Fertile Ground (15 page)

“It’s not weird at all. Tradition is very comforting. Belief is uplifting.” His smile softened the earnestness in his voice. “So what’s the problem?”

She drizzled olive oil onto the spaghetti, then added dried basil and fresh garlic. “The truth? I’m a little scared about making the commitment. What if I find out this isn’t for me? I miss all the rituals, but maybe that’s nostalgia, not belief.” She shrugged. “That’s why I’m thinking of going to a few outreach classes to see how I feel.”

“Why think? Why not just do it?”

“I was planning to call this week. Now that Matthew’s disappeared…”

“You’re just procrastinating. Lisa,” he chided gently. “What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing. I will go to the classes, soon. You want some pasta?” she asked, taking down a green-and-beige stoneware plate from a cabinet shelf that held her dairy dishes. “I’ve always kept a kosher kitchen for my parents.”

“No, thanks. I just had pizza. I’ll have a snack, though.”

He was probably unsure of how careful she was about keeping koSher. She felt a flicker of hurt, then told herself he was entitled to be cautious:-“Look in the pantry and take whatever you like.” She pointed to a tall, narrow cabinet at the end of the small kitchen.

While he rummaged through the pantry and the refrigerator, she took her plate and a fork to the table. Matthew’s laptop was open, its blinking prompt teasing her. She shut the computer and set it on the floor.

A minute later Sam came to the table holding a package of Pepperidge Farm Sausalito cookies, a carton of nonfat milk, and a paper cup.

“So when did you decide not to be rum he asked, sitting down across from her. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Hey, if you don’t want to talk about it, tell me to mind my own business. My sister does, all the time.” He poured milk into the cup and opened the package of cookies.

“It’s okay. I’ve just never discussed this with anyone other than my parents and Matthew.” She twirled several strands of spaghetti around her fork and saw Sam mouth a blessing over the cookie. “My birth mother isn’t Jewish. According to Jewish law, neither am I.” She was watching him carefully—his reaction was extremely important to her—and saw his gray eyes widen with surprise. ‘ “My parents adopted me and had me converted as a baby, but they didn’t tell me until two weeks before I was supposed to get married.” The passage of all those years allowed her to speak without anger, as though she were narrating someone else’s story.

He’d been chewing slowly, his jaw working hard as he

digested the cookie and the information. Now he made another blessing over the milk and took a sip. “Why not?”

She told him what her mother had said, told him what happened when she’d informed Asher. “So that was it,” she finished. “It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it? Matthew isn’t interested in Judaism and knows almost nothing about it, but he’s more Jewish than I am.” She shrugged to make light of the situation. Lifting a forkful of spaghetti, she hesitated, then made a silent blessing before eating, unsure whether she was doing it to impress Sam or to take a first baby step.

Sam had taken another cookie and was playing with it. “Matt knows all about this?”

“He knows that I’m adopted, that my birth mother isn’t Jewish. I glossed over the reasons for the broken engagement. I didn’t want to prejudice him against Orthodoxy.”

Sam nodded. “But you had no problem telling me, because I’m Orthodox.”

She was pleased that she didn’t have to explain. “Right.”

“Well, that’s some story.” He sifted the pile of crumbs he’d made of the cookie. “So if Asher hadn’t dumped you, your entire life would’ve been different.”

“His parents did, really.”

Sam grunted. “He went along with it, didn’t he?”

“He was twenty-two, Sam. He was living at home, studying the Talmud at the yeshiva, being an obedient son.” She readied another forkful of pasta.

“He was old enough to know not to behave like a jerk. Damn them! How could they do that to you?” With an abrupt motion, he flattened the empty paper cup with his palm.

She was startled by his anger, yet oddly pleased. “What are you saying, Sam? That their behavior was insensitive or unexpected? You think another family would have reacted differently?”

“Of course I do!”

“You’re lying. Or you’re unwilling to see the truth.” She put her

fork down. “Face it, Sam. Orthodox families embrace the convert, but don’t want him to embrace their sons or daughters. It would taint the line.”

“That’s not true.” His eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”

“No one had to tell me. I learned it firsthand.”

“You had a devastating experience with one stupid, narrow-minded family, and from that you decide everyone is like them?” He shook his head impatiently. “How is that fair. Lisa? You’re a scientist. Where’s your proof?”

