Fertile Ground

Fertile Ground [042-011-4.5]

By: Rochelle Krich

Category: fiction medical

Synopsis:

As she has skillfully done in her past novels Speak No Evil and Angel of Death, Rochelle Krich adeptly tackles another timely and often heated controversial issue, fertility procedures, within the framework of a twisting plot—in this her most heart-pounding and suspenseful novel to date. Scandal has shaken the life and career of Dr. Lisa Brockman, a staff physician at the prestigious Los Angeles fertility clinic that has come under fire for alleged egg switching. She is further rocked by the murder of a young egg donor, and by the mysterious disappearance of Dr. Matthew Gordon, the clinic’s founder and Lisa’s fiance. With her medical career in jeopardy, Lisa reassures her patients—especially an anxious Orthodox Jewish woman carrying twins—that the rumors are unfounded. While an L. A. P. D. homicide detective probes the possible connection between the young woman’s murder and Matthew’s disappearance, Lisa—plagued by guilt because she doubts her feelings for Matthew and confused about her yearning to return to Orthodox observance—launches her own desperate search. In the face of allegations of fraud, misconduct and embezzlement, she unearths a complex labyrinth of greed, deceit and cover-ups beneath the distinguished veneer of one of the world’s most successful fertility clinics. As she closes in on the shocking truth behind the facility’s darkest secrets, Lisa realizes she cannot trust anyone for behind the facade of friendship might lurk the twisted soul of a diabolical killer. With a fertility clinic in turmoil as her backdrop, Rochelle Krich masterfully juxtaposes the science of life—with the ultimate reality of death.

FERTILE GROUND

Rochelle Krich

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

AVON BOOKS, INC.

1350 Avenue of the Americas

New York, New York 10019

Copyright 1998 by Rochelle Majer Krich

Excerpt from Blood Money copyright 1999 by Rochelle Majer Krich

Inside cover author photo by Robert Scott

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-28608

ISBN: 0-380-78953-1

www.avonbooks.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Avon Books, Inc.

First Avon Books Paperback Printing: March 1999 First Avon Books Hardcover Printing: February 1998

AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA

REGISTRADA’Printed in the U.S.A.

WCD 10 987654321

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

For the new young couples:

Marcy and Eli Michelle and David Sabina and Joshua

With much love and with thanks for the joy you continually brina us.

Acknowledgments

My thanks to those who generously shared their knowledge and assisted me in my research for this novel: Margaret Svoboda, Patient Care Coordinator, and Lisa Rice, lab technician. Century City Hospital, Center for Reproductive Medicine; Dr. Edward Liu, OB-GYN; Laura Locander, office nurse; Jennifer Sanders; the staff of Dr. Eric Surrey; and attorney Michael Moroko. Any mistakes in the novel are mine.

I’m indebted to my agent, Sandra Dijkstra, and to my editor, Carrie Feron, for their enthusiasm, support, and “fertile” suggestions.

Author’s Note

While the infertility techniques and procedures and fee schedules described in this novel are real, the fertility clinic, the doctors, administrators, and support staff who work there, as well as all other characters in the book, are products of my imagination.

The young woman lay motionless on the bed, her arms on top of the light blanket. She didn’t hear the nurse approach, didn’t know she was at her side until she felt her hand being lifted.

“How are you doing, Felicia?”

The nurse’s voice sounded far away and muffled, as if it were coming through a tunnel. Felicia’s eyes fluttered open, then shut. “Okay. Tired, and a little groggy. How many did they get?” She’d been asleep, not unconscious, during the egg harvesting. She vaguely remembered the doctor speaking to her afterward, but found it difficult now to recall what he’d said. “I don’t know, dear. You “II have to ask the doctor.”

She felt the nurse press two fingers on the inside of her arm, just above her wrist. The woman’s nails dug lightly into her skin, but not so that they hurt.

Felicia tried again, and this time was able to keep her eyes open. “Is my pulse okay?” she asked when the nurse released her hand.

“It’s a little fast, but fine.” She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Felicia’s upper arm and pumped. “Blood pressure’s fine, too,” she said a moment later.

The vein where the IV tube was inserted throbbed.

“That’s good.” Her speech sounded slurred and thick to her ears. She mentioned this to the nurse.

“That’s the sedation. It should wear off within the hour. Don’t worry, dear. We “II keep you in Recovery till it does, then send you to Outpatient. Then you can go home.” “Home” sounded good, but she didn’t know how she would move off the bed and get dressed, let alone get into her car and drive all the way to her apartment.

“You’ve been crying,” the nurse said, surprise and worry in her voice. “Are you in pain, dear?”

“Not really. I’m just a little … sad,” she whispered.

“That’s from the sedation, too. There’s nothing to be sad about, Felicia. The egg retrieval was successful, and you’re fine.” She smiled. “Just rest now.

“Hagar, the handmaiden of Abraham, abandoned her child,” she whispered.

“What, dear?” The nurse bent down to hear.

“That’s what the man in my dream said. “Hagar, the handmaiden of Abraham, left her child to die alone because she didn’t want to hear him cry. But in the end Hagar didn’t abandon him. Why are you abandoning your babies?” ” Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t even know who Hagar is, but it’s so sad, isn’t it?” “It was just a dream, Felicia.” “I know. But he seemed so real.” His voice—quiet, stern—had been so clear. She’d tried to open her eyes to see him, but her eyelids had felt heavy, so impossibly heavy, and when she’d finally opened them, she realized that he’d never been there at all, that she’d been dreaming. “Try to relax.” The nurse patted her arm. “it isn ‘l the same, is it?” she asked urgently. “Giving away my eggs and giving up babies?” “Of course it isn’t. Try to rest.”

