My phone rang.
My brother.
I almost ignored him.
Then I answered.
"You alive?"
"Debatable."
"That good, huh?"
I looked at the house.
"Evan, did you know Alina was pregnant?"
Silence.
Not ordinary silence.
Guilty silence.
I sat up straighter.
"You knew."
"Marcus."
"You knew?"
"She told Leah."
Leah was his wife.
"When?"
"A while ago."
"How long is a while?"
"I don't know."
"That means you know."
He sighed.
"April."
I gripped the steering wheel.
"You've known since April."
"Leah knew."
"You live in the same house."
"Yeah."
"And neither of you said anything."
"Alina asked her not to."
"I'm your brother."
"And Alina's family too."
"Not anymore, apparently."
"That's not fair."
I laughed.
"Interesting morning for fairness."
Evan went quiet.
I could hear machinery in the background from his auto shop.
Then a metal clang and someone calling his name.
He covered the phone for a moment.
"Look, I told Leah I thought you should know."
"But you didn't tell me."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you were a mess."
"I was functioning."
"You were sleeping on my couch and drinking bourbon for dinner."
"Twice."
"Four times."
"That is not the point."
"It kind of is."
I leaned back against the headrest.
"Did everyone know except me?"
"No."
"Who else?"
"Mom."
I closed my eyes.
"Mom knew."
"Leah told her."
"Jesus."
"Don't get mad at Mom."
"Why not?"
"Because she wanted to call you."
"Everyone wanted to call me."
"You didn't want to be called."
The sentence hit harder because it sounded like me.
I rubbed my forehead.
"Did you know about the clinic?"
"What clinic?"
"The fertility clinic."
"No."
His voice changed.
"What happened?"
"I don't know yet."
I looked at the ultrasound attachment still open on my phone.
"They're not sure whether the baby is biologically ours."
"What?"
May you like
"There was a records problem."
"What kind of records problem?"
