Chapter 3 - THE CHILD I NEVER AGREED TO GIVE AWAY
At eight the next morning, I was sitting across from Rebecca in her office, holding a paper cup of coffee I had no intention of drinking.
Outside, Chicago was buried beneath a layer of fresh snow. Inside, the office smelled of burnt espresso and printer toner.
Rebecca had spent the night verifying the wire transfer.
The money was real.
The clinic was real.
And the consent form appeared in the clinic's preliminary records.
What we didn't know was whether an embryo had actually been transferred.
“Could Vanessa have undergone ordinary fertility treatment?” I asked.
“Yes,” Rebecca said. “But that wouldn't explain why the clinic's paperwork references an embryo associated with your previous treatment.”
“I never created embryos.”
“Then we need the complete medical records.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“I want to believe this is a mistake.”
“I understand.”
“No, I mean I want it to be a mistake so badly that I'm afraid I'm going to ignore something obvious.”
Rebecca folded her hands.
“That's precisely why you hired me.”
At nine, we contacted Harrington Center.
The clinic's compliance director refused to release any records without proper authorization. When Rebecca explained that I might be the victim of identity fraud involving reproductive tissue, the director agreed to preserve the relevant files pending a formal review.
She would not confirm anything else.
Not over the phone.
By noon, my anger had begun to replace the shock.
At one, I called Vincent.
He answered immediately.
“Claire.”
“Did you authorize an embryo transfer using my name?”
Silence.
Then, carefully, “Where did you get that information?”
“That's your first question?”
“Listen to me. It's not what you think.”
“You keep saying that. I'm beginning to think you have no idea what I think.”
“Vanessa's pregnancy is complicated.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can't do that over the phone.”
“Try.”
He exhaled.
“Do you remember the embryos we discussed after the miscarriage?”
“Yes.”
“We had them created before the procedure.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“No, we didn't.”
“We did. You were under sedation when the doctor explained the options. I signed some of the paperwork.”
“That doesn't mean we created embryos.”
“You were grieving, Claire. You may not remember everything.”
The cruelty of the suggestion was so precise that for a moment I couldn't speak.
He was using my grief as a weapon.
“I remember every appointment,” I said. “I remember every blood draw. I remember the doctor telling us to take our time. I remember you saying we weren't ready.”
“I thought I was protecting our future.”
“By transferring our embryo to your mistress?”
“Vanessa isn't just my mistress.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The sentence he had been trying to avoid.
“How long?”
He didn't answer.
“How long have you been with her?”
“Almost two years.”
Two years.
Our marriage had begun to unravel around the same time Vincent started traveling more often. He blamed business. I blamed the grief we never learned to discuss.
I remembered him canceling dinner on our fourth anniversary.
I remembered the flowers delivered the following morning with a note that said, Next year, I promise.
I remembered believing him.
“And the fertility treatment?” I asked.
His voice became strained.
“Vanessa wanted a child. I wanted one too.”
“You wanted one with me.”
“I still want a family with you.”
I laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“You can't want a family with me while building another one behind my back.”
“I made a terrible decision.”
“You made several. You moved money. You lied about New York. You used my name.”
“I never intended to hurt you.”
“Then you should have stopped when you realized you were hurting me.”
He went quiet.
Finally, he said, “Vanessa didn't know the whole truth either.”
I sat straighter.
“What does that mean?”
“She was told the embryo had been donated anonymously.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“By whom?”
“Claire, I have to go.”
“Vincent!”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Rebecca had heard enough to understand.
“Did he admit the transfer?”
“He admitted Vanessa was told the embryo was donated.”
“That's not the same as admitting he used yours.”
“No,” I whispered. “But it's close.”
At three that afternoon, Vanessa called me.
I almost didn't answer.
When I did, her voice was thin and exhausted.
“Dr. Moretti?”
“Vanessa.”
“I know you have every reason to hate me.”
“I don't have enough energy to hate anyone right now.”
She began to cry.
“I didn't know about you.”
“You knew he was married.”
“Yes.”
The admission landed cleanly between us.
“I knew he had a wife,” she continued. “He told me you were separated. He said the divorce was almost final.”
I looked at Rebecca.
She was listening without interrupting.
“Then why did he call you his wife last night?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
“Why were you in Chicago?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“Because I found out something about the clinic.”
My pulse quickened.
“What?”
“He told me the embryo came from a donor. But when I was admitted last night, I gave the emergency physician my medical history. She asked whether I had signed the genetic screening paperwork.”
“And?”
“There was a name on the form I had never seen before.”
She swallowed.
“Claire Moretti.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
May you like
Then Vanessa said something that made the blood drain from my face.
“The clinic told me that my baby's genetic mother is you.”
