Melancholy Baby

42

LifeForm Laboratory was in the rear of the second floor of an old brick building on Albany Street near Boston Medical Center. The director talked with Sarah and me in her tiny office overlooking a narrow parking lot.

“I don’t know if I can release this information,” the director said.

She was a lanky, gray-haired woman, wearing rimless glasses.

“Sarah is one of the two donors,” I said.

“But the actual testing was requested by the other donor.”

“Who is now a murder victim,” I said.

The director frowned. She looked like everyone’s stereotype of an elementary-school principal. And she clearly disapproved of people being murdered.

“Oh,” she said to Sarah, “how dreadful. Were you related?”

“He was my father,” Sarah said.

“The biological relationship may be an important part of the murder investigation,” I said. “We can do this informally, or we can come back with the police and a court order. And the cops will probably close you down while they search all the records, and the press will probably learn of it and your name will be in the paper as part of a murder investigation.”

“Are you threatening me, Ms. Randall?”

“I prefer to think of it as warning you,” I said.

She looked at me sternly. I smiled my sweet, young, blonde-girl smile. She nodded as if she was confirming something with herself.

“Well, surely,” the director said, “since this young woman is one of the donors, I don’t see a problem.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said.

The director stood, turned to her computer, and tapped the keyboard for a moment and sat back. We waited. She studied the screen.

“I’ll print this out for you,” she said, and tapped the keyboard again. “But I can tell you that it is not a match.”

I heard Sarah breathe in.

“He’s not my father?”

“You do not share his DNA.”

The printer on the top of a file cabinet began to hum, and in a moment the printout came sliding forth and the printer went silent. No one spoke for a moment.

“You’re sure,” Sarah said.

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t have made a mistake.”

“Very unlikely.”

Sarah looked at me. She was breathing quickly, as if she was a little short of breath.

“Now you know,” I said.

She nodded and didn’t say anything.

“When did Mr. Markham get the results?” I said to the director.

She looked at her computer screen.

“Five days ago,” she said.

“Two days before he died,” I said.

“Who the hell is my father?” Sarah said.

I was startled. I had begun to think of this as a murder case. But for Sarah it was still paternity-related.

“Before we’re through,” I said, “you and I will find out.”

“And is she my mother?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

The director looked uncomfortable. This was very unscientific.

“I’ll bet she isn’t,” Sarah said.

“You’re sure he received this information?” I said to the director.

She looked at her screen some more.

“Yes, we overnighted it to him, and he signed for it.”

I took the printout and folded it and slipped it into my bag. I looked at Sarah. She was still short of breath. Her face was pale, with reddish smudges on her cheekbones. She looked like she had a fever.

“Anything else you wish to ask the director?” I said to her.

She shook her head. I nodded and stood and put my hand out to the director.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

She stood and shook my hand.

“I hope things work out,” she said, not at all sternly.

Then she looked at Sarah. “DNA is not the only thing that makes a parent,” she said, and put her hand gently on Sarah’s shoulder.

Sarah nodded and stood. I put a hand on her arm and steered her out of the office and down the narrow back stairwell to where we’d parked on the street. In the car, we were quiet. I started up and drove slowly toward Mass Avenue. Sarah rode with her head turned away from me, looking out the window.

Without looking at me, she said, “If he’s not my father, and she’s not my mother... who the fuck am I?”

We stopped for the light at Mass Avenue. I had nothing to say. I put my right hand out and patted her thigh. Then the light changed and I turned left toward the expressway.