Page 64 of Not a Word

I raised my palms in surrender and nodded for her to continue.

“We’d reached the conclusion I simply couldn’t have children. So we explored other options, and one of them was surrogacy. That’s what Leah Kennard was. She was our surrogate.”

“But . . . Leah wouldn’t really be his mother, right? I mean, don’t they take, like, an egg from you and mix it with Dad’s, you know, stuff, and then they just implant it and it grows in the other woman’s womb?”

Mom looked at me like I had the intelligence of a toddler. “Thank Christ you didn’t decide to become a doctor.”

“So just tell me then.”

“What you’re talking about, in your incredibly uninformed way, is gestational surrogacy. We couldn’t go that route. We were left with artificial insemination. Your father was the donor. There was a procedure. There was no . . . relationship.”

“Not then.”

“Not then. Of course, we did meet with her, to assess whether we thought she was the right one. Someone who, at least in some ways, looked like me, you know? Turns out it wasn’t her that needed to win us over. We had to win her over. She had to like us too. You don’t agree to carry a child for people, and after all that, agree to give it up, if you don’t like them. Of course, the money certainly helped. Leah’s family was not in a position to help her financially, she was trying to pay off school bills, and the twenty thousand we paid her probably made a huge difference in her life, at least for a time.”

“But what about records? When Holden went for a passport, he would have had to get a copy of his birth certificate and—”

Mom raised hand. “There’s a lot of paperwork, legal steps, prebirth agreements. The certificate with Leah’s name on it is sealed, but the one Holden was able to obtain is still legitimate.” She paused, then asserted, “I am his mother.” The way she said it, I wasn’t sure whether she was trying to persuade me or convince herself.

I said, “So the procedure with Leah worked, and nine or ten months later, Holden arrived and . . .”

“And not long after that, I found out I was pregnant,” Mom said. “Your father and I weren’t as careful because I didn’t believe I could have a child. The doctors couldn’t explain it. They called it a miracle. You were a miracle.”

Her eyes went to the ceiling and she slowly shook her head. Finally, she fixed her gaze on me and said, “Your timing’s never been that great.”

Twenty-Three

1999

The boys had been sent up to bed.

They’d wanted to stay up and watch The X-Files, but that had gone horribly wrong the week before. The episode had been about an escaped convict who could alter his molecular structure to move through objects, including people, and it had totally freaked Reece out. Holden, however, had loved it, concluding that the ability to pass through walls would be a pretty handy skill. You could break into a Toys “R” Us at night without tripping any alarms and steal as many Star Wars action figures as you could carry, or maybe one of the new Nintendo Game Boys with a color screen.

Reece said that was stupid. Even if you had the power to go through a wall, the action figures and the computer game couldn’t change their molecular structure, so you couldn’t take them back through the wall with you. Holden countered, saying anything you were holding would have those same qualities. Like, the guy on the episode was able to go through a wall and still have his shoes.

“I’ll try it tonight,” Holden said. “Even if you lock your bedroom door, I’ll come right through it and get you after you fall asleep.”

Reece began to cry. Holden was scolded by Catherine and ordered to tell his younger brother he would not come through his door or his wall or even the ceiling to get him in the night.

“Okay,” Holden said. “I won’t do it.” And then added quietly, so only Reece could hear, “Not tonight.”

And despite all that, when another week went by, and there was a new episode of The X-Files, they both wanted to watch it. Catherine said no. Both boys moaned their displeasure. Reece promised not to be scared, and Holden vowed that, even if Reece were scared, he wouldn’t tease him.

The answer was still no.

Brent would have been okay with letting them watch it again, but he hadn’t wanted to undermine Catherine. So both boys were sent to their respective rooms at nine. Reece’s room faced the street, and Holden’s bedroom window looked out over the backyard and the pond. Brent crept upstairs about fifteen minutes later, saw no light under either door, although he thought he could hear some stirring in Holden’s room. Reading comics with a flashlight, Brent guessed.

Catherine had gone to their bedroom. He peered in briefly, heard her shuffling clothes in the walk-in closet, and decided to head downstairs. He considered, briefly, watching The X-Files on his own (he was kind of a fan) but opted to go into the kitchen and make himself a drink. He was sipping on a scotch when he thought he heard a car pulling into the driveway.

He walked through the living room to the front door; when he opened it, he saw a silver Porsche Boxster sitting there, the engine now off. He couldn’t think of anyone he knew who had a car like that, but he recognized Evelyn Corby when she got out and remembered her mentioning at the party that she was driving one of those.

“Evelyn,” he said, walking toward her, the scotch still in his hand.

She smiled weakly. “Brent. Forgive the unannounced drop-in.”

“No, that’s— Is something wrong?”

She was dressed in designer jeans and a blue jacket over a white silk blouse. Tucked under her arm was a soft, leather case large enough to carry documents.