Who Are You? (9780307823533) (14 page)

She describes the case of a test-tube baby wanted and fought over by the egg donor, the sperm donor, and the surrogate mother. “That poor little girl is two now—no time to be taken from the woman she’s always known as mother. She badly needs an advocate,” the woman says.

“Don’t they all! I’m working with two children from a family with substance abuse, and those sweet babies need all the help they can get.” The other woman looks at her watch. “I have to get to a meeting over near the Galleria. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

The receptionist answers her phone, then leaves her desk. She says to us, “Come with me, girls. I’ll take you to Ms. Taylor’s office.”

By the time Lindy and I leave the offices, she’s clutching a stack of pamphlets and flyers. We’ve learned that volunteers are trained to represent in court children from abusive homes who are temporarily in foster care. But volunteers also help children feel secure, taking them to the park, giving them birthday parties, and just showing they care.

As Lindy and I climb into the car, she settles into the seat with a sigh. “Everything we heard makes me really appreciate my own parents.”

“That’s exactly the way I feel,” I answer.

We ride in silence. My own mom and dad don’t always see things the way I do. They can’t begin to understand how much I want to study to become an artist. And yet right now, more than ever before in my life, I feel close to them. I’m awfully glad I’ve got them.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

M
om and Dad are on hand when Jonathan comes to pick me up Friday evening. They chat with him for a few minutes, both of them wearing extra-pleasant faces as they ask horrible questions: “Do you have a college in mind yet?” and “Do you know what you want to major in?”

I know Jonathan probably thinks he’s being grilled. I feel bad that he’s suffering.

But then I wonder, What should parents talk about when they meet their daughter’s dates? Rising prices? Stock quotations? Problems with an aging garbage disposal? Parents have nothing at all in common with the guys who ask out their daughters. The best thing to do is keep the conversations as short as possible.

I take Jonathan’s arm. “We’ve got to hurry,” I tell Mom and Dad. “We’re supposed to be at the museum by seven-thirty.”

We say goodbye all around. Jonathan doesn’t seem to mind when Mom adds, “Drive carefully.”

As we get into his car Jonathan says, “Your parents are nice.”

“Thanks,” I answer.

Jonathan begins to relax, and we talk. I find out that Jonathan’s on his neighborhood tennis team and coaches the little kids’ swim team. He’s taking art at his mother’s insistence.

“My fifth-grade teacher told her I showed promise,” he says, “so I’ve been dragged around to art classes ever since.” He makes a face. “My mom’s grandmother painted landscapes. I guess her stuff was okay. My mom’s always bragging about it. She thinks I inherited the family talent.”

“My grandmother keeps telling me I draw like her brother,” I say. “My parents don’t brag about art things!”

“Are you going to take that summer art course?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Don’t even ask. It makes me too unhappy. My parents think art lessons are a waste of money.”

“Trade you parents,” Jonathan says. He smiles at me.

“It’s a deal,” I tell him. I’m warm and happy. I like the low music of Jonathan’s voice.

We capture one of the last parking places in the lot across the street from the museum. Right on time we meet Ms. Montero and some of the kids in
our class. There’s a line, but it moves pretty fast. Before long we’re surrounded by French paintings from the eighteenth century. Ms. Montero points out details and fills in history and makes it all interesting to me.

I can tell, though, that Jonathan doesn’t care that much.

As we fall behind the group in the last room of the exhibition, Jonathan leans close to me and murmurs in my ear, “Not much longer and we’ll be out of here.”

“You don’t like the exhibition?”

“No,” he says. “Do you?”

“It’s not my favorite,” I answer. “Most of the paintings are too elaborate and busy. Except for a few. I did like the one with the mother and daughters called
Saying
Grace.”

Jonathan shrugs, and I tease him, “Think of the extra credit we get for this trip. That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

“No,” he says. “You were the first one to raise your hand, so I raised mine. I came because of you.”

My heart beats loudly in my ears. Why doesn’t everyone in the room turn to see where the drumbeats are coming from?

Jonathan doesn’t seem to hear them. And he doesn’t realize that my brain has frozen, my mouth won’t open, and my legs—which I’m counting on to hold me up—have melted away.

“When we get through here, want to go to Marble Slab and get some ice cream?” Jonathan asks.

“Sure,” I hear myself saying, and realize with surprise
that everything still works. Wonderful, handsome, superterrific Jonathan. He came to an art exhibition just because of me.

“I always get amaretto cream with chunks of milk chocolate folded in,” he says.

“Make that two,” I tell him.

“Okay. What will
you
have?” he asks.

We keep up the easy banter until after we go and get our cones and have to lick the dripping ice cream as fast as we can before it melts. We sit at a tiny metal table outside, facing the parking lot on Memorial, slowly enjoying what’s left of our cones.

A family that has tromped across the lot enters the store, leaving us blissfully alone. Jonathan leans down and kisses me lightly on the lips.

His kiss is cold and sticky and tastes of almond. I lift my chin and kiss him back.

“Want to go to a movie tomorrow night?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” I answer.

“Wait a minute. I forgot about my report,” Jonathan says. “Make that Sunday afternoon. Instead of a movie, we could drive to the beach.”

“I can’t Sunday.” I don’t know why, but I’m reluctant to tell Jonathan about Mr. Merson, so I just say, “Mom and Dad and I have to visit a man who’s just out of the hospital. We said we’d come on Sunday afternoon. I have to be there.”

