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Authors: Janet Tashjian

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I thought the hospital would've needed a battery of proceduresâCT scan, chest X-ray, tissue typingâbut the surgeon said my blood showed a perfect match, and they'd perform any last-minute tests before the surgery. I figured betagold had bought her way into this streamlined program. The instructions from Mass General said not to eat after midnight, so I ate a huge bowl of pasta for dinner that night. The next morning, the only liquid allowed was a sip of water to wash down the sedatives.

“I don't see why I need these now,” I told Peter. “I'll be getting general anesthesia at the hospital.”

“They probably want to keep you relaxed. Did they give you any extra?” Peter held out his hand, but I'd already swallowed the pills. “I can't say I agree with you on this one, but I know your mother would be proud. Plus, the money from betagold's estate will do a lot of good in the world.”

Beth took the passenger seat, and I crawled in back. As we drove to Mass General, it didn't take long for the drugs to kick in. But even facing major surgery, I couldn't help think about the possibility that Gus might be my biological father. After spending the years following my mother's death obsessing about having no blood relatives, suddenly here was a real
possibilityâand I wasn't sure I liked it. What if my father was a criminal? What if those same destructive genes were inside me? The private investigator had called back to say the assistant she'd used during her vacation had provided unreliable information about Gus.

“He never used the name Swensen,” she said. “I'm sure he's not your father.”

But that didn't stop me from dwelling on the possibility anyway.

“Whoa, buddy. Let me give you a hand.” Peter grabbed me as I stumbled into pre-op.

A woman and two men in scrubs led me to a gurney. I stayed focused by watching the bright lights bounce off the stainless steel. Gus suddenly appeared in my field of vision, looking at me with an expression of compassion. “You're doing something wonderful here. Taking your studies to another level.”

Peter moved his body between Gus and me. “We're all set here, Gus. We'll give you a call after the surgery.”

Gus nodded agreeably, but when Peter went to talk to the surgeon, I grabbed him by the arm. I wanted to ask about Cleveland and the name Swensen. Instead I asked if I could have one of his bracelets for good luck. Gus removed one of the elastics from his wrist and handed it to me. He saw Peter watching us and exited the room. I handed the elastic to Beth.

“Have them run a paternity test on this. Gus's hair is all over it.”

“You're on drugsâliterally. The private investigator said it was a screwup. Let it go!” Still, she took the elastic.

“If they don't do testing here, find a place on the Internet. Some of them get you results in just a few days.” I yanked out one of my own hairs and gave it to her. I also made her promise not to tell Peter.

“Betagold's in the next room yelling, being a total bitch.” Beth rubbed her hand across my arm and told me I could still back out.

But I was committed to going through with the deal. By the time the tech came to wheel me into the operating room, Beth was crying. “This reminds me of when you got hit by the car. I'll be here waiting this time too.”

At that moment, I felt nothing but love for Beth, but it might've been the drugs. I squinted into the lights behind the surgeon. Even with his surgical mask and cap, his eyes were smiling. “Everything's going to be okay. You're doing fine.”

As I went under, I had a vision of my mother. She was wearing a gladiator outfitâbreastplate, sword, shield, the whole warrior thing. I knew nothing bad would happen with her on guard. I thought I heard a dog barking tooâmaybe Brady was helping Mom patrol the universe. I drifted off to sleep.

Kidney transplant

When I woke up, the first person I saw was Peter. He was leaning over the hospital bed looking as concerned as I've ever seen him.

“You kept saying âDad, Dad.' I was beginning to worry.”

I made the groggy decision not to tell Peter about Gus.

“The surgeon said everything went well. No complications.”

“Where am I?”

“You're in your roomâyou slept through most of post-op. The surgeon says you'll be here only two to three days, if you can believe it.”

The IV and adjustable bed made an interesting contrast with the flowered drapes.

“No complaining about the decor,” Beth said. “At least betagold sprang for a single room.” She held a cup of ice water and straw to my lips.

“She's still in surgery,” Peter said. “I guess it's a lot more complicated on her end.”

