"It's just for the weekend, or maybe a little . . . I'm not sure
exactly. I guess it depends on what kinds of tests he's going to run.
But the thing is, I have to do it now, while he and I are still
clicking. An 'iron is hot' kind of moment. The only possible problem
might be if I have to push back my schedule for looping dialogue for
_Baby Love _and then somebody's out of town."
"You check with the sound studio to warn them about possible
rescheduling?" He wanted to appear to be fuming. But since he'd invited
me down to his Tribeca loft at least once every three months, now that
I'd finally shown up, he also had a small gleam in his eye. What did
that mean?
"Yes, but I've already spotted most of the work print, and I've made
tentative dates for people to come in. In a week and a half.
Everything's still on schedule."
He leaned back on his white couch, as though trying to regroup. It was
Saturday morning and I'd already made the
appointment to see Alex Goddard. I was going. I probably should have
run it by David first, but damnit, it was my life.
Truthfully, though, I'd been dreading telling him all week, so to try
and make him as congenial as possible, I'd arranged to see him at home
and relaxed. It seemed to be working, more or less.
"Okay, okay, sometimes I guess it's best to just go with your gut," he
said, beginning to calm down. He'd offered to whip up some brunch when
I first arrived, and now I was feeling sorry I'd turned him down. I
really did like him. But, alas, only as a friend. "Before I cave in
totally, though, do me a favor and tell me some more about this . . .
documentary? What, exactly, makes you think it's--"
"Everything." Whereupon I laid on him the full story of Carly and
Paula, the children, and my encounter with Alex Goddard. The only thing
I left out was the story of the Hispanic hood since I didn't think he
could handle it.
"This Quetzal Manor sounds like a funny operation," he declared
solemnly when I'd finished. "I say the less you have to do with a place
like that, the better. Who knows what's going on."
"But, David that's what makes it so interesting. The fact that it _is_
a 'funny' operation. I really can see a documentary here, after Baby
Love is in the can. But I'll never have a chance if I don't get to know
this guy while I've got a good excuse. That's how my business works."
"So you're going to go back up there and . . . Is this like going
undercover or something?"
"Well . . ." What was I going to say? I was actually half beginning to
believe that Alex Goddard might be able to figure out why Steve and I
couldn't conceive. It was certainly worth a few days of my life,
documentary or no documentary. "Look, I really want to find out what's
going on. For a lot of reasons."
He sighed and sipped at his coffee.
"Morgy, this has got to be quick. Nicky Russo called again. The thing
I've learned about loan sharks, they keep your books better than you
do. He knows exactly how much money we've got left and how long we can
last. He's licking his chops, getting ready to eat us whole."
"What did you tell him?" The very thought of Nicky gave me a chill. If
we missed so much as a week on the juice, he'd have the legal right to
just seize my negative. When you're desperate, you sign those kinds of
loans.
"I told him something I haven't even told you yet." He smiled a wicked
grin. "I know you've been schmoozing Lifetime about a cable deal, but
before we put the ink to that, I want to finish some new talks I've
started with Orion, their distribution people."
I think I stopped breathing for a second or two. Was there a chance for
a theatrical release for _Baby Love_, not just a cable deal?
"When . . . You've actually met with them? How--?"
"Late yesterday." He was still grinning. "I ran into Jerry Reiner at
Morton's and pitched the picture. Actually, I heard he was in town, so
I wore a tie and ambushed him at lunch. He wants to see a rough cut as
soon as we've got something ready."
"David, you're an angel." I was ecstatic. It was more than I'd dared
hope for.
"So stay focused, for chrissake, and finish your picture. We're this
close to saving our collective asses, so don't blow it. I've gone over
all the schedules pretty carefully, and I'd guess we can spare a day or
two, but if you drag this out, I'm going to read you your contract, the
fine print about due diligence, and then finish up the final cut
myself. I mean it. Don't make me do that."
"Don't you even think about that." Never! "This is my picture."