“You know, I don’t blame the Rossners anymore. They were looking out for their son. They wanted the best for him.”

Sam scowled. “What does ‘best’ have to do with this? Once a person converts, he’s considered equal to someone born Jewish. Higher, even.”

“Theoretically, maybe.” She’d learned that long ago, in one of her high school Torah classes. “Be honest, Sam. Would your parents approve if you married a convert?”

“Hell, yes! If she converted because she was sincerely committed to Judaism, not just because she wanted to marry a Jew. If she was willing to keep all of Halacha.” The laws of Judaism.

“Do you know that for a fact, or are you assuming?”

“I’ve never asked them. But I know what they’d say.”

“Then they’re the exception.” She shook her head. “You are so idealistic.”

He leaned toward her, his hands almost touching hers. “Look, I’m not saying families like the Rossners don’t exist. But they don’t represent the Orthodox Jews I know.”

She sighed. “What’s the difference? It’s in my past. I’ve come to terms with it.”

“How? By running away from your community and religion? By getting engaged to a Jew who’s totally uninterested in Judaism so you won’t have to risk being rejected again?”

She glared at him. “That’s low, Sam. And it’s not true.” She shoved her chair away from the table and took her still-filled plate and fork to the sink.

“Isn’t it? Isn’t that why you’re putting off going to these outreach classes?”

She scraped the pasta into a trash bag under the sink, then rinsed the plate and fork, grateful that the noise of the running water was filling the silence. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that he was still sitting at the table. She listened to the thrumming of the refrigerator and the clicking of the wooden slats slapping against the window frame in front of her and thought about what he’d said.

“I was very attracted to you when we were in med school,” Sam said. “I never knew if you picked up on it.” ––––—She turned to face him, flustered but not unpleased by his comment. “I wasn’t sure. You were around a lot, but you never asked me out. Out of curiosity, why didn’t you?” She wondered if this was wise, treading onto new, more intimate territory, but it was too late to retract the question.

“I don’t date women who aren’t Orthodox.” He gazed at her. “Out of curiosity, would you have gone?”

“I didn’t date men who are.” She smiled lightly. “But I would’ve been tempted.” She’d fantasized once or twice about him, but had no intention of saying so. She wondered, not for the first time, why he’d never married.

He nodded. “Funny, huh? Who knows what might’ve been?”

“Funny,” she agreed, unable to read his voice or the silence that followed, but she knew something unspoken had passed between them. When he stood and made a point of looking at his watch, she wasn’t surprised.

“I’d better go.” He returned the milk to the refrigerator and the package of cookies to the pantry. “I have a seven a.m. tuboplasty—unless my patient doesn’t show. I’ve had quite a few cancellations, mostly new patients or first interviews. Ditto for Ted. What about you?”

This was safer ground. “The same. I wonder if we’ll have a clinic by the end of the month.” She walked him to the door. “Thanks for coming over, and for listening. It really helped.”

“Any time. I mean that.” He smiled.

“Sam, do you think he’s alive?” It was the one question they’d both been avoiding all night.

He sighed. “If someone told me a doctor disappeared the same day a scandal came down on his clinic, and his luggage was gone, I’d say the guy is sitting on a beach somewhere in Mexico, sipping a margarita. But Matthew’s one of the most honest people I know. Plus, I can’t believe he’d do anything to harm the clinic. It’s his dream come true. Why would he throw it away?”

“He’s dead, isn’t-he?” She bit her lip to keep from crying.

“Why hasn’t he called you. Lisa?” Sam asked gently.

“Barone said that Matthew may be hiding because he’s trying to find out who’s behind the problems at the clinic, that he can’t contact me because he’s afraid he’ll put me at risk, or because someone will find him through me.”

Sam thought for a moment, then shook his head. “But that would mean Matthew knew about the problems before.”

You can’t tell Sam. “He did,” she said, her face tingling with awkwardness at the surprise in Sam’s eyes. Before he could say anything, she told him about Matthew’s vaguely phrased concerns, about the “Notes” file, about the paper she’d found in his trash basket. ” “Sig’ is probably ‘signature.” “Data’ may refer to his research on freezing eggs. I have no idea what ‘lies’ means or ‘forget sig.” Do you?”