When I reached toward the large gauze that covered my back, Peter grabbed my hand. “The bandages have to stay on for two weeks.” He motioned with his head toward the hall.
“Gus has been camped out in the waiting room since they wheeled you in. The guy may be a kook, but I think he really cares about you.”

I was overcome by thirst and asked for more water. A young nurse with an Irish accent left a pitcher on the table next to me. Besides being tired, I felt like my old self. Maybe life with only one kidney would be no big deal.

Janine arrived that afternoon.
⁸⁰She handed me several new paint kits, each tackier than the nextâa jolly Santa, a cat stuck in a tree,
⁸¹parrots in a rain forest. The rhythm of the painting process would hopefully keep my mind occupied during this time of rest. For someone who had lived in front of the television two months ago, I barely turned it on.

A different surgeon came by to check my incision and told me the sutures were internal and would dissolve within a week. I was itching to cruise the halls,
⁸²but each nurse insisted I remain in my room.

“Isn't walking good for your circulation?” I asked.

“It is,” the male nurse with the multiearring lobes said. “From here to the bathroom, that's all.”

When Gus came by to visit the next day, I welcomed the diversion. Even though the temperature outside was in the forties, Gus's Hawaiian shirt was unbuttoned; he wore sandals with no socks and tiny oval sunglasses. He offered me a Slim
Jim, but I declined. Gus placed a chess piece in my handâa queen, even more delicately carved than the rook. “I should've carved a whole set by now, but I've been crazy busy,” he said. “Things should taper off soon.”

He poked through the get-well cards Beth had propped on the windowsill. “Tracy's doing great too,” he said. “Seems like you two were made for each other.”

I tried not to cringe.

He tore off another chunk of meat stick, then flipped through the paintings I'd made in yesterday's burst of activity. “You've really embraced this spiritual practice. Good for you.” He used the Slim Jim as a pointer, highlighting different areas of the canvases. “Right here, for example. What did painting this sail teach you?”

The crisp off-white and pale yellow of the sails brought me back immediately to my state of mind as I painted them. My initial thought was to censor my response to Gus, but that hardly seemed the best strategy in dealing with one's teacher. “I was thinking about Janine. Worried she was getting too close to you, using you as a crutch.” I forced myself to keep going. “Worried you were taking advantage of her.”

“Good! You really followed your mind.” He didn't seem put off in the least that I'd just accused him of manipulating Janine. He shoved the stubby snack at the next painting. “And this one?”

Gus pointed to a cowboy sitting on a fence with a guitar. Getting the paisley of the guy's shirt just right had taken me the entire morning. I weighed my words carefully.

“When I painted that cowboy, I was thinking about my biological father. How I wished I'd known him.”

Gus motioned toward a photograph of Peter and me on the nightstand that Beth had brought from home the day before. “Trouble in Dad-town?”

“It has nothing to do with Peter,” I answered. “Just about me knowing my place in the world.”

He sat on the edge of the hospital bed. “You need to know where your biological father is before you know your place in the world? Doesn't that have more to do with you than with him?”

As I got up the nerve to ask the most important question of my life, the nurse came in to take my blood pressure. I waited to see if Gus flirted with the young woman, but he didn't. On her way out, she handed me a stack of mail and magazines Peter had dropped off while I was asleep. I grabbed the overnight letter with the DNA testing logo and ripped it open. Gus walked around the bed and read over my shoulder.

“Seems the sample you sent wasn't good enough.” He pulled back his hair into a ponytail. “Hair samples, for example. You've got to yank it out by the root. It's the follicle that has all the DNA information, not the strand. Most people don't realize that.”

I stared at the words INCONCLUSIVE RESULTS.
⁸³I'd invested so many hours in this test being definitive, yet I never considered I could end up right back where I'd started. I'd gone through dozens of scenarios in my head and felt that either way I could deal with the results. What I couldn't deal with was
not
knowing.

I decided to confront Gus directly. “I sent them
your
hair samples. I thought you might be my father.”

He nodded gently and told me that over the years, many of his disciples felt that way.

“This isn't a case of admiring a teacher and wishing he were your parent,” I said. “Is it an accident you came into my life, that you had my name in your pocket as if you were looking for me?”

