Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (13 page)

“You’re suggesting we barter for therapy?” My thoughts jumped to some bureaucrat throwing those words at me in a custody battle for Phoebe.

“These are good practitioners. They use a strict clinical review process. You’d be surprised how busy the private practice is for non-Bureau therapists.” Terrell leaned back in his chair. “Lots of people interested in keeping their files out of the government systems. I’ll make sure they have recommendations from the right kind of places.”

“I trust you, Terrell.”

“Don’t forget I also held that girl when she was just days old.” Bringing his body forward, he touched my knee. “My first concern may be you, but Ms. Phoebe’s state of mind is a close second. Let me make a few inquiries.”

“Do you think I should tell the kids about Andrew Smithson at the same time as this news?” I drained my iced tea while thinking through my own question. “I feel like doling out so much difficult news might raise general anxiety.”

Terrell shook his head just once. “You and David have raised those kids in as stable a home as is possible in this world. They got to learn to take bumps in the road. Talk about brothers and sisters and lay it all out for them. Be calm, stay with the facts.”

We both stood. Work and kids and David’s parents waited for us. Suddenly I remembered my early days at Ashwood when Terrell and I limited discussions in this office to work because of DOE listening devices.

“Lao negotiated a deal with the DOE years ago about their invasion of our privacy,” I volunteered. “He developed a fairly sophisticated method for sweeping the residence. I think your office is a safe zone.”

Laughing, a big warm sound in the day, Terrell opened the door. “Well, at least it has been safe since about forty-five minutes ago when we did a search,” he said. “Found a nice little DOE device and two Bureau snoops.” We stepped into the hall. “Do you think I’d talk about family matters in an unsecured place?”

I decided not to be sidetracked by the perpetual distraction of listening devices in our private residence. The DOE and Bureau showed equally irritating curiosity about Ashwood’s conversations, perhaps heightened by our direct employment of managers.

“It’s so great to have you back,” I said. Through the dining room I could see Sarah sitting in a rocking chair, knitting needles in hand, her eyes focused on a tree branch outside a nearby window.

David told me his mother gave up her promising career in agribusiness to marry Paul, the South Dakota rancher’s son she met at a football party in St. Paul. A classic blond Scandinavian woman, she aged into a beautiful grandmother with thick silver hair, gray-blue eyes, and a complexion marked only by deep laugh lines and the lightest crow’s-feet.

“How are you doing?” I stopped to ask her, dreading what I had to do next.

“Your friend Terrell is a great guy,” she said and rested the knitting in her lap. “He and I always had interesting talks years ago when I called to ask what you could use from our farm. Watching him with the workers is just wonderful. I don’t know if he’ll need much of my help.”

Her response didn’t answer my question, true to Sarah’s discomfort with talking about herself. “I guess I was doing all right until the kids headed into afternoon school.” She sighed. “It’s just a lot better for me to stay busy and not think about David. What about you?”

“I wish there was something I could do,” I answered. “If the DOE doesn’t have more to say in a few hours, I’m going to start calling everyone on my Washington, D.C., contact list.”

“Paul said the same thing. He already sent a few messages to folks we’ve supported over the years.” Sarah turned her head back toward the window and something I did not see outside. “I pray. I’m an old-fashioned Catholic who still puts the safety of those I love in God’s hands. I’ve been trying to find just the right words to capture what I want to ask.” I saw a small smile pass across her lips. “Not that the right words are necessary, because God already knows what is in my heart.” She turned back to me. “You do lead a lovely Sunday prayer service, Anne, but I’m not sure you really find much comfort in faith.”

From my grandmother’s rosary beads on my mother’s dresser to my years singing Lutheran chapel services at St. Olaf College, religion and faith were wedded. The big
D
challenged not my belief in God, but certainly my loyalty to established churches. I never fought leading the Bureau’s required nondenominational weekly prayer service, but I would not let the kids under my care be forced to attend church in the community without their parents’ permission.

“Maybe religion had been dumbed down by the time I was growing up.” I wanted to sit at her feet, lean my head against her knee, and be a daughter who might give and receive comfort. Moving closer, I knelt, then sat back on my feet. “Sarah, Milan called to give us advance notice of a breaking news story about the government implanting fertilized eggs from a small group of intellectuals into surrogates without the knowledge of the couples. David and Tia were part of that group.”

Sarah’s eyes widened and lines deepened on her forehead. “What are you saying, Anne? Does this mean that their children are being raised by strangers?” The knitting dropped from her hands and her lap.

Picking up her needles and yarn, I answered gently, thinking how I would feel. “Yes, that’s what Milan said. Six children.”

“Have you told Paul?” Sarah’s body remained still, no more rocking. Gentle grandma disappeared from her eyes. “This is unforgivable. I would say unbelievable, but too much has happened in this country in the past decade. Of course we want to know where these children are living and try to bring them here.” Sitting upright in the rocker, she held its armrests. “Imagine, six more grandchildren. What wealth for this family to have so many little people to carry on our name.”

Surprised by both her excitement and her intention to seek out the children, I shifted back to my knees and prepared to rise. “I intended to tell you together,” I said. “I thought you might be upset.”

“I can’t really get my mind around this,” she said. “Our son has been poorly used by our government merely because he is bright. Our other sons’ lives, and their children’s lives, are so much easier. If Paul and I must take legal action to bring these children home, then we will do so.” One hand came to her head. “You won’t mind a few more kids running around the house?”

“Sarah, we don’t know how old these children are or what kind of lives they have now. They may be perfectly happy.” She frowned as I spoke. “I’ve been worried about how our children might feel and how you would react.”

“Let’s find Paul. I think this might give him some hope.” She stood, took my arm. “God wouldn’t make us aware of these children if David wasn’t returning to be their father.”

