I was feeling a bit off center that evening, but I explained it away as
mental overload, the rain, and the implied threats. That diagnosis got
revised the next morning when I awoke with a mind-numbing headache,
chills alternating with a mild fever, and my chest feeling like it was
caught in a compactor. It was a so-called common cold, but there was
nothing common about my misery, which was truly exceptional.
I made a cup of Echinacea tea and then washed down 2000 mg of Vitamin C
with some aging orange juice from my fridge, after which I took a
couple of Tylenol, put on yesterday's jeans, and headed uptown to work.
I also treated myself to a cab.
When I settled into the cluttered corner room that was my office, I
told myself this was not a day to make any big decisions. Just stick to
matters that required nothing more than autopilot.
The first thing I did was call Lou to check on Sarah (no change), and
then I told him about my Hispanic visitor. He made concerned sounds and
promised to accompany me on any further location shoots.
Next I pulled out my date book and punched in a phone number I'd
scribbled in the back. I'd gotten it when I was winding up my interview
with Carly Grove.
"Children of Light," said an unctuous voice. "This is Ramala."
I hesitated a moment before giving my name. They already knew who I
was; Ramala or somebody had called Paula Marks and asked about me. Me.
What would she do when she heard it was yours truly in the flesh?
I tried to take a deep breath, working around the feeling my lungs were
on fire, and identified myself.
Ramala received the information as though she'd never heard of me.
Maybe she hadn't. Then I asked for an appointment with Alex Goddard. As
soon as it was convenient.
"He leaves his Saturdays open," she said, more of the smiley voice, "so
I could make a special appointment for you tomorrow. Would ten A.M. be
all right?"
Her accent was the kind of Delhi colonial-ruling-class you associate
with expensive silk saris and ruby bracelets, yet at the same time her
voice had an overlay of that melodious, touchy-feely unctuousness you
hear on relaxation tapes. I half expected her to next say, inhale
deeply and feel the love flowing through the universe. In any case, she
couldn't have sounded more open and forthcoming.
I had to remind myself immediately that it wasn't true. Given the
inquisitive phone call to Paula Marks, Children of Light was an
organization that deeply cherished its privacy. Presumably they had a
reason, and that reason didn't necessarily have to be sinister, but
still, I had every reason to think they were upset about me and it made
me paranoid. And now Alex Goddard immediately had time for a "special
appointment."
"Ten o'clock will be fine," I said, just barely croaking the words out
of my chest.
She gave me directions for reaching the Riverdale clinic, called
Quetzal Manor, and hung up. I felt so miserable I could barely remember
afterward what she'd said, but fortunately I'd taken notes.
Quetzal Manor. An odd choice for a name, I'd thought.
Some kind of bird sacred to the Maya Indians of Central America. But
then Paula had mentioned at one point that he was very interested in
indigenous Third World herbs and remedies. So maybe it fit.
But still, one big puzzle kept coming back to haunt: How do you produce
perfectly healthy siblings six months apart? (I actually called Carly
and Paula back to verify the ages.) The more I thought about Kevin and
Rachel, the more I realized they were so unmistakably related.
Puzzling over that, I began to wonder if maybe I was on the verge of
uncovering a blockbuster documentary. Could we be talking something
approaching science fiction here? Making documentaries, you're always
on the lookout for the unexpected, the fresh. So how about an
organization that could obtain beautiful Caucasian babies seemingly at
will, including peas-in-a-pod born a few months apart? I was already
framing a pitch to David in my mind.
Anyway, the rest of the day, while I was busy battling my cold with
antihistamines and lots of hot soup, I mounted a major phone inquiry
just to make sure all the rules on adoption hadn't somehow changed when
I wasn't looking. They hadn't. First off, to get a child in three or
four months, you'd almost certainly have to go with foreign adoption.
China was everybody's flavor of the month, because they favored older
parents and also because the one-child-per-family policy there had
ended up producing a wide-scale abandonment of girls (who were all
those precious boys going to marry? I often found myself wondering).
However, the shifting politics there made the process very unreliable.
A few months? Don't even think about it.
Pressing on, I satisfied myself that the country-specific organizations
that found babies in the emerging parts of the world all still worked
the same. Cradle of Hope specialized in orphaned Russian kids. Children
and Families, Inc., provided adoptions for Equadorian children.
International Adoption Assistance, Inc., handled Brazilian orphans. But
they all were still fussy, and they could take ages. How about a
brand-new healthy baby in just a few months? I'd ask. Some kind of new
fast track? The question was always taken as a joke. . . .
I would be driving up to Quetzal Manor in my old Toyota, and I dearly
wished Steve could somehow materialize and be with me. In his absence,
however, I convinced Lou to come along. I figured the change of scene
would do him good, and I also wanted the security of having him with
me, after the threatening phone call to Paula and the Hispanic thug
who'd accosted me outside her apartment building. Besides, it'd just be
a couple of hours.
The next morning, as we trekked up Riverside Drive, then the Henry
Hudson Parkway, the sky was a flawless blue and the wide Hudson seemed
like an ardent highway leading into the heart of America. Still in
elevated spirits over Sarah's momentary brush with consciousness, Lou
had noticeably less of a hangover than was usual most mornings. Maybe
he was looking forward to a little mental R&R. For my own part, I felt
my curiosity growing. I'd gone to a lot of appointments over the years,
but rarely did I suspect the person I was going to see already knew
more about me than I knew about them.
After we crossed the Henry Hudson Bridge, we left the highway and
headed down a service road that led toward the river. Then there was an
imposing gate, open, and a tree-shrouded driveway. Finally the place
loomed in front of us.
The physical appearance of Quetzal Manor was a study in European
grandeur, translated with a few extra frills from the New World. Carly
had told me it had once been a Carmelite convent, dating from sometime
in the middle of the last century, and it was a monument to Church
authority, with endless arches of cut stone, turrets, gargoyles. As we
were motoring to the end of the long cobblestone drive, I felt as if I
was approaching some Gothic movie set. Given its hovering sense of
regal authority, the place could easily have been a castle, but it
seemed more like a brooding homage to medieval torture. Let me just say
it was truly magisterial, yet also more than a little creepy.
As we parked under a huge oak tree in front, I surveyed the facade,
trying to marshal my strength. Enough of my cold still lingered that I
didn't feel as if my mind was working on all cylinders, and for a
moment I merely sat looking, trying to breathe.
"Want me to go in with you?" Lou asked finally. He was examining the
building suspiciously, like a detective surveying a crime scene.
I wanted him with me and then again I didn't. I longed for the company,
a protector, but I didn't want the complications, more things to
explain inside. Finally I made a snap decision.
"Why don't you take a stroll around the grounds?" I suggested. "Commune
with nature. The fresh air will do you good. This can't take long.
Mainly I just want to get some literature and try to gain a feeling for
the place."
That wasn't entirely, or even partly, true. What I really wanted to
find out was threefold: How did they manage to get beautiful healthy
Caucasian babies for two single women in just a few months; how could
those babies be only six months apart in age and still obviously be
siblings; and (this was where my feelings got complicated) could they
get a baby for me the same way, never mind how they did it. It was the
third thing that actually bothered me the most, since I was far from
sure I wanted to be a part of whatever was going on.