He picked up the stack of paintings. “There are no accidents. You know that.”

“Well? Are you my father or not?”

“We're all on this earth to take care of each other.”

“Can the mumbo jumbo, Gus. Yes or no, it's a simple question.”

He balanced the paintings on his hip. “Nothing simple about it at all. Nonattachment, remember, son?”

The encounter left me shaken; my scar throbbed. But the pain from the incision couldn't compare to the word Gus had used now pulsating inside my head:
son.

I was excited to finally be home. Even though my hospital stay was less than three days, I'd missed the outdoors immensely. I spent my first afternoon in the backyard just taking in the brisk November air. With each cleansing exhalation, I tried to remove anxious thoughtsâthe inconclusive DNA test and Gus's outstanding Ohio warrant.

Janine walked across the side yard and sat next to me on the picnic table. Her down jacket made her seem as if she'd been swallowed by a gray quilted balloon. It was still jarring to see her without Brady by her side.

“Something's up with Gus,” she said. “UPS trucks have been coming and going from the house all week. He set up a bank of laptops in the dining room, and all the studentsâexcept you and me, who are obviously being kept out of the loopâare scurrying around like Santa's elves on Christmas Eve. I have no idea what's going on.”

“Maybe it has something to do with this.” Beth cut through the house and joined us in the yard, wielding her laptop and a pissed-off expression. “I was looking online to find you a present to celebrate your recovery.”

“You were?”

“Don't get too excitedâthis is more important.” Beth tilted the screen toward us. “I wanted to find you some new paint-by-numbers kits, since you're obsessed with the stupid things, but look what I found instead.” She brought up a Web site selling artwork from Sudanese refugees.

“What's the big deal?” I asked.

“This.” Beth scrolled through the paintings for saleâa napping Santa, a kitten in a tree, a parrot in the jungle, a cowboy playing guitar.

“There's Katie's painting of the autumn landscape and Mike's sunset.” Janine shrieked when she saw the ballet dancers she'd slaved over the week before.

“Your guru isn't burning your paintings,” Beth said. “He's pretending they were done by orphans and telling people the money goes to charity. He's probably pocketing the profit too.”

“This explains the boxes, the computers, the UPS trucks.” A wave of anger took over Janine's face. “He's supposed to be our teacher!”

Beth shot me a “don't even think about saying he might be your father” look, so instead I stared at the image of the cowboy and his meticulously rendered shirt.
⁸⁴Not only was Gus lying about who'd painted it, he was charging four hundred and fifty dollars for “authentic ethnic art”! Potential buyers had
no way of knowing the painting had been done not by a Sudanese orphan but by a soon-to-be Ivy League teen from Massachusetts.

“And this page is linked to another shopping site. Look!” Janine cried. “My Gore-Tex jacket, Katie's skateboard, Mike's laptop.”

“I hate to say I told you so,” Beth said, “but he's a con artist. Preaching no possessions and nonattachment, then selling your stuff online and keeping the money. Give me a break.”

“Devil's advocate,” I said. “Nothing on either of these sites mentions Gus's name or address. It seems like he's behind it, but we can't prove it.” Still, Janine and I agreed to confront him. I hoped for a more definitive answer than he'd given me on the paternity issue.

When we reached Walden, betagold almost knocked me over with her enthusiasm.

“I'm alive because of you,” she said. “The antirejection drugs haven't made me sick, and I'm feeling more like myself every day.
⁸⁵Your youthful energy is giving me strength. I thank my stars Gus brought us together. I've joined your group now too.”
⁸⁶

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” I said.

“Better? Look at this.” She vaulted over a small stump
twenty yards away. I began to wonder if my kidney had super powers, and if so, why they'd never manifested in me.
⁸⁷

“Gotta go,” betagold said. “Gus gave me an assignment, and I don't want to let him down.” When she pulled open the side of her vehicle, Janine and I both let out a gasp.

The entire floor of the van was stacked with boxes, packing tape, and our paint-by-numbers canvases.

Paint-by-numbers horse