Kate White - Hush

Lake sensed reluctance in the answer, like an undertow. Maybe there is something else, she told herself.

“Did-did you ever feel pressured to keep going?”

Sydney lifted her pale, freckled shoulders as if she had something to say but didn’t know how. Here it comes, Lake thought.

“No, never,” she said, shaking her head. “Initially I wanted to do whatever it took to get pregnant. If I seem hesitant it’s only because the experience turned out to be worse than I imagined-not the clinic per se. Like I said, I hated the drugs. And I despised feeling so desperate and going to those awful support groups. When someone in the group would get pregnant, the rest of us would want to howl like wounded animals.”

“So there was nothing about the clinic that troubled you?” Lake asked. She had to force herself not to look crushed. “Something you wish they’d done differently?”

“Why do you keep asking that? I thought you work for them.”

“I do,” Lake said brightly. “But part of growing and improving is hearing honest criticism.”

“That’s smart, I guess.” Sydney glanced at her watch. “Look, I really do have to dash. I can’t say I’m sorry never to be going back to the clinic, but I wish everyone there the best. They do good work.”

Sydney stood up and grabbed a purse from near the cash register and began guiding Lake back to the door.

“What finally made you decide to pursue adoption?” Lake asked. She was grasping at straws, she knew.

“It sounds crazy,” Sydney said. “But it was that doctor’s murder. Dr. Keaton.”

It was chilling to hear his name spoken here in this quiet little shop.

“But what…I don’t understand. How could that influence you?” Lake asked.

“I was Levin’s patient but Keaton came in on the day I was having my last procedure. I told him that if it didn’t work, I was thinking about bagging the whole thing. He surprised me by saying that would be okay, that sometimes we just know in our guts what the right thing to do is. Right after I found out I wasn’t pregnant, I heard he was murdered. I just took it as some kind of weird sign.”

Lake fumbled for a response but none came. Instead she thanked Sydney for her time and wished her luck with the adoption pursuit. As she hurried down the sidewalk, she could hear the shop’s steel security gate lowering with a rackety clang.

She hailed a cab going west. Now what? she wondered despondently. There had been no big revelation from Sydney. And yet there’d been that odd discrepancy. Her chart had said ten viable embryos had been produced, whereas Sydney Kastner thought there were only three. Levin may have lied to her so that she’d agree to another round of ovulation-stimulating drugs, ratcheting up her bill. It was certainly a possibility, but Lake wondered how she’d ever prove it.

The last thing she wanted to do right now was to have a drink with Hilary and Steve. And yet she knew that it would be good to see Steve away from work. He had the inside track there and maybe she could get him to talk about the clinic and see if he inadvertently revealed something worth knowing.

She’d been to their apartment just once before, when Sonia, Steve’s sister, had been in town several years ago. It was all the way back on the West Side, in one of the luxury high-rises just north of Lincoln Center. Tonight when Hilary greeted her at the apartment door and Lake stepped inside she saw that “fixed it up” had been a gross understatement. The rooms had been reconfigured and redecorated within an inch of their lives. The furniture was sleek and modern-lots of white leather-and the walls displayed huge abstract paintings with designs that seemed to actually throb.

“Wow, you’ve done an amazing job,” Lake said.

“We had help, of course,” Hilary said. “I have a wonderful decorator. I’d be glad to give you her number if you’re interested.”

“How do you prevent all these white surfaces from getting smudged with little fingerprints?” Lake asked, thinking of Matthew, who had to be close to two now.

“Oh, this room is off limits to little boys,” Hilary said.

“When do I get to see Matthew, anyway?”

“In a few minutes. The nanny is giving him his dinner right now. Would you like some white wine?”

They’d wandered to the far end of the massively large living room with sweeping views of the Hudson River and New Jersey beyond. On the coffee table was a bottle of white Burgundy chilling in a bucket, a huge wedge of soft cheese, and tiny cloth cocktail napkins. Hilary gestured for Lake to sit on the couch and poured them each some wine. Her white capris, Lake noticed, were as perfectly pressed as the napkins. On top she wore a sleeveless white tunic embellished with stones that matched the bronzy color of her sandals. Vanished was the beleaguered look she’d had Monday.

“Where’s Steve?” Lake asked.

“Oh, he’s running late-there was a problem at the clinic.”

Lake tried to keep her face straight. “Oh?”

“A patient had a reaction to one of the drugs,” Hilary said, to Lake’s relief. “I’m just glad I never had to deal with any of that.”

“Me, too. I feel so bad for those women, especially the ones who go through round after round of IVF.”

“I guess,” Hilary said, shrugging a tanned shoulder.

“What do you mean?” Lake asked, puzzled by her reaction.

“It’s really their own choosing. No one is forcing them to do it. And it’s such a drain on insurance companies. I don’t understand why these people can’t be more accepting of their situation-or why they don’t adopt, like Angelina did. There are millions of needy children out there.”

Lake felt at a loss for words. Hilary had always struck her as shallow, but Lake couldn’t believe her insensitivity. She wondered if she’d have the same disdain for someone who used insurance dollars to have a birthmark removed.

“The desire to carry a child can be pretty intense in women,” Lake said.

“Well, then, why don’t they start earlier? It’s not as if there aren’t plenty of articles saying that, duh, your fertility drops after thirty-five. In a way I think fertility clinics encourage women to wait longer to conceive because they know they can fall back on procedures like IVF.”

“Steve doesn’t have any regrets about his career, does he?”

“No. But I think he’d be better off if he’d stuck to his original plan: plastic surgery. It’s not so morose , if you know what I mean.”

Lake could hardly stand listening to her. “But is he happy at the clinic?” she asked. If Steve was involved in anything unethical, it might translate at home as nerves or discontent.

“Well, he’s certainly not thrilled with what’s going on now .”

“What do you mean?”

“The murder, of course,” Hilary said. “How creepy, right?

“You know what I think?” she continued. “A woman did it.”

“Oh?” Lake asked, wondering what was behind this speculation. “Why is that?”

“He was a horrible flirt,” Hilary replied, looking straight at Lake. Her gray eyes were as cold as two river stones. “I bet he finally made one woman jealous enough to kill him.”

Was the comment loaded? Lake wondered. She remembered Hilary catching the look she’d exchanged with Keaton at the dinner that night. She had to fight the urge to look away. To her relief, a Latino woman dressed in a white uniform suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“Matthew’s ready to say goodnight, Mrs. Salman,” she announced.

“All right,” Hilary said. She turned to Lake, all smiles again. “I can’t wait for you to see him. Bring your wine if you want.”