“Gabe!” Barb shouts, somewhere in the distance. It’s far away, remote, from the world outside us. Gabe studies my face, then winces before he falls on top of me. Something warm and viscous drips down my bare leg until it collects in a pool of red on the floor. The knife sticks out from Gabe’s back. Behind it, Maya’s husband towers above us, victorious, as the sound of sirens grows stronger.
Chapter Forty-One
Barb
Six months later
December isn’t the ideal time to move to the tristate area. Snow isn’t as common as it once was, which only makes the biting cold less fun. It’s too chilly for playgrounds and sandboxes, the type of play kids from Southern California expect year round. The children will be here for Hanukkah, though they’ve never celebrated the holiday before, and I can’t remember the last time I lit the candles. Still, I unearth the menorah from the attic, polish it in preparation for sundown. It feels symbolic that they’re arriving on the first night of Hanukkah. A small miracle. A symbol of resilience and survival.
Tessa keeps calling it a trial move. She’s starting a new job in January. I invited her to stay with me indefinitely. My house has been too empty for too long. It could use the sounds and detritus of children. Plus, it’s nicer and freer than anywhere she can afford. She insists she doesn’t want to overstay her welcome. There’s no way she could possibly overstay. Ultimately, it’s her choice, though. I won’t push her.
I’ve cleared out Regina’s old bedroom, set up her crib by the window. It’s white wicker, with wheels that roll. I hope Tessa doesn’t find it too old-fashioned. I hope she isn’t overwhelmed by the toys I’ve collected from my book club. I want her and the kids to be comfortable, which can easily come off as overbearing.
It all happened so quickly. When Gabe arrived, he’d left the door open, so the police were able to file in and swiftly overtake Paul Marker, Maya Linsky’s husband. Paul Marker pled guilty to Regina’s and Aram’s murders, as well as to attempted murder for stabbing Gabe, and has been locked away for the last six months, awaiting sentencing. He confessed that, when the government and the American Medical Association wouldn’t intervene, he broke into Longevity Fertility, hoping to find proof of the donor Gabe had used for Maya. When he couldn’t find any evidence, he tried reason instead. He thought Regina would help him. She was a young woman. She’d understand. He followed her to the bar, where he slipped a small dose of crushed ketamine into her drink, hoping it would pacify her and make her more willing to talk to him. He didn’t know she was an addict, that her ginger ale had no alcohol in it. That when he then ordered her something stronger, he’d precipitated a chain of events he couldn’t undo.
I believe that after he’d drugged her, she began drinking on her own. I believe that no substance could break Regina’s loyalty. That even when she was so intoxicated she could barely speak, she would still refuse to help him. I believe that when he brought her to Gabe’s house and she remained stoic, anger overcame him, unleashing something in him that he couldn’t control. But I have no pity for him. I have no pity for anyone who chooses vengeance over justice.
Mothers aren’t the only ones with instincts. Paul Marker was right. From the first time he’d heardLeigh’s syndrome, he knew something was amiss. Leigh’s is so rare—it wasn’t something Gabe tested for, particularly since it hadn’t come up in the donor’s family history. Maya Linsky dismissed her husband’s suspicions; so had their pediatrician, their couples therapist. He was grieving, and grief can make you believe conspiracies. Still, he wasresolute. He got a sample of Maya’s saliva from her toothbrush, had it tested, found she wasn’t a carrier for Leigh’s. He understood that if she wasn’t a carrier, she couldn’t have been the genetic mother. After that, things about their son started to make sense. His hairline. His freckles. The way he rolled his tongue. It took months of following Gabe, Regina, and Aram to uncover what they were doing. During that time, his marriage crumbled, his friends distanced themselves. It made him more determined to uncover the truth, to make Gabe pay for what he’d done.
When the toxicology reports finally came in, they confirmed Paul Marker’s story that he’d given Aram a bouquet of substances to make it seem like an accidental overdose, that he’d fed Regina ketamine and enough alcohol that he barely needed to hold her head down in the canal after he pushed her in.
In the end, a confession was better for Paul Marker than vengeance. It allowed him to tell his side, to expose Gabe, to tarnish my daughter’s legacy. The press was eager to peddle his story. They cast him as a people’s hero, a morally ambiguous Robin Hood. If one of the mothers had been responsible, the media would have treated her differently. They would’ve called it a deranged act. It wouldn’t have made the public any kinder toward my daughter, but it would have shown her murderer for what he was: violent and wholly unhinged.
Gabe needed a blood transfusion and was in the ICU for a week before he managed a full recovery. Physically, anyway. He hired a hotshot lawyer who had represented actors and producers in equally high-profile cases, ones with a different kind of assault. But even she couldn’t get him off on probation. There was simply too much press around the case—the culmination of decades of fertility doctors deceiving and abusing women with little consequence. The doctor in Cleveland, who used his own sperm on over one hundred patients. The clinic in Irvine that implanted one couple’s embryo in another. But because those instances occurred before there were laws around fertility, they weren’t criminal.
