Genesis

Chapter 30

May 10th

4:50 P.M.

Hesitating at the curb for a moment, Aria looked up at the building she was about to enter. She knew enough about New York to know that the Fifth Avenue structure was considered a prewar building, meaning it had been built sometime in the early twentieth century. She knew such buildings contained coveted apartments but had no idea why as she had never been in one. The building itself was a nondescript fifteen- to twenty-story structure with a few penthouses perched wedding-cake-style on the top. It also had the de rigueur blue canvas awning ringed with lappets that stretched from the front door to the curb. Inside the door and peeking out through glass was a doorman in a blue uniform that was mildly worse for wear.

She was on her way to talk to a woman named Diane Hanna, whom Vijay and his team had successfully located with their genetic genealogical magic. An hour or so after the skinny geek had come through with a new match, one of the few woman techies stumbled across a brand-new results kit from AncestryDNA, the company with the largest database: a thirty-two-year-old unmarried woman named Patricia Hanna, who shared a whopping twenty-five percent of DNA with the Lazarus kit of the missing sperm donor. At that point Aria had learned from Vijay that this newly found woman had to be either an aunt or a half-sibling of the target individual because of the amount of DNA they shared. From the woman’s age alone, Vijay explained that Patricia had to be a half-sibling, which meant that her mother, named Diane Hanna née Carlson, was most likely the missing man’s mother. From Patricia they had learned that Diane was currently a vigorous, healthy sixty-five-year-old socialite married to a highly placed New York lawyer. At no time during Vijay’s phone conversation with Patricia, who considered herself to be an only child, was she told of the motive for the sudden interest in her mother.

The reason Aria was dawdling was that she still had no idea what she was going to say to Diane Hanna. If she was Lover Boy’s mother, which Vijay and his team were convinced of, Aria had multiple major problems. First off, if Diane was the mother it had most likely been a premarital teenage pregnancy that had been relegated to the distant past, meaning the chance of its having been an open adoption was minimal at best. Even though Aria wasn’t all that concerned about other people’s feelings, she couldn’t imagine Diane was going to be excited about an unpleasant and potentially socially jarring issue being suddenly dredged up and brought to the light of day. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the story she had concocted to get GenealogyDNA interested in pursuing the case certainly could not be used with Diane. The woman would instantly see the mythical leukemia toddler as a grandson, which would evoke an emotional connection and rapid exposure of the story as a hoax. Nor did she think she could tell the truth, namely that she believed the adopted son had played a role in the overdose death of a young woman, as that would certainly reflect badly.

“Can I help you?” the doorman said. After eyeing Aria for a few minutes, he had stepped outside.

“In a minute,” Aria said. She glanced away so she didn’t have to look at the man’s expectant face. She hated it when people, particularly men, intruded in her space. Gazing with unseeing eyes across the street into the newly leafed trees in Central Park, she went back to her musing about what she was going to say to Diane Hanna that might not turn her into a persona non grata and get her immediately kicked out of the apartment. She again wished that Vijay had been willing to talk to her, but he had absolutely refused. He said the role of GenealogyDNA was to supply what information customers wanted or needed, and then let them deal with it. He reminded Aria that adoption situations were fraught with emotional difficulties, as if Aria couldn’t guess.

Suddenly she had an idea. Maybe she could pull on Diane’s heartstrings. Aria could claim she was the result of Lover Boy’s sperm donation, meaning she and Diane were genetically related, and that Aria’s interest was to uncover her genetic past. A slight smile found its way to the corners of her mouth. It was by far the best idea she’d come up with and might work.

Armed with a new approach, she turned around and walked up to the doorman, who was now positioned just outside the front door. “I’m here to see Mrs. Diane Hanna,” she said.

“And your name?” the doorman asked.

Aria told the man her name, and his response was cordial. “Yes, she is expecting you. The apartment is 7A.”

Aria nodded and walked into the building’s foyer. One of the two elevators was waiting. As she rode up, she went over the basics of the story she was going to present. The more she thought about it, the better it seemed. In many respects, she was amazed she had already gotten as far as she had. Before she’d called Diane from GenealogyDNA using the number that Patricia had supplied, she questioned if Diane would see her at all, but that had been when she thought she’d have to tell the woman why she wanted to speak with her. As it turned out, it hadn’t been necessary. She had started the phone conversation by saying that she was a doctor at NYU Langone Medical Center and asked to speak with her person to person. Somehow that had been enough because Diane said she had time around five P.M. if Aria wanted to come over. Pleased, Aria had quickly accepted the invitation.

The elevator bumped to a stop, and she exited onto the seventh floor. She again questioned why prewar buildings were considered desirable as the hallway was claustrophobically narrow. The walls were painted a sickly pale yellow. She rang the bell for 7A, and the door was immediately opened by an Asian woman in a black uniform-type dress with a bit of lace around the collar. When Aria stepped over the threshold she suddenly understood the prewar appeal. In sharp contrast to the hallway, even the apartment’s foyer had a sense of grand space with a high ceiling, crown moldings, baseboards, and high-gloss hardwood floor. And then when she was shown into what was obviously the library since one entire wall was bookcases floor to ceiling, the sense of space was even more dramatic, especially with the large window looking out over the expanse of Central Park.

