Authors: L. J. Sellers
Rachel flitted nervously around the bed, checking Jenna’s straps and putting up a fresh IV bag. She wrapped a blood pressure sleeve around Jenna’s upper arm. “I’m sorry he hit you. I feel terrible about that. He’s not at peace with God or himself.”
“Who is he?”
“Brother Zeke. Reverend Carmichael says we’d be lost without him, but I’m not so sure.” Rachel removed the stethoscope from her ears. “Your blood pressure is a little high, but after what just happened, I think that can be expected.”
Jenna was suddenly aware of her heart, which, despite all the excitement, was slowing down. So was her brain. The sedative was in her system again, and it was always bad at first. In time she would adjust to it.
“What did you say?”
Rachel looked hurt, but determined. “I want to know if you were faking the whole thing.”
Jenna gave her the same hurt look back. “How can you say that?” Instantly, she was angry. “I’m tied to a bed, my heart races all the time, I have horrible hot flashes, and I can’t remember anything from one minute to the next.” Jenna had to stop and think about what her point was. She couldn’t remember. She had never felt such despair. “I’m going to die here!”
Rachel started to speak then stopped. She stood, poised to leave. Finally she blurted out, “Your family loves you very much,” and rushed toward the door.
Jenna called after her, but Rachel kept moving.
What family? All she had was her mother, who couldn’t possibly have anything to do with this. What was Rachel talking about? Maybe the nurse didn’t really know why she was here. Sometimes Rachel seemed as confused as she was. That man, Zeke, he’d been quite sure of himself. For a moment, she’d thought he was going to kill her.
Jenna closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. The steady beat of her heart was reassuring. Maybe she wasn’t going to have a heart attack after all. Instead she would be alive and well for whatever they had planned.
“Hey, pretty girl.”
Jenna’s eyes flew open. Zeke was looking down at her with a gentle, curious expression. Her body went cold with fear.
“Don’t be afraid. I just want to ask you something.”
Jenna swallowed hard.
“Do you remember me from before?”
She stared, unblinking, afraid to answer. Before when? What was the right answer? She couldn’t think straight. Would he be mad if she said no?
“You do. I can tell.” The idea seemed to make him sad. She noticed the web of lines around his eyes and the brown spots on his skin. He did seem vaguely familiar, as if she’d dreamed about him or someone like him.
“Who are you?”
He laughed. “I can’t tell you that, but I will tell you something else.” Zeke pulled up the chair and sat down. “I’m going to tell you why you’re here. It’s not your fault, and I figure you have a right to know what this is all about before you die.”
Jenna’s heart seemed to stop. They were going to kill her! The crazy preacher/doctor had lied.
“The good doctors plan to take one of your eggs.” Zeke frowned. “Maybe more than one.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Anyway, they’re going to fertilize your egg with sperm from some guy you never met and put it inside another woman’s body.”
What was he talking about? Jenna felt foggy. Why would anyone want her eggs?
“Guess who the woman is?”
Jenna had no clue.
“Your sister.” Zeke leaned back and grinned. “She’s a cold bitch, isn’t she?”
“I don’t have,” Jenna could barely talk, “a sister.”
“They seem to think you do. I just thought you might like to know your kid is gonna make it out of here even if you don’t.”
Her kid?
Zeke jumped up and left the room before Jenna could make her mouth form the question.
Chapter 18
Friday, Nov. 3, 8:47 a.m.
Elizabeth had called the hospital earlier and said she’d be late. Now she sat in front of the phone working up the nerve to call Daniel Potter, the lawyer who had handled Jenna McClure’s adoption. He would know where to find her birth mother. All she had to do was ask, so why not? All the missing pieces of her life were suddenly out there, tangible, just waiting to be claimed. Elizabeth felt like throwing up. She could feel another migraine coming on. It was too much all at once. First a sister, and now a mother. Both of them monumental risks. She went to the bathroom and rinsed her face with cold water. When she came back, Elizabeth picked up the phone and dialed the number before she could change her mind.
The man on the other end of the phone sounded older than God. “Daniel Potter, attorney at law. Who is calling?”
Elizabeth swallowed hard. “Jenna McClure.”