It turns out that we’re still in the Wild West when it comes to fertility laws. Like on so many issues, though, California is atthe forefront, criminalizing all sorts of nonconsent. Seven of the mothers brought criminal charges against him, two of which were dismissed. Gabe pled guilty to the other five counts of illegal use of an embryo. There were no other accomplices alive to stand trial. The nurses at both clinics, the anesthesiologists, knew nothing of what went on across the street. I recognized the anesthesiologist from Rosebud as the woman with the rubber clogs who’d chased me away. She was a fixture on the news, explaining how they got away with the scheme, how they were able to deceive her.
Gabe was appropriately contrite, and the judge sentenced him to three years for each charge, to be served concurrently. His sentence would have been further reduced if Tessa had written a letter on his behalf. She stayed at his side while he was in the ICU, speaking on behalf of the father of her children. Once he could speak for himself, she was done. He needed to take responsibility for his own sins.
Given his lack of a record, with good time served, Gabe will likely be out in a year.
I have Tessa’s flight number, and I check it every ten minutes. They’re in the air somewhere above Pennsylvania. I wipe the counters, check the safety gates on the stairs, adjust the height of the welcome sign hanging in the foyer. I can stand on the step stool with ease, thanks to my new bionic knee. It wasn’t just platitudes after all. My replacement knee really does make me feel young again. Younger, anyway. Young enough to balance on a step stool and chase children around my house for the first time in years.
Tessa got Jasper’s DNA tested. Opal’s too. She didn’t divulge the results of the tests, but I know. From the moment I met Jasper, I’ve felt connected to him.
Before Tessa agreed to stay with me, she asked if I’d mind signing paperwork to relinquish any claim I might have to Jasper.
I’m sorry to have to ... I completely trust you. After everything, my lawyer just feels strongly ...Tessa fretted.
Tessa, I worked in HR for half a century. I understand the necessity of a contract.I assured her Isaac would sign too.
Isaac and I met for lunch to discuss everything that had transpired since our daughter died. I couldn’t imagine how he felt about me, now that he’d heard the story on the news, what our daughter did, what I’d helped expose. At the restaurant, Isaac walked toward me with his head bowed. I was relieved he didn’t bring Anna. When he arrived at the table, I stood, bracing myself for however he planned to behave, shocked when he hugged me, whispering apologies into my hair. We held each other for longer than we needed to, neither of us wanting to let go.
I told Isaac everything. About the saltbushes along the canal where Regina died. The olive tree I hid behind when I spied on Dan Huntsman. I told him about the wind off the ocean as I watched Gabe surf. The smell of Maisy’s jackfruit burrito. The way I could squint and see Regina in Tessa, the way I could squint and see Regina in Jasper too. He signed the agreement without delay, even though he’s normally the type to consult a lawyer. He understood the gravity of the situation, the need to keep the law out of our relationship with Jasper. When Tessa’s ready, I’ve promised to have Isaac and Anna over. I’m not so naive as to think this is what Regina would have wanted. If she were still alive, though, I’m certain she’d be pleased by the bonds we’re forging. Although she’s gone, I can sense her changing with us. Growing, evolving, forgiving.
I wander outside to sit on the steps and wait for them to arrive, even though their plane still hasn’t landed. When it grows too cold, I return inside to set out wood for a fire, then decide against lighting it. It’s a hazard, especially for children from Southern California who are unfamiliar with cold that necessitates fires. I stand before the fireplace, listening to the hum of my impatient house, the ticking clock, the hissing heat, sounds that will soon be drowned out by children. The historical fiction novel my book club has chosen sits on the coffee table. I’m done with thrillers for the foreseeable future, and all the book clubladies agreed that it was time for a change. I’m hosting this month, so the fiveAs can meet Tessa. She’s already got the ending sound to her name, our primary criterion for initiation. I sit on the couch with no protest from my knee and try to read the novel while I wait.
Despite the book’s immersive rendering of San Francisco after World War II, I can’t focus, not when my phone sits next to me and it’s so easy to refresh the status of Tessa’s flight. Landing in seventeen minutes. In an alternate world, I’d be refreshing the status on Regina’s flight, arranging the welcome sign for her. With Regina, it would have readWelcome home, as though proclaiming it would make it true.
It’s been six months and nine days since she died. Although it no longer seems like she might walk through the door, I’ll catch a glimpse of dyed-blue hair or a whiff of the musky perfume she wore as a teenager and get pummeled by loss. Jasper isn’t compensation for Regina. Tessa and Opal aren’t, either, but they’re evidence of a path forward. Like Tessa, I have to forge a new way.
I never wanted to stop working, and the audition at Contessa’s, the sensation of commanding a room again, it stirred something in me, something I could no longer avoid. Dick, of all people, is helping me. I don’t know whether he feels guilty about not warning me before I was fired, or if he’s simply the good guy I’ve always considered him to be. He referred me to a friend who’s opening a real estate office in Bergen County. It’s a smaller job than the one I lost, only a dozen employees to manage. Still, it will allow me to be useful again.
I’m staring into the cold cavity of the fireplace when I hear a car pull up outside. Tessa insisted on renting a car, even though I offered to pick her up and am happy to share mine. At some point, she will have to stop being polite. For now, she’s here. They’re here.
Chapter Forty-Two
Tessa