We made our way to the business offices, me worried about Sarah’s sudden overt religious comments. A quiet person in our household of extroverts, she had a practical sense of running the household operations that made Ashwood a training site for estate matrons. Her business sense couldn’t be shaken. This response left me concerned that the day had affected her too deeply.

I asked Paul to step out of a discussion with field team leaders and the three of us made our way to my office. Sarah moved close to Paul as I shut the door.

“Paul, Anne had the most amazing call from Milan this afternoon.” I watched my mother-in-law’s strange behavior. She seemed eager to share Milan’s story, as if the existence of these six children restored joy to our world. “Some awful government people felt free to implant David and Tia’s embryos in surrogate mothers without David’s knowledge. Now there’s going to be a story in the news.” Paul’s face fell into the stoic image of this morning. Sarah noticed, and her voice became soothing. “Milan wanted us to know we have six more grandchildren out there somewhere.”

Paul looked my way, clearly not as pleased as Sarah. “Tell me what he said, Anne.”

Sliding to the floor, closing my eyes and pretending the world didn’t exist wasn’t an option. I quickly shared the gist of Milan’s comments and my concerns about how our children might take the news and how to protect them from media exposure.

“Damn it. Nothing, absolutely nothing is sacred to those people in Washington, D.C.” He stepped away from Sarah, deep red staining his cheeks and nose and forehead. “Why are you so fired up about this, Sarah?” He looked my way. “Any chance this is a government smoke screen to stir up a lot of interest and take the focus off South America?”

Neither of us attempted to answer Paul’s question. Sarah may have been caught off guard by her husband’s response.

“Sounds like a goddamn awful situation that this family shouldn’t have to be thrown into,” Paul said. “As if Phoebe and Noah and John don’t have enough to think about. Now we have to walk into a touchy discussion of human reproduction and how it is that their father doesn’t know where all his children live.”

“Hon, they live on a good-size farm. The process of making a baby is hardly a mystery.” Sarah touched Paul’s arm. “I think we have an opportunity to distract them from worrying about David by telling them that we will be looking for these children. That we want to bring their brothers and sisters together.”

Part of me wanted to ask Sarah how she would acquire transportation credits to visit each of these children, pay the legal fees that would certainly build as assigned parents fought losing their children, feed six more hungry young people when Ashwood’s supplies could not support our current family and staff. Another part of me knew I had to conserve my energy for the fights that were mine—finding David, keeping our children safe, welcoming Andrew, and managing Ashwood. I had nothing else to give.

“Is that what you want, Anne?” Paul asked.

“No.” How I would have liked to end the conversation and walk away, but they both looked rather surprised at my quick response. “Here’s what I want—to tell as few facts as possible to my kids about the whole surrogate system. I’ll start with Andrew coming here to live with us, then talk about possible media coverage about other children living with other parents who could be their brothers and sisters.” I stopped, checked for their agreement and continued without it. “Then I need to go over security and protecting our privacy.” Paul began to nod. “They need to know only the facts that children can understand—what it means to us as a family, and what to do to keep ourselves safe from the media.”

My mother-in-law wanted to interrupt, but I continued. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but to go further and conjure up the possibility of more brothers and sisters living here would be taking this further than six- and seven-year-olds can absorb.”

Through my window I could see children walking to the greenhouses and wondered how the afternoon had passed with so little accomplished. Sarah also saw the workers, and the rhythm of so many days settled on her. “I should get over to the classrooms for homework drills,” she said and rose. “Paul, perhaps you and I should talk to Anne’s friend about what we can do as grandparents in David’s absence. And I respect Anne’s wishes.” She walked to the door. “I’ll see you all at dinner.”

As Sarah closed the door, I wondered if her behavior sprung from a different set of maternal instincts than mine.

“You might think your mother-in-law has gone off the deep end,” Paul said. “The whole surrogacy program disturbs her. I don’t think she’s ever said much to you, because she loves you so much.”

Paul grabbed the door. “Don’t know if I should dig back into work, go be with Sarah, or jump on a horse and ride out to the Mississippi River banks to think.” He bent to kiss the top of my head. “But you should go and be with your kids.”

Chapter Thriteen

Andrew is John’s big brother, but he’s no relation to you and me,” Phoebe told Noah after my careful words about Andrew Smithson joining our family. “He’s Mom’s son by a stranger. You and I and John have the same Dad.”

Many times I have sat down with children, and their Ashwood mentors, to share unpleasant news—a canceled home visit, an older sibling knifed at school, a runaway parent. I thought too much about how my three would react to the addition of Andrew, but couldn’t predict their feelings about the surrogate scandal.

The boys thought a big brother joining our family was great in spite of Phoebe’s mixed emotions. Her deciphering of bloodlines confused her brothers who were stuck on the fact that Andrew was joining our family because his known parents had passed away.

“So is he an orphan or not?” John asked. “That would be sad.”

“He can’t be an orphan. You have the same mother,” Phoebe said, one small hand gesturing near John’s face. “He’s your older brother, but not really a Regan.” I hugged my boy. “His father and the woman he thought was his mother have died, so he feels like an orphan. He had no reason to doubt that she was his mother, didn’t know that she wasn’t until a few days ago.”

“How did that happen?” The beginnings of logic skills showed in many of John’s questions.  “How could you not know your mother?”

“It’s complicated. The officials made a mistake.”  I waited for the small shrug that told me John had moved beyond the need for more information. “We’re his second chance at being part of a family.”

“Does he play soccer or baseball?” Noah asked a typical little-boy question, then followed it with a modern-day fear. “And if he lived in the city, will he carry a knife or be part of a bad gang?”