It’s One of Us, page 9
And a few others. The hashtags are preprogrammed; she’s looked at them so often all she needs to do is press the little magnifying glass that indicates Search and up they come, a parade of want and need. Happy tags: #motherhood #momsofinstagram #momslife #pregnantbelly #pregnantlife #maternityshoot #pregnantstyle #IVFlife #babygirl. (She does want a girl, no matter what she tells Park—and herself—about not caring what gender their little darling is. A boy would be lovely, of course. But a mini-me would be precious.)
She loses herself in this rabbit hole of glorious, distended bellies and cradled hands and fingers in the shape of hearts and radiant joy and sometimes even feels happy for the mothers-to-be in the photos. It certainly isn’t an issue for her. She isn’t addicted. There are just moments when she finds comfort in the idea of what might be.
Today, though, it is punishment, and she won’t pretend otherwise. Seeing the joy and happiness on these strangers’ faces makes her ache inside. For the past few months, she’s scrolled these hashtags full of excitement and wonder, cataloging the changes in her own body with comparisons to #12weekspregnant and #excitingnews. Now she wonders why there aren’t more hashtags that deal with the trauma of losing a child. The horrors of miscarriage. The injustice of a body’s biological betrayal. Something more visceral than #rainbowbaby.
#bleedingagain #lostit #loser #wonteverbeamother.
She’s handled this one well, she thinks. She’s been strong. She hasn’t whined. She hasn’t obsessed. She hasn’t gotten obliterated on white wine and screamed at Park. The Ativan is helping, for sure. Every evening, half of a small round tab lingers on her tongue, sweetening her own bitter recriminations.
Park comes into the bedroom carrying a cup of coffee for her as if this is just any other day. He hurries to her side, placing the coffee on a coaster by her phone. “Honey? Are you okay? Tell me why you’re crying.”
Park is so good at asking the hard questions. He’s never shied away from her sadness, probably because he doesn’t know it’s driven by her own guilt. She did this to them. She is responsible.
She wipes her face, surprised to feel the wetness. “I hadn’t realized I was.”
He joins her on the bed, pulls her to his chest. He is strong, and warm, and despite herself, she snuggles in, letting the tension release from her body. She is still mad at him—furious, in fact—but she wants comfort more than rage right now.
She feels him relax as well. They need this. The touching. It’s so easy to forget the importance of a simple hug. The chemicals that release when they love each other, making them both feel better. They haven’t spoken more than the necessities in days. They certainly haven’t touched.
Park takes a deep breath. Despite herself, she tenses. Here we go, she thinks, and mentally slaps herself. He’s lost something here, too.
“Olivia, I’m so sorry. I’ve made a mess of things. I didn’t tell you about donating before because I was a coward. I should have said something the moment you offered to let me donate. That was so magnanimous of you, and you were hurting, and... I just couldn’t admit what I’d done. Not right then. I felt like I’d be hurting you even more, kicking you when you were down. Please, honey. Please forgive me.”
She sighs. Her brows are drawn together so tightly she can sense the divot in the tender flesh above her eyes. She idiotically waits for the morning sickness to come so she can surge out of the bed, away from his strong arms, but it’s absent. She is empty. It’s the weirdest feeling. Breasts no longer sore. Womb no longer swelling. Stomach solid as a rock. Hungry. She’s actually hungry.
Life goes on, damn her.
Park is still talking. “We’re going to get through this. I know it’s going to be rough, but I swear, Liv, we’re going to get through this.”
Focus on your husband.
“I’m not sure what there is to get through, Park. This situation is terrible, but we’ve done nothing wrong.”
“No, darling, we haven’t. You’re absolutely right. But there’s probably going to be more press. We’ve gotten lucky they aren’t swarming, but in case they do, we need to decide what we want to say.”
A tiny purl of panic flows through her. “We don’t have to say anything. I don’t want to talk to the media, Park. No one’s called the past few days. They won’t, I’m sure of it.”
“I understand where you’re coming from. I do. But when they put it all together...the suspect notwithstanding, Beverly was your friend.”
“No, she wasn’t. She was someone I knew, that’s all. An acquaintance at best. I’m certainly not going to talk to the media about her.”
Because I might tell them the truth, that I hated her to the marrow for what she had that I did not.
“Okay. Okay.” He holds her again in silence. She has a sudden realization. We are never going to be parents together. This is the end for us. It hurts, but not as deeply as it should. She should be searing with pain at the loss of her marriage, of her husband, of the man she loves, but instead she feels nothing. She has been desensitized by grief. These past few years, the horrors, the high and lows, the pain, the shots, the indignities...she can’t help it; she resents him. He can’t give her what she needs. He never has. Instead, he’s given it to God knows how many other women. Park Bender’s world-class sperm. The gift that keeps on giving.
She shifts restlessly and he releases her, leaning back against the pillows so he can see her face again. Has he sensed her thoughts? Does he know the moment they’ve just had? What feels like their last moment as a team? Does he know he’s killed them dead?
She thinks that yes, he does, especially when he clears his throat and stands.