“I wish I could get out of what I have to do tomorrow night,” Jonathan says. “I have to write a report on test-tube babies for my social problems class. We’re working on community resources or
something. I’ve got to interview a doctor, and he said he couldn’t see me until Saturday.”

“Lindy Baker’s in your class,” I tell him. “I went with her to talk to someone at Child Advocates. She’s doing her report on them.” I tell him a little about what the volunteers do and about the conversation we overheard. “I feel so sorry for that child they were talking about. She was a test-tube baby.”

Jonathan says, “The question concerning my topic, test-tube babies, is, ‘These people want a child. What can we do to help them?’ Nobody asks the next question, ‘How is what we do going to affect the child?’ ”

“There aren’t many test-tube babies, are there?” I ask. “Isn’t that something they’ve just begun to experiment with?”

“No. It’s been going on for years. They don’t even really say ‘test-tube’ anymore. I’ve got an appointment with one of the doctors who specialized in fertility problems. He helped pioneer in vitro insemination—a Dr. Alonzo Salinas. He’s retired now, but he said he’d be glad to talk to me. He’s in some kind of golf tournament this weekend, so the only time he could see me is Saturday evening.”

Dr. Alonzo Salinas.
My brain tries to absorb what I’ve just heard, but it’s hard to think. I feel the last inch of cone shatter in my hand, and ice cream oozes between my fingers.

When I can finally speak, my voice trembles. “Jonathan,” I beg, “please, could I go with you?”

He pops the end of his cone into his mouth,
munches, gulps, then smiles. He hasn’t noticed a thing, and I’m glad. I don’t want to explain. “It’s real nice of you to offer to keep me company, Kristi,” he says. “You should get a grade, since you’ve worked with Lindy and me! Are you sure you want to go?”

I take a deep breath. “I’m very sure.”

Dr. Salinas lives in a large, two-story dark red brick home on a street off North Boulevard, near the Medical Center. The gnarled oaks that line the streets in this neighborhood are so old and so huge that their branches form an extended tunnel of shade.

Jonathan parks in front of the doctor’s house, and I follow him up the walk to the front porch.

An elderly woman with a crown of white curly hair opens the door and smiles at us. Jonathan introduces us, and the woman ushers us into what she calls “the parlor.”

It’s a long, elegant room with a marble fireplace at one end and dark red velvet drapes at the windows. The furniture is mahogany, with claw feet. I bet myself that all the pieces are real antiques, not reproductions.

Mrs. Salinas seats us on an ornate love seat, then sits opposite us. “The doctor will be down in a few minutes,” she says. “He did well at the golf tournament, so he’s in a very chipper mood.”

I’m glad he’s feeling happy. Maybe he’ll answer the questions I hope I’ll be able to ask him.

Mrs. Salinas chats on, and Jonathan answers her. But my attention is caught by the painting that hangs on the wall behind her. It’s a cluster of farmhouses among tangled branches of trees. The roofs of the houses are red, and the roofs and walls gleam warmly in the sunlight. I recognize the painting.

“Camille Pissarro,” I say.

Mrs. Salinas smiles at me. “That’s right. I treasure that painting. It brings back so many happy memories of our trips to France.”

“It’s a beautiful reproduction,” I tell her.

“Oh, it’s not a reproduction, dear. It’s an original,” Mrs. Salinas tells me, pride in her voice. “It was a birthday gift last year from the doctor.”

Before I can think, I blurt out, “I thought
Red Roofs
was owned by a museum in Paris.”

“One of them is,” Mrs. Salinas says. “We were told that Pissarro apparently painted a number of versions of
Red Roofs.
According to the dealer, this painting was found in an attic where it had been hidden for years. We were so fortunate to obtain it.”

“Yes, you were,” I murmur. “Did your husband buy the painting in Paris?”

“No,” she answers. “It’s so nice that you know about art.” She smiles and continues, “The transaction was made through a local gallery, people who’ve been well established for years. We’ve bought paintings through them before, and so have our friends. You may have heard of the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art.”

This must be the Pissarro painting Ms. Montero referred to when I asked her about Ms. Chase and her gallery. I relax and feast my eyes on the light and shadow and warm colors in the painting. It’s beautiful.

Dr. Salinas strides into the room. The fragrance of soap follows him, and his sparse hair is still damp from his shower. He’s slightly bent, and the knuckles on his hands are so large and gnarled I’m reminded of the knobs on the crepe myrtle trees outside his front door. Jonathan and I jump to our feet, and Jonathan goes through the introductions again.

“Would you young people like a Coke or some iced tea?” Mrs. Salinas asks.

Together we answer, “No, thank you.” I can’t imagine swallowing anything, and I know Jonathan is as scared as I am because as we drove here he told me so.

I sit quietly while Jonathan opens his notebook and begins to ask questions. I listen intently and hear about the mistakes that were made in early in vitro insemination, the failures, and finally the successes as eggs were retrieved, inseminated, then transferred to the uterus, where fertilization could take place.

Jonathan has given a lot of thought to his questions. He goes into opposition to the project; the fate of the living cells that are impregnated, then discarded; and the ethics involved.

Finally he checks over his notes, closes his notebook, and says, “I think that’s about it.”

“Well, then—” Dr. Salinas begins.

“May I ask a question?” I interrupt. My words are breathy, I’m so eager for answers.

Dr. Salinas and Jonathan turn to look at me.

Before either can respond, I hurry to say, “Who were your sperm donors? Where did they come from?”