“That’s what I told him. In my dream, I mean. But he said it was the same. He said… he said he was the voice of my babies, that my babies are crying. He said I would be punished.” Tears were now streaming down her face.

“You did a very lovely thing.” The nurse’s voice was soft, reassuring. “You’re helping other couples have children, aren’t you ?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. It was just a dream. Don’t let it upset you.”

“And everything’s fine? The eggs are fine?”

The nurse patted her arm again. “Everything’s fine. You just rest now,” she repeated.

Felicia nodded. She breathed deeply and let herself drift off into sleep.

They’d been making her self-conscious all night, the two men at the corner table—watching her, calling her over to repeat the specials, smiling to catch her attention whenever she passed their way. So Chelsea wasn’t surprised when the older of the two, both of whom were wearing almost identical navy wool blazers, said, “You’re very pretty,” as she refilled his cappuccino. “I’ll bet people tell you all the time that you look like Julia Roberts.”

It was hardly an original come-on, she thought, thanking him. The funny thing was, she did look like Julia Roberts. Dennis said so all the time. She had the same wide, Cupid’s-bow mouth and slender, sloping nose; the same long, wavy, warm brown hair Julia used to have. Sun-kissed hair, Dennis called it.

She might have looked like a famous movie star, but she didn’t feel like one, not tonight. The veins at the backs of her knees were throbbing in protest at the many hours she’d been standing, and the balls of her feet were aching and tender. As soon as she got home she would take a long bath with water so hot it would steam the mirror and the windows. She still had a few of the jasmine-scented amber bath-gel balls Dennis had given her for her eighteenth birthday, along with a

small DIAmond pendant. She was wearing it now under the white shirt she’d pressed before coming to work.

“I’m James and this is Roy,” the man said. “We’re producers. Always looking for new talent.” He smiled at her, revealing capped front teeth. “What’s your name?”

“Chelsea,” she said, returning the smile. “Chelsea Wright.” Judging from the gray at their temples, she guessed they were in their forties. Good-looking, well groomed, the snowy monogrammed cuffs of their shirts peeking beyond the sleeves of their blazers. Gold, chunky rings with inset diamonds sat like miniature hotels on their pinkies, and they were wearing too much cologne. She didn’t know if they were producers—L.A. was filled with people who claimed to be in The Business. She did know they had to be a little high from the cocktails and wine she’d served them, and hoped they would leave her a generous tip.

“Chelsea Wright. Chelsesi.” The man called James repeated the name slowly, letting the / roll off his tongue, as if he were tasting it. He nodded. “I like it.” He glanced at his companion, who looked bored but nodded, too. “Matter of fact, Chelsea, we’re casting a small feature. If you’re interested, you can audition for a minor role.”

She planned to teach Special Ed, not act, but she could use the extra cash, especially now that she was transferring from Santa Monica City College to USE. Her parents had paid for the fall quarter (“Dad and I are so proud of you,” her mother had said when the acceptance letter arrived, “all your dreams come true”), but Chelsea regarded the money as a loan. The tuition was steep for her parents, who had refinanced their small house in Culver City several years ago to help pay the bills.

There were always so many bills, never enough money. Things would be different now if she hadn’t been so strapped for funds. She felt a wave of sadness and forced the thoughts from her mind. “What kind of role?” she asked, shifting her weight to her right hip.

“Exotic dancer.” His eyes moved to her chest. “I think you’d be perfect. Don’t you, Roy?” he asked, turning to his companion and receiving another nod.

A stripper. She felt a flash of disappointment, then almost laughed, he was so transparent. She thought about the tip and smiled again instead and said, “Thanks, but I don’t think so,” in a voice that conveyed a hint of regret. She doubted that he was legit, and she wasn’t interested in stripping. And if she ever did something like that, her parents would kill her.

She moved away and made a circuit of the room, pausing at each of her tables to make sure everything was fine. Thirty-five minutes later she’d collected the checks and was ready to leave, her black apron folded and stored in her metal locker.

“See you tomorrow night, Ramon,” she said to the short, muscular bartender.

“Vaya con Dios, baby.” He smiled. “How’d you make out?”

“Ninety-eight. Not bad for a Sunday night.” The producers had left a twenty and a card—“In case you change your mind, Chelsea,” one had scrawled underneath the raised lettering of their company’s name. First Star Productions. Maybe he was legit, or maybe he’d gone to a Kinko’s and had a thousand cards printed for twenty some dollars.

She told Ramon about the producers, laughed about it.

“See the type of people you meet? How can you leave this gold mine?” Ramon shook his head, drying the inside of a champagne goblet with deft swipes. “Just two more days, huh? Bet you’ll be begging for your job back within a week.”

“Betcha I won’t.” She stuck her tongue out at him playfully, then waved good-bye. She would miss Ramon and the others and the easy camaraderie she shared with them, but she was looking forward to her new job, to USE , to everything that was suddenly within easy reach.

Don’t expect too much, she warned herself, but she couldn’t repress the excitement that surged through her. She found it hard to believe that two weeks ago she’d been despondent, isolated by fears that had occupied her every waking moment. She was glad that she hadn’t told Dennis or her parents—there was no undoing what she’d

done, so how could they have helped, after all, except worry with her?—and though she had every hope that things would be all right now, and she hated keeping secrets from them, hated not sharing what had happened, she’d promised.

She said good night to Yvonne, the waitress who was balancing the night’s receipts, slung her brown canvas backpack over her shoulder, and left the restaurant. It was cold outside and she’d forgotten to bring a sweater or jacket. She hugged her arms across her chest and walked quickly, wishing her car weren’t two blocks away. It was dark outside, too, but this was a quiet, residential neighborhood, as safe as any neighborhood in L.A.” and she’d walked this route without incident countless times after work.