"Just business. If it's a choice between doing what I gotta do, or
having Nicky Russo chew me a new asshole and become the silent partner
in Applecore, guess what it's gonna be."
"David, you know I would never let that happen." I walked over and gave
him the sweetest hug I knew how, still filled with joy. "And thanks so
much for trying to get us a theatrical. You don't know how much that
means to me."
"Hey, don't try the charm bit on me. I'm serious. I'll cut you a
weekend's slack, but then it's back to the salt mines. Either this
picture's in the can inside of six weeks, or we're both going to be
looking for new employment. So go the hell up there, do whatever it is
you're going to do, and then get this damned picture finished. There'll
be plenty of time after that to worry about our next project. With luck
we might even have the money for it."
With that ultimatum still ringing in my ears, I took my leave of David
Roth and headed north, up the Henry Hudson Parkway. My life was getting
too roller-coaster for words. . . .
As I drove, I tried not to dwell on the practical aspects of what was
coming. It was hard to imagine what tests Alex Goddard could perform
that hadn't already been done by Hannah Klein. Just thinking back over
that dismal sequence made me feel baby-despondent all over again.
When I first mentioned I was thinking about trying to get pregnant, she
looked me over, perhaps mentally calculating my age and my prospects,
and then made a light suggestion.
"Why don't I give you a prescription for Clomid. Clomiphene citrate
enhances ovulation, and it might be a good idea in your case. You're
still young, Morgan, but you're no longer in the first blush of youth."
I took it for six months, but nothing happened. That was the beginning
of my pregnancy depression.
By that time, she'd decided I definitely had a problem, so she began
what she called an "infertility workup." The main thing was to check my
Fallopian tubes for blockages and look for ovulatory abnormalities. But
everything turned out to be fine. Depression City.
"Well," she said, "maybe your body just _thinks_ you've released an
ovum. We need to do an ultrasound scan to make doubly sure an ovarian
follicle has ruptured when it's scheduled to and dropped an egg."
It turned out, however, that all those hormonal stop-and-go signals
were working just fine. In the meantime, Steve and I were doing it like
bunnies and still no pregnancy.
Okay, she then declared, the problem may be with your Fallopian tubes
after all. Time to test for abnormalities. "This is not going to be
fun. First we have to dilate your cervix, after which we inject a dye
and follow it with X-rays as it moves through the uterus and is ejected
out of your Fallopian tubes. We'll know right away if there's any kind
of blockage. If there is something, we can go in and fix it."
"Sort of check out my pipes," I said, trying to come to grips with the
procedure. I was increasingly sinking into despondency.
She did it all, and for a while she suspected there might be some kind
of anatomical problem. Which brought us to the next escalation of
invasiveness.
"We've got to go in and take a close-up look at everything," she said.
"It's a procedure called laparoscopy. I'll have to make a small
incision near your navel and insert a tiny optical device. In your
case, I want to combine it with what's called a hysteroscopy, which
will allow me to see directly inside your uterus for polyps and
fibroids."
But again everything looked fine. I began to wonder what had happened
to everybody's mother's warning you could get pregnant just letting
some pimply guy put his hand in your pants.
Prior to all this, I should add, Steve had provided samples of sperm to
be tested for number and vigor. (Both were just fine.) Then, toward the
end of all the indignities, he actually paid to have some kind of test
performed involving a hamster egg, to see if his sperm was lively
enough to penetrate it. No wonder he finally went over the edge.
Now I was reduced to Alex Goddard. I'd brought a complete set of my
medical test records, as Ramala had requested on the phone. I'd also
brought a deep curiosity about what exactly he could do that hadn't
already been done. I further wondered how I was going to talk Steve
into coming back long enough to share in the project. As I motored up
the driveway to Quetzal Manor, I told myself he loved me still, wanted
a baby as much as I did . . . Well, let me be safe and say almost as
much. The problem was, he was so demoralized about the whole thing. And
then what? What if nothing happened?