“Patty McClure’s little girl?”
“Yep.” Elizabeth could hardly breathe. She fought the urge to hang up.
“How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in decades.”
“She’s great. Thanks for asking.”
There was a short silence. “What can I do for you, young lady?”
“Tell me about an adoption you handled thirty-two years ago,” Elizabeth blurted out, surprising herself. “A baby girl adopted by a woman named Patricia McClure.”
The old man cleared his throat. His voice seemed stronger. “Why now? What difference does it make? Patty McClure did right by you. You should be grateful.”
Elizabeth stiffened. She’d encountered this attitude when she searched for her mother in Chicago. What did he know about being adopted?
“I am grateful.” She grabbed her purse and searched for an extra strength Excedrin. “I love my mother dearly, but I have a right to know. Especially now that I want to get pregnant.” Elizabeth had rehearsed this speech over and over, but for some reason she started crying. “I just found out I’m a carrier for cystic fibrosis, and a research team wants to study my family genetics. How can they if I don’t know my own family?”
“Oh dear.” Potter sounded distressed. “Please don’t cry.”
Elizabeth found the medicine and also a tissue to blot her eyes. What was wrong with her? Was it nicotine withdrawal? She hadn’t had a cigarette since last night.
“I’m not sure I can help much. I don’t remember your birth mother’s name, and all my early files were destroyed in the flood of ’73.” Potter was fumbling now. “The adoption agency was run by the All Saints Catholic Church in Portland. Perhaps they can help.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank. “Do you think they will?”
“Certainly.” The old man tried to sound perky. “You call me if they give you any trouble, and I’ll put the pressure on. I may be semi-retired, and the doctors tell me I’ve got less than a year with this liver cancer, but I’m still a force to be reckoned with.”
“Thanks.” Elizabeth started to hang up, then decided to take one more risk. “Would you call me if you remember anything else?”
“Certainly. Give me your number.”
She could hear David in her head lecturing her about how foolish this was, but Elizabeth gave Potter her cell number anyway. “Thank you, sir, I hope to hear from you.” She started to hang up again.
“Wait, Miss McClure.” Potter’s weak voice called her back. Elizabeth put the phone to her ear. “I just remembered something. There were two little girls. The other one was adopted by a couple from Chicago. You have a fraternal twin sister out there somewhere.”
Fraternal twins. Elizabeth closed the phone and started to cry again. Even if they hadn’t come from the same oocyte, she and McClure had been conceived around the same time and brought into the world together. They were more than siblings. They were partners, womb mates. Elizabeth wept for the sister she would never know, for the love she would never be able to share.
Chapter 19
Friday, Nov. 3, 7:45 a.m.
Eric woke early, anxious to see the day’s edition of the Willamette News. Jenna’s picture and the sketch drawings of the two men were on page three of the city section. The picture of Jenna didn’t do her justice. It was one he’d taken after the robbery and she looked grim. Joe had done a good job with the story, listing Eric’s name and phone number as well as the Missing Persons office at the police department.
It had to work. It was his only hope.
The phone rang before he finished reading the paper. A quivering old voice said, “He’s my nephew, Clarence Bisbow. The ugly, bald one, I mean. He’s been nothin’ but trouble his whole life.”
“Who is this?”
“Beverly Mayfield. What difference does it make who I am? I thought you wanted to know about the guys in the paper.”
“I do.” Eric forced himself to be polite. “Thank you for calling.” The cantankerous old woman was probably crazy, but it wouldn’t hurt to humor her. “Do you know where to locate Mr. Bisbow?”
“I don’t know why you’re calling him ‘Mister.’ He’s a no-good crook.” Beverly cleared her throat. “Last I heard, he was living on Q Street over in Springfield, still dealing drugs at his age. It’s shameful the way he treated my sister all these years. Why she puts up with it, I’ll never know. I wish the cops would–”
Eric cut in. “Spell his last name for me, please.”
“Just like it sounds, B-i-s-b-o-w.”
“When is his birthday and what kind of car does he drive?” Detective Jackson would need all the information he could get to help narrow down the computer search. Especially if the suspects were using aliases.
“June 3, 1955.” The old lady snorted. “Old enough to know better. I don’t know about a car. He lost his license a time or two.”