A woman whom she assumed was Diane Hanna stood from the couch where she had been sitting. She appeared well kept for a sixty-five-year-old. She had a relatively slim body and a face that had seen some plastic surgery. Instead of any wrinkles or creases, the skin was pulled tight over the cheekbones and her lips were a bit too full. Although she hadn’t taken a step forward, she had extended her hand in a kind of greeting.

Advancing into the room, Aria took the hand even though it was a gesture she usually avoided. On this occasion she wanted to make the best impression possible. After a brief handshake, Diane gestured to a chair facing the couch and sat back down herself. Aria noticed that the woman’s sculpted hair didn’t move one iota, as if it were glued in place.

“What kind of doctor are you?” Diane asked. Her voice was slightly nasal and seemed artificially restrained.

“I’m a resident in Pathology,” Aria said. Again, she thought it best to start out with the truth. She was still wearing her white coat, so she knew she looked the part.

“Pathology?” Diane questioned. “That’s a unique choice.”

“It seems to fit me very well,” Aria said. “It’s a very intellectual specialty, especially surgical pathology.”

“I suppose,” Diane said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

“Let me tell you something about myself,” Aria began. On the spot she made up an elaborate story of being the child of a married lesbian couple who used sperm donation for her conception and for the conception of her brother. She then said that she and her brother shared a mild medical problem that made them want to find out about their genetic heritage. At that point, she paused to see if Diane was following the narrative and whether she had any questions.

“This is all very interesting,” Diane said. “But why are you telling this to me?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Aria said. “My brother and I hired a genetic genealogy company to see if we could find out about our ancestors, particularly our father. As I’m sure you know, twenty to thirty years ago men who donated sperm were assured that their generosity would remain anonymous. Things have changed today, for the reason I’m talking about. Anyway, after a lot of work, the genealogy company has determined that our father was adopted, so we’ve hit a brick wall in trying to figure out his identity.”

Aria paused at this key moment in her narrative and watched Diane for the slightest sign of comprehension of where the conversation was going. Unfortunately, there was none. Diane stared back as if she was totally in the dark. If anything, she looked as if she was becoming progressively bored.

“Let me ask you this,” Aria said, trying to decide exactly how to drop the bomb. “Do you have any idea whatsoever why I might be telling you my story?”

“No,” Diane said with a shake of her head. “When you called earlier and said you were a doctor at the NYU Langone Medical Center, I thought it had something to do with my husband and I being rather generous donors. Is that why you’re here?”

“Hell, no!” Aria said. The comment so surprised her that she’d not had the opportunity to filter her response. Aria was aware her choice of language often affected older people negatively and generally didn’t care.

“Then perhaps you had better tell me,” Diane said. “My husband and I are going to the opera tonight, and he’ll be home imminently.”

“The genetic genealogy company that my brother and I hired has determined with a high degree of certainty that our father is your son.”

For a few beats it seemed to Aria as if the earth stopped its rotation. Even the birds in Central Park, which had been making a comparative racket, seemed to go silent. For a brief moment there seemed to be no horns blowing or sirens sounding, which were otherwise part of the constant background noise of New York City.

The only change that she could detect involved Diane’s face. Simultaneously her overly pouty lips became compressed to practically disappear, the nostrils of her artificially small nose spread, and her powdered face flushed. By reflex Aria leaned back in her chair to avoid whatever was coming.

“I do not have a son!” Diane snapped while she stood up and glared at Aria, daring her to suggest otherwise.

Although Aria distinctly remembered reading in the Bettinger book in a section discussing adoption that “navigating this minefield of potential ethical issues can be difficult,” she thought Diane was carrying it to the extreme with her response. In contrast, Aria kept her seat and tried to project a sense of calm.

“Did you hear me?” Diane practically yelled.

“Yes, I heard you,” she said. “But I have several family trees that the genetic genealogy company has constructed to show how they have come to the conclusion they have. By any chance, back when you were Diane Carlson, did the name Eric Thompson mean anything to you?”

“Get out of here before I call the police!” Diane raged at this new information. As if Aria needed any help in finding her way, Diane used her extended index finger to point multiple times in the direction of the door leading out to the hall.

“I’d prefer to discuss this situation further,” Aria said, with diminishing hopes Diane might reconsider and be encouraged to sit back down. “I’m only trying to find my father.”

“I want you out of here, and I never want to see you again,” Diane shouted.

“All right.” Aria stood. “Whatever you say, you plastic-surgerized, fake piece of shit. You probably couldn’t have helped me anyway.”

With a strong feeling of disgust, Aria headed for the door.