I started to park my car where I had the last time, then noticed the
place actually had a parking lot. It was located off to the left side
of the driveway, near the second, modern building, and was more or less
hidden in amongst the trees. The lot was filled with a lot of
late-model but inexpensive cars, basic working-girl transportation, and
it seemed a better bet for long-term parking.
The front lobby, which had been empty the first time I was there, was
now a minimalist reception area, a long metal desk rolled in from
somewhere. I had the odd feeling it was there just for me. The woman
behind the desk introduced herself as Ramala, the same person I'd
talked to twice on the phone. She looked to be about my age, with long
dark hair and quick Asian eyes, punctuated by a professional smile.
She knew my name, used it the minute she saw me, and then abruptly
handed me a twenty-page "application" to complete.
"It's not just a formality," she explained, businesslike and earnest.
"Dr. Goddard feels it's essential that he come to know you as a person.
He'll read this carefully, believe me."
She ushered me to a chair that had a retractable table for writing,
then gave me a ballpoint pen.
The document turned out to be the most prying, nosy thing I'd ever
filled out. The pages demanded what amounted to a mini life history.
One of the things that struck me as most strange was the part asking
for a ten-year employment and residential history. If you've moved
around as much as I have, worked freelance a lot, you'll understand how
difficult it can be to reconstruct all those dates and places, but I
did my best.
There were, of course, plenty of health questions too. One page even
asked whether there was anything out of the ordinary about my own
birth: Was the delivery difficult, a cesarean, a breach baby? It was,
as noted, a life history.
"Why does he need all this information?" I asked finally, feeling the
onset of carpal tunnel syndrome in my right wrist. "I brought all my
medical records."
Ramala gave me a kindly smile, full of sympathy.
"He must know you as a person. Then everything is possible. When I came
here, I had given up on ever having a child, but I surrendered myself
to him and now my husband and I have twin boys, three years old. That's
why I stayed to help him. His program can work miracles, but you must
give him your trust."
Well, I thought, I might as well go with the flow and see where it
leads.
When I'd finished the form, she took it back, along with the pen, then
ushered me into the wide central courtyard where I'd met Alex Goddard
the first time. He was nowhere to be seen, but in the bright
late-morning sunshine there was a line of about twenty women, from late
twenties to early forties, all dressed in white pajama-like outfits of
the kind you see in judo classes, doing coordinated, slow-motion Tai
Chi-like exercises. They were intent, their eyes fixed on the fringes
of infinity.
These must be some of his acolytes, I thought, the ones I heard in
their nuns' cells the first time I was here. What on earth does all
this orientalism have to do with fertility? I then found myself
wondering. I've studied the Far East enough to do "penetrating"
documentaries about it, and I still can't get pregnant.
I took one look at them--none of them looked at me--and my heart went
out. They were so sincere, so sure of what they were doing. For
somebody who's always questioning everything, like me, it was touching,
and maybe a little daunting too.
Without a word, Ramala led me past them and on to an entryway at the
far end of the courtyard, past the giant Dancing Shiva. The door was
huge and ornate, decorated with beaten-copper filigree--much like one
I'd seen in a Mogul palace in Northern India. Definitely awe-inspiring.
She pushed open the door without ceremony and there he was, dressed in
white and looking for all the world like the miracle worker he claimed
to be. He seemed to be meditating in his chair, but the moment I
entered, his deep eyes snapped open.
"Did you bring your records?" he asked, not getting up. While I was
producing them from my briefcase, Ramala discreetly disappeared.
"Please have a seat." He gestured me toward a wide chair.
The room was a sterile baby blue, nothing to see. No diplomas, no
photos, nothing.
Except for another, smaller bronze statue of the Dancing Shiva, poised
on a silver-inlaid table. I also noticed that his own flowing hair
seemed to match that of the bronze figure.
Yes, I thought, I was right. That's who he thinks he is. And he has
complete power over the people around him. How many chances do you get
to do a documentary about somebody like this? I should have brought a
Betacam for some video.
