Gail Bowen - The Nesting Dolls

I hung it over a hook inside the closet. “Nice scarf,” I said.

“Check out the tension in the stitches. I made it while I was trying to quit smoking.” She pulled a pack of Benson and Hedges from her bag. “Not that it worked, of course.”

“You got a scarf out of it,” I said.

Delia cocked an eyebrow. “Zack’s been good for you – loosened you up. Where is he anyway?”

“Getting dressed. Come in and have some coffee while I get breakfast started.”

Delia had the faint lines around her eyes and mouth most of us have after fifty, but her skin was taut and the cold air had made it glow. In her invariable weekend outfit of oversized turtleneck, chinos, and thick socks, she looked, at first glance, like a teenager who had added silver highlights to her hair on a whim.

When Zack came in, he wheeled his chair close to her. “Whatever it is, Dee, we can handle it. Have you eaten?”

Delia shook her head. Zack gestured to the table. “Then sit down and have some breakfast. We can talk afterwards.”

I set a place for Delia, poured coffee and juice, and, when the porridge was ready, Zack spooned it into our bowls. Obedient as a well-schooled child, Delia ate what had been put in front of her. When she was through, she took her bowl to the sink, rinsed it, and returned to her chair. “The police called. The baby – his name, incidentally, is Jacob David Michaels – is fine. In fact he’s more than fine. They’ve weighed him, measured him, and tested him, and he’s healthy and responsive – perfect. There was an envelope addressed to me tucked under the lining of his baby seat. It contained Jacob’s birth certificate: his mother’s name is listed as Abigail Margaret Michaels; the name of the father is blank. There was a sheet with Jacob’s medical history and a booklet with his vaccination record.”

“Very thorough,” Zack said.

Delia gave him a wan smile. “Very,” she said. “There was also a note to me, stating that it was the mother’s wish that I have full custody of Jacob, and that as a lawyer, I would know the procedures necessary to ensure that custody. The note was signed ‘Abby Michaels.’ ”

“You two might find it easier to talk about this alone,” I said. I picked up my coffee. “I haven’t read the paper yet. I’ll be in the family room if you need me.”

Delia shook her head. “No, stay – please. This is going to come out anyway, and when it does, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

I sat back down.

Like all good trial lawyers, Delia knew how to create a gripping narrative, and her first sentence was dynamite.

“The year I clerked at the Supreme Court, I got pregnant.” Her eyes darted between Zack and me. “I’ll spare you the need to ask the burning question. I didn’t get an abortion because by the time it dawned on me that I was pregnant, I was well into the second trimester.” She shrugged. “I know it sounds like something out of a tabloid but there was a lot going on for me that year. I’d never lived outside Saskatchewan, and when I was at the College of Law I was cocooned with the Winners’ Circle. Suddenly I was in Ottawa, passing powerful people in the corridors, and working for Theo Brokaw. Apart from you, Zack, he was the only person I’d ever met who was smarter than me.”

When Zack smirked, Delia’s glance was withering. “That’s nothing to preen about,” she said. “It’s just a fact. Anyway, clerking at the Supreme Court was heady stuff – highly competitive. We were always working late – trying to out-dazzle one another.” She smiled at the memory. “But we were also young and hormonal… ”

“And you met somebody,” Zack said.

Delia tilted her chin defiantly. “I met a lot of ‘some-bodies,’ ” she said.

The look Zack gave his partner was challenging. “That doesn’t sound like you, Dee.”

“Don’t push it, Zack,” Delia said, and her voice was steely. “I mean it. Let it go.”

Zack shrugged. “You’re the client.”

She tried a smile and softened her tone. “Come on. Cast your mind back. You remember the syndrome. You’re always at the office; you’re not getting enough sleep; it occurs to you that you’re missing out on life, so you decide to have a few drinks with the nearest warm body and you end up having sex. Usually it’s just like scratching an itch – a relief with no permanent after-effects.”

Zack’s frown deepened. He wasn’t buying Delia’s story, but he was willing to play along. “But this time there was something permanent,” he said.

Delia’s small chest heaved. “Yes, this time there were consequences, although it took me a long time to be aware of them. My menstrual cycle had always been erratic. I was running every morning, so I didn’t put on much weight. And then one day I felt something inside me move. I went to an ob/gyn in Ottawa who told me I was five months’ pregnant. She couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been not to read the symptoms. Anyway, I had the baby in Ottawa, signed the appropriate papers, came home to Saskatchewan, and started studying for my bar exams. Being back with the Winners’ Circle was like sliding into my old skin.”

“Did you alert the men who might have fathered the child?” Zack said.

Delia shook her head. “There was no point. The doctor assured me the baby was healthy, and the agency said they had a long list of good families waiting for an infant. It was a closed chapter.”

“But it’s open now,” Zack said.

“Yes,” Delia said, “and not because I want it to be.” Her fingers touched the pack of cigarettes in front of her as if for reassurance, then she opened her bag and removed the printout of an e-mail exchange. She handed it to Zack. “This arrived in my e-mail on November 22 – two weeks ago today,” she said.

Zack slipped on his reading glasses and began to read. Delia fiddled with her cigarette package until I went to the cupboard, took down an ashtray, and put it in front of her. She mouthed the word “thanks” and lit up. Zack slid the printout to me.

Considering the subject of the note, the tone was cool.

On September 29, 1983, you, Delia Margolis Wainberg, gave birth to a female child in Ottawa Civic Hospital. I have recently discovered that I am that child. My name is Abby Michaels. As an infant I was placed with a family, and until their recent deaths, I believed I was their natural child. My birth certificate, the adoption papers, and the genetic history you supplied to the adoption agency were appended to their wills.

A circumstance in my own life makes it imperative that I possess all data relevant to my genetic background. I would be grateful if you could supply me with the name and contact information of my biological father. You have my word that my only interest in communicating with him is to ascertain relevant medical information. Beyond that, I have no interest in communicating further either with him or with you.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

I handed the paper back to Delia. “Did you get in touch with her?” I asked.

Delia nodded. “My doctor was on holidays for a few days. When he returned he gave me a précis of everything medically relevant that had come to light in the years since the baby was born. I sent the notes to Abby Michaels on November 30.”

Zack leaned forward in his chair. “What did you tell Ms. Michaels about her biological father?”

“The same thing I told you,” Delia said tightly. “I told her that during the period when I might have been impregnated I was sexually active, and I couldn’t identify her biological father. I wished her well, and said that if she required any further information, she should feel free to get in touch.”

“Did she?” Zack asked.