“Thanks for your help. Will you leave me your number in case I need to ask you more questions?”
“It’s 346-2015. Don’t call after nine. That’s my bedtime.”
“All right. Bye now.” Eric hung up. Instincts told him the old lady was probably just lonely and bored, but he called Missing Persons anyway. The line was busy.
He grabbed a second cup of coffee, wolfed down a stale doughnut, then called again.
“Detective Zapata speaking.”
“It’s Eric Troutman. Did you just get a call from Beverly Mayfield?”
“So she called you first. I’m hurt. She’s one of our regulars.”
“I was afraid of that. Is the nephew even real?”
“Oh yeah. But he’s been in prison since ’88, and he won’t be getting out anytime soon either.”
“Any legitimate calls yet?”
“Nope. Sorry. Check back this afternoon.”
“Thanks.”
Eric refused to be discouraged. It was still early. Lots of people didn’t read the paper until after work. He made sure the answering machine on his landline was still on, then headed for the shower.
Freshly shaved and dressed, Eric decided to listen to the recording he’d made the day he and Jenna met for coffee. It had been an interview of sorts, and at that point, he had still planned to write a profile about her. Now he didn’t think he could. He just wanted to hear her voice. To see if there was anything she’d said that would give him a clue, something he missed the first time he played the tape.
He sat in his favorite chair, an old leather-covered lazy boy, plugged earphones into the recorder and slipped them on. Jenna’s voice seemed more intimate that way. She was so open, so painfully honest. He’d never met anyone like her before. He wished he’d known her longer.
The intrusion of his own voice bothered him. Eric backed up to the beginning of the file and recorded the silence of the apartment over his speaking parts. Then he retrieved a second recorder from his bedroom and re-taped Jenna’s voice, editing out the silent gaps.
He leaned back in the chair and played the new version, hearing with a fresh ear the pain in her voice when she talked about her lonely childhood and a lack of closeness to her mother. What really caught his attention this time was the shift in her voice when she said, “I’m going to get artificially inseminated, but first I have to wait for another blood test to come back.”
Was it anger? Frustration? Why another blood test? Was something wrong with the first one? Where did she have it done? The Assisted Reproduction Clinic next to the old North McKenzie hospital seemed the most likely place.
Eric shut the recorder off, excited by the possibility of a new lead. As a hospital volunteer, he was well enough known by the staff that he might be able to sneak a peek at clinic records. It couldn’t hurt to try.
Before leaving, he checked his answering machine. Another woman had called. This one sounded younger. She claimed Jenna was her sister, a prostitute who often ran off with older men to make porn movies. Disgusted, Eric reset the machine. Jackson had often complained about crackpots who called the police with bizarre tips or confessed to crimes they knew nothing about. Eric never realized how excessive it was. These people obviously needed attention, but he didn’t have time for nonsense. He was glad to be getting out of the house. It would be easier to screen the legitimate calls from the wackos with the answering machine.
He entered the hospital just before noon. The timing couldn’t have been better if he’d planned it. Most of the nurses were busy serving lunch or rotating lunch breaks. Doctors were seldom visible in the middle of the day. They did their rounds early in the morning and again in late afternoon. Mid-day was reserved for surgery, paperwork, golf, or naps. And now that North McKenzie had built a new hospital in the Gateway area, the University District hospital was pretty quiet.
Eric knew just the computer terminal he’d use. It was on the second floor, in a little cubby adjacent to the pediatrics’ admitting desk. It was a small office, shared by several doctors, who worked part time for the hospital and had their private practices elsewhere. He circled through the medical-surgery ward and approached from the south side so he wouldn’t have to pass the admitting desk. He stopped once to talk with a nurse named Susan whom he’d dated briefly and said a passing hello to several others. No one questioned his presence, even though Friday was not his usual visiting day.
Eric slipped into the little office and sat down. The computer was slightly to the left of the door, so he would not be seen unless someone came into the room. He wouldn’t see someone coming in until the last second either. His palms were suddenly sweaty, but he was grinning. He hadn’t had a decent adrenaline rush since the last time he thumbed through Jackson’s weekly report on the sly.