“Nope. It’s pretty obvious Matt didn’t confide in me, isn’t it?” More hurt than sarcastic. “I didn’t even know he was doing research on freezing eggs. He must’ve left written data.”

“I have his laptop here. I’ll try to access the file again tonight.” She hesitated. “Last night I thought a car was following me home from Matthew’s condo. It was probably my imagination, but what if it wasn’t?”

He stared at her. “Did you tell the police?”

“No. I told you, it was probably my imagination.”

Sam scowled. “A young woman is murdered, Matthew

disappears, and you don’t treat this seriously?” He raised his hands in exasperation.

“I’m very careful. And why would anyone want to harm me? I don’t know anything.”

“People don’t know that! You’re Matthew’s fiancee. People assume he tells you just about everything. / did. Tell the police about the car.” He glanced past her into the living room. “Maybe you shouldn’t stay here by yourself.”

“I’m fine. And where would I go? Matthew’s condo?”

“If you want, I can sleep on the living room couch.”

“An unmarried man and an unmarried woman, alone? It wouldn’t pas.” It wouldn’t be appropriate. How many times had she heard that Yiddish phrase in conversations with her parents, her teachers, her friends? Then again, I’m not Jewish, so it would be okay, wouldn’t it?” Her smile was brittle.

“This isn’t funny,” he said impatiently. His eyes were dark, brooding.

“Go home, Sam. I’ll be okay.” She opened the door.

He hesitated, then stepped into the hallway. “Promise to call if you need me?”

“Promise.” She shut the door and slid the dead bolt and was sorry, for a moment, that she’d let him leave.

She changed into a white cotton nightshirt, slipped a Simon and Garfunkel disc into her CD player, and sat at her table, trying to access the file. A half hour later she felt like slamming her fist into the computer to force it to yield its secrets.

With a wave of annoyance, she remembered the letter she’d promised to write for Edmond. She worked on a draft until she was satisfied, then checked her watch. It was almost eleven. Walking into the living room to shut off the lights, she spotted Sam’s denim jacket on the sofa. She put it on top of her purse so that she’d remember to take it with her in the morning. Then, carrying a bowl of coffee ice cream (she could satisfy two cravings at once), she went to her bedroom to watch the evening news.

Ten minutes into the program, an enlarged snapshot of Matthew appeared on the screen, underneath a graphic of

a syringe superimposed over the universal symbol for females.

“… still no word about Dr. Matthew Gordon, renowned infertility specialist and founder of the prestigious Westwood clinic currently under investigation for what some are calling biomedical rape,” the male anchor reported. ‘ “Police have no comment as to whether Dr. Gordon left the area voluntarily or has met with foul play.”

She saw the same exterior shots of the clinic that she’d seen the night before (she hoped Victor was watching;

the guard made an impressively menacing figure), the same rapid shots of herself and Ted and Sam and dozens of patients, some angry, some bewildered. Then the graduation snapshot of Chelsea.

“In a related story,” the anchor continued, “police are hunting the killer of eighteen-year-old Chelsea Wright, a college student who, in a bizarre coincidence, anonymously donated eggs at the Westwood fertility clinic under investigation. Chelsea, an only child who had planned a career in education, never met the women who would benefit from her generous gift. Tonight, her parents are wondering whether they will ever meet their grandchildren. Brad?”

The camera panned to a reporter standing in front of a small house. “Walter and Enid Wright are heartbroken….”

The phone rang. Probably Sam, calling about his jacket. She shut off the television and picked up the receiver. “Hey,” she said, her lips curving into a smile. “Did you forget something?”

“Dr. Brockman? Detective Barone. The California Highway Patrol has your fiance’s car.”

For two days she’d been anticipating this call. Now that it had finally arrived, she felt strangely disembodied, though her heart was thudding. She inhaled sharply, steeling herself. “Is Matthew … ?”

“There’s no sign of Dr. Gordon.” There was sympathy in his voice, and something else. “They picked up two teenage boys driving the BMW near Palm Springs. The boys admit they stole it Wednesday night from Lot C at

LAX. They insist it was unoccupied and claim they don’t know anything about Dr. Gordon. If they’re telling the truth, it looks like he left the country. I’m sorry.”