He studied my test records as a jeweler might examine a diamond, his
serious eyes boring in as he flipped through the pages. The rest of his
face, however, betrayed no particular interest. I finally felt
compelled to break the awkward silence.
"As you can see, I've had every test known to science. And none of them
found anything wrong."
He just nodded, saying nothing, and kept on reading.
After a long, awkward silence, I decided to try and open things up a
bit.
"Tell me, do you have any children of your own?"
The question seemed to be one he didn't get asked too often, because he
stopped cold.
"All those who come here are my children," he replied, putting aside my
records, dismissively finished with them.
"Well"--I pointed to them--"what do you think?"
"I haven't examined you yet," he said, looking up and smiling, indeed
beaming with confidence. "Nothing in those records tells me anything
about what may be your problem. I look for different things than do
most physicians."
He fiddled with something beneath his desk, and the room was abruptly
filled with the sound of a hypnotic drone. Perhaps its frequency
matched one in my brain, because I instantly felt relaxed and full of
hope. Much better than Muzak. Then he rose and came over.
Is he going to do my exam right here? I wondered. Where's all the
ob/gyn paraphernalia? The humiliating stirrups?
Standing in front of me, he gently placed his hands on my heart, then
bent over and seemed to be listening to my chest. His touch was warm,
then cold, then warm, but the overall effect was to send a sense of
well-being through my entire body.
"You're not breathing normally," he said after a moment of unnerving
silence. "I feel no harmony."
How did he know that? But he was right. I felt the way I had the first
time I tried to sit in Zen meditation in Kyoto. As then, my body was
relaxing but my wayward brain was still coursing.
"I'll try," I said, attempting to go along. What I really was feeling
was the overwhelming sense of his presence, drawing me to him.
Next he moved around behind me and cradled my head in his hands,
placing his long fingertips on my forehead, sort of the same way he'd
done when I was standing with him on the windy heath, nursing a killer
cold. All the while, the drone seemed to be increasing to a piercing,
overwhelming volume, as though a powerful electrical force were growing
in the room, sending me into an alpha state of relaxation.
"What are you doing? Is this how you do an exam for--?"
"The medical tests you had showed there's nothing wrong with your
uterus or your Fallopian tubes, nothing that should inhibit conception.
There's no need to pursue that any further. But the mind and the body
are a single entity that must be harmonized, must work as one. Although
each individual has different energy flows, I think my regimen here
could be very helpful to you. Already I can tell your problem is a
self-inflicted trauma that has negated the natural condition wherein
your mind and body work in unison."
"What 'trauma'?" I asked.
He didn't answer the question. Instead he began massaging my temples.
"Breathe deeply. And do it slowly, very slowly."
As I did, I felt a kind of dizziness gradually coming over me, the
hypnotic drone seeming to take over my consciousness. Instead of
growing slower, my breathing was actually becoming more rapid, as
though I'd started to hyperventilate. But I no longer had any control
over it. My autonomic nervous system had been handed over to him, as
dizziness and a sense of disorientation settled over me. The room
around me began to swirl, and I felt my conscious mind, my will,
slipping out of my grasp. It was the very thing I'd vowed not to let
happen.
The same thing had occurred once before, after I broke my collarbone in
the Pacific surf that slammed a Mexican beach south of Puerto Villarta.
When a kindly Mexican doctor was later binding on a harness to
immobilize my shoulder, the pain was such that I momentarily passed out
while sitting on a stool in his office. I didn't fall over or collapse;
it just seemed as though my mind, fleeing the incredible pain, drifted
away in a haze of sensation.
Now the pastel blue walls of the room slowly faded to white, and then I
was somewhere else, a universe away, surrounded by blank nothingness. I
tried to focus on the bronze Shiva directly across, but the ring of
fire around him had become actual flames. The only reality left was the
powerful touch of Alex Goddard's hands and a drone that could have been
the music of the spheres.