Robin Cook - Shock

"I can imagine," Joanna said, still bewildered by Deborah's turnaround. "I'd like to find out myself. So how about we call the Wingate when we get back and see what they say? There can't be any harm in asking."

"Good idea," Deborah had said.

That was a day and an ocean ago. Now the plane's intercom system crackled to life and brought Joanna back to the present. The captain's voice announced that they were soon to start their initial descent into Boston. He added that he was going to turn on the seat-belt light, and he wanted to make sure that everyone was buckled up.

Joanna checked her seat belt to make certain it was fastened. As a rule she always wore her seat belt during flights, whether the seat-belt light was on or not. A quick glance at Deborah's revealed it too was secure. Returning her attention to the view out the window, she noticed there'd been a change. The tundra had been replaced by dense forest broken by widely spaced farms. She guessed they were over Maine, which was a good sign as far as she was concerned. It meant that Massachusetts wasn't that far off.

“HERE COMES MY LAST BAG,” DEBORAH SHOUTED. SHE dashed back to the baggage carousel from where she and Joanna had been searching through a pile of suitcases. She pulled the bursting bag free and lugged it over to where she and Joanna had amassed their others. Once they'd loaded them onto two carts, they stood in line for customs.

"Well, here we are back in Beantown,' Deborah commented as she ran her hand through her long, thick hair. "What a great flight. It seemed a lot shorter than I expected."

"Not to me," Joanna said. "I wish I could have slept half the time you did."

"Planes put me to sleep," Deborah said.

"As if I couldn't tell!" Joanna said enviously.

An hour later, the two friends were in their two-bedroom apartment on Beacon Hill, newly vacated by the tenant they'd rented it to for their Italian sojourn.

"How about flipping a coin to see who gets which bedroom?" Joanna suggested.

"No way," Deborah responded. "I said I'd take the smaller bedroom, and I'm fine with that."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. For me a big closet and the view are more important than a space."

"It's the bathroom that's the problem," Joanna said. The bathroom had two entrances: one from the hall and one from the second bedroom. In Joanna's mind that made the second bedroom far superior.

"The smaller bedroom is fine by me. Trust me!"

"Okay," Joanna said. "I'm not going to argue."

An hour later the women had distributed the furniture, partially unpacked their luggage, and had even made their respective beds when, as Deborah put it, they "ran out of gas." Realizing it was after ten o'clock at night back in Italy, they collapsed on the sofa in the living room. The bright, mid-spring afternoon sun was still streaming in through the front windows to belie their exhaustion and jet lag.

"What do you want to do about dinner?" Deborah asked in a monotone.

"There's something else I want to do before thinking about eating," Joanna said. She pushed herself upright and stretched.

"Take a nap?" Deborah asked.

"Nope," Joanna said. "I want to make a call." She stood and walked across the room to pick up the phone from the floor. They had no phone table where the phone jack was located. They could have placed the desk there but had decided to put it on the other side of the room to keep glare from the window off the computer screen.

"If you are going to call Carlton, I'm going to throw up."

Joanna looked at her roommate as if she'd gone crazy. "I'm not going to call Carlton. What makes you even suggest it?" She brought the phone back to the couch. The phone was on a twenty-five-foot cord.

"I've been worrying about you backsliding," Deborah said. "I've been noticing how many letters you've been getting lately from that boring doctor-in-training, and it worries me, especially now that we're back here in Boston within a stone's throw of his hospital."

Joanna laughed. "You really think I'm spineless, don't you?"

"I think of you as insufficiently girded against twenty-five years of maternal indoctrination."

Joanna chuckled. "Well, for your information, calling Carlton never entered my mind. What I want to do is call the Wingate Clinic. Do you have the number?"

"You're going to call already? We just got home."

"Why not?" Joanna said. "It's been on my mind for months, and yours, too, or so you said."

"Toss me my phone book," Deborah said without moving. "It's on the top of the desk."

Joanna did as she was told, and while Deborah looked up the number, Joanna sat back down next to her. Deborah found the number, put her finger under it, and held it up for Joanna to see. Using the speaker-phone button to get a dial tone, Joanna punched in the numbers.

The call went through and was picked up quickly. Joanna identified herself as a previous egg donor and said she wanted to speak to someone knowledgeable about the program. There was no response.

"Did you hear me?" Joanna questioned.

"I heard you," the operator said. "But I thought you were going to say something else. I'm not sure what you are asking. Are you interesting in donating again?"

"Possibly," Joanna said. She glanced at Deborah and shrugged. "But at the moment I'd like to speak with someone about my previous donation. Is anyone available?"

"Is everything all right?" the operator asked. "Are you having a problem?"

"No, not really," Joanna said. "I just have a few questions I'd like answered."

"Perhaps I should page Dr. Sheila Donaldson."

Joanna asked the woman to hold on and hit the mute button. She glared at Deborah. "What do you think? I was hoping for a secretarial type, not a doctor."

"I'd guess that secretaries would defer to Dr. Donaldson, so we might as well speak to her directly. I imagine it will save a step."

"I suppose you're right," Joanna said. She motioned toward the phone.

"Wait!" Deborah said. "Are you thinking about donating again?"

"Not at all," Joanna said. "But I figured we might as well stay on their good side. Who knows, it might help."

Deborah nodded. Joanna pressed the mute button again and told the operator to go ahead and page Dr. Donaldson.

"Do you want to hold on or should the doctor call you back?" "I'll hold on," Joanna said. A moment later, elevator background music emanated from the telephone.

"Maybe we should give the idea of donating again some thought," Deborah said. "I wouldn't mind being able to continue the lifestyle that I've become accustomed to." She smiled teasingly. "You're joking," Joanna said. "Not necessarily," Deborah said.

"I wouldn't do it again," Joanna said. "I've appreciated the opportunities we've had thanks to the money, but it's not been without an emotional price. Maybe I'd consider it after I have some children of my own, if that's going to happen. But of course, by then, I'd probably be considered too old."

Before Deborah could respond, Dr. Donaldson's voice interrupted the music. She identified herself with a degree of urgency and asked how she could be of assistance.

"I'm a former egg donor at your institution," Joanna said. "It was quite a while ago, but I have a question I'd like to ask…"

"What's the problem?" Dr. Donaldson demanded impatiently. "The operator implied there was a problem."

"I specifically told her there was no problem." "How long ago did you donate?" "Just about a year and a half."

"What is your name?" Dr. Donaldson asked, her voice decidedly calmer.

"Joanna Meissner. My roommate and I came in together." "I remember you," Dr. Donaldson said. "I came in to visit you at your apartment in Cambridge. As I recall you had long blond hair, and your roommate had short dark hair, almost black. The two of you were graduate students."