“I have to call the police and talk to them about Winterborn. I’ve been doing some research. If I give my approval, Winterborn will be able to release the names of the women who received my donations over the years. They will be able to track down my...the children, do testing, and discover who killed Beverly. It’s pretty simple, actually. There can’t be that many of them. There were limits, ethical limits.”
My children, he’d started to say. Was there the tiniest bit of a boast in his tone?
She rolls away, facing the window, letting the sun pour onto her face. “Then call and let’s get it over with.”
* * *
This time, Olivia is prepared for the cops. She has dressed carefully, an oyster shell under a dark gray blazer, wide-legged gray pants with an alligator belt cinching her waist, gray suede pumps. She has done her hair and put on makeup. Her armor is on. She is ready for the stares, the questions, the insinuations.
There will be no tears. There will be no drama. She will sit quietly by as Park exposes his transgressions, and then she will go to work.
The doorbell rings. Park comes thundering down the stairs. He looks ragged, his hair uncombed, yesterday’s jeans. “Clean yourself up,” she snaps as she enters the kitchen. “I will get them settled.”
She is the general now. She is in control. She is the Martha fucking Stewart of this chaos.
The cops are much as she left them, though she notices Moore watches her closely as if waiting for her to crack. Not happening.
“Detective Osley. Detective Moore. Please come in.”
She ignores the stare of the gossipy neighbor across the street, a woman named Terrie Lavender, who despite seeing the police has shockingly not intruded on them yet. At least, as far as Olivia knows; she’s been avoiding everyone, so it’s possible Terrie did come over, looking for news to spread to the rest of their neighbors. The odds of not getting a knock today are slim to none.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bender,” Osley says with a tip of his hat. His boots today are brown ostrich. Moore wears the same tonal outfit as before. A capsule wardrobe, most likely. She seems the type. Olivia is especially glad she looks so very put together and stylish, she of the warrior wardrobe, not one of convenience and boredom.
Judgy judgy, Olivia. You know nothing about this woman. Stop making assumptions.
The kitchen is sparkling clean. She’s made an extra pot of coffee, laid out the cups and the special biscotti she gets from the bakery in Green Hills, brought out the dessert plates from their wedding china. The gold-rimmed edges glow in their tidy stack.
Park enters the kitchen from the back stairs. Hair combed, a freshly ironed shirt, lace-up brogues. They are put together. They are cool, calm, and collected. They are innocent.
“Officers,” he says, helping himself to a cup and biscotti. He, too, seems more in control, and Olivia can tell it puts the police on edge. Their show of strength and unity has not gone unnoticed.
Coffee all around this morning. The ballerina pulls out a notebook.
Olivia speaks first. “We have some information we’d like to share with you.”
“And we have some to share with you,” Moore says. “Maybe we should go first.”
“By all means,” Olivia says, scooting deeper in the chair. She doesn’t have any idea what is going on, but the ballerina and the cowboy both seem about to burst with some sort of news.
“We find ourselves in an interesting moment in time in criminal investigation. Many new resources have presented themselves in the past few years. Resources we didn’t have access to before. Databases are better linked, which is obviously how we were able to tie the DNA from the Cooke crime scene to you, Mr. Bender, from the case in Chapel Hill. But a few days ago, we received an interesting tip, and because of it, our lab has rerun the data. We’ve been waiting for confirmation because this is an extremely delicate matter.”
Park nods. “I assume you’re talking about Winterborn. That’s why we asked you to come over this morning.”
“Winterborn?” Osley asks, innocence personified.
Park sounds like he’s teaching in front of his class, not sitting in his kitchen. Smug. She’s never liked it when he does that, condescending to protect his fragile ego. “Yes. I was caught off guard when we first spoke, and with everything we’ve been going through...this is obviously a very personal line of questioning, but in the spirit of full disclosure, we’ve been struggling with infertility. Olivia’s lost several babies—”
“Park!” Olivia slaps a hand down on the table. They don’t talk about this. Not with anyone. This is their own crucible.
He glances over, seeking approval to continue. She shakes her head, teeth gritted. How dare you?
If they weren’t broken before, this...this is the last straw. She did not agree to reveal their problems. He’s supposed to be sticking with his past, damn him, not dragging her into it.
Park ducks his head in false apology.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Osley says with such compassion that she blinks back sudden tears.
“Thank you,” she forces out. “But this is irrelevant to the situation we are discussing.”
“It is, and it isn’t,” Moore says. “The thing is, we’ve identified a number of individuals who share significant DNA markers with our suspect. All with paternal matches to you, Mr. Bender. I’m sorry to be the bearer of complicated news, but you are the father of multiple children. And you’re without question the father of the suspect we’re seeking.”
Moore sips gently from her coffee, watching Park’s reaction over the edge of the cup.
Park fiddles with his napkin, and nods. “I figured that was the case. That’s what we wanted to tell you. That I donated sperm, years ago. To Winterborn Life Sciences. How many are there?”
Olivia can feel Osley studying her, waiting for her reaction, and tenses. This isn’t going to be good news.
Moore clears her throat and slaps a thick manila folder down on the table. “At last count? Twenty-eight.”
Park drops his cup on the table, coffee spreading everywhere, muddling the edges of the folder with wet brown. Olivia and Osley jump up, tossing down napkins to catch the spill. The contents of the file fall onto the floor, a sea of faces swirling across the hardwood. Olivia stoops to pick up the papers and catches a glimpse of one flame-haired girl who looks so much like Lindsey she wants to scream.
Moore takes the folder and pages from her with a gentle nod. Olivia holds on to one, fingers bent protectively around the edges, still staring at Park’s daughter. She sees a name and part of an address before the page is gently tugged from her hands.
“Twenty-eight?” Park says, voice laden with incredulity. “I have twenty-eight children? How is this even possible? Surely—but that’s completely unethical. There’s no way they—”
“It’s not a mistake,” Osley says. “There very easily could be more. Ethics and upsets aside, our job is pretty straightforward. We need to identify the suspect. Right now he’s just an anonymous marker on a spreadsheet. But he’s real, he exists, and we need to find him.”
“How are you going to do that?” Olivia asks, gathering up the remainder of the mess and throwing the napkins in the trash. She has gone totally numb.
“One kid at a time, Mrs. Bender. One kid at a time. One male kid, I should say. There’s nineteen of ’em.”
This detail. They need to know it, of course, but it feels as sharp as a slap.
“This seems pretty implausible,” Park says, regrouping. “I can’t imagine... Winterborn is a first-class outfit. They aren’t just some crappy sperm bank that anyone can get into. They have standards.”
Olivia wants to laugh. Park would toss that out there. He wouldn’t give his precious sperm to just anyone.
But Moore nods. “Not implausible. Unethical, without a doubt, on the part of the doctor who facilitated the matches. To confirm our findings, we have sent a warrant to a DNA database in question to access their information. These databases are very private, and it’s possible they will decline our request. We’re hopeful, though, that because of the nature of the situation, they will cooperate. There’s clearly a sense of urgency for us to catch this killer. We hope that’s enough to sway them.
“Now, if we can get some details from you? Mr. Bender, when did you donate to Winterborn?”
Park slumps back in the chair, clearly rocked. She can almost hear his thoughts. This isn’t possible. This isn’t happening.
Yeah, I feel you, buddy.
From one child to twenty-eight. From one son to nineteen. All of them his, and none of them hers.
What a nightmare.
Park is back in professor mode. “It was during graduate school. I was friends with a couple of guys at the med school. They said I fit the profile the doctors were looking for. Healthy, intelligent, you know. They said there were limits on how many times I could be used. They mentioned the ethics of it, right up front. I also signed the paperwork that I didn’t ever want to be contacted. I was fine helping out some families who couldn’t have kids of their own. It felt—”
“Noble?” Moore provides helpfully.
“I didn’t think of it like that. Maybe. But I was meant to stay anonymous. That was the deal.”
Olivia’s phone chimes discreetly. She glances down. Work beckons.
“Well, Mr. Bender. I don’t know that anonymous is in the cards anymore. One of the kids has been reaching out to the others to try and identify and contact their biological father. How you interact with her—with them—going forward is not our problem. We need to identify our suspect. It would be a big help, Mr. Bender, if you could give us all the information you have about Winterborn Life Sciences.”
14
THE HUSBAND
Olivia is up out of her chair before the echoes of the ding from her text are entirely gone.
“So sorry, I have to run. An emergency at one of my sites. Fill me in on the rest later, okay, honey?” She busses him briefly on the forehead and is out the door a moment later, leaving Park staring.
He listens to Olivia’s Jeep drive away, feeling very small, and very alone. Abandoned in his moment of need. Embarrassed in front of the cops who are already eyeing him like he’s a juicy steak and they haven’t eaten in weeks.
The ballerina especially. “So, Mr. Bender, if we could go into more detail about Winterborn—”
“Hold up,” he says, trying to get control of the conversation again. “My—she—this girl. Who is she? Where is she?”
“She’s here in Nashville,” Moore says, a little gentler now. “She and her mother are willing to meet you, if you want.”
“Of course I want to meet her. My God. What kind of man do you think I am?”
“No one’s saying you’re anything but an honorable guy, so don’t freak on us,” Osley says. “I know this is an extraordinary situation, and you’ve had some bad experiences with the police in the past. Just...hang in here with us for a bit, so we can get through the rest. Then we’ll give you her information, and you can do with it what you will.”
* * *
Park manages to get through the remainder of the interview with the detectives, giving them everything he can about the donation process he’d undertaken, the names of the doctors, assuming they were still there, of course, all these years later. The names of the friends who talked him into it, the interviews he went through, every single detail he can spit out.
Now, an hour later, Osley finally stands and stretches like a cat, complete with yawn. The ballerina cuts her eyes at her partner and sets a card and a piece of notebook paper down on the table. “We’ll do what we can to keep this quiet, Mr. Bender,” she promises, and the two leave.
They will be back. He knows they will. They are on the scent; they sense a bigger story here.
Olivia, the baby, lost again. Their lives upended. The dwindling bank account, and now this.
A son who is a murderer. Twenty-eight children. Nineteen boys and nine girls.
Nineteen suspects.
That they know of.
To think this will stay quiet